"I mean," wailed Biggs plaintively, "Diane. Now she won't get her anniversary corsage...."
So that was that. The Skipper went back to the bridge to give our second in command, Lieutenant Dick Todd, the necessary trajectory instructions, and I stuck around, sweating and swearing, to help Biggs clean up the aboriginal morass he had created with his experiment. It was tough going, too. Like I said before, those roses had thorns. By the time we got done, our fingers looked like First Prize in a needlework exhibit.
It was just as we were finishing and Biggs was draining the final rugose drops of fluid from his tank that he loosed a little yelp of excitement.
"Sparks!"
"Now what?" I asked. "If it's another experiment—"
"Look! This one bred true in spite of the cosmic rays." And with quivering fingers he held up for my inspection one tiny bud which had been nestling coyly in a corner of the tank. A small but perfectly formed, brilliantly scarlet rosebud!
Well, I guess it was the irony of it that got me. I stared at the poor, pathetic, bedraggled little thing for a minute, then I chuckled.
"Well, there's the love song you were looking for, Biggs."
"Eh? What's that?"