They were three days of headaches, too. The skipper and I spent most of our time hanging over the radio, watching the progress of the stock market slump in New York. We hoped the situation would ease up so that our coming in with a zero cargo wouldn't make any difference--but no such luck. Somehow the rumor had gotten around that the _Saturn's_ cargo would not be of sufficient value to keep the Corporation in the blue. And the Wall Street wolves were closing in, getting ready to snap if the rumor were true. In the meantime, our stupid friend, Biggs, was taking a hell of a long time to reclaim those Forenzis. It's really not a hard job, you know. All he had to do was slip out through the airlock, throw a grapple around each jar, and bring it in. But he seemed to be as awkward at this as at every other job he had ever attempted. On an off-period, I went down to watch him once. I found he'd thrown grapples around the jars, but had not brought a single one into the airlock yet. [Illustration: Biggs was in a frightful mess, trying to throw grapples around the jars.] I told him, "You'd better get a wiggle on, Biggs. We hit the tropo tomorrow. If those things get into the atmosphere, you'll be able to _pour_ them into the airlock." "I know," he said abstractedly, "but I'm not quite ready to--Sparks, according to that book you lent me, cosmic rays go down to 1/100,000 Ângstrom units." "That's right," I told him. "That means they are more than ten times as intense as gamma rays." "Right again. Why? What's the pay-off?" "That's what I'm trying to find out," he said strangely. He finished tying a loop around one of the jars; pushed himself free and toward the airlock. "You want me to help you drag 'em in now?" I asked. "No thanks, Sparks. I think we'll leave them out till tomorrow," he said. "But Captain Hanson--" I began. "Tomorrow." "After all, I'm just a radioman," I shrugged. "It's your funeral," I said. * * * * * He got them inside the next day. I saw them lying in the corridor beside the airlock, covered with a strip of tarpaulin. And he got them in just in time, too, for about an hour later we hit the Heaviside layer. We set out our Ampie and eased through all right. From there on, it was just an easy coast to Earth. We threw out our lug-sails--the retractable metal fins which give "space luggers" their name--and put on the power brakes. In a couple of hours we were settling into our hangar off New York spaceport. I closed out my key and locked the radio room. There was nothing more I could do now. So I went up to the control turret and found Captain Hanson gnawing the fingernail of his index finger down to the second joint. "Well, Captain?" I said. "Any late news, Sparks?" he demanded anxiously. I shook my head. "Only bad news. The Board's sending over their appraisers immediately."