Where are you, Mr. Biggs?

by Nelson S. Bond

Where Are You, Mr. Biggs?

By NELSON S. BOND

That gangling frame, that easy, fluent grin—lost
in the nameless depths of the crypts of space!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales September 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

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We're supposed to be an Earth-Mars lugger, but when we got to Mars Central spaceport, the bug-pounder there gave me this solar-gram from Terra. It said:

"PROCEED URANUS IMMEDIATELY PICK UP CARGO GALLIUM."

So I shoved a frantic for the Old Man over the ship audio, and pretty soon he came lumbering up to my radio room, picking his teeth and scowling like a man with only a half a tummyfull of victuals.

"It's a fine state of affairs," he snarled, "when a skipper can't even finish his dinner in peace! Well, what's the matter now, Sparks? You seeing pink rhinoceroses again? 'Cause if you are—"

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