"Well, what's the matter now, Sparks? Seeing pink rhinoceroses again?"
"I'm not," I told him with quiet dignity, "and they aren't pink rhinos, they're lavender lobsters, and anyway, I haven't had a drink for months. Or maybe it's since yesterday? Anyhow, here's the grief." And I gave him the wire.
He read it. Read it, your Aunt Nelly—he screamed it out loud.
"Uranus!" he bellowed. "This crate make that trip? They must be stark, staring mad!"
"Them," I agreed, "or me. Flip a coin. What shall I do, Skipper? Tell 'em we can't do it? Tell 'em—?"
"No, wait a minute." Cap Hanson's brow looked like a freshly ploughed field. I knew why. The Saturn is an old lugger. And by old, I do mean ancient. It was built before the turn of the century, and by all laws of logic and reason should have been taken off the spaceways long ago, only that Cap Hanson and our screwball First Mate, Lancelot Biggs, had demonstrated time and time again, and in startlingly devious ways, that the old scow was still spaceworthy.
But if the Saturn were removed from active service, the chances were ten to one that Hanson would be junked with her. Which was Reason Numero Uno—and a damned good one—why the skipper couldn't risk refusing this order.
"We'll go, Sparks," he said slowly. "We've got to. But I could wring his scrawny neck, blast his jets!"