"I'm a radio operator," I told him, "not a manicurist." "Them hands," he persisted, "is clean as a pipeline on Pluto. Take a look at the log. Mister Lancelot Biggs is writ down as the C.O. for this trip. Which relieves me of all an' sundry obligations." I said, "But, Skipper, you've had the experience! In an emergency like this--" He shook his head. "Sparks, we ain't got a chance of beatin' the _Slipstream_ to Earth. Not the chance of a snowman on Mercury. I'm perfectly satisfied to let Mr. Biggs do the worryin', an' if the Corporation's thickheaded enough to want to blame anybody for our failure, I'm content to let him have _that_ honor, too!" He grinned again. "Maybe after this," he said, "Biggs won't be quite so damn cocky. An' maybe Diane won't think he's the hotshot he lets on to be!" Which was absolutely all the skipper would say. I wasted words for five more minutes, then went to find Lancelot Biggs.... * * * * * He wasn't on the bridge. He wasn't in the secondary control cabin or in the mess hall or in the holds. Nor in the engine room. I found him, finally, in the ship's library, sprawled full-length on a divan, holding a book in one hand and waving the other arm in the air, keeping time to the poem he was reading aloud. When I entered he looked up and said, "Hello there, Sparks! You're just in time to hear something lovely. This space-epic of the Venusian poet-laureate, Hyor Kandru. It's called _Alas, Infinity!_ Listen--" He read, "... comes then the quietude of endless void. The heart seeks out and, breathless, listens to Magnificent monotonies of space...." Monotony your eye! There are times when I'd trade all my bug-pounding hours for a nice, quiet, padded cell out somewhere beyond Pluto. I said, "Listen, Mr. Biggs--" "You know, Sparks," he said dreamily, "sometimes I wonder if the poetic mind is not more acute than the strictly scientific one. Since I met Diane, and she acquainted me with the symphonic beauties of poetry, I've thought of so many new things. The never-ending wonder of the Saturnian rings, for instance. The problem of space vacuoles--" "Speaking of vacuoles," I interrupted, "me and you and about fourteen other mariners from the good ship _Saturn_ are going to be in one pretty soon--if by vacuole you mean a hole. Because--" And then I told him. Misery being, as rumor hath it, a gregarious soul, it did my heart good to see the way he jolted up from his horizontal position. "But--but, Sparks!" he quavered, "that's terribly unfair!" "So," I told him, "is betting on the gee-gees. Only one hoss can win, but they all find backers. The point is, what are we going to do about it?" "Do?" he piped. "What are we going to do? We're going to do plenty. Come on!" We went to the engine room. There Chief Engineer Garrity heard Biggs' plea with granite aplomb, then slowly shook his head from side to side.