He was pathetically glad to see me, but apprehensive on my account. "You—you won't get in any trouble, Sparks?"
I said, "You're under arrest, but the balloon-headed little slob didn't say anything about solitary confinement—probably because he didn't think of it. Lance, what the hell are we going to do? I just ran over our figures again, and I got gooseflesh looking at them. The Saturn's approaching the critical spot. If we don't do something—and damn soon—to make Gilchrist change his mind—"
"I've been thinking feverishly, Sparks. You know my motto: 'Get the theory first!' I thought that by heating the ship I might frighten Gilchrist into changing course. But he caught on to my little trick."
"And we can't try it again," I fumed, "because Major Nuisance has put all the electrical equipment under lock-and-key. In another twenty-four hours this freighter is going to be a bake-oven—"
"I know," mourned Biggs. "And Diane—" He stopped suddenly. "Eh? What was that? What did you say, Sparks?"
"Nothing," I told him glumly. "I was just moaning."
"Oven!" cried Biggs. "Bake-oven! Of course! Ovens aren't all electrical. Listen—you know where the main fuel valve lies?"
"Why—why, yes. But—"
"Then get down there—quick! And shove the release lever to Emergency Discharge position!"
"And—and dump all those good tons of crude oil off into space?" I gasped. "Lance, you've lost your mind!"