"Yes, sir," said Lancelot Biggs. "I will, sir."
Then the skipper left. A great old guy. No longer listless and lackadaisical, space-weary, but a new man, imbued with a strong, fighting new urge. To help a young man earn his spurs. There was something admirable in his attitude, and something a little pathetic, too.
And after he had left, I turned to Biggs. I said, "Okay, pal—come clean!"
He started.
"I—I beg your pardon, Sparks?"
"Come," I repeated, "clean. You can fool some of the people some of the time, and you can fool some of the people some of the time—but you can't fool some of the people some of the time. And I'm them. Biggs, I know you like I know my own hangnails. I've seen you in a thousand tight spots, and I never once knew you to go into a dither. But you messed this one up so bad that it smelled from here to Pluto. Now I want to know—why?"
Biggs' eyes looked like saucers. His larynx jumped up and down painfully.
"I don't know what you mean, Bert."
"Talk," I said grimly, "or I start rumors. Why?"
And then—Lancelot Biggs grinned!