"Nevertheless—" I interrupted doggedly.
"So," pursued Biggs, "our company is being very clever in hurrying this shipment of flower seeds to Iapetus. Not only because the people will love them, buy them, plant them eagerly for the pure, sensual pleasure of watching something grow—but also because there is big money in it.
"Didn't you ever hear of the famous Holland Tulip Market where fabulous prices were paid for unusual buds?[1] Who knows but that something like that might happen on Iapetus, and our company might make millions!"
"Out of which," I conceded grudgingly, "we might even collect a half day's pay as bonus. Well, maybe you've got something there, Lance. Maybe it is a good idea. But when I signed up for space service I never thought I'd end up as flower boy to a cosmic wedding."
This last comment elicited an unexpected result. At the word "wedding," Biggs stiffened like the feature attraction at a post-mortem. A frenzied look glazed his eyes.
"Oh!" he gulped. "Wedding! Sparks, thanks a million. I had almost forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" I demanded.
"Why, my anniversary."
"Anniversary! Are you off your beam? Why, you and Diane have only been married—"