"I been twenty years in space, Mr. Biggs," Garrity told him sternly. "I look forward to spendin' another score the same way. But I have no desire to whisk along the spaceways as a glowing clinker." Lancelot Biggs said desperately, "But we've got to do our best, Chief! We're beaten, yes--but we've got to show a little fight. Anything may happen. They may have an accident--a breakdown--" There was a pathetic intensity in his voice. Once again, as several times before, I found myself thinking this Lancelot Biggs guy, screwy as he might seem, had plenty of abdomen-stuffings. Garrity must have felt the same way, for he said, grudgingly, "Verra well, then. But...." So, for the third day in succession, our hypatomic motors churned like a bevy of Martian canal-kitties having their morning dunk. And for the third day in succession, the Cosmos Company's super-freighter, the _Slipstream_, proceeded to show us the winking red dot of her rapidly disappearing after-jets. And then it happened! * * * * * I was in my turret, reading a copy of _Spaceways Weekly_, when all of a sudden my bug started chattering and the condenser needle started hopping. I plugged in and caught a garbled, frantic warning from the Sparks on the _Slipstream_. "Calling IPS _Saturn_! Calling IPS _Saturn_! _Saturn_, stand clear for back-drag! Stand clear for back-drag!" I jammed the "stand clear" warning to the bridge and shot a hasty query back to the _Slipstream_ operator. "_Saturn_ standing clear, pal. What makes?" "Trouble on declension line sixteen-oh-four. Stay off our trajectory! We're running into a vac--" Then suddenly the message went dead; the condenser needle went to sleep on zero; I was hammering a futile key at an operator who could no longer communicate with me. But I knew what the trouble was. Our streamlined rival had nosed into a space vacuole! By this time, the _Saturn_ was creaking and groaning like a jitterbug on a coil-spring mattress; bells were dinging all through the runways, and the forward blast jets were making an unholy din as they bounced us off trajectory. And every time one exploded, of course, the lugger shook as if a gigantic fist had smacked it square in the nose. Footsteps pounded up the gangway, the door opened, and I had visitors. Cap Hanson, Diane Hanson, and our acting Skipper, Lancelot Biggs. They all hollered at once. "What is it, Sparks?" "Vacuole!" I snapped. "The _Slipstream_ broke into one. They're preparing for the back-drag now." Diane Hanson's eyes were like twin saucers. "Vacuole?" she repeated. "What's that? What's a vacuole, Lancelot?"