You know how it is when you stand in front of a photographer's shop where they have those violet incandescents? Your flesh sort of turns bilious green and your lips look like something the cat dragged out of the well? Well, that's what happened now. I looked at Biggs and grinned, and he looked at me and split lavender lips in a blue-fanged, terrifying smile. "Well!" he said. "There we are. Seventy-two hours from now, when we reach Iapetus, Diane should have a magnificent bouquet of dewy-fresh Earth roses, the first ever to be worn on that outpost." "And seventy-two _seconds_ from now," I told him, "I'm going to have the screaming meemies from looking at that grass-colored pan of yours. Let's get out of here." * * * * * Well, for the next couple of days nothing much happened. The _Saturn_ had been cut over to the V-I unit,[3] of course, and we were jogging along at a very tidy and comfortable rate of 185,000 m.p.h. toward our destination. Having helped Lancelot Biggs to the best of my abilities, I now co-operated in his further efforts (to the betterment of my sanity) by remaining away from his experimental chamber. He, too, remained pretty much in seclusion. The only time I saw him was on the second day after noon mess when he came wandering up to my turret mumbling to himself like a cow in a clover path. [Footnote 3: The V-I (velocity-intensifier) unit is an invention of Lt. Lancelot Biggs which permits space-craft to attain velocities approaching the "limiting velocity" of light, i.e., approximately 186,000 miles per second.--ED.] "Sparks," he demanded, "what rhymes with void?" "Boid," I told him promptly. "Which I ain't ... and 'annoyed' which I am. Can't a hard-working radioman even catch up his slumbers around here without you getting in his hair? Why? When did you develop the poet complex?" He flushed and laughed awkwardly, "Well, it--er--doesn't really matter," he temporized. "I was just trying to--Well, I thought it would be amusing to write a little poem to say to Diane when I gave her the roses. You know, a sort of a--love song." "Some people," I snorted, "are born for trouble, and some people have trouble thrust upon them ... but you're the first guy I ever knew who went out of his way looking for it. Now it's love songs to go with the roses. By the way, how are the roses coming along?" "Why, all right, I suppose," said Biggs. "I haven't been in to see them since yesterday. You see, I have the thermoes turned up to max in that room and it's pretty hot--" "Not half so hot," I told him, "as the Old Man's going to be when he finds out you're the one who swiped that container from the cargo bin." Biggs looked started. "Oh! Has he discovered one of them's gone?"