The Ballad of Blaster Bill By Nelson S. Bond [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When you're hurtling 'round the Sun On the perihelion run Through the asteroids from Jupiter to Mars, You may chance to see a light In the everlasting night, An unwinking beacon, sister to the stars. Then each member of the crew From the lowest wiper to The Skipper on the bridge, a moment will Drop all work and gravely, mute, Raise his arm in full salute To the final resting place of Blaster Bill. Afterward, if you are not Just a nosey rankey-pot,[1] And the thing that ticks within you isn't stone, You may learn from spacemens' lips Tales of ancient days and ships, And why Bill the Blaster lies there all alone. II Surly Jonathan McNeer Was the Master Engineer On the wallowing old freighter, _Dotty Sue_. He was gruff, uncouth, unclean, And his language was obscene, But a better grease-pot never sheared the blue. He had nerves of tempered steel, And without a squawk or squeal He would plot a course to Hades for a thrill; But his temper was like fire And the man who drew his ire, Who tried his patience most, was--Blaster Bill. Bill the Blaster was a lazy, Good-for-nothing (some said crazy), Guy who didn't have a gray cell in his head. He had muscle in his shoulders, And his forearms were like boulders, But his cranium and can were filled with lead. Without ever even trying He could make McNeer start crying Down the wrath of Baal upon his hapless dome. He and awkwardness were cousins, He broke things by scores and dozens Just one look at him and tubes sang, "Ohm, sweet Ohm!" On the _Dotty Sue_, his duty Was to keep all tutti-frutti The rocket-blasts, the motors and the rest Of the intricate equipment Which insures a speedy shipment To the planets that are buttons on Sol's vest. But McNeer's deserved objection Was--Bill practiced vivisection Every time he placed his thumbs (which numbered five) On a section of machinery. "He'd be better in a beanery!" Was McNeer's complaint. "I'll skin the guy alive!" "Now, there, Jonathan!" the Skipper Used to say, "Don't be a yipper. I'm sure Bill does the best he can." But grief Etched gray, fretful lines and horrid On McNeer's space-weathered forehead. "The best is none too good!" complained the Chief. III