"Let's," suggested Horse-sense Hank mildly, "have a look."
That was all the invitation the young lieutenant needed. Without so much as a backward glance at the rest of us, he led Hank to the control banks of the space freighter. They began to talk in undertones. Biggs pushed buttons and explained things. I heard snatches about, "tensor alleviators," "orbital velocity adjusters," and a bunch of terms even less comprehensible, and gave it up as a bad job.
It was Hank's party. And his headache.
I turned to my self-appointed guide, the radioman, Bert Donovan.
"Do you understand what they're talking about?"
He grinned. "Buster, I've been listening to Lancelot Biggs talk for almost a year now. And I have yet to understand the first thing he tells me."
"Then in that case," I said, "it looks to me like a drink is indicated. Right?"
Right is might, and shall prevail.
I don't know how long later it was that we wandered back to the control turret. It must have been quite a while, for Sparks had shown me through the entire ship. When we got back, Cap Hanson and Doc Hallowell were playing a game of high-low, and the Saturn's skipper was giving Hallowell a good old-fashioned, twenty-third century going over.