Anyhow, about an hour after we'd lifted gravs from Long Island Spaceport, the skipper smooched into my control-turret, beaming like a nova in the Coalsack. He plumped himself into the only comfortable chair and asked:
"Well, Sparks, my lad, how you doin'?"
"If you mean," I retorted, "was I drunk last night, the answer is 'no.' I am so dry I am parched, and besides, the barkeep at the Wranglers' Club wouldn't give me any credit."
"He told me," commented the skipper, "he used your last check to vulcanize an old gum boot."
"Be that as it may," I said with quiet dignity, "I am not one of those space-hounds who gets three sheets in the ether every time he hits port—"
"An' speakin' of sheets," interrupted the Old Man, "we got more passengers aboard the Saturn this trip than we got bunks to flop 'em in. So—"
I got it then. I squawked, "Hey, take it easy! What is this—a hotel?"
"—so," continued the skipper imperturbably, "I'm allotin' your quarters to a special passenger. A guy by the name of—"
"I'm not interested in names!" I howled. "I'm not the city directory. Look, Cap, I've got my rights! I don't have to turn my quarters over to some damn Earthlubber, just because he's got a yen to chase comets!"
"Will you shut up, Sparks?" snapped the skipper. "Or do I hafta calm you down with the wrong end of a lug-wrench? This here passenger's name is Thaxton, an' he comes bearin' a 'Handle With Care' label signed by Doc Challenger. Now will you pipe down?"