"What? You caused this, Lieutenant?"
Biggs' pale eyes shifted, and he twisted his lanky frame into a pretzel.
"R-reckon I did, sir. Couldn't seem to get things straightened out in the turret, so I—I went down to the control room, and—and I guess I must have turned the wrong knobs or switches or something."
His excuse dwindled into silence. But Cooper did not. Cooper loosed a blat like a robot wired for newscasting.
"Wrong knobs! Wrong switches! Indeed, sir—" he swung to me, sweating painfully and quivering like an electroscope in a pitchblende mine. "Sparks, can you do anything about this—this disgraceful mess?"
I couldn't meet Biggs' eyes, nor could I meet those of Cap Hanson. I just nodded slowly.
"I think so, sir."
"Then get to work! And as for you, Lieutenant—" His eyes burned Biggs' pale, embarrassed face, "It will not now be necessary to determine whether or not you are versed in Safety Code practices. You have demonstrated very well that you are not yet capable of assuming the rank and duties of a commanding officer. Your butter-fingered handling of a simple, routine test has resulted in the most disgusting contretemps it has ever been my lot to witness!"
Cap Hanson said, "But—but look, Inspector—he's only a boy! Anybody can make a little mistake. Give him a chance to—"
"There is no place for 'boys'," snorted Cooper, "on the bridge of space-going vessels. Lieutenant Biggs has possibilities, yes. But I shall suggest to the S.S.C.B. that he be given another year of intensive training—under an old, accomplished spaceman; yourself, Captain Hanson—that he may learn resourcefulness, coolness, how to act under stress of emergency!