The Madness of Lancelot Biggs

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."

"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—"

"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!