Biggs was tall. Biggs was lanky and gangly and all the other adjectives you can think of that mean a guy's Adam's-apple sticks out. He was overflowing at the mouth with a great big grin, and he was as dumb as they make 'em. He had his Third Mate's papers, and was entitled to be known as "Mister" Biggs--the "Mister" being a nice camouflage for his real name, Lancelot. But--Biggs was the nephew of crusty old Prendergast Biggs, first vice-president of the Corporation. So there was nothing the skipper could do but gulp and say, "Very good!" when they assigned Biggs to the _Saturn_. There was nothing to prevent him from hoping Biggs would stumble over his suitcases and bust his scrawny neck--but Biggs didn't do it. He was awkward enough to stumble, but lucky enough to fall on a cushion if he did! I said gently, "What's he up to now, Captain?" "What isn't he up to?" groaned the skipper. "First, he said he could handle the gravs when we broke out of Venus' clutch. So--" "Oh!" I said, "_He_ did that, did he?" "Stop rubbin' your head an' feelin' sorry for yourself," said Hanson. "You got off lucky. Chief Garrity is nursin' two black eyes. One of the wipers has a busted arm. Everybody on the ship went floatin' off to the ceiling, same as you did." "Anything else?" I asked. "_Everything_ else!" snorted Hanson. "While we were all scramblin' around in midair, Biggs made a grab for the hand-controls. He got the manual deflector by mistake. Todd has just finished shapin' the course revision. We're point-oh-seven degrees off course now; almost three hundred thousand miles! We've got to up revs and waste fuel to get back, or we'll report in to Earth a day late. And you know what _that_ means!" Sure, I knew what that meant. Cap on the carpet before the Board; the rest of us sitting around chewing our fingernails, wondering whether they'd yank the _Saturn_ off the Venus run. "Well, what are you going to do about him?" I asked. "What can I do?" "There's always the airlock," I suggested. "Nobody would ever blame you." "This ain't no time to be funny, Sparks!" complained the skipper. "This is a serious problem. We've got a valuable cargo of _mekel_-root and _clab_-beans to take into New York. But if that guy messes up our flight any more--" He shook his head dolefully. I scratched mine. Then I got a brilliant idea. "Cargo!" I said. "There's your answer, Captain!" "I'm listenin'," said Hanson. "Put Biggs in charge of the cargo. That way he'll be down in the hold throughout the trip. He won't be up in the control turret to bother you. And there's nothing he can do down there that'll hurt anybody." "But that's the supercargo's job," frowned the skipper. "Biggs knows that." "Sure. But Harkness will play along with you. Tell him to let on he's sick. Give him a vacation for this trip. He deserves it, anyway. Then it's logical enough to put Biggs on special duty below." The skipper grinned.