"Yes. You have—mmm, let me see!—dyspepsia!"
"It's a lie!" I said indignantly. "I haven't been near one of them Venusian joy-joints for a year!"
"You have," repeated Cooper coldly, "a bad case of dyspepsia. Which is another name for 'indigestion,' young man! You will develop this ailment immediately. And since the captain of a space-going vessel is supposed to be able to step into the breach in any emergency, Lieutenant Biggs will be assigned the task of relieving you at your post."
Wow! Was that a break for our side? I darned near split a lip, trying to hide the great big grin that leaped to my gabber. If there was any man aboard the Saturn whose knowledge of radio was equal to my own, that man was Lancelot Biggs! Why, he was the inventor of a new type of radio transmission plate. If this were to be his "final test," he would breeze home, win, place and show!
But Cooper didn't notice the elation in my eyes, or the equal joy in the skipper's optics. He was finishing his instructions.
"—and because you have learned who I am, Sparks, I suggest that you make no attempt to get in touch with, or speak to, Lieutenant Biggs. You may consider yourself confined to quarters for the duration of the trip."
"Very good, sir," I said.
"And now—" Cooper turned to my instruments. "We shall set the stage for Mr. Biggs' final test—" He picked up a hammer. The biggest one in the turret. He lifted it, weighed it briefly in his paw, and then—
Wham!
Things clanked and clattered; glass tinkled; wires leaped from the innards of my set and wriggled out onto the floor like tiny metal snakes. Cap groaned, and I screamed, "Omigawd!"