I shot through an O.K. and passed the message up to the skipper. Then, my curiosity aroused, I contacted Joe on our private conversation band and asked him how come and why. He answered cautiously. "Stock market taking nosedive in New York, Bert," he told me. "Corp. bonds fading. Need this cargo badly." Boy, there was bad news! It was a private message, but I figured the Old Man ought to know it. So when he came in I passed it along. He stared at me. "Hell's bells, Sparks! Then in that case, I can't send _this_!" "This" was the message he had intended to relay: It said, succinctly, "Cargo ruined. Value zero." "If you do," I told him, "we'll all be studying the want ads as soon as we hit port. Stock markets are screwy. This can't be a bad panic, or a fifty thousand buck cargo wouldn't be that important. But if the Corporation's under suspicion, and they learn the _Saturn's_ cargo is worthless--" "What will we do then?" "Stall," I suggested. "Maybe by the time we get in, the situation will be cleared up." So we framed a message that wouldn't upset the apple cart too soon. It said, "Value of cargo estimated at Sun City spaceport as $50,000." And _that_ was true enough.... * * * * * Biggs, with his unerring faculty for selecting the wrong moment, chose this time to come bouncing into my radio room. He had taken off his _quartzite_ headpiece, but he was still wearing his bulger, and its deflated folds hung around him like the poorly draped carcass of a Venusian mammoth. He said, "Hey, Sparks, have you got a book on energy and radiation?" "Help yourself," I said, pointing to my bookcase. "Why, what's the sudden excitement?" "I've been thinking," he began, "that maybe--" Captain Hanson let out a blat like an angry lion. "Mister Biggs! I thought you were reclaiming those Forenzi jars?" "Yes, sir. I was. I mean--I am. But--" "Never mind the 'buts'! Get back to work!" "Y-yes, sir!" Biggs saluted meekly; tossed me a grateful glance. "Thanks, Sparks. I've got an idea, and if I'm right--" "Get out, Biggs!" roared the skipper. "Yes, sir." Biggs backed out hastily. He was thumbing the pages as he disappeared. Hanson yanked his lower lip angrily. "The Corporation goes busted. The _Saturn_ goes under the hammer. We're all out of jobs. And that--that insane young whippersnapper wants to play school!" "He seemed mighty excited about something," I said. "He'll be worse than that," promised the skipper, "if he doesn't get those jars back on board." All this, to get Biblical about it, took place on the seventh day. The _Saturn_ is a ten-day freighter. So we had three more days of headaches before us till we slipped into New York spaceport.