I called him something untranslatable, and then he got down to business. "How's that dilapidated old crate of yours perking along, pal?" he asked. "Fine," I told him. "We've got genius at the helm, romance on the bridge, and a cargo of Venusian pineapples in the hold. Which reminds me, how's your girl friend?" "Comets to you, sailor!" he snapped back. "This is serious. I wanted to warn you, you'd better make a good trip. There's a prize dangling on it." "Come again?" "Word just leaked through from the central office. The Government has decided to turn its freight express transport over to the company whose next normal Venus-Earth run is made in the shortest time. It's a blind test, and nobody is supposed to know anything about it. The _Saturn_ was clocked when it pulled out of Sun City, and its time will be checked against that of other competing liners--" * * * * * I got little cold duck-bumps on the forehead. When I brushed them they were wet. This was a tough break for the Corporation. The _Saturn_ is the oldest space-lugger still doing active duty on the interplanetary runs. She was built way back there before the turn of the century. Lacking many modern improvements, she is a ten-day freighter. One of our new luggers could make the same trip in six or seven; it was rumored that the _Slipstream_, pride of the Cosmos Company fleet, could make it in five! I squawked, "Fires of Fomalhaut, Joe, it's not fair! The _Saturn's_ the slowest can the Corporation owns! Why don't they let us run the _Spica_ or the _Antigone_ on a test flight?" "It's a little matter of politics, friend," he returned wearily. "Politics--spelled g-r-a-f-t. Somebody's got a finger in the pie and wants the Cosmos Company to get the allotment. The _Slipstream_ is leaving Sun City tonight. All you have to do is beat her into Long Island by about ten hours." "Is that all?" I lamented. "You're sure they don't expect us to stop on the way in and load up with a half ton of diamond dust? Shooting meteors, Joe--" He interrupted my etheric sobs with a hasty, "Somebody breaking in on our band, guy. Got to go now. Best of luck!" The sign-off dropped the needle, and I was staring at a killed connection. So there we were, way out on the limb. The fastest freighter in space competing against us for the fattest prize since the Government lotteried off the Fort Knox hoardings. I worried two new wrinkles into my brow, then went below to find Cap Hanson. He heard my complaint with ominous calm. When I had finished he said, almost cheerfully, "Tough, ain't it?" I stared at him. "Skipper, we've got to figure out a way to hobble home first! That Government contract carries at least three million credits a year. If we lose it for the Corporation, they'll tie the kit and kiboodle of us to stern firing jets!" He just grinned ghoulishly and held out two hairy paws for my inspection. "You see them hands, Sparks?"