So pretty soon there was a commotion in the rampway like a trained seal stumbling around on hob-nailed stilts, a rap sounded on my door, and I said, "Come on in, Mr. Biggs!" And sure enough, it was him. He ambled in, grinned lazily and said, "Hi! What's new?" "Nothing," I said, "under the Sun. Ain't you heard the adage? Look, Mr. Biggs--you go on duty pretty soon, is that right?" "That's right." "Well, you don't happen," I asked him shrewdly, "to have any bright new inventions hatching under your skull, do you? Like the uranium time-trap, for instance, or the velocity intensifier?" He said, "Now, Sparks--can I help it if neither of them worked exactly as I had planned? After all--" "Answer," I insisted, "yes or no. Do you?" He flushed and wriggled one toe in the carpet. "We-e-ell, not exactly. I did have a little idea I wanted to try out, though. An anti-gravitic attachment. On the cargo lofts. It occurred to me that--" "Well, junk it!" I said. "Hasten, don't hobble, to the nearest incinerator, and give your diagrams the good old heaveroo!" He said, "Eh?" and looked faintly startled. "Eh?" he repeated. His liquescent larynx Immelmanned. "But, why, Sparks?" I said, "Them stripes on your sleeve, Lieutenant--they're pretty, ain't they?" He glanced down, fingered his triple braid proudly. "Why--why, yes. Very pretty. I'm proud of 'em." "But the more there are," I pointed out, "the prettier they are. Isn't that right?" "I--I suppose so. But what has that to do with--_Sparks_!" His voice raised to a shout, and suddenly his pale eyes brightened. "Do you mean that--?" "Nothing else but. That alleged Q.O. mugg, Cooper, is a phony? He's really an S.S.C.B. inspector. And since he's not riding the _Saturn_ for his health, I'll give you one guess who he's watching--if you start with yourself." Funny what emotion will do to a guy. Biggs was not the type to go into a blue funk. I'd seen him face danger, disgrace and death, not once but many times. Every time, he had confronted the situation calmly, coolly, nary a quake or quiver stirring him. But here, handed good news on a silver platter, I thought for a minute he was going to pass out. His eyes grew stalks, and his knees began to rattle like a marimba. The confused burble emanating from his lips resembled the vocal efforts of a tongue-tied hippo trying to speak Choctaw. His Adam's-apple--but why mention that monstrosity? Even _I_ don't believe the things it did, and I saw it! Words finally grew out of the _melange_ of gutturals, sibilants and expectorants. Biggs' eyes receded into their sockets, became dewy and wistful, like the orbs of an amour-smitten adolescent. His voice was hushed and awed. "My own ship!" he breathed. "My own command!" "Don't cross your bridges," I reminded him, "until they're hatched. You've still got to win your letter, chum. Two letters, in fact. I-F. You become Skipper Biggs IF you pass the exam.