"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Biggs. He lifted a sheet of paper from the chart-desk, handed it to the Major. Gilchrist studied it briefly, lifted his gimlet eyes.
"Not bad, Lieutenant. Not bad at all. A little old-fashioned, perhaps—"
That was more than I could stand. If Biggs wouldn't take his own part, I had to. I burst out, "But, Major, Biggs just graduated from the Academy two years ago! How could his astrogation be 'old-fashioned'? There's not a better plotter in space. Lance has yanked us out of more troubles—"
"Sparks!" That was Biggs, warning me with his voice and with his eyes. "Didn't the Major tell you to go turn off your batteries? You'd better run along."
"O.Q.," I snarled. "I'm on my way. Come up and see me in my turret some time, Lance—where the air is fresher!" And I beat it before Major Gilchrist caught his breath.
So there it was. A couple of hours later I was sitting in my cubby-hole, still fuming over how the Holy Bonds of Matrimony had changed a once vivid and daring spaceman into a vapid and scary yes-man, when there came a knock on the door.
"If you owe me money," I growled, "come in! If vice versa, there's nobody home but us amperes!"
The door eased open, and it was Biggs. His face was sober. He said, "Sparks, can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Why don't you ask Gilchrist?" I snorted. "He gives the orders around here."