The Genius of LANCELOT BIGGS

By Nelson S. Bond

Lancelot Biggs was an unpredictable quantity, but nobody
aboard the Saturn thought he'd ever turn traitor!

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

"Wait!" As Thaxton went into his trance, Lancelot Biggs' hoarse whisper held the captain and his men back.

I should have suspected something screwy the minute Cap Hanson started talking sweety-pie. Usually you could use his voice for a nutmeg grater. But you know me, old Drizzle-brain Donovan. If they ever write a story of my life—only why should they?—they'll title it, "Gullible's Travels."

Anyhow, about an hour after we'd lifted gravs from Long Island Spaceport, the skipper smooched into my control-turret, beaming like a nova in the Coalsack. He plumped himself into the only comfortable chair and asked:

"Well, Sparks, my lad, how you doin'?"

"If you mean," I retorted, "was I drunk last night, the answer is 'no.' I am so dry I am parched, and besides, the barkeep at the Wranglers' Club wouldn't give me any credit."

"He told me," commented the skipper, "he used your last check to vulcanize an old gum boot."

"Be that as it may," I said with quiet dignity, "I am not one of those space-hounds who gets three sheets in the ether every time he hits port—"

"An' speakin' of sheets," interrupted the Old Man, "we got more passengers aboard the Saturn this trip than we got bunks to flop 'em in. So—"

I got it then. I squawked, "Hey, take it easy! What is this—a hotel?"

"—so," continued the skipper imperturbably, "I'm allotin' your quarters to a special passenger. A guy by the name of—"

"I'm not interested in names!" I howled. "I'm not the city directory. Look, Cap, I've got my rights! I don't have to turn my quarters over to some damn Earthlubber, just because he's got a yen to chase comets!"

"Will you shut up, Sparks?" snapped the skipper. "Or do I hafta calm you down with the wrong end of a lug-wrench? This here passenger's name is Thaxton, an' he comes bearin' a 'Handle With Care' label signed by Doc Challenger. Now will you pipe down?"

I would and did. Doc Challenger happens to be the president of the IPS, the corporation that owns the Saturn. Any friend of his is a friend of my pocketbook's.

"Well," I said, "if you're going to put it that way—"

"I'm puttin' this Thaxton guy," Hanson frowned, "in your quarters, on account of they're furthest from the aft holds. Friend or no friend, I ain't aimin' to have him find out we're runnin' a load of rotor-guns an' ammunition to the New California rebels."

He was right there. That was nobody's business but our own. Now, understand me. I think we had a right to help the rebels. For one thing, they deserved their independence. For another, our arch-competitors, the Cosmos Company, was backing the present New California overlords. A third good reason was, of course, that every day this war continued, we were losing money.

Earth itself hadn't had a war for almost a hundred and twenty years—not since the North India uprising of '92. But the distribution of land and governmental control of the colonies was still what you might call "unfinished business."

There were always tiny local squabbles going on. Like the Fontanaland siege three years ago that damn near ruined Mars as a summer resort; the Rollie Rebellion last year on Mercury; and now, this year, the struggle for autonomy on the part of a bunch of Californian Earth colonists in the Venusian hill country.

Our freight experts had decided that of all the IPS ships, the Saturn would be the least likely suspect when it came to gun-running. The Saturn was as old as a statesman's jokes. It was the slowest, wallowingest lugger still pushing vacuum. But I agreed with Hanson, it would not do for anyone connected with the present Venus government to discover our cargo included contraband.

We'd find ourselves playing tit-tat-toe on the walls of a Sun City clink faster than a stuttering android could gargle, "Planck's Constant!"

So I nodded, "Okay, Skipper. You're right and I'm wrong, as you usually are. So what do I do now? Sleep in the galley?"

"No, Sparks. You take your duffle down to Mr. Biggs' quarters. You can bunk with him durin' this shuttle."

"What! Lancelot Biggs! You're putting me in with that perambulating pretzel? Hey, Cap—"

"You're talkin'," reminded the skipper, "about the first mate of this here tin-can—I mean, ship! Be more respectful of your superiors, Sparks. Anyhow—" He gazed at me curiously. "Anyhow, I thought you an' him was pals?"

"Pals," I moaned, "not peas in a pod! I like Mr. Biggs, Skipper. But I don't want to wear him like a hair-ribbon for the next ten days."

"Sparks!" warned the Old Man.

"Cap, you can't do this to me! It's tyranny, that's what it is!"

"Never mind what you call it!" interrupted the Old Man grimly. "I call it poetic justice. You've buttered your bread, Sparks. Now lie in it. An' while you're complainin', you might remember how aidful you was in findin' Mr. Biggs another bunkmate!"

He grinned vengefully and left. I remembered, then, that I'd helped Lancelot Biggs woo and win Diane, the skipper's beauteous daughter, now back on Earth making preparations for the wedding. And I groaned.

Hansons, like elephants, never forget....

So I moved in with Mr. Biggs, and it was just like I thought it would be. My gangling friend, that mad genius of the spaceways, Lancelot Biggs, was glad to have me share his quarters.

"I do hope you'll be comfortable, Sparks," he told me, gulping and making his amazing Adam's apple perform loopty-loops. "Of course, there's not any too much room—"

Which was like saying there's not any too much H₂O on Luna. There was only one bunk in Biggs' stateroom. I am a normal-sized man. Biggs is, too, only his dimensions are sort of peculiar. I.e., he's one-half as wide as par for the course, and twice as tall. Which compensates.

He turned out to have seventeen separate and distinct physical peculiarities, none of which showed up until the first time we shoehorned ourselves into the same bed. I was chagrined to learn that he had eleven elbows and seven knees. Also, his idea of resting comfortably was to spread himself out like a miniature windmill and revolve rapidly.

The first night I went sleepless. The second night I managed to doze off to a cat nap, and it almost cost me my life. Lancelot Biggs' larynx descended suddenly and clopped me on the pate. I climbed out of bed weakly, bathed the resulting goose-egg in arnica, and spent the rest of the night studying, thoughtfully, the life history of an ancient sage known as Procrustes.

Which explains, boys and girls, why I happened to be catching forty double-winks when Cap Hanson brought Thaxton up to visit me. The first token I had of their presence was to hear a bull-o'-Bashan voice bombarding my ear-drums.

"Well, Sparks! An' what do you think you're doing?"

I popped out of my chair like a cork from a can of damp carbide.

I said, "Whazzat? Whozzat? Oh, you, Skipper? I was—I was thinking."

"You think," said the Old Man caustically, "awful loud. Sparks, this is Mr. Thaxton, our special guest. Mr. Thaxton, be pleased to meet our radio operator."

This Thaxton was a queer-looking duck. He wasn't more than five foot two, or maybe three. He wore a shock of bristling, carroty hair over a forehead that bulged like a sponge in a Swedish bath. His eyes stuck out so far that he could have hung pictures on them, and his legs looked like a brace of parentheses hunting for a descriptive phrase.

We clenched mitts and glims at the same time. The handshake was what I had expected from the looks of him: wet towels in the sunset. But when his eyes met mine, I got the funniest darn sensation. It was something like an electric shock, only not quite.

It was something like having your cerebellum run through a wringer, only not quite. It was a little like having tiny fingers play tag in the area of your gray-matter. Only that wasn't it, either.

I gulped and said, "In the aft—What's that?"

Because the little man had said absolutely nothing! Now, smiling faintly, he did say,

"I'm glad to meet you, Sparks. Very glad to meet you!"

Lancelot Biggs was there, too, and Dick Todd, our second mate. Mr. Biggs was staring at me curiously. Now he said,

"Sparks—perhaps you'd like to show Mr. Thaxton your equipment?"

"Why not?" I said. I showed him the ship's inter-communicating system, the contact controls with which we get Lunar III, the asteroid stations, and the lightships off the various planets. I showed him the dwarf Ampie used to keep down excess voltage on the storage plates. I showed him all the things that make visitors "oh!" and "ah!" He "ohed!" and "ahed!" at the right time, then he asked,

"And that visiplate device? I never saw one like that before. Is that something new?"

"So new," I said, "that Mr. Biggs invented it. A urano-selenoid plate. Maybe you'd better explain its operation, Mr. Biggs. You can do it better than I can."

I meant the suggestion as a joke, because Lancelot Biggs is the most bashful man in space. But to my surprise he stepped forward, a thoughtful look on his homely puss, and began explaining the plate.

And to make a crazy situation loonier, he garbled the explanation like a woman describing a picture-show! That was unusual. Because Biggs' one motivating principle, as he had often demonstrated, was to "Get the theory first!"

But this time, while I stood baffled, while Dick Todd frowned and looked puzzled, while Cap Hanson hemmed and hawed as restlessly as a frog on a hot griddle, Biggs stammered through an almost hopelessly tangled explanation. The way he described the operation of that audio, it would take a man approximately fourteen light years to tune in the nearest station in space.

Twice he fumbled for a word. Each time the little passenger, Thaxton, who was hanging intently on his fumbling fumbles, supplied the missing term. And when, finally, he had faltered to a conclusion:

"Well," said the visitor, "that's very interesting. Thank you very much, Lt. Biggs. And now, Captain—you were going to show me your storage holds, I believe? Didn't you say something about the aft holds?"

"Migawd, no!" said the skipper. "I mean—er—no. There's nothin' down there. We'll go visit the for'rd hold."

And they left. All of them, that is, but Lancelot Biggs. He made some excuse and stayed there in the control-turret with me.

Being now his bunkmate as well as his friend, I took the liberty of letting the formalities go when we were alone.

"After this, Lanse," I kidded him, "when you give a speech, you ought to pass out blueprints along with it. I wouldn't know how to operate that gadget myself from the explanation you gave. Matter of fact, I'm not sure I'll do it right the next time I try."

Strangely, he looked pleased.

He said, "You think so, Sparks? You really think so?"

"Granted," I said, "that I can actually think. So why the enthusiasm?"

He turned serious suddenly.

"I tried to be confusing," he said. "But even so, he learned too much. Entirely too much. Didn't you notice, Sparks, that several times when I fumbled for a word, he was the one who supplied it?"

"Why, darned if you're not right!" I recalled.

"And another thing—when you were first introduced to him, didn't you feel—er—peculiar? You must have. Because you started to say something—"

"I felt," I told him, "like a person in a nuthouse. I don't know why, but I felt like something inside my skull was digging for information. I almost spilled the secret of where we got the contraband hidden—"

"Not almost, Sparks," corrected Lancelot gravely. "You did! And to the worst possible person. For unless I'm greatly mistaken, that Thaxton person is a spy!

"More than that, he's the cleverest sort of a spy. Because—he's an esper!"[1]

The minute he said it I knew he was right. A spy. And an Esper! Earth is lousy with 'em. Most of them are quacks. But a few—

I gasped, "But sweet shades of Io, Lanse! If he's an esper, he's sure to learn all about the cargo. From you or me or Cap or one of the crew—What in Sam Hill are we going to do about it?"

"Po?" said Lancelot Biggs.

"What? What's that?"

"Never mind. I was thinking."

"Well, think about something important!" I snapped. "Else we'll all be on the inside looking out when we reach Sun City. Why—why that redheaded little squirt will report us and then we'll all be in the soup!"

"I know," said Biggs. "That's why I wouldn't give a true explanation of the audio unit. I didn't want him to come in here sometime while you were off duty and send Venus a message. I figured if we could gain a little time I might think of some way to—Seine?" he said querulously.

"The word you want," I said, "is 'insane'. Listen, Biggs, I've got it! We'll get this bracket-legged guy into the blasting room and—"

"Sometimes, Sparks," shuddered Maestro Marco Polo Biggs delicately, "I wonder what strange chemistry goes on in that brain of yours. Of course we can't use violence. In the first place, if we did, the Venusian authorities would know something was wrong, confiscate our ship and goods, ignoring our navicert,[2] interne us—"

"If we don't," I reminded him gloomily, "they'll do all them things anyway. And maybe give us two slaps on the wrist for good measure. With a crowbar."

"Knowledge!" said Biggs feverishly. "Knowledge is the answer to all problems. It's right on the tip of my mind, but I can't quite grasp it. Mississ—no! Thames? No!"

"Thames and tide," I punned, "wait for no man. Oh, go 'way, will you please? I've got things to do. But quick!"

So he went away, and I snapped on the old powerhouse and pretty soon current hummed and sang through the coils and I made the ether vibrate. And I do mean vibrate.

I contacted Joe Marlowe at Lunar III, Joe being not only one of the best bug-pounders in the business but also a personal friend. And I asked him to find out, (1) if this bozo Thaxton was really a friend of Doc Challenger's, (2) if there'd been any leak on Earth about our gun-running exploits, and (3) if there were hot and cold running water in Venusian hoosegows.

Pretty soon the answer came back.

"No, no, a thousand times no." After which Joe asked me, on our private conversation band,

"What's all this about somebody named Thaxton?"

So I told him. So it turned out that Thaxton was aboard the Saturn on forged papers in the first place, and that in the second place we couldn't clap him in irons even if he were a secret agent of the Venusian government, and that in the third place we shouldn't have let ourselves get in such a jam to begin with.

"Besides," tapped Joe, "all you've got to do is to keep your collective mouths shut. You're running under a navicert, and that means you won't be inspected at Sun City. You'll be free to make a short hop to New California and leave the aft hold cargo with the assigned parties." And with that he signed off.

A moment later the door busted open and in came Cap Hanson, his face the color of an uncleaned pullet. He bawled,

"Sparks! Sparks, for gosh sakes' get in touch with Earth immediately, if not sooner! Find out what we're to do! That there Thaxton guy, he's a phony. A—"

"Park it, Cap," I said glumly, "and hear the rest. He's a spy. And he's also an esper."

"You—you knew?"

"Mr. Biggs guessed it an hour ago. We talked the situation over."

Then I told him about calling Joe Marlowe, and went on to detail the hopelessness of our situation. But Hanson is a fighting man. He flinched as I threw verbal lefts and rights at him, but he was still sparring feebly when the bell rang.

He came up with, "Well, then, get in touch with Chief Garrity. Tell him to turn this crate around. We'll go back to Earth—"

Came the dawn! "Right!" I yelled. "Right!"

At that moment a voice spoke from the doorway.

"No, gentlemen," said the mysterious Mr. Thaxton, "that is just what you will not do! You will continue on to Venus, that your perfidy may be properly punished!"

It's funny how the mind works. There at that moment when I should have been taking a swandive into the chilly waters of despair, do you know what I found myself thinking?

I was thinking, "Gosh, what swell alliteration! I'd like to hear him say: 'Peter Piper picked a peck of—'"

Then Cap Hanson risked apoplexy with a roar that lifted furniture.

"What! What, sir, do you mean by issuing commands to me in my own spaceship? By what authority—"

The diminutive esper glanced meaningly at the pierce-gun in his right hand.

"This is my authority, Captain. It will suffice until you and your crew can be turned over to the soldiery of the Venusian government. And—

"Ah, Mr. Biggs! You're just in time to join our little party. No—if you please! Don't make it necessary for me to—er—take drastic measures. Be kind enough to raise your hands and walk across the room—so!"

Biggs had, in his customary ambling, stork-on-roller-skates fashion, stumbled into the room with nothing on his mind but hair. And had thus fallen an easy victim to our "guest's" holdup. Now, dazedly, he searched our faces for an explanation.

I shrugged. "Don't look at me," I told him. "I've got as many ideas as a broken down college professor."

Cap Hanson renewed his attack on Thaxton.

"You're a fool," he snarled, "to think you can get away with this! Why, blast you, it's still five days to Sun City! You don't think you can hold us at the point of a gun for five days, do you?"

Thaxton smiled negligently.

"It won't be necessary to do that, Captain. I'm afraid you underestimate the Intelligence Bureau and the resources of the present Venusian government. The one"—he hinted malevolently—"you are trying to overthrow.

"When the Saturn prepared to leave Earth, I suspected it might be the transport for contraband. I became a passenger, as you will subsequently learn, by—"

"Forging papers," I sneered. "An ethical practice in your profession."

Instead of getting red, he took it as a compliment.

"Ah, you've already learned that? Congratulations, Sparks! I didn't know you had such depths of perspicacity."

"I haven't!" I told him indignantly. "But I still know a phony when I see one!"

"To continue," Thaxton smirked, "I made arrangements with the Cyclops, finest space cruiser of the Venusian navy, to intercept this ship at a point halfway between the two planets. Thus, you see—"

"Amazon?" said Biggs. "Wangpoo?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Biggs?" Thaxton appeared puzzled.

I said, "Don't mind him, Thaxton. He's our triple-fret man. You were saying—"

I was stalling desperately for time. Confucius say, "Wise guy who shoot off trap sometimes spring same for self." Rope was the one thing I wanted Thaxton to have the most of. For Q.E.D. reasons.

"Thus, you see," he continued pleasantly, "within the next hour or two, the Cyclops will keep its rendezvous in space with the Saturn. And at that time, gentlemen, it will be my great pleasure to seize this ship, interne its crew, and take over its cargo as contraband—No, Sparks! There's no use trying to reach that audio!"

I fell back, abashed. I stammered,

"But—but how did you know I—"

Lancelot Biggs answered quietly,

"Sparks, didn't I tell you he's an esper?"

I stared at Thaxton. I said,

"Is—is that right? Did you really read my thoughts?"

"You might call it that," he said amusedly. "At any rate, I divined your purpose through my gift of extra-sensory perception. The gift that"—he preened himself, the bandy-legged little rooster—"that makes me the Number One secret agent of the Venusian Intelligence Bureau."

I said savagely, "If you can read my thoughts, why don't you go there?"

But Thaxton was through with pleasantries. To Cap Hanson he said,

"And now, Captain, that we may not again be interrupted, this time by a more capable intruder"—that swift, mocking grin at L. Biggs—"I must ask you to call the bridge, the engine room, the holds. Tell every member of the crew and command to remain just where he is at the present time. And make it forceful!"

He "made it forceful" himself by jabbing the hand-gun into Cap Hanson's loinchops. And since Hanson isn't an idiot, he did as he was told. He moved to the audio, spoke the necessary commands.

Dick Todd was puzzled, but said, "Aye, sir!"

The chief engineer, Garrity, replied dourly with, "Did ye think I'd be leavin' my post in midflight, Captain Hanson?"

And the black gang foreman merely said, "Very well, sir!"

Lancelot Biggs was still muttering to himself. I was beginning to get worried about Biggs. He had a bad case of water on the brain, apparently.

He kept saying, "Nile? Red? Saar?"

Cap Hanson had finished his calls. Anyway, that's what he thought. Thaxton thought differently.

"If you don't mind, Captain," he reminded him. "Give the same message to the chief steward. We don't want any mess-boys or waiters interrupting our little tête-à-tête. Too many cooks, you know—" And he grinned.

"Ha!" growled the skipper. "Ha! I'd gladly laugh at your funeral, Thaxton."

But he called the mess hall, and the voice of our Cockney steward, Doug Enderby, drifted back over the audio cheerfully.

"Aye, sir! Stay put, sir? Right as ryne!"

Then we all jumped. Because a great shout broke from the scrawny throat of Lancelot Biggs.

"That's it!" he yelled. "That's it!"

For a moment it was touch and go. Thaxton's forefinger tightened ominously on the trigger of his pierce-gun, and I found myself wondering how I'd look with a hemstitched abdomen. Then, as Biggs shouted no more, a look of curiosity spread over the little man's features.

"Might I inquire, Mr. Biggs—" he began.

Biggs' face was red. He looked embarrassed at his outburst. He glanced sheepishly at the skipper and at me.

"I—I'm sorry. But I've been wondering how I could—" He faltered. "Well, anyway, I just thought of a way. That is—if you're agreeable?"

Thaxton's bug eyes goggled at him.

"Speak sense, man!" he ordered pettishly. "How you could what? A way to what? If I'm agreeable to what?"

Biggs drew a deep breath. Then, carefully,

"Well, here's my thought. I'm planning to be married very soon, Mr. Thaxton. I have no desire whatsoever to be incarcerated in a Venusian jail—especially for participation in something over which I have no control. It was my thought, my hope, that in consideration for services rendered, you might agree to give me my liberty—"

Once upon a time there was something redder than Cap Hanson's face. But it exploded. So did the skipper.

"Traitor!" he bellowed. "Why, you dirty, sneaking lowdown space viper! Selling us out, are you? I'll show you!"

And he made a dive for Señor Biggs. But Thaxton, interested now, stepped between them, forced the skipper back.

To Biggs he said, "Your proposition is not impossible, Lieutenant. But might I ask what you have to offer?"

Biggs said, "When your men board the Saturn, a long search awaits them, doesn't it? They'll have to comb the entire ship looking for the contraband."

Thaxton sniffed. "Thanks to your stupid friend, the radioman," he said, "we know the contraband is stored in the aft section of the ship."

"But there are many bins in the aft section," Biggs pleaded. "I can spare you the trouble of searching them all. I'll tell you which ones to look in—if you'll grant me full pardon. I—I might even be willing to accept service in your army."

"The Venusian army uses traitors," said Thaxton pointedly, "but it does not employ them. However, I think your suggestion has merit. It's a bargain, Biggs. And we might as well take care of that little matter right now. So if you'll just tell me the bin number—"

"I'll kill you, Biggs!" howled the skipper. "One more word and I'll cut out your heart and eat it for breakfast!"

But his words fell on deaf ears. For as if the syllables couldn't tumble past his lips fast enough, Biggs was blurting out,

"Bins Number 13, 14 and 15, Mr. Thaxton. The first two are filled with ammunition; the last contains rotor-guns, grenades and two field pieces—"

It was at that moment that hope finally deserted me. True, Lancelot Biggs' actions had been strange, and he had seemed eager to sell us out, to save his own skin. But I had been withholding judgment—because I knew, or thought I knew, something of the genius in Biggs. I had been hoping against hope that his pose was only a ruse calculated to lull Thaxton's suspicions; so that somehow, by some trick, everything might turn out well.

But when he told the numbers of those bins, I knew at last, and with a sickening sense of distaste for all mankind, that Lancelot Biggs—my one-time friend and bunkmate—had failed under pressure. He was a traitor! Because he told the exact truth. The guns and ammunition were exactly where he had told Thaxton!

Cap Hanson was looking at Biggs as if he were some kind of slimy snail. Cap made a faint rubbing gesture, and spat. Biggs' eyes sought mine—but I refused to meet them. For a long moment there was silence, then Thaxton said,

"And how do I know you're telling the truth, Biggs?"

"But—but I am!" protested Biggs. His lanky legs gangled; there was sweat on his forehead. He was an abject picture of fear and treachery.

"You know I—"

"I know nothing about you," said Thaxton crisply. "For all I know, the bins you mention may be designed in such a fashion as to explode if anyone opens them. If so—"

Sudden hope leaped into Biggs' eyes. He bleated,

"But—but you're an esper, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course. What has that to do with it?"

Biggs said triumphantly, "Well, then, now that you know which bins to concentrate on, can't you probe into them with your thoughts? Find out for yourself?" He added, "I—I always heard that really good espers could guess what was inside sealed boxes."

The little spy bridled.

"Not guess, Biggs!" he snapped. "Know! That is a good idea. Perhaps you're sincere. Well, it won't take long to find out."

Still holding the gun upon us rigidly, Thaxton went into his act. His body stiffened slightly. His pop-eyes seemed to bulge even more. His forehead creased with a sort of strain. His lips moved faintly.

I could hear the words as his unusual sense of perception bridged for him the distance between this turret and the after holds.

"Ah, the bins! Numbers 13, 14, 15. In the first I see boxes. Boxes filled with ammunition. Ah, yes! In the next I see—"

Then a thought, so dazzling that it almost short-circuited, blazed across my brain. I nudged Cap Hanson and nodded toward Thaxton. In that state of half-catalepsy, he was almost vulnerable. There was a fighting chance that we might be able to dash across the room, knock him down, yank that gun from his hand before he got us. Or, at least, both of us.

Hanson got my meaning immediately. His big fists balled at his sides. I felt his shoulder tense against mine. And then—

"No!" whispered Biggs sibilantly. "That doesn't help, Skipper! The Cyclops will be here any minute, now!"

"—ammunition," droned Thaxton. "Boxes piled to the ceiling. Ah! And in the third bin—"

"Out of my way, you gutless wonder!" rasped Hanson viciously. "Let them come! If we die, we die like men!"

"But," said Lancelot Biggs quietly, "we don't die!" And calmly, easily, almost tenderly, he raised his voice.

"I speak to you, Thaxton," he said in the soothing tone of a parent. "Do you hear me? Do you hear me speak?"

"—two hundred rotor-guns," said Thaxton. "Three cartons of fuse-caps, one carton of—Yes, I hear you speak."

"That is well," said Biggs. "Listen, Thaxton, and do as I say. In a few minutes you—"

He spoke swiftly. It is well that he did so, for it was scant seconds after he had finished that the inter-communicating system buzzed loudly. I flashed in the audio and stared into the panicky face of Lt. Dick Todd.

"Sparks!" he yelled. "Is the skipper there? Tell him to come up here right away! There's a Venusian ship off our port bow. It just fired a shot across our bow and ordered us to heave to!"

Biggs said apologetically, "If you'll permit me, sir?" and the skipper nodded mutely. "Todd," said Mr. Biggs, "heave to as ordered. And when they board us, send them to this room."

Five minutes later, the commander of the S. S. Cyclops bustled into the control-turret, side-arms ready and backed by a hard-bitten foray party, to find a strange bit of activity.

Lancelot Biggs and I were playing a game of chess. Cap Hanson was playfully disconnecting the wires of my transmitting unit. Thaxton was sitting on top of the visiphone equipment, teasing my Ampie with a flashlight battery.

"You're all," yelled the commander, "under arrest! Er—I hope." And to Thaxton, uncertainly, "Well, Thaxton?"

The little man smiled at him cherubically.

"Very well, Commander," he piped. "And you?"

Cap Hanson, carefully coached by Biggs, stood up, bridling.

"May I ask," he said stuffily, "the reason for this invasion? My dear sir, such an unwarranted entry—"

The Cyclops commander looked stunned. He dragged a moist hand across a moister forehead and said,

"Thaxton, did you complete your investigations?"

Thaxton looked up, bobbed his head.

"Mm-hmm!" he said. "Woo—woo!"

"And—and the result?"

"She wouldn't." Thaxton shook his head regretfully. "When I got insistent, she slapped my face—"

"You infernal idiot!" roared the Venusian commander. "I'm talking about the cargo! Did you or did you not find contraband aboard this ship? If you did—"

They could have filled two stratosphere balloons with the breath that was held at that moment. But then the little man broke the spell. Broke? Shattered. Into ten thousand tiny pieces. For he said,

"Contraband, Commander? Oh, mercy me, no! Whatever made you think there'd be contraband aboard this ship?" And he slid off the visiphone unit, to announce:

"Well, we'd better be going now, hadn't we? Thanks for a pleasant trip, Captain Hanson. I hope I'll see you again some time."

The Venusian commander's face was crimson, but he was a gentleman. To Hanson he said,

"My apologies, Captain. I hope you'll understand that in times of war, such incidents as this are unavoidable. My government will make a formal apology to yours."

Then he, and his men, and his ship, and Thaxton—the dopey little squirt—were gone. And we were free to continue our journey. With all mental strain forever relieved. Because now we had the carte blanche of the Venusian government....

Afterward, it was a crestfallen skipper who held out his hand to Lancelot Biggs in open-hearted apology.

"I'm sorry, Biggs," he said frankly. "I was completely wrong. I might have known that the man who could win my daughter wouldn't be the kind to fold up in a tight spot. But I—I—"

He choked up. Biggs said,

"That's all right, Skipper. I had to do it that way. It's the only way I could get him off guard."

Which was my cue. I said,

"Yeah, come clean, pal. Would you mind giving it the once-over-lightly for my benefit? Maybe I'm slow on the draw, but it's all still a deep, dark mystery to me. You hypnotized Thaxton, made him tell his superior we were as clean as a whale's ears. But how? And when did you figure out—"

"It was simple," explained Biggs, "once I got the clue. Back in the twentieth century, when the science of extra-sensory perception was in its infancy, they discovered among other things that the best natural 'espers' are hyperthyroids.

"Thaxton was a hyper-thyroid. The bulging brow, the pop-eyes, the nervousness—all these indicated that. And I remembered, too, the curious fact discovered by an early experimenter in telepathy that the 'esper', while working at his trade, is wide open to hypnosis.

"Being in a receptive frame of mind, it is only natural that an accomplished hypnotist—"

"So you're that, too," I said, "among other things!"

"I understand the rudiments of the art," Biggs grinned. "Once I got him under control, it was easy to implant the belief that he had been through the entire ship, found nothing amiss. He will never know otherwise. I expunged the memory of the entire interlude from his brain."

I said thoughtfully, "Which isn't a bad idea, if you ask me. Say, Biggs, can you do that to everyone? I've owed Enderby five credits for the past month. If you can help me forget it, it won't worry me nearly so much."

"Or," said the skipper caustically, "make Enderby forget it. On account of he ain't never gonna be paid nohow. Well, Mr. Biggs, let's you an' me get back to work."

"Wait!" I pleaded. "One more thing. Why did you keep muttering names to yourself, Biggs? And why did you holler, 'That's it!' when Enderby mentioned the rain?"

"He said 'ryne'," Biggs told me, "not 'rain'. That was the word I'd been seeking. I knew it was the name of a river—but I couldn't think which one. Now, Prof. J. B. Rhine was the pioneer in the study of extra-sensory perception. I knew if I could just remember his name, I could think of a way to defeat Thaxton."

"But why the hell," I hollered, "did you have to think of Rhine's name? You knew all the other stuff. Your 'Get the theory first' didn't apply that time—because you already knew the theory. You just wasted time and nearly made the Cap and me nervous wrecks!"

The skipper said, "Now, Sparks, don't talk that way to Mr. Biggs—Come along, son."

But there was a look of utter dismay on my lanky pal's face. His Adam's apple dropped so far that he had indigestion for two days afterward. And he gasped,

"Oh, goodness, Sparks, you're right! But it never occurred to me in that way! All I could think of was that I must remember the name of the scientist before I could devise a solution!"

I tell you, folks, you ought to know him! That completely screwball, absolutely mad, incredible genius—Lancelot Biggs!

[1] In the world of Lancelot Biggs, an esper is a man who makes his living telling fortunes. This he is able to do through his ability to make use of extra-sensory perception, the psychological phenomenon discovered by Dr. J. B. Rhine of Duke University, and outlined in his book "New Frontiers of the Mind."—Ed.

[2] A navicert is a navigation and transport permit issued by foreign consular authorities for space travel. Here, the Venusian consulate on Earth certified the Saturn's passage.—Ed.