"But--but how did you know I--" Lancelot Biggs answered quietly, "Sparks, didn't I tell you he's an esper?" I stared at Thaxton. I said, "Is--is that right? Did you really read my thoughts?" "You might call it that," he said amusedly. "At any rate, I divined your purpose through my gift of extra-sensory perception. The gift that"--he preened himself, the bandy-legged little rooster--"that makes me the Number One secret agent of the Venusian Intelligence Bureau." I said savagely, "If you can read my thoughts, why don't you go there?" But Thaxton was through with pleasantries. To Cap Hanson he said, "And now, Captain, that we may not again be interrupted, this time by a more capable intruder"--that swift, mocking grin at L. Biggs--"I must ask you to call the bridge, the engine room, the holds. Tell every member of the crew and command to remain just where he is at the present time. And make it forceful!" He "made it forceful" himself by jabbing the hand-gun into Cap Hanson's loinchops. And since Hanson isn't an idiot, he did as he was told. He moved to the audio, spoke the necessary commands. Dick Todd was puzzled, but said, "Aye, sir!" The chief engineer, Garrity, replied dourly with, "Did ye think I'd be leavin' my post in midflight, Captain Hanson?" And the black gang foreman merely said, "Very well, sir!" Lancelot Biggs was still muttering to himself. I was beginning to get worried about Biggs. He had a bad case of water on the brain, apparently. He kept saying, "Nile? Red? Saar?" Cap Hanson had finished his calls. Anyway, that's what he thought. Thaxton thought differently. "If you don't mind, Captain," he reminded him. "Give the same message to the chief steward. We don't want any mess-boys or waiters interrupting our little tête-à-tête. Too many cooks, you know--" And he grinned. "Ha!" growled the skipper. "Ha! I'd gladly laugh at your funeral, Thaxton." But he called the mess hall, and the voice of our Cockney steward, Doug Enderby, drifted back over the audio cheerfully. "Aye, sir! Stay put, sir? Right as ryne!" Then we all jumped. Because a great shout broke from the scrawny throat of Lancelot Biggs. "That's it!" he yelled. "_That's it!_" * * * * * For a moment it was touch and go. Thaxton's forefinger tightened ominously on the trigger of his pierce-gun, and I found myself wondering how I'd look with a hemstitched abdomen. Then, as Biggs shouted no more, a look of curiosity spread over the little man's features. "Might I inquire, Mr. Biggs--" he began. Biggs' face was red. He looked embarrassed at his outburst. He glanced sheepishly at the skipper and at me. "I--I'm sorry. But I've been wondering how I could--" He faltered. "Well, anyway, I just thought of a way. That is--if you're agreeable?" Thaxton's bug eyes goggled at him. "Speak sense, man!" he ordered pettishly. "How you could _what_? A way to _what_? If I'm agreeable to _what_?"