"Two minutes ago," I told him. "Take a look around. If you see something bright red and covered with hairy spikes, don't step on it. It's my temper."
The Skipper sighed. "If my troubles," he declaimed, "was as mild as your'n, I'd do cartwheels from here to Venus. Sparks, you got a copy of the Space Manual here, ain't you?"
I nodded toward my bookcase; he found the reg book and leafed through it carefully. Finally he shook his head.
"It ain't here," he gloomed. "Are you sure this is the latest edition?"
"Just what are you looking for?" I asked him.
"I was kinda thinkin'," he said hopefully, "there might be a paragraph givin' a space commander permission to boil his First Mate in oil, or cut him into small cubes an' feed him to the octopussies. But the waffle-fannies what wrote that book—"
I knew, then. It was the same old complaint. Our lanky and incredibly omniscient friend, Lancelot Biggs, whose genius for getting ye goode shippe Saturn out of tight spots was surpassed only by his ability to fester Cap Hanson's epidermis, was back in the soup.
I said, "But, sweet comets, Cap, what's he done now? He hasn't had time to do much. We've just pulled our Ampie[1] out of Earth's H-layer."
"Which," rasped the skipper, "took three hours. Or time enough for Mister Biggs to render hisself liable to homicide. I've tooken plenty from that long-legged scarecrow. I got carpeted for platinum-chasin' on his say-so.[2] I caressed pirates[3]—which, by the way, if you ever tell anybody, Sparks, I'll massacre you for—an' I—"
"You also," I reminded him, "got your stripes saved on two separate occasions. Not to mention your bank-roll and your life. Remember?"