I sidled to his elbow and gave him a swift poke in the ribs. I hissed, "Don't be a sap, Biggs! Make him give you odds if you must bet—"
But I spoke too late. The bet had already been placed in the hands of a neutral party, steward Doug Enderby. And now, a new tenseness in all of us, we listened to the remainder of the broadcast.
In the third quarter, Dick Todd got out the crying towel. "Gosh, Sparks," he mourned to me, "what's the matter with our boys? This is a slaughter. The same as last year."
Because by that time the Rocketeers had scored once again; this time on a smooth sixty yard forward. Garrity and Hanson were literally swooning with joy, by this time offering fantastic odds to any Wrangler who would bet. But we had all pulled in our horns. All, that is, but one man—First Mate Lancelot Biggs.
In a moment of lull, he turned to the skipper.
"Skipper," he said, "I have no more creds, but I'd like to wager for another stake."
Hanson chuckled. "Your shirt won't fit me, Biggs."
"I'll bet you," said Biggs thoughtfully, "my space claim against the privilege of the next three landings that the Wranglers beat the Rocketeers this year."
We all gasped. They were real stakes. Every space officer is granted, by the IPS, a space claim consisting of property rights in all unexplored areas of a given arc. He may either explore in this sector himself after he has served his trick, or he may delegate the exploration to professional space-hounds. In either case, a substantial percentage of all ores, precious stones and miscellany found in his allotted sector belong to him. Many a space officer has found himself fabulously rich overnight when his sector turned up with rock diamond detritus or granules of meteoric ore.
On the other hand, Biggs was asking a great privilege. Before a space officer can become a commander, he must have made five personal cradle landings on any planet. Skippers were chary of granting permission on these, often making junior officers wait years to earn their Master's ticket.