"Don't argue with me! Do what I say! Oh, something else—are you familiar with the refrigerating system?"
"I'd better be. We're going to need it soon—"
"Go to the condensation-valve and close it. Be sure it's tight, Sparks. Smash it if you have to!"
I stared at him stupidly. It didn't make sense, but then the brilliant plots of Lancelot Biggs seldom do. I said hopefully, "You—you think it'll work, Lance?"
"It has to!" he retorted grimly. "Or—but hurry!"
So I did what he told me. I moved the release lever of the fuel oil emergency discharge to wide open position. I shed a salty tear as I did it. It almost broke my economical heart to watch those tons upon tons of thick, black goo flood from their storage tanks out through the for'rd vent into the empty reaches of space.
Then I found the condensation-valve and jammed it as Biggs had directed. Then, not knowing what else to do, I sat down and waited.
I didn't have to wait long. Results began resulting immediately, if not more so. I suddenly discovered that once again—as earlier in the day—I was sweating. I removed my coat. That didn't help. I took off my shirt. No use. If I hadn't been dead certain that within a short time there would be visitors to my turret, I'd have jettisoned my southernmost garments, too. But having no desire to embarrass Mrs. Biggs, I stood fast. And stuck fast, too, by the way!
So things started happening. The Chief audioed from the engine-room. He hollered, "Sparrrks, thot domned heat is on again. Turrn it off; or bi-gawd, sirrr—"