A dead silence followed his pronouncement. Then the air began sizzling with a hot, frying sound. That was Hanson preparing to blow a verbal fuse. He exploded like a retread on a hot day.
"So!" he roared. "So that's the kind of a company I been workin' for all these years? Well, Vice-president, here's my rocket—" He tore his precious spaceman's emblem from his breast and hurled it to the floor—"and here's my brevet—" He ripped the golden epaulets from his coat, and heaved them after the rocket—"and the hell with you and the I.P.C., sir! Any outfit which would be so stinkin' niggardly as to trade with a crew of scoundrels like that—"
Lanse Biggs said mildly, "Now, Dad! Don't be hasty. After all—"
The Old Man stared at his First Mate and son-in-law sadly. "You, too, Lancelot? I'm disappointed in you, my boy. I never thought you'd fall in line with—"
Biggs' uncle said, "You are a very impetuous person, Captain Hanson. If you will let me continue—"
"I don't want to hear no more," growled Hanson. "Go 'way and leave me alone!"
"But let Uncle Prenny tell you, Dad!" pleaded Biggs.
"The hell with—"
"He can tell me," I broke in. "And if there's not a quick change of theme, I'm going to do a little snoot-poking before I leave—with the skipper. Go ahead, Mr. Biggs."