This was a hellbuster of an assignment! Caltech VI was the latest addition to Sol's family, a space-wandering planet that, from God-knows-where, had recently swum within the gravitational attraction of our sun--and taken up residence between Mars and the asteroids. From the beginning it had been a trouble-maker. I needn't tell even the ground-grippingest Earthlubber of you that the solar system is weighed on such a hair-trigger balance that any considerable outside influence will throw it haywire. Caltech VI--named after the old, 200-inch platter that had spotted it--had raised a terrific rumpus settling into an orbit. It had caused howling storms on Mars, ionic disturbances on mighty Jupiter, and blasted a half hundred planetoids clear out of existence. Astronomers agreed the newcomer could not last very long. A couple thousand years at the most. Inevitably it would be torn to pieces by the titanic tug-o'-war eternally waged by Jupiter and the Sun. But in the meantime, according to the Fraunhofer analysis, there were valuable ores on the interloper. Somebody, the first person or group, who set claim-stakes on Caltech's soil, would clean up big. Fine, hush? Swell! I should have been joyful at the prospect of dipping into this celestial gravy, eh? But maybe I forgot to mention that already three expeditions had gone out from Earth and one from Venus. All of them had reported successful landings on the planet, then--silence! Cap Bowman had gathered up his scattered wits, now, and began volleying protests like a skeet-chucker. "But, Colonel!" he howled, "The _Pegasus_ isn't good enough for that sort of job. We're a freighter! Our plates are worn, our hypatomics old-fashioned--" "Yup," said Brophy agreeably. "We know. But your space record is enviable. You have served the Corporation faithfully and well--" What he meant was, we could be spared. Johnny Larkin said wryly, "I should think those would be arguments for _not_ sending the _Pegasus_." Brophy glowered at him from behind glinting pince-nez. "And who might this be?" The skipper said nervously, "Lt. Larkin, sir. My First Mate." He added proudly, "Him an' my daughter had a military weddin' last night." "That's too bad, Captain," harumphed Brophy. "But to return to the subject--" "Military!" bellowed the skipper. "Not 'shotgun!'" Then a sudden idea struck him; he adopted a wheedling tone. "Look Colonel--if we gotta go, we gotta go. But I c'n excuse Lt. Larkin from duty, can't I? After all, he's on his furlough. This is his honeymoon--" Brophy shook his head decisively. "I'm sorry, Captain. All furloughs are cancelled. All men must report for duty on this special assignment. I might add, though, that if your venture is successful, the Corporation will fittingly reward all participants--" "An' if it ain't?" asked the Old Man. "They'll bury us," I piped up, "by remote control. With honors. See you later, boys. I've got to see a carpenter about a coffin." And I left.