Lancelot Biggs' eyes lighted with a great joy.
"Mr. Cleaver, I touch my rocket to you! The ancient records do not lie. You are indeed a remarkable man. Now"—he turned to his fellow officers triumphantly—"now I know we shall win free of our difficulties. With your assistance."
Hank flushed, and squirmed a bulldog toe.
"Mebbe you better explain these here difficulties."
It was Biggs' turn to flush.
"I'm afraid," he said miserably, "it's all my fault. Six days ago, Earth Standard time, we lifted gravs from Long Island space port for Mars Central. This was to be my final shuttle before getting married to the skipper's daughter, Diane. Consequently I was a trifle—well, impatient. But I'm sure you understand, Mr. Cleaver."
Hank said hastily, "You better git on, Lootenant." He didn't look at Helen, which was a good thing.
"For some time," continued Biggs, "I have been experimenting with a new device, designed to increase the speed of our vessel. It seemed particularly appropriate that this shuttle should be the test period. So with Captain Hanson's permission I installed my new velocity intensifier on the hypatomics. After we cleared Lunar III, I switched it on—"
Biggs stopped. His eyes were haunted.