"That's the ticket."
Lanse Biggs' jaw tightened. He said stiffly, "I'm afraid this is one time I shall not be able to obey orders, sir. I—I can't go with you!"
My heart did a flipflop. I understood, and heartily sympathized with Biggs. He wanted to be on Earth right now. Because—well, like a professional grape-farmer, he had raisins of his own.
But I knew what his outright refusal meant. The IPC is a hardboiled corporation. When it issues an order, it expects obedience—or else. If Lanse refused to make this expedition, he would not only lose his rating and his chance to go up for Master's papers—an examination he was planning to take in the very near future—he might also lose his job!
Furthermore—and if this sounds selfish, pardon my sullen accent!—I hated to think of making a truly dangerous trip without Lieutenant Biggs on the bridge. That brilliant wingding has pulled so many bunnies out of the derby, saving our individual and collective necks with such monotonous regularity, that we'd be utterly lost without his assistance.
But I said nothing. After all, this was a question Biggs must decide for himself.
As it turned out, though, it was not I, nor the Old Man, nor Lancelot, who solved the problem. It was Mrs. Biggs. In a calm, decisive voice she said, "But, Lanse, dear—such commotion! Of course you will go!"
"What!" blurted Lanse. "And leave you? Never!"
"Stuff," sniffed Diane, "and nonsense! Stop talking like a cheap play. What earthly good are you doing here? Not a bit! But out there, men have died ... betrayed by a race of scoundrels. Brave men. Spacemen like yourself. Your duty is plain. You must go. You have no choice."
"B-but—" protested Lanse.