I did see. And I realized how completely I was caught in the middle by my friendship with two guys, each of whom believed in his own ideals, each of whom thought he was doing the right thing. I said slowly, "I get it, Cap. But are you sure you're doing the right thing? After all, maybe Biggs and your daughter really like each other."
Cap Hanson said seriously, "That's just what I'm afraid of, Sparks. Put yourself in my place. How would you like to have a grandson what looked like Lancelot Biggs?"
I don't know. Maybe he had something there.
Well, to make a short story longer, that happened the first day out of Long Island Spaceport. Tempus, as the old Romans liked to remark, fidgetted. I spent the working hours of the next two days trying to get that confounded instrument of mine operating; I spent my off hours shuttling back and forth between the bridge and the brig.
I had the pleasure—and, boy! you'd better know I mean it—of meeting Diane Hanson. She was a rag, a bone of contention and a hank of hair, but if she'd snapped her fingers I would have jumped out the spacelock and brought her back a handful of galaxies. She had a voice that made me feel like my backbone was charging .30 amps, and when my eyes met hers my knees went all wobbly.
But her heart belonged to the baddy in the hoosegow. And she didn't care who knew it—except the Old Man. She asked me, "He's all right, Sparks, he's comfortable?"
"He's comfortable enough," I told her. "But he's as restless as a squirrel in a petrified forest. He's been pacing his room so much that he's not only got corns, but he's got corns on his corns."
She said wistfully, "If Dad would only be reasonable. Sparks, do you think that if I went to him and told him everything—?"
I shuddered.