"Two months," nodded Lancelot Biggs. "Day after tomorrow is our third anniversary." He swallowed sort of shyly, which is hard to do when your emotion exhibits itself in the frenzied leaping of a laryngial elevator. "Diane and I—well, we celebrate our wedding every month on the anniversary of the day we were married."
"And no quicker road to the poor-house," I sniffed, "was ever macadamized. So what are you going to do by way of celebration, Romeo? Take her to the observation deck and treat her to a view of the starry firmament revolving in its courses? That's about all the excitement there is available on this crate."
Biggs had been thinking furiously, a process which is always demonstrated by the way he shuffles from one foot to another. Now he snapped his fingers.
"No—I've got it, Sparks. Something unusual. A real surprise. Something that will startle and delight her."
"I know," I hazarded. "A new frock. You're going to whip it up in your spare time out of tarpaulin and old tablecloths."
"No, Sparks, I'm going to give Diane—" He paused dramatically—"flowers. Fresh flowers!"
I stared at him stupidly. And no cracks about how I couldn't very well do anything else.
"Flowers?" I repeated. "But where in blazes are you going to get fresh flowers out here in the middle of space?"
Biggs jerked a knuckly thumb in the general direction of the ship's hold. "Why, down there, of course. From our cargo bin."
I stared at him disgustedly. "Oh, sure," I drawled. "Pardon me all to hell. I plumb forgot about them. But look: aren't you overlooking one tiny detail? Those blossoms are in what is technically known as the 'papoose' stage. Which means they're only about six weeks shy of blooming. Not to mention the fact that at present they're planted in air-tight lead containers."