This time I addressed myself to Hanson. "Congratulations, Skipper," I said. "Now you're three grampaws. If Diane keeps this up, you'll be able to man a whole cruiser."
The Old Man's face was fiery.
"Now, hold everything!" he stormed. "This is goin' too far! Diane don't have to overdo it, just because we're not there! There's such a thing as—Triplets! I won't allow it!"
"What's the matter," I grinned at him, "afraid of the Three Little Biggs, Skipper. Don't be a big bad wolf!"
But even I didn't think it was funny when, at that moment, Joe Marlowe's familiar tones rolled through the room again.
"Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs," he called, "aboard the Saturn—congratulations! You are the father of a fine baby boy—"
"Gosh!" I gulped. "This is turning into a parade!"
Cap Hanson's face was a study in technicolor. His jowls were dangling to his third weskit button. But oddly enough, at this third dire pronouncement, Lancelot Biggs did not even wince. Instead, his eyes brightened; he rose from the chair into which, a moment before, he had tumbled.
"No!" he yelled. "Not a parade—a solution!"