The Downfall of Lancelot Biggs By NELSON S. BOND _Come aboard the_ Saturn _for fun and laughs with Lancelot Biggs--mastermind of the spaceways_. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales March 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We were about three hours out of Long Island Spaceport, and I had just finished swapping farewell insults with Joe Marlowe, head bug-pounder at Lunar III, when the door of my radio turret slid open and in slithered--if round things can slither--Cap Hanson, skipper of our gallant space-going scow, the _Saturn_. The Old Man's eyes were as wide as a lady bowler's beam, and his face, which boasts a pale mauve hue even under normal circumstances, was now a ripe, explosive fuchsia. He jammed a pudgy forefinger against his lips. "_Shh!_" he shhed. He squeezed in and closed the door behind him, shot a nervous glance about the room, then wheezed throatily, "Is there anybody here, Sparks?" "Nobody," I told him, "but us amperes. Why all the Desperate Desmond stuff, Skipper? Got an old _corpus delicti_ you want hid? You might try the air-lock--" He snapped back to normal with a profane bang. "Don't be a damned fool, Donovan! I ain't murdered any members of my crew yet. Though if I ever do, I've got a good notion who to start with. I got reason to be cautions. I just learned something--Listen!" He hunched forward and shoved his lips so close to my ear that I could almost hear his whiskers sprouting. "You know that Captain Cooper which come aboard at Long Island?" "The Quarantine officer, you mean?" "Quarantine officer your eye!" The skipper's voice was triumphant. "He ain't no more a Q.O. than I'm the Queen of Sheba! He's an inspector from the S.S.C.B." "An inspector!" I gasped. "From the Space Safety Control Board! Why--why, that means--" "Exactly!" Hanson rubbed his hands gleefully. "It means that Lanse is being examined for a commander's brevet. Well, what do you think of that? _My_ son-in-law. Captain of his own ship. And him with only one year's active service!" I said, "That's swell!" and meant it. The Old Man exaggerated a trifle when he called Lancelot Biggs his "son-in-law"; Biggs' marriage to Diane Hanson was not scheduled to take place, yet, for a couple of months. But with Hanson I could enthuse over the prospect of seeing Biggs win his four stripes and his own command. Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs was not only my superior officer, he was my friend, as well. He had once been my bunkmate. I had watched him rise from a gangling, awkward, derided Third Mate to First Officer; had been present when he earned his Master Navigator's papers; had seen him overcome seemingly insurmountable handicaps of appearance and personality to win a place in the affections of crew and command alike.