So I moved in with Mr. Biggs, and it was just like I thought it would be. My gangling friend, that mad genius of the spaceways, Lancelot Biggs, was glad to have me share his quarters. "I do hope you'll be comfortable, Sparks," he told me, gulping and making his amazing Adam's apple perform loopty-loops. "Of course, there's not any too much room--" Which was like saying there's not any too much H_{2}O on Luna. There was only one bunk in Biggs' stateroom. I am a normal-sized man. Biggs is, too, only his dimensions are sort of peculiar. I.e., he's one-half as wide as par for the course, and twice as tall. Which compensates. He turned out to have seventeen separate and distinct physical peculiarities, none of which showed up until the first time we shoehorned ourselves into the same bed. I was chagrined to learn that he had eleven elbows and seven knees. Also, his idea of resting comfortably was to spread himself out like a miniature windmill and revolve rapidly. The first night I went sleepless. The second night I managed to doze off to a cat nap, and it almost cost me my life. Lancelot Biggs' larynx descended suddenly and clopped me on the pate. I climbed out of bed weakly, bathed the resulting goose-egg in arnica, and spent the rest of the night studying, thoughtfully, the life history of an ancient sage known as Procrustes. Which explains, boys and girls, why I happened to be catching forty double-winks when Cap Hanson brought Thaxton up to visit me. The first token I had of their presence was to hear a bull-o'-Bashan voice bombarding my ear-drums. "Well, Sparks! An' what do you think _you're_ doing?" I popped out of my chair like a cork from a can of damp carbide. I said, "Whazzat? Whozzat? Oh, you, Skipper? I was--I was thinking." "You think," said the Old Man caustically, "awful loud. Sparks, this is Mr. Thaxton, our special guest. Mr. Thaxton, be pleased to meet our radio operator." This Thaxton was a queer-looking duck. He wasn't more than five foot two, or maybe three. He wore a shock of bristling, carroty hair over a forehead that bulged like a sponge in a Swedish bath. His eyes stuck out so far that he could have hung pictures on them, and his legs looked like a brace of parentheses hunting for a descriptive phrase. We clenched mitts and glims at the same time. The handshake was what I had expected from the looks of him: wet towels in the sunset. But when his eyes met mine, I got the funniest darn sensation. It was something like an electric shock, only not quite. It was something like having your cerebellum run through a wringer, only not quite. It was a little like having tiny fingers play tag in the area of your gray-matter. Only that wasn't it, either. I gulped and said, "In the aft--What's that?" Because the little man had said absolutely nothing! Now, smiling faintly, he did say, "I'm glad to meet you, Sparks. _Very_ glad to meet you!" * * * * *