So that, boys and girls, was all. Except for a tiny conclave some time later in Cap Hanson's quarters. Biggs was there, and Diane, and the skipper, and of course yours truly. We were asking, and receiving, a once-over-lightly on what to all of us save Lancelot Biggs was still a deep, dark mystery. The Old Man said:
"So we really wasn't never in no danger at all, son? We never was going to run afoul of the Sun?"
"Well, yes," said Biggs, "and no. We would not have fallen into the Sun. But we were in danger. Our trajectory, as plotted by Major Gilchrist, within a few short hours would have carried us to a spot where Sol's blazing heat might have crisped every soul aboard to a cinder.
"It was necessary to convince Gilchrist of our peril before it was too late to avert disaster. Heating the Saturn artificially seemed the best way to do this. I tried to make him think Sol was burning us up yesterday, but he got wise to my little scheme for heating the ship electrically."
"And you," I said, "got jugged. And he gathered all the electrical equipment into his own paws. But, nevertheless, you did turn the Saturn into a stew-kettle. How?"
Biggs grinned amiably.
"Why, you ought to know, Sparks. You helped me."
"A mule," I admitted, "helps a man plow a field, but it don't know how or why. Not that I'm a jackass, but—"
"It was very simple, really. You turned the release valve, allowing the fuel oil to discharge from its tanks onto the outer hull. The hull became coated with a thick layer of oil. Now, think hard! Oil in a vacuum, heated by an outside source—"