I was right. It was a Wrong Number named Cheeverly, Assignment Clerk at Long Island Spaceport. He said, "Salujo, Sparks. Is Captain Hanson there?"
"Present," I said, "but not accountable for. Listen, Dracula, how about calling back tomorrow or next month?"
He snapped, "This is official business, Donovan! Put him on before I report you!"
So I handed the receiver to the Old Man, and for the next few minutes Diane and Lanse and I eavesdropped upon one of those unintelligible half conversations between Hanson and the drip at the other end of the wire.
"Yeah?" said the Old Man. "Yeah, this is Hanson.... Eh? Eh, what's that?... But Cheeverly, I.... What?... But I'm on furlough, man! The staff and crew of the Saturn were granted a three week vaca.... Oh! Oh, I see! Emergency, eh? Well, if we have to. But can't you find some other ship to.... Mmm-hmmm! I understand. Yes. Yes. Very well. I'll get in touch with my men immediately...."
He hung up and turned to us gravely. I think we all knew what he was going to say before he said it. Diane cried, "Oh, no, Daddy! No! Not now!" And Biggs asked, "What is it, sir? I hope they don't want us to—?"
Hanson fumed, "They do, dingbust 'em to Hades! It's an emergency mission. We're to lift gravs immediately!"
"Lift gravs!" exclaimed Biggs bleakly. His lump of a larynx leaped like a lemon in his scrawny neck. "But, Dad! I can't go now!"
His jaw sagged to his wishbone, making him homelier than usual. And, brother, that's saying something! Lancelot Biggs is a lot of things. He's a genius, for one, and he's slightly whacky, for another. Also he's one of the grandest friends a guy ever had. But even his doting mother could not honestly call him good looking.