The Genius of LANCELOT BIGGS By Nelson S. Bond Lancelot Biggs was an unpredictable quantity, but nobody aboard the _Saturn_ thought he'd ever turn traitor! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Adventures June 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Illustration: "Wait!" As Thaxton went into his trance, Lancelot Biggs' hoarse whisper held the captain and his men back.] I should have suspected something screwy the minute Cap Hanson started talking sweety-pie. Usually you could use his voice for a nutmeg grater. But you know me, old Drizzle-brain Donovan. If they ever write a story of my life--only why should they?--they'll title it, "Gullible's Travels." Anyhow, about an hour after we'd lifted gravs from Long Island Spaceport, the skipper smooched into my control-turret, beaming like a nova in the Coalsack. He plumped himself into the only comfortable chair and asked: "Well, Sparks, my lad, how you doin'?" "If you mean," I retorted, "was I drunk last night, the answer is 'no.' I am so dry I am parched, and besides, the barkeep at the Wranglers' Club wouldn't give me any credit." "He told me," commented the skipper, "he used your last check to vulcanize an old gum boot." "Be that as it may," I said with quiet dignity, "I am not one of those space-hounds who gets three sheets in the ether every time he hits port--" "An' speakin' of sheets," interrupted the Old Man, "we got more passengers aboard the _Saturn_ this trip than we got bunks to flop 'em in. So--" I got it then. I squawked, "Hey, take it easy! What is this--a hotel?" "--so," continued the skipper imperturbably, "I'm allotin' your quarters to a special passenger. A guy by the name of--" "I'm not interested in names!" I howled. "I'm not the city directory. Look, Cap, I've got my rights! I don't have to turn my quarters over to some damn Earthlubber, just because he's got a yen to chase comets!" "Will you shut up, Sparks?" snapped the skipper. "Or do I hafta calm you down with the wrong end of a lug-wrench? This here passenger's name is Thaxton, an' he comes bearin' a 'Handle With Care' label signed by Doc Challenger. _Now_ will you pipe down?" I would and did. Doc Challenger happens to be the president of the IPS, the corporation that owns the _Saturn_. Any friend of his is a friend of my pocketbook's. "Well," I said, "if you're going to put it _that_ way--" "I'm puttin' this Thaxton guy," Hanson frowned, "in your quarters, on account of they're furthest from the aft holds. Friend or no friend, I ain't aimin' to have him find out we're runnin' a load of rotor-guns an' ammunition to the New California rebels."