"Sturdy," rattled Marlowe, "is the word for Hanson. Your Skipper's as chipper as a kipper. You're O.Q. Todd is O.Q. Bronson and McMurtrie and Anderson are O.Q. The crew checks one hundred percent. Enderby needs two teeth filled; otherwise O.Q. Blaster Jacobs needs sun-lamp Vitamin C, but otherwise O.Q. As a matter of fact--" One name was conspicuous by its absence. My gizzard turned over slowly. I interrupted, "Marlowe--look back over your list. Didn't you forget somebody? How about--?" The answer came back slowly, almost sympathetically. Even over the dit-da-dits you can read expression in talented fingers. Marlowe tapped: "I'm sorry, Donovan. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but there is one unfavorable report. The examiners have declared one man aboard the _Saturn_ to be absolutely unfit for space travel. His heart is so bad that it may give out at any minute. That man is--First Officer Biggs!" * * * * * Well, there you are! Somehow I managed to take down the conclusion of the memo and sign off. But all the while I was doing so my brain was churning with the doleful tidings I had received; the thought kept repeating over and over again: "_Biggs--grounded! Lancelot Biggs--unfit for space travel!_" My memory flashed back to the day when, almost three years ago, that tow-headed youngster had first gangled aboard the _Saturn_, fresh out of the Academy and not yet dry behind the ears. Fourth Mate he had been then, with no more responsibility than a laundress in a nudist camp. The Old Man had not liked him, partly because he was eccentric, mostly because he had avowed his intention of placing a gold band around the third finger, left hand, of the charmer whose name was at that time Diane Hanson. But somehow Lanse Biggs had overcome these handicaps, by persistence worked himself up to the position of First Officer, by wit and guile and intelligence come through every obstacle set before him, by sheer determination proven to the skipper that he would make a good son-in-law. His inventive genius had given mankind the velocity-intensifier unit, the uranium speech-trap, the first safe way of descending to the planet Jupiter--oh, why go on? Biggs' discoveries are as prominent as the Adam's-apple in his neck, and that's plenty outstanding! But now, his future assured, his erratic past behind him, Biggs was to be exiled from the space he loved. Biggs--grounded! Lancelot Biggs--unfit for space travel! So coursed my gloomy thoughts as I sat there in the silence of my radio turret. I did not even notice the _Saturn_ was easing into a cradle. My first intimation that we were on Iris came with the arrival of Cap Hanson. He came burbling into my cubby, happy as a bee in a honeysuckle vine. "O.Q., Sparks--we done it! We're on Iris. Shoot a message to Earth that we--Hey! What's the matter? Sick?" Without a word I handed him my transcript of the report. He scanned it swiftly.