Part 1

The RETURN of Lancelot BIGGS

By NELSON S. BOND

Gilchrist had no fear of the sun's heat. Then Biggs gave him a new kind of hotfoot.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories May 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

I guess it was about 7:58 Solar Constant Time--yes, it was exactly that, because I'd just received a clearance O.Q. for 8:00 from the Sun City portmaster--when the portal of my radio turret opened and in waddled Cap Hanson, skipper of our void-mangling freighter, the _Saturn_.

The Old Man's optics were dancing like a nudist in a hailstorm, and he wore a grin on his lips that stretched from ear to there.

"Guess what, Sparks?" he chortled. "I got a s'prise for you! Guess who just came aboard?"

I said gloomily, "If it's anybody like that sourpuss encyclopedia-on-legs who came aboard at Luna, you can have my resignation right now, if not sooner. I've been hectored and bulldozed and criticised so much lately that I'm beginning to feel like one large apology with corpuscles."

I wasn't joking, either. You know me--Bert Donovan--the easy-goingest bug-pounder who ever loused up the ether with Morse code. I don't get mad often, and my nerves are as steady as a forger's fingers, but this newest addition to the _Saturn's_ personnel had me on the verge of babbling baby-talk.

His name was Horatio Gilchrist, his rank was "Major" and his title was "efficiency expert." To summarize briefly: Major Horatio Gilchrist was a rank efficiency expert--and I _do_ mean rank! He had pale, green, watery, squinting eyes and a nose like a gimlet. Said proboscis was always in everybody else's business. He snooped and sniffed and sidled about the _Saturn_ like a pup in the Petrified Forest, and he had a habit of popping out where least expected, like a fat man in tights.

He was always making suggestions. He told me how to conserve juice by pre-heating the tubes before I transmitted. He advised Cap Hanson, who has been roving the spaceways, man and boy, for more than forty years, on astrogation practices. He quoted facts, figures and statistics at Dick Todd till our acting First Mate grew as haggard as a parson at a burleyque.

"I can't stand it, Sparks!" Todd moaned to me feebly after a session with Gilchrist. "He's driving me whacky with his confounded 'efficiency'! The hell of it is half the time he's right! There _are_ ways to save time, money and materials while operating the _Saturn_. We all know that. But you can't run a spaceship like an adding-machine!"

But such complaints were as futile as a bathing-suit on Mars. Major Gilchrist ranked every officer on the _Saturn_, and his "suggestions" had to be obeyed--or else!

Cap Hanson said commiseratingly, "I know, Sparks. I hate his g--I mean, _I_ don't like the gentleman much, either. But, listen! This is something swell! The guy who joined us at Sun City is none other than--"

But he never finished his sentence. At that moment, the chronometer tagged 8:00, the hypos whined, the stern-jets roared, and the _Saturn_ lifted gravs from Venus as smoothly as hot butter sliding off a griddle. My eyes opened wide and my mouth dittoed. There was only one pilot in space whose touch on the controls was that deft, that gentle!

"_Biggs!_" I cried. "Good old Lancelot Biggs!"

* * * * *

I turned and banged hell-for-leather out of my room, down the ramp, and into the control cabin, with Hanson vainly trying to lumber along in the suction of my slipstream. As I had guessed, it was my old chum and erstwhile roommate, Lance Biggs, at the studs. Beside him stood the dark-haired beauty who had been Diane Hanson, and was now Mrs. L. Biggs.

I yelled, "Lance, you knobby old son-of-a-scarecrow! Where did you come from? Where've you been? How did you two get aboard--"

Biggs--_Lieutenant_ Biggs to you, upstart!--swiveled and grinned at me. Marriage might have worked wonders on the inner man, I wouldn't know about that, but it had not changed his exterior in any way, shape or form. He was still the old lean and lanky, gawky and gangling caricature of humanity I'd always known. Tow-headed and wistful of eye and blessed with a nervous, oversized Adam's-apple that bobbled up and down in his throat like an undigested billiard ball.

"Hello, Sparks," he said mildly. "We came aboard at Sun City. We've been honeymooning. But my leave is up, now, and I've reported back for duty."

I said, "And, man! am I ever glad to see you! We've been one hop-skip-and-jump from the loony-bin on this trip--and I don't mean could be! We can use somebody who has a few brains--"

Biggs looked puzzled.

"Why? What seems to be the trouble?"

"Pig-headed bureaucracy, that's what!" puffed Hanson irately. "Take it from me, son, the Major--"

Then suddenly his gaze, slipping past me, grew wary. His eyes veiled, and his arteries stopped hardening. Without a pause he continued in a milder tone:

"--major difficulty seems to be that we need brushin' up on the latest space practices. We're a bit rusty, you know. So the Corporation has assigned a very capable officer to--Why, there he is now! Come in, Major Gilchrist!"

And in slithered the efficiency expert, glaring like a teetotaller in a taproom. As usual, he had a nasty comment for everybody. To me he said, "Sparks, you left your battery on! A sheer waste of valuable current, sir--_waste_! Be kind enough to go aloft and attend to it instantly!" Then, to the Old Man, "And you, Captain--surely you know the Company rule against allowing women in the control cabins of space-craft?"

Biggs, having set the studs into lock-posts, slipped from the bucket-shaped pilot's chair and walked to his wife's side. No, he didn't exactly walk, either. Biggs' locomotion can scarcely be dignified by that term. It is a stiff-legged sort of galumph, like an ostrich on ice-skates. But his tone held a proper degree of uxorious dignity.

"The _lady_, Major," he said, "is my wife."

But the old freezeroo didn't chill Gilchrist at all. He just sniffed down his long, sharp nose at Biggs.

"And who," he demanded, "might _you_ be?"

* * * * *

It was Cap Hanson who answered. The skipper's voice was warm with justifiable pride. "Permit me, Major. This is my son-in-law and First Officer, Lt. Lancelot Biggs. He just reported back for active duty. I'm sure you've heard of him. He invented the V-I unit and the uranium speech-trap--"[1]

[Footnote 1: For previous adventures of the Interplanetary Corporation's whackiest wisest young officer, see copies of _Fantastic Adventures_ for 1939-40.--Ed.]

"Oh!" said Gilchrist frigidly, and stared at my chum like a vegetarian at a hamburger. "So _you're_ Biggs? This is too bad. I had just succeeded in training Lieutenant Todd to a point of efficiency. Now I suppose I must start over again and teach _you_ how to manage a spaceship!"

Imagine it! That kind of crack to Mr. Biggs, one of the brainiest spacers who ever lifted gravs! Dick Todd was a good guy, but he wasn't Biggs' equal by ten decimals! I held my breath and waited for the explosion. Cap Hanson's mottled old cheeks began to glow like a neon sign, and Diane _whooshed_ like an enraged Bunsen burner. But Biggs spoke up hurriedly.

"Yes, sir!" he said. "Very good, sir! I'll be most grateful for your instructions, sir!"

That was the kind of palaver Gilchrist liked. For a moment he looked half human as a tight little smile shuddered along his lips. He said, mollified, "That's very sensible of you, Lieutenant. We may get along, after all. For a while I feared your--er--lucky accomplishments in the past might--er--make you a bit difficult. Have you plotted our homeward course?"

"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Biggs. He lifted a sheet of paper from the chart-desk, handed it to the Major. Gilchrist studied it briefly, lifted his gimlet eyes.

"Not bad, Lieutenant. Not bad at all. A little old-fashioned, perhaps--"

That was more than I could stand. If Biggs wouldn't take his own part, I had to. I burst out, "But, Major, Biggs just graduated from the Academy two years ago! How could his astrogation be 'old-fashioned'? There's not a better plotter in space. Lance has yanked us out of more troubles--"

"_Sparks!_" That was Biggs, warning me with his voice and with his eyes. "Didn't the Major tell you to go turn off your batteries? You'd better run along."

"O.Q.," I snarled. "I'm on my way. Come up and see me in my turret some time, Lance--where the air is fresher!" And I beat it before Major Gilchrist caught his breath.

* * * * *

So there it was. A couple of hours later I was sitting in my cubby-hole, still fuming over how the Holy Bonds of Matrimony had changed a once vivid and daring spaceman into a vapid and scary yes-man, when there came a knock on the door.

"If you owe me money," I growled, "come in! If vice versa, there's nobody home but us amperes!"

The door eased open, and it was Biggs. His face was sober. He said, "Sparks, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Why don't you ask Gilchrist?" I snorted. "He gives the orders around here."

He closed the door behind him, snapped the safety.

"It's about Gilchrist I wanted to talk--"

"Then do your talking," I advised him rudely, "somewhere else. If I never hear that skunk's name again, it will be too soon."

"Don't be hasty, Sparks. He's not a bad chap. Just a trifle headstrong, maybe--"

"Some people," I scorned, "like spiders. There's no accounting for tastes. Headstrong? You could use that skull of his to split granite. And _you_--" My indignation rose as I talked--"you're as bad as he is! Feeding him the good old soft-soap till it ran out of his ears!"

"It doesn't pay," said Biggs in that peculiar, soft, schoolmarm fashion he sometimes affects, "to antagonize folks you have to get along with. Whether we like it or not, Major Gilchrist has senior authority on this ship. But we can talk about that some other time, Sparks. This is what I wanted to show you--"

And he hauled a plot-chart from his pocket, gazed at me anxiously as I scanned it.

Well, you know how plot-charts are. Nothing but one solid mess of figures, figures, figures. Trajectory, flight-velocity, loft and acceleration computations--all that junk. They're about as easy to read as the shorthand scribblings of an illiterate Choctaw. I passed it back. I said:

"Looks O.Q. to me. Why the corrugated forehead?"

"Look again, Bert," demanded Biggs. "Look carefully at those trajectory co-ordinates. I may be wrong, and I don't want to influence your opinion by saying anything, but--"

This time I got it. The figures joined together and formed a picture in my mind, a picture that startled me worse than a surrealist drawing. I gasped:

"_Sol!_"

* * * * *

Biggs nodded.

"Mm-hmm. That's what I thought, too. The course he plotted skirts the Sun. Swings past it at a distance of only ten million miles!"

I'm a lot of things--but one of the things I am _not_ is unresponsive to suggestion. I broke out in a hectic sweat and started for the door.

"Oh, no!" I yelped. "Maybe _he'd_ like to play pussy-wants-a-corner with the prominences, but not _me_! The nearest I want to get to any corona is to smoke one! The guy's nuts! I'm going to tell him--"

But Biggs grabbed my arm.

"It's no use, Sparks. I've already told him."

"You--you have?"

"Yes. And he said--" Biggs' larynx performed some incredible involutions--"he said he knew perfectly well what he was doing."

"And so do I!" I howled. "He's plowing us smack-dab into Sol's gravitational clutch! Well, I don't want some! I have no ambition to become part of a sunspot!"

"No-o-o," said Biggs thoughtfully, "that's one thing we don't have to fear. Gilchrist's mathematics are O.Q. Our velocity will be great enough to overcome Sol's gravitation."

"But what are we going to do," I stormed, "about the heat? 6000° Centigrade ain't exactly what I consider a cool, refreshing climate!"

"That's the trouble. I told him we'd be boiled like beans in a pot if we passed that near Sol, but he pooh-poohed my warning. Said our refrigerating system would keep us cool and comfortable." Biggs shook his head helplessly. "I don't know what to do, Sparks. After all, his word _is_ law."

I moaned. "And how long," I asked, "before we begin to french-fry in our own carcasses?"

"About five days, Sparks. Five or six days from the current--" He stopped suddenly. His pale eyes glowed. His larynx began leaping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. "_Current!_" he repeated. "But of course! _That's it!_"

"'Scuse, please?" I demanded, puzzled.

But Biggs shook me off with an evasion.

"Not now, Sparks I can't tell you now. There's no sense in both of us getting in trouble. But I think I know a way to convince Major Gilchrist we must change our course."

* * * * *

So a couple of days skidded by, as days have a habit of doing. About the middle of the second day, Hanson came up to my turret looking as confused as a stork at the Old Maids' Home. He said, "Sparks, I been hearin' funny things--"

"Your digestion?" I asked. "Or have you been dosing your asthma with that 90-proof cough-medicine again? That'll make you hear things and _see_ 'em too--"

"That's enough," interrupted the Old Man coldly, "of them kind o' comments! What I been hearin' is bad. They's a rumor floatin' around that we're on a dead trajectory for Sol due to Major Gilchrist's course plottin'."

"Oh, that?" I said. "Forget it, skipper. Mr. Biggs knows all about it. He's got ideas."

"Well," said the skipper, relieved, "in that case, I guess everything's O.Q." And he waddled happily away. Which gives you some idea who's the real Master Mind on the _Saturn_.

That very same night, Diane Biggs stopped me outside the Officers' Mess.

"Sparks, have you seen Lancelot anywhere? I haven't laid eyes on him all day, and I'm worried."

"You ought to know better than to fret wrinkles into your pretty brow over that one-man quiz program," I told her. "He's O.Q. Right now he's engaged in some mysterious project of his own devising. When last seen he was swiping generator supplies from the storeroom. Don't ask me why, because maybe I know the right answer, and I don't want to have to tell."

"He--he's not going to get in any trouble, is he?"

"Well, not exactly," I chuckled. "Though things _may_ be a trifle hot for a while." For I had seen the stuff Biggs had snaggled from the supply room, and I had also watched him sneaking out through the airlock to the _Saturn's_ hull. I had a pretty fair idea what was going to happen, but I figured it was his pigeon, and I didn't want to upset the Bostons.

So that was all till the next day. But the next day everything happened at once.

* * * * *

To begin with, when I tried to make my daily contact with the transmitting station on Luna I couldn't coax so much as a squeak out of my radio apparatus. It was as lifeless as a Venusian swamp-snake on Pluto. I sweated and swore and got under the banks to find the trouble, but everything seemed to be O.Q. Wiring, rheos, ampies, all were jake. But the radio wouldn't rade. It just hissed and spluttered and murmured as feebly as a college girl in a parked car. The trouble was, I finally discovered, it wasn't getting any juice. Nary a bit!

Meanwhile, Dick Todd audioed me from the bridge. He fumed, "Sparks, for Pete's sake tell Garrity to turn down the thermoes! It's getting hot up here!"

Which sentiment I could personally double in spades. Because it was getting hot in my turret, too. My shirt was a dishrag, and my forehead was leaking like a rented rowboat.

So I called Garrity, but the Chief Engineer spoke up before I could ease a word in edgewise.

"Is thot you, Sparrrks?" he bellowed angrily. "It's aboot time ye were gettin' in tooch wi' me! Whut the de'il's the motter oop therrre? Yon contrrrol-turrret is michty nigh stewin' us in oor oon grrravy! Turrn off the heat!"

Well, I'm not dumb. Not too dumb, anyway. Two plus two equals Lancelot Biggs. That's why, when Capt. Hanson and Diane wilted into my turret a few minutes later, looking like a brace of parboiled lobsters, I just grinned at them.

Hanson's eyes were haggard with despair. He wailed, "Sparks--this awful heat! You know what's causin' it? It's because we're gettin' too close to the Sun, that's what! You told me Lancelot had everything under control. Where is he?"

"If I'm not mistaken," I assured him, "he's entering now by the portcullis gate."

And I was right. Hatless, jacketless, soaked to the belt with perspiration but grinning triumphantly, entered Mr. Biggs. He mopped his forehead and said amiably, "'Lo, folks! Hot, isn't it?"

Diane ran to his side fearfully. She cried, "Lancelot, you must _do_ something! Daddy says this heat means we--we're going to plunge into the Sun! You mustn't let--"

Biggs smiled serenely.

"Now, honey, don't get excited. We're in no danger. This isn't solar radiation. _I_ caused this heat."

Well, that didn't surprise me. I had guessed it all along. But Diane and her papa stared at him wildly. "What?" croaked the skipper. "You done this, son? But--but why?"

"Why, simply because--" began Biggs. But he didn't finish his explanation. For there came a savage interruption from the doorway. And in an angry, spiteful voice:

"Continue, Mr. Biggs!" snarled Major Gilchrist. "_Do_ continue, please! I am most eager to learn why you performed this abominable act of sabotage!"

* * * * *

I said, "Oh-oh!" and looked for a hole I could crawl into and drag in after me. Mr. Biggs' grin faded. "H-hello, Major!" he faltered weakly.

"_Mister_ Biggs!" raged the efficiency expert. "May I ask _why_ you wound a dozen coils of uninsulated wire about the _Saturn's_ hull and connected the electrical helix so formed to the power generators? Don't deny it, sir! I've been outside and seen your handiwork!"

Biggs said faintly, "Why, I--I--er--"

"You needn't lie to me, Mr. Biggs! I understand too well. You deliberately established a hysteresis field around this ship in order to create a rise in temperature--was that it? You wished to make us believe the Sun's rays responsible for the heat--isn't that so?"

It's a long worm that has no turning. Biggs finally asserted himself. He raised his quiet but determined eyes to those of the Corporation official.

"Yes, sir!" he said. "That is exactly what I did."

"And why, sir?" demanded Gilchrist venomously.

"Because, sir, a close study of the course-chart has convinced me that we are in grave peril if we continue on our present trajectory."

"What! You question my astrogation, Lieutenant?"

"Excuse me, sir, but--I do!"

Major Gilchrist's gimlet beak quivered like a saucer of gelatin; his sallow cheeks flooded with color.

"Preposterous, young man! The _Saturn_ will skirt Sol at a distance of twenty million miles!"

"The correct estimate, sir," disagreed Biggs gently, "is _ten_. I fear you neglected to take into consideration the space-warp created by Sol's tremendous mass. I have prepared alternative course instructions, sir. With your permiss--"

"Silence, Lieutenant!" Gilchrist was wild with fury now. He had no ears for logic. He wouldn't have listened to a first-run performance of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, with sound effects by the original cast. "I've heard enough! You are guilty of having deliberately conspired to disturb, alarm and distress your shipmates, of having maliciously essayed an act of sabotage against your ship, and of flagrantly disobeying the commands of a senior officer.

"Your rocket, sir! You will go below instantly, and confine yourself to quarters under arrest!"

Lancelot Biggs said nothing. His larynx leaped, but without a word he stripped from his breast pocket that prized golden symbol for which all true spacemen would die, and with steady fingers surrendered it to Gilchrist. Diane stifled an impetuous little cry. Cap Hanson, his beefy face a wreath of anxiety, said, "But, Major--"

"I advise you, Captain," rasped Gilchrist viciously, "against defending Mr. Biggs' piratical actions. One thing I will not tolerate is defiance of my orders.

"Donovan--" He turned to me--"you will remove the fruits of Mr. Biggs' labors from the _Saturn's_ hull. The heat which now inconveniences us will vanish when we are no longer the core of an electro-magnet. But just to make sure that no further efforts are made to beguile us into terror created by non-existent dangers, henceforth _I_ will assume responsibility for all electrical stores and equipment aboard. That is all! Get to work!"

Thus ended our gay little tea-party....

* * * * *

And of course it was just as Gilchrist had said. As soon as Biggs' fantastic maze of coils and wiring was removed from the _Saturn's_ hull, the thermometer crept back to normal. But friend Fahrenheit wasn't the only low thing on the _Saturn_ that evening. My spirits were _beaucoup_ slumpy when I slipped around to visit Mr. Biggs after dinner.

He was pathetically glad to see me, but apprehensive on my account. "You--you won't get in any trouble, Sparks?"

I said, "You're under arrest, but the balloon-headed little slob didn't say anything about solitary confinement--probably because he didn't think of it. Lance, what the hell are we going to do? I just ran over our figures again, and I got gooseflesh looking at them. The _Saturn's_ approaching the critical spot. If we don't do something--and damn soon--to make Gilchrist change his mind--"

"I've been thinking feverishly, Sparks. You know my motto: 'Get the theory first!' I thought that by heating the ship I might frighten Gilchrist into changing course. But he caught on to my little trick."

"And we can't try it again," I fumed, "because Major Nuisance has put all the electrical equipment under lock-and-key. In another twenty-four hours this freighter is going to be a bake-oven--"

"I know," mourned Biggs. "And Diane--" He stopped suddenly. "Eh? What was that? What did you say, Sparks?"

"Nothing," I told him glumly. "I was just moaning."

"Oven!" cried Biggs. "Bake-oven! Of course! Ovens aren't all electrical. Listen--you know where the main fuel valve lies?"

"Why--why, yes. But--"

"Then get down there--quick! And shove the release lever to _Emergency Discharge_ position!"

"And--and dump all those good tons of crude oil off into space?" I gasped. "Lance, you've lost your mind!"

"Don't argue with me! Do what I say! Oh, something else--are you familiar with the refrigerating system?"

"I'd better be. We're going to need it soon--"

"Go to the condensation-valve and close it. Be sure it's tight, Sparks. Smash it if you have to!"

I stared at him stupidly. It didn't make sense, but then the brilliant plots of Lancelot Biggs seldom do. I said hopefully, "You--you think it'll work, Lance?"

"It has to!" he retorted grimly. "Or--but hurry!"

* * * * *

So I did what he told me. I moved the release lever of the fuel oil emergency discharge to wide open position. I shed a salty tear as I did it. It almost broke my economical heart to watch those tons upon tons of thick, black goo flood from their storage tanks out through the for'rd vent into the empty reaches of space.

Then I found the condensation-valve and jammed it as Biggs had directed. Then, not knowing what else to do, I sat down and waited.