And—most stunning surprise of all!—my words were echoed by the groveling goon on the floor! Major Gilchrist, his voice cracked and fearful, bleated, "What can we do? You must help me, Mr. Biggs! Save me—"
Biggs was yelling into the speaker while Gilchrist babbled in terror.
Maybe I was mistaken, but I thought I could detect a ghost of a chuckle in my gawky pal's voice. He said, "Major, according to Space Practice Law No. 3, section viii, 'A space officer convicted of malfeasance, or confined under suspicion thereof pending trial and conviction, may not offer, suggest, or cause to be given any orders, commands or directions which may affect his ship's course or trajectory—'"
"You're free, Mr. Biggs!" screamed Gilchrist. "Free to come and go as you please! I was wrong! You're not under arrest any longer! But save me! Save me—"
This time Biggs did chuckle. I heard him do it. So did every man, mouse and mess-boy aboard the Saturn. And—
"Very well, Major," he said. "Thank you! Todd, set the ship on the new trajectory."
Todd said, "H-huh?"