The Downfall of Lancelot Biggs
By NELSON S. BOND
Come aboard the Saturn for
fun and laughs with Lancelot
Biggs—mastermind of the spaceways.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales March 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We were about three hours out of Long Island Spaceport, and I had just finished swapping farewell insults with Joe Marlowe, head bug-pounder at Lunar III, when the door of my radio turret slid open and in slithered—if round things can slither—Cap Hanson, skipper of our gallant space-going scow, the Saturn.
The Old Man's eyes were as wide as a lady bowler's beam, and his face, which boasts a pale mauve hue even under normal circumstances, was now a ripe, explosive fuchsia. He jammed a pudgy forefinger against his lips.
"Shh!" he shhed.
He squeezed in and closed the door behind him, shot a nervous glance about the room, then wheezed throatily, "Is there anybody here, Sparks?"