Biggs, having set the studs into lock-posts, slipped from the bucket-shaped pilot's chair and walked to his wife's side. No, he didn't exactly walk, either. Biggs' locomotion can scarcely be dignified by that term. It is a stiff-legged sort of galumph, like an ostrich on ice-skates. But his tone held a proper degree of uxorious dignity.
"The lady, Major," he said, "is my wife."
But the old freezeroo didn't chill Gilchrist at all. He just sniffed down his long, sharp nose at Biggs.
"And who," he demanded, "might you be?"
It was Cap Hanson who answered. The skipper's voice was warm with justifiable pride. "Permit me, Major. This is my son-in-law and First Officer, Lt. Lancelot Biggs. He just reported back for active duty. I'm sure you've heard of him. He invented the V-I unit and the uranium speech-trap—"[1]
"Oh!" said Gilchrist frigidly, and stared at my chum like a vegetarian at a hamburger. "So you're Biggs? This is too bad. I had just succeeded in training Lieutenant Todd to a point of efficiency. Now I suppose I must start over again and teach you how to manage a spaceship!"
Imagine it! That kind of crack to Mr. Biggs, one of the brainiest spacers who ever lifted gravs! Dick Todd was a good guy, but he wasn't Biggs' equal by ten decimals! I held my breath and waited for the explosion. Cap Hanson's mottled old cheeks began to glow like a neon sign, and Diane whooshed like an enraged Bunsen burner. But Biggs spoke up hurriedly.
"Yes, sir!" he said. "Very good, sir! I'll be most grateful for your instructions, sir!"
That was the kind of palaver Gilchrist liked. For a moment he looked half human as a tight little smile shuddered along his lips. He said, mollified, "That's very sensible of you, Lieutenant. We may get along, after all. For a while I feared your—er—lucky accomplishments in the past might—er—make you a bit difficult. Have you plotted our homeward course?"