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Title: The madness of Lancelot Biggs

Author: Nelson S. Bond

Release date: June 29, 2024 [eBook #73942]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1940

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MADNESS OF LANCELOT BIGGS ***





                     The Madness of Lancelot Biggs

                           By NELSON S. BOND

           There was more at stake than just a football game
           for Lancelot Biggs and the crew of the Saturn. So
          Biggs made a bargain; his rocket emblem in exchange
            for a new uranium condenser--and how it worked!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                   Fantastic Adventures April 1940.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


[Illustration: With a sigh, Biggs went to work on the radio while the
captain glared.]


We had barely cleared Lunar Three and I was taking final instructions
from Joe Marlowe, the port Sparks, when my plates dulled out and there
I was staring at a blank expanse of metal. So I said, "Merdejo!" which
is Universal for a naughty word, and started looking for the trouble.
I was on my hands and knees under the audio bank when Cap Hanson came
into my control turret.

He said, "You lose somethin', Sparks?"

"Two minutes ago," I told him. "Take a look around. If you see
something bright red and covered with hairy spikes, don't step on it.
It's my temper."

The Skipper sighed. "If my troubles," he declaimed, "was as mild as
your'n, I'd do cartwheels from here to Venus. Sparks, you got a copy of
the Space Manual here, ain't you?"

I nodded toward my bookcase; he found the reg book and leafed through
it carefully. Finally he shook his head.

"It ain't here," he gloomed. "Are you sure this is the latest edition?"

"Just what are you looking for?" I asked him.

"I was kinda thinkin'," he said hopefully, "there might be a paragraph
givin' a space commander permission to boil his First Mate in oil,
or cut him into small cubes an' feed him to the octopussies. But the
waffle-fannies what wrote that book--"

I knew, then. It was the same old complaint. Our lanky and incredibly
omniscient friend, Lancelot Biggs, whose genius for getting ye goode
shippe _Saturn_ out of tight spots was surpassed only by his ability to
fester Cap Hanson's epidermis, was back in the soup.

I said, "But, sweet comets, Cap, what's he done now? He hasn't had time
to do much. We've just pulled our Ampie[1] out of Earth's H-layer."

[Footnote 1: The strange, energy-devouring Venusian creature that
serves as a protective shield for space ships going through a planetary
Heaviside layer.--Ed.]

"Which," rasped the skipper, "took three hours. Or time enough for
Mister Biggs to render hisself liable to homicide. I've tooken plenty
from that long-legged scarecrow. I got carpeted for platinum-chasin' on
his say-so.[2] I caressed pirates[3]--which, by the way, if you ever
tell anybody, Sparks, I'll massacre you for--an' I--"

[Footnote 2: "FOB Venus", Fantastic Adventures, Nov., 1939.--Ed.]

[Footnote 3: "Lancelot Biggs Cooks a Pirate," Fantastic Adventures,
Feb., 1939.--Ed.]

"You also," I reminded him, "got your stripes saved on two separate
occasions. Not to mention your bank-roll and your life. Remember?"

"Nevertheless," said the skipper stiffly, "an' however, this time he's
gone too far. He's been makin' eyes at my daughter."

"Your," I repeated slowly, "daughter!"

"You seen her. She come aboard at Long Island Port for the Venus trip."
Here his space-gnarled, leathery face cracked into a grin that would
have melted custard. "Pretty as a picture, don't you think? Some say
she resembles me."

"Some people," I told him dazedly, "will say anything for a laugh."
I was thinking about that girl. What a girl! Five and a half feet of
cream and velvet, surmounted by hair the color of a Martian sunset.
Eyes like blue haze over Venus, only alive with crinkly laughter.
Sure, she resembled the skipper! They had the same number of arms and
legs; they each had one nose and two eyes and two ears--but there the
similarity ended. Their difference was that between a lumbering old
space freighter like the _Saturn_ and a modern, streamlined man-o'-war.
And I _do_ mean streamlined!

The skipper said sourly, "Well, get the blank look off your pan,
Sparks. An' take down a special message from me to Mr. Romeo Biggs, on
account of if I try to tell him myself I'll forget my dignity an' tear
him into asteroids. Tell him that the next time I catch him tossin'
goo-goo eyes at Diane, I'll give him a one-way ticket through the
air-lock. That's all!"

And he left the turret, snorting. I stared after him dreamily. I found
myself doing something I haven't done since I was a kid, counting off
my name with that of Diane Hanson. "Friendship, courtship, love, hate,
marriage--"

It came out "friendship." I told you I had my troubles....

       *       *       *       *       *

After a while came a sound like a three-legged pelican doing the
Martian fling in a cornpatch, and Lancelot Biggs ambled into my turret,
eyes aglow, his unbelievable Adam's-apple bobbing up and down like a
photon in a cyclotron. I could tell he was busting with the desire to
spill his overflowing heart to me, but he said, "Trouble, Sparks?"

See? That's why you just couldn't help liking the guy. Soon as he saw
me fiddling around the audio bank he was ready to help. It's hard to
figure a jasper like Biggs. I sometimes thought he was the dumbest
mortal who ever hopped gravs, but just about the time I'd be ready to
delegate him to the Booby-hatch Convention he'd come through with a
spark of brilliance that would make Sol look like an infra-red ray.

I told him glumly, "I wish the nearest I'd ever come to radio was
playin' that kid's game with beans. This time the audio's gone haywire
and I can't even find out what the hell ails it."

He came over beside me and looked. He jiggled a few wires, snapped
switches and succeeded in bunting the button of the feed line cable. At
last he said, "The trouble's in the plate, isn't it, Sparks?"

"Looks as if. It's gone cold and I can't raise a signal out of it."

"These plates you use," he frowned, "are made of a seleno-aluminum
alloy, aren't they?"

"Right," I told him, "as rain. However right that is. And they're as
dependable as a spacecomber's promises. Always going on the blink just
when you need 'em most."

"That's what I thought." Biggs shifted his gawky length from one
foot to the other, a sign of deep cogitation I'd seen before. Then,
suddenly, "Listen, Sparks," he blurted, "I've been thinking over that
problem--"

I rose hastily.

"Look, Mr. Biggs, if you've been thinking, this is where I get off.
Don't tell me or I'll catch the contagion. I'm just a hard-working bug
pounder--"

"--and I think I know a way," he continued eagerly, "to put an end to
space radio transmission difficulties. They're using the wrong metal in
the audio plates, _that's_ the trouble! The seleno-aluminum alloy was
all right for radio in the early days of television, but space-flight
demands a sturdier, and at the same time more sensitive receptor."

"Like," I demanded, "what? Comet-tails, maybe?"

"Uranium," explained Biggs simply. "As I told you, I've been
experimenting. And I've discovered that uranium, no longer as rare and
expensive as it was when audio plates were first invented, is the ideal
plate."

"It's been nice," I said sarcastically, "seeing you, Mr. Biggs. Any
schoolchild knows that mobile electrons account for the electrical
conducting ability of metals. And as the number of electrons per atom
increases, metallic properties decrease; the metals become harder, more
brittle, less ductile and poorer conductors. Uranium, my friend, would
be what we Universal-hurlers call, in our simple patois, a first class
'stinkeroo'."

Biggs flushed faintly, and his liquescent larynx leaped in a lopsided
lurch. There was a hurt look in his eyes.

"Would you be convinced if I showed you?"

"St. Louis," I said.

"I--I beg your pardon?"

"I'm from there. It's in the State of Missouri." But I gave my
slumbrous receiving set a glance of despair. "Still--this thing's not
working. If you'd like to try out your new floppola--"

"I've got it in my quarters," he said delightedly. "I'll go get it
right away!" And he started toward the door.

I remembered, then, that I had a message for him.

"Wait a minute," I said, "I just remembered. Our beloved skipper left
you a billet-doux. He told me to tell you to ipskay the assespay at the
aughterday."

Biggs frowned. "Latin?" he hazarded.

"Pig-Latin," I told him, "and horse-sense. Hanson says you've been
wearing it on the sleeve for his gal, Diane. And if he sees it pounding
in the open once more, he's going to chop it into mincemeat."

Biggs' face looked like a national holiday on the calendar. He
strangled gently.

"But--but I like the girl, Sparks. And I believe she likes me."

"She'll revere your memory," I told him frankly, "if you don't obey the
Old Man's orders. When he issued his manifesto he had granite in his
jaw and mayhem in his eyes. You'd better do as he says."

"But it's not fair!" protested Biggs. "After all, I'm an officer and
a--"

"And a gentleman," I finished wearily, "by courtesy of the U.S.S.A.
Yeah, I know. But in my estimation, that's just strike two against you.
The skipper doesn't have a lot of use for you graduate Wranglers, you
know. He graduated from the N.R.I. before there was such a thing as an
Academy."

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps, for the sake of you Earth-lubbers who are tuned in I should
explain this. The rivalry between Earth's two great schools of
astronavigation is something paralleled only by that which existed,
centuries ago, between the United States' two military schools, the
U.S.M.A. and the U.S.N.A.

The National Rocket Institute is the older college for spacemen.
Originally designed for merchant marine training, it became a natural
"friendly foe" of the United States Spaceways Academy when that
institution was founded fourteen years later.

Today there is a constant companionable rivalry between graduates of
the two schools; one subordinate, of course, to the routine of daily
work, but that flares into definite feeling when, each Earth autumn,
the current football teams of the academies meet in their traditional
grid battle.

They tell me that in the old days soldiers and sailors the world around
used to gather about their short-wave radios to hear the broadcast
of the Army-Navy game. Well, it's that way--only worse--nowadays in
space. Graduates of the N.R.I. ("Rocketeers," we call 'em) listen,
cheek-to-jowl, with "Wranglers" from the Spaceways Academy. There's
a lot of groaning and a lot of cheering and a lot of drinking and
sometimes there's a sizable chunk of fisticuffing. It usually ends up
with the representatives of the winning team standing treat, and the
grads of the losing academy vowing they'll win "Next year!"

Take our ship, for instance. The _Saturn_. I won my brevet at the
Academy; so did Dick Todd, the second-in-command, and Lancelot Biggs
graduated just last year. Chief Engineer Garrity, on the other hand,
took his sheepskin from the Rocketeers' school, and so did Cap Hanson.

Which made another important reason why I should do something--and do
it mighty fast--to get the _Saturn's_ radio clicking again. Because
the annual Rocketeer-Wrangler grid fracas was to be broadcast just two
days from now, and my scalp wouldn't be worth the price of a secondhand
toupee if the old grads from both schools couldn't hear the game.

Biggs spluttered like my condenser would if my audio had been working,
which it wasn't--if you know what I mean.

"I'm not one to complain, Sparks. But when Hanson tries to come between
Diane and me--"

I said, "So! Mister Biggs, accept my apology. I underrated you. It's
reached the 'Diane' stage already, has it?"

"It--it--" Biggs stammered into silence. Then he said, almost meekly,
"Sparks--can you keep a secret?"

"I'm a mousetrap," I told him.

"Then I'll tell you--this isn't the first time Diane and I have met.
We--we knew each other before I came aboard the _Saturn_. As a matter
of fact, I asked for this berth in order that I might gain her father's
favor; so we could get married."

That explained a lot of things. I had often wondered why Lancelot
Biggs, whose uncle, Prendergast Biggs, was a Vice-president of the
Corporation, should have chosen to serve out his junior officership on
a wallowing, old-fashioned Earth-to-Venus freighter like the _Saturn_.
Now it all became clear and I began to feel like the adviser of a
lovelorn column in a daily newspaper.

I said, "So to put it poetically, Biggs, you're a little bit off the
gravs for the gal, hey?"

"Little bit?" he said miserably. "Sparks, you'll never know."

"That's what you think," I told him, remembering how it came out
"friendship."

"What?" Then he forgot his curiosity in a burst of--for him--uncommon
petulance. "But I'll not take this lying down, Sparks. I'll show the
skipper I have a right to love his daughter. I don't care if he _is_ a
graduate of the N.R.I., I'll show the leather-pussed old space cow--"

"Are you by any chance," roared a voice, "referrin' to _me_, Mister
Biggs!"

We both started. The Skipper was standing in the doorway!

       *       *       *       *       *

I said, "Pardon me, folks! I've got to see a guy about a shroud!" and
tried to slide past Cap Hanson to the safety of the deck, but the Old
Man roared me down with a blast.

"Come back here, Sparks! I want you as witness!" He turned to Biggs,
whose face looked like a prism revolving in sunlight. "So! So I'm a
leather-pussed old space cow, _Mister_ Biggs?"

Biggs stammered, "I--I--"

"_What!_" Hanson's bellow raised a dozen decibels. "You impertinent
young jackanapes! Did you hear him, Sparks? He said, 'Aye, aye!' Well,
I'll show _you_--"

He extended a horny palm. "Your rocket, sir!"

Lancelot Biggs' lips quivered. He reached up and mechanically unpinned
from its place over his left breast the tiny, shining gold rocket
replica which is the brevet of a space lieutenant. Hanson snatched
it. In a decisive voice he said, "I'm markin' you down, Biggs, for
insubordination, for slander of a senior officer, conduct unbecomin' an
officer, intent to malign an' injure, an'--Well, that's all for now.
Maybe I'll think of a few more things later on.

"To your quarters, Mister Biggs. An' consider yourself under arrest
until further notice."

Biggs saluted; turned on his heel and marched from the room. And it
struck me, suddenly, that for once there was nothing amusing, nothing
humorous, in the youngster's gangling walk. Oh, he stalked, yes. And
I've often kidded him about how much like a crab on stilts he looks.
But now I felt sort of choky when I saw the pathetic dignity in the
set of his shoulders, the proud way he strode away without a backward
glance.

I guess I lifted my own gravs for a minute. My voice sounded harsh in
my own ears when I snarled at Hanson, "Well, you certainly threw the
book at him that time!"

But to my surprise, Cap Hanson was grinning. He looked like an Ampie
in a power plant. And he said, placatingly, "Oh, come now, Sparks! You
don't think I'm such an ogre as all that, do you?"

"You busted him," I accused. "You lifted his rocket and put him under
arrest. When the Corporation learns about it, they'll--"

"The Corporation," said the skipper, "isn't goin' to hear about it.
I'm not even goin' to put this on the log. This is between you an' me
and Lancelot Biggs, Sparks. Don't you see? I had to do somethin' to
separate him an' Diane."

I did see. And I realized how completely I was caught in the middle by
my friendship with two guys, each of whom believed in his own ideals,
each of whom thought he was doing the right thing. I said slowly, "I
get it, Cap. But are you sure you're doing the right thing? After all,
maybe Biggs and your daughter really like each other."

Cap Hanson said seriously, "That's just what I'm afraid of, Sparks.
Put yourself in my place. How would _you_ like to have a grandson what
looked like Lancelot Biggs?"

I don't know. Maybe he had something there.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, to make a short story longer, that happened the first day out
of Long Island Spaceport. Tempus, as the old Romans liked to remark,
fidgetted. I spent the working hours of the next two days trying to
get that confounded instrument of mine operating; I spent my off hours
shuttling back and forth between the bridge and the brig.

I had the pleasure--and, boy! you'd better know I mean it--of meeting
Diane Hanson. She was a rag, a bone of contention and a hank of hair,
but if she'd snapped her fingers I would have jumped out the spacelock
and brought her back a handful of galaxies. She had a voice that made
me feel like my backbone was charging .30 amps, and when my eyes met
hers my knees went all wobbly.

But her heart belonged to the baddy in the hoosegow. And she didn't
care who knew it--except the Old Man. She asked me, "He's all right,
Sparks, he's comfortable?"

"He's comfortable enough," I told her. "But he's as restless as a
squirrel in a petrified forest. He's been pacing his room so much that
he's not only got corns, but he's got corns on his corns."

She said wistfully, "If Dad would only be reasonable. Sparks, do you
think that if I went to him and told him everything--?"

I shuddered.

"Don't mention it! Don't even think of it! Your old ma--I mean your
father might read your thoughts." I forced a grin named Santa Claus,
because I didn't believe in it myself. "Cheer up, Diane. Lancelot will
find a way out of this trouble."

"He will?" she said hopefully. "You think he will, Sparks?"

"He always does," I told her. I squared myself with Kid Conscience by
muttering under my breath, "Always--except this time."

       *       *       *       *       *

So finally here we were, a baker's dozen of us, in the radio turret
on the fateful day. Twelve of us were scowling, and me--I was number
thirteen--I was sweating like an ice-box in the Sahara. Because it was
the day, and darn near the hour, of the Big Game back on Earth--and my
radio _still_ was as talkative as a deaf-mute in a vacuum.

Todd was there, and Chief Garrity, and Wilson, the third officer, and
Billings and--oh, shucks!--every one of us who had studied at either of
the two academies. And Cap Hanson was there. He was very much there. He
was howling ghastly threats in my ears, the mildest of which was that
if I didn't have the radio repaired within the next minute, or maybe
less, he'd personally tattoo the word "Scoundrel" on my forehead with a
riveting machine.

I squawked, "Good golly, I'm doing the best I can! Don't you think
I want to hear this game as much as you do? Maybe more. Because the
Wranglers are going to beat the bejeepers out of you Rocketeers today,
anyhow."

Cap raged, "What's that?" but it took some of the blast out of his
tubes, because he knew it was true. The Spaceways Academy team was
strongly favored over the eleven from the N.R.I., having so far run
through an undefeated season while the Rocketeers had lost to Army and
Notre Dame and been tied by Yale. "What's that? Why, last year--"

"That," Lieutenant Dick Todd taunted him, grinning, "was last year,
Skipper. You beat us then, yes. But this year the shoe's on the other
foot."

"Well, anyhow," howled the Old Man, "my shoe's goin' to be
you-know-where, Sparks, if you don't get that damn radio talkin'."

I stood up and stripped off my rubber gloves. I said, "I've done
everything I know how. I've had the thing apart twice and put it
together again. It won't work--and for one simple reason. The
seleno-aluminum plate is shot."

Chief Garrity said, "Then get ye a new one, lad."

"Right. As soon," I told him, "as we cradle into Sun City spaceport."

The skipper looked like he'd bitten into an apple and found a worm.
"You mean we're not going to hear the game?"

"That's exactly what I--" Then I paused. "Wait a minute! There's a
faint possibility we might. If his invention really works. He has a
spare plate in his quarters, but he'll have to install it. I don't know
how."

"He?" yelled the Old Man. "Who? The man in the moon?"

"The man in the doghouse," I corrected. "Biggs."

"Biggs!" The skipper's look changed. Now he looked like a man who'd
bitten into an apple and found _half_ a worm. But he turned to Dick
Todd. "Go get him, Mister Todd," he ordered.

Todd left. We all watched the clock. Todd returned, bringing with him
L. Biggs, ex-exile. The skipper glared daggers at his First Mate.

"I hear you've an invention, Mister Biggs," he said caustically. "I
distrust it. It may turn out like some of your other brain-children.
But this is no time to be choosey. Attach it. And be kind enough to
look at the radio controls instead of my daughter!"

Lancelot Biggs stood very, very still.

"Well," roared the Old Man, "get going!"

Lancelot Biggs smiled; a faint, thin smile.

"For," he said, "a price, Captain."

"A price!" Hanson's voice lifted the roof an inch. "Lieutenant, you're
not tryin' to dicker with me?"

"Not trying," corrected Biggs, "I'm dickering. For a price, I'll attach
my new plate unit to the radio. Further, I will absolutely guarantee
its operation."

"You--you insolent young pup!" raved the skipper. "Todd, Wilson--put
him in irons! No, stand still you damn fools! Let him alone! What's
your price, Biggs? You can't have her!"

"Her?" said Biggs innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about,
Captain. My price is--my rocket!"

Cap Hanson looked at the faces of the waiting graduates around him. He
knew when he was stalemated. He said, "Well--" and reached into his
pocket.

Biggs pinned the tiny golden emblem where it belonged and I never saw a
man look more proud. Then he said quietly, "Very well, gentlemen. Now,
Sparks, if you'll lend me a hand here...."

       *       *       *       *       *

The uranium plate worked. Two minutes later, as I tied in the positive
cable, dancing light began to play over the tubes, the galvanometer
skipped gaily, and current began to hum once again. I yelled, "Biggs,
you're terrific!" and reached for the vernier. But Biggs' hand stayed
mine.

"Not there, Sparks! Higher. The ultra-short wave, I believe. About one
over fifty thousand on the Ang vernier."

Cap Hanson rasped, "Sparks knows how to operate a radio, Mister Biggs,
without your help!"

"Not _this_ radio," shrugged the lanky lieutenant. "This plate is
considerably different from the old type. Considerably different!"

I thought I detected a faint note of amusement in his voice, but the
thought vanished as swiftly as it came--for at that instant my fingers
found the proper spot. There was a moment of whining super-het; then--

"--a great day and a great crowd, folks!" came an excited voice. "And
here comes the next play. The Wranglers have the ball on their own
eighteen yard line, second and ten to go--"

"That's it!" roared Cap Hanson exuberantly. "By golly, that's it!
Biggs, maybe you're not the dope I think you are!"

But the shocks weren't over yet. You remember I told you the Wranglers
were strongly favored to take the Rocketeers down the ramps? Well--this
was evidently just another example that in a traditional battle
anything can happen--and usually does!

We had had the radio on barely five minutes when the Rocketeers blocked
a Wrangler kick, fell on it, and took possession on the Wrangler nine
yard line. In two power plays the eleven from Cap Hanson's academy had
plunged over for a touchdown. One minute later they made the conversion
and the score was 7-0 for the supposed underdogs.

The faces around that room were a sight! Hanson and Garrity looked like
Venusian bunny-men in a carrot patch; those of us who acknowledged
the Academy as our Alma Mammy would have soured milk with our smiles.
The expression on Lancelot Biggs' face defied description. He looked
faintly startled, faintly pleased, like a man shouting echoes against a
mountainside.

Cap Hanson groped in his hip pocket; brought forth a wad of hoarded
Earth and Venus credits.

"Well, you broken-down Wranglers--any of you like to lay a few creds on
your team making a come-back?"

He got plenty of takers. After all, one touchdown isn't a football
game, and the Wranglers _were_ favored to win. I shelled out to the
extent of thirty credits, Todd staked a few. Chief Garrity unbuttoned
his ancient wallet, shooed away the moths, and risked some of his own
credits after demanding three to one odds.

And the game went on.

The first quarter ended, amazingly, with Rocketeers still leading by
that score of 7-0. In the second quarter, Cap Hanson, overflowing with
the milk of human I-told-you-so, turned to Lancelot Biggs, crowed
tauntingly,

"Well, Mister Biggs, I take notice you're careful not to lay any bets
on that team of your'n?"

Biggs, whose eyes had been fastened hungrily on a girl in that
room--guess which one!--gulped, and his neck-elevator bobbled. He said,
almost embarrassedly,

"I--I don't know whether I should, Captain--"

Hanson snorted. "Just what I might have expected of a Wrangler. Well--"

Then Chief Garrity shushed him suddenly. "Quiet, skipper! Something's
going on!"

Something was, indeed. The radio announcer was in a dither. "--and it
looks bad for the Wranglers, friends! The Rocketeers' quick kick has
them on the one yard line ... now they're lining up to kick out of
trouble.... Wait a minute! Here comes a substitute from the Wrangler
bench. It's--we don't have time to get you his name, folks, but it's
number 36. He's going in at quarterback for O'Doule--"

Hanson gibed, "Well, Biggs?"

The announcer continued, "Number 36 in at quarterback, folks. Now he's
calling signals. There's the snapback. The new man is going to kick....
No, he's going to pass.... No, he's going to run.... No--he's fumbled!

"There's a pile-up behind the goalposts! They're unscrambling the
players. And--it's a touchdown for the Rocketeers, folks! The score is
13-0!"

Hanson let loose a great roar of delight. "There! I knew it! Good thing
you didn't bet, Biggs!"

And then, astonishingly, Lancelot Biggs spoke up. "How much would you
like to wager, Captain?"

"How--much?" Hanson looked stunned. "Every cred in my poke, Lieutenant.
Two hundred and fifty."

"I'll take that bet," said Biggs.

       *       *       *       *       *

I sidled to his elbow and gave him a swift poke in the ribs. I hissed,
"Don't be a sap, Biggs! Make him give you odds if you _must_ bet--"

But I spoke too late. The bet had already been placed in the hands of a
neutral party, steward Doug Enderby. And now, a new tenseness in all of
us, we listened to the remainder of the broadcast.

In the third quarter, Dick Todd got out the crying towel. "Gosh,
Sparks," he mourned to me, "what's the matter with our boys? This is a
slaughter. The same as last year."

Because by that time the Rocketeers had scored once again; this time on
a smooth sixty yard forward. Garrity and Hanson were literally swooning
with joy, by this time offering fantastic odds to any Wrangler who
would bet. But we had all pulled in our horns. All, that is, but one
man--First Mate Lancelot Biggs.

In a moment of lull, he turned to the skipper.

"Skipper," he said, "I have no more creds, but I'd like to wager for
another stake."

Hanson chuckled. "Your shirt won't fit me, Biggs."

"I'll bet you," said Biggs thoughtfully, "my space claim against the
privilege of the next three landings that the Wranglers beat the
Rocketeers this year."

We all gasped. They were _real_ stakes. Every space officer is
granted, by the IPS, a space claim consisting of property rights in
all unexplored areas of a given arc. He may either explore in this
sector himself after he has served his trick, or he may delegate the
exploration to professional space-hounds. In either case, a substantial
percentage of all ores, precious stones and miscellany found in his
allotted sector belong to him. Many a space officer has found himself
fabulously rich overnight when his sector turned up with rock diamond
detritus or granules of meteoric ore.

On the other hand, Biggs was asking a great privilege. Before a space
officer can become a commander, he must have made five personal cradle
landings on any planet. Skippers were chary of granting permission on
these, often making junior officers wait years to earn their Master's
ticket.

But it looked like Biggs was again sticking his neck out. I tried
to stop him. I said, "Don't, Biggs! This game is in the bag for the
Rocketeers. Don't be so rash!"

But only half the words had garbled through my larynx when Cap Hanson
yelped exuberantly, "_Done!_ Gentlemen, I call upon you to witness that
wager!" And he rubbed his paws together like a raccoon eyeing a bowl of
honey.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twenty to nothing! That was the score then, and it was the score
fifteen minutes later when, with but seven more minutes remaining in
the annual fracas, Lancelot Biggs went stark, staring mad.

Now, Cap Hanson contributed to that madness. I must admit that his
glee annoyed me. I can stand taking a licking as well as the next man,
but I hate like hell to have someone rub it in. And that's what the
skipper was doing. As the minutes ticked by, and the Rocketeers' margin
became momentarily more insurmountable, he first taunted us Wranglers,
then insulted us by offering ridiculous odds against our winning, and
finally accused us all of lacking sportsmanship.

Biggs, standing carefully aloof from Diane in order not to rouse the
skipper's latent wrath, had a strange pallor on his cheeks. Not so
strange, maybe. It's hard to stand by and watch everything you possess
slipping down the skids.

Cap didn't make things any easier for him. Every so often the Old Man
would bend over, slap his thighs, and howl, "Anything more you'd like
to bet, Mister Biggs? Whoops! I'm a space-bitten son of Jupiter if this
ain't the most fun I ever had!"

And then Lancelot Biggs jolted out of his curious stupor. He said,
"Yes, Captain--I _do_ have something else to bet!"

Even Hanson was staggered by that one. "Huh?" was his snappiest
come-back.

"If--" There was a dreamy look in Biggs' eyes. "If you'd be kind enough
to step into the corridor with me. You and Sparks, please?"

Good old Sparks; witness extraordinary. But don't think it gave me any
pleasure to witness this example of sheer madness. As we moved through
the doorway, away from the wondering crowd, I pleaded with Biggs,
"Biggs, for gosh sakes--haven't you lost enough already? Don't make
another bet!"

But the glance he turned to me was mildly puzzled. And he whispered
swiftly, "It's all right, Sparks. I know what I'm doing--"

Then, outside, to the skipper,

"Captain Hanson, I have only one more thing of potential value left in
the world. The patent rights to my new invention, the practicability of
which you have witnessed all afternoon, the uranium audio plate. This
will be my share of the wager."

Hanson said suspiciously, "I don't know--" To me, "Sparks, is it worth
anything?"

I nodded sombrely.

"In my estimation," I told him, "it's worth at least a quarter million
credits. It's the first plate I've ever seen that really works. Didn't
you notice we're not even picking up static?"

The Old Man nodded. "Very well. And my stake--?"

Biggs said boldly, "Permission to continue seeing your daughter.
And--if she'll have me--to marry her!"

Something popped, and for a minute I thought it was the Old Man's
fuses, but it was only the top of his head rising two feet.

"_What!_ I thought you understood--" Then a crafty grin touched his
lips. "Just a minute," he said cannily, "I presume that you imply by
this that if you lose, you'll never try to see Diane again?"

I wanted to shout "No!" so bad I could taste it. But I was just the
party of the third part. Biggs' reply was just the opposite.

"Yes!" he said.

I groaned. Love's young dream--twenty points away!

       *       *       *       *       *

Let's get the agony over with. We returned to a control room full of
madmen. For in our absence the Rocketeers had intercepted a desperate
Wrangler pass, and the score was now 26-0. Just one point different
from that licking they had given the U.S.S.A. boys last year. And as we
listened glumly they kicked the extra point.

And that was about all. For three plays after the next kickoff a gun
boomed, the crowd screamed, and the announcer howled, "--and there's
the end of the game, folks! The Rocketeers win a great ball game,
27-0. You have been listening to this program through the courtesy of
Hornswimble's Robot Corporation, makers of the world-famous 'Silent
Servants.' Why be lonely? A Robot in the home is a constant companion--"

Chief Garrity squealed his tight-fisted glee. His palm
waved simultaneously beneath the noses of three sorrowful
Wranglers--including me. "Pay up!" he demanded. "Pay up, ye benighted
rascals--!"

And Cap Hanson was one big grin on legs. He said to Biggs triumphantly,
"Well, Biggs, I hope you've learned a lesson today! Two hundred and
fifty credits, if you please. I'm minded to be kind with you. I'll not
accept your space claim, my lad. But that third bet--" He beamed on
Diane. "_That_ one I'll hold you to! And now--"

Biggs moved. To the radio bank. As he moved, he spoke.

"Yes. And now," he said, "I think you should all hear _this_--"

He twisted the dial. There was a moment of howling; then came a voice,
clear, crisp, enthusiastic, "--four minutes of playing time remaining,
folks, and the Rocketeers have the ball. But it won't do them any
good. Even if they _do_ score the result will be the same. They can't
overcome that tremendous Wrangler lead, 33-6--"

       *       *       *       *       *

Thunder and lightning; madness and confusion! The control room became
as noisy as a well-populated tomb, and out of the terrible silence came
the faint, thin voice of the skipper demanding, "What--what does this
mean?"

Biggs boomed pleasantly, "It means, Captain, that you've lost your
bets. You'll remember that all our wagers were based on the result of
_this_ year's game--which you are now listening to.

"It is unfortunate that human memories are so brief. Otherwise some of
you gentlemen might have recognized the astonishing similarity of the
broadcast we've just listened to with that of last year's game! Which
it was!"

Cap Hanson groaned, "Last year's game! But that's impossible! You
couldn't--"

"_I_ couldn't," agreed Biggs pleasantly, "but my new invention could.
You see, I discovered in the course of my experiments that uranium has
some definite peculiarities. It, being highly radioactive itself, has
the strange property of being able to delay, almost indefinitely, the
passage of electrical impulses traveling through it.

"Thus, under certain circumstances--in this case, Sparks, the fact
that it was activated in the ultra-short wave field--it can be used as
a 'time-speech-trap' to recapture sound waves released into the ether
long ago.

"When Earth's scientists have further investigated this phenomenon I
predict some amazing results. Possibly in the near future we may be
able to 'listen' once again to the voices of our ancestors 'way back
in the Elizabethan Age, the Machine Age, or the American Business Age.
But meanwhile--" He grinned amiably. "Meanwhile, you have just heard
a broadcast of last year's Rocketeer-Wrangler football game. _This_
year's is just concluding!"

And so it was. With the Wranglers out in front by a score of 33-6. The
outraged screams of Chief Engineer Garrity will haunt me all my days....

Afterward there were just four of us in the turret. Biggs, Diane, the
skipper and me. The Old Man had the look of a St. Bernard who has lost
his brandy cask. He said, "But, confound you, Biggs, you're not goin'
to hold me to them bets, are you? When you knew all the time--"

Biggs grinned.

"You were magnanimous with me, Skipper. I'll be the same with you. Keep
your money. And I'll settle for two landings. But the third bet--well,
you know the old saying."

"I know," mourned the Captain, "plenty of 'em. What one do you mean?"

"'All's fair'," quoted Biggs softly, "'in love and--.' We'll skip the
other part. Diane, honey--"

One thing about the skipper; he knew when he'd lost. He forced a grin
to his lips--and, do you know, when he'd had a look at the light in
Diane's eyes as she moved into the circle of Biggs' arms, that grin
began to look almost natural. He gave me the high-sign, and we started
to leave. But I had one more question. In the doorway I turned and
asked, "Biggs, come clean! You didn't know that thing was going to work
that way, did you?"

He frowned gently. "I didn't _know_. I suspected."

"But when," I insisted, "did you really find out for sure? Your
memory's no better than mine. Certainly you didn't remember the events
of last year's game?"

"Some of them," he said amusedly. "I caught on when I heard that
episode about the awkward quarterback, the substitute, number 36.
Remember?"

"Remember! You bet I do. The clumsy galoot who fumbled in the end zone
and gave the Rocketeers a touchdown? He should have been drawn and
quartered, the dope. But how did you remember _him_?"

Biggs smiled wanly.

"I just left the Academy last year, Sparks," he said. "And the football
team. _I_ was number 36!"

Then he turned to Diane, and she turned to him, and--aw, hell! I know
when I'm not wanted!





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