He was right there. That was nobody's business but our own. Now, understand me. I think we had a right to help the rebels. For one thing, they deserved their independence. For another, our arch-competitors, the Cosmos Company, was backing the present New California overlords. A third good reason was, of course, that every day this war continued, we were losing money. * * * * * Earth itself hadn't had a war for almost a hundred and twenty years--not since the North India uprising of '92. But the distribution of land and governmental control of the colonies was still what you might call "unfinished business." There were always tiny local squabbles going on. Like the Fontanaland siege three years ago that damn near ruined Mars as a summer resort; the Rollie Rebellion last year on Mercury; and now, this year, the struggle for autonomy on the part of a bunch of Californian Earth colonists in the Venusian hill country. Our freight experts had decided that of all the IPS ships, the _Saturn_ would be the least likely suspect when it came to gun-running. The _Saturn_ was as old as a statesman's jokes. It was the slowest, wallowingest lugger still pushing vacuum. But I agreed with Hanson, it would not do for anyone connected with the present Venus government to discover our cargo included contraband. We'd find ourselves playing tit-tat-toe on the walls of a Sun City clink faster than a stuttering android could gargle, "Planck's Constant!" So I nodded, "Okay, Skipper. You're right and I'm wrong, as you usually are. So what do I do now? Sleep in the galley?" "No, Sparks. You take your duffle down to Mr. Biggs' quarters. You can bunk with him durin' this shuttle." "_What!_ Lancelot Biggs! You're putting me in with that perambulating pretzel? Hey, Cap--" "You're talkin'," reminded the skipper, "about the first mate of this here tin-can--I mean, ship! Be more respectful of your superiors, Sparks. Anyhow--" He gazed at me curiously. "Anyhow, I thought you an' him was pals?" "Pals," I moaned, "not peas in a pod! I _like_ Mr. Biggs, Skipper. But I don't want to wear him like a hair-ribbon for the next ten days." "Sparks!" warned the Old Man. "Cap, you can't do this to me! It's tyranny, that's what it is!" "Never mind what you call it!" interrupted the Old Man grimly. "_I_ call it poetic justice. You've buttered your bread, Sparks. Now lie in it. An' while you're complainin', you might remember how aidful you was in findin' Mr. Biggs _another_ bunkmate!" He grinned vengefully and left. I remembered, then, that I'd helped Lancelot Biggs woo and win Diane, the skipper's beauteous daughter, now back on Earth making preparations for the wedding. And I groaned. Hansons, like elephants, never forget.... * * * * *