"You're darn tootin' he has! He came busting up here and asked me if I knew anything about it. I suggested maybe it was mice, but that didn't go over so big on account of mice don't generally build lead-covered bungalows. So if he happens to ask you, you'd better--" "Better," interrupted an irate voice from the doorway, "what?" * * * * * The two of us spun like drunks in a revolving door. It was Cap Hanson himself, big as life and twice as furious. Biggs gulped. "Oh--er--hello, Skipper. Sparks and I were just talking about--er--" "About poetry," I finished. "Lanse was looking for a rhyme for--" "Don't lie to me," blazed the skipper. "I heard what you was talkin' about. _So_, Lancelot! It was _you_ tooken that container of seeds out of the cargo!" Biggs said, "Why, yes, Captain, but--" The Old Man suddenly remembered he was Lancelot Biggs' father-in-law as well as his chief. His face wrinkled like a prune, and he said in a melancholy voice, "Now, son, you shouldn't ought to have done that. Don't you know you're goin' to get in a peck of trouble? Them seeds was valuable." "I know," replied Biggs, "but I just took a few seeds out of one of the containers. Nobody will ever notice. And--and it was our anniversary, you know. Diane's and mine." The Old Man shook his head sadly. "Lancelot, I'm surprised at you. Just took a few out of one of the containers? Don't you realize that whole box of seeds is ruined now? Why do you think they sealed them things in lead?" Oh-oh! Suddenly, but belatedly, I knew what he meant. So did Biggs. The two of us stared at Hanson, then at each other haggardly. Lancelot whispered, "Cosmic rays? Oh, my gracious! I forgot all about--" "Sure, cosmic rays," groaned the Old Man. "You know they create mutants in dormant germinating cells. Now that them seeds been exposed they ain't worth a tinker's dam to anybody. They won't breed true. Lord only knows what kind of freaks and fiddle-di-diddles'll come up--if anything comes up at all." And he shook his head. "Lancelot, son, I'm sorry. But you know what I'm goin' to have to do. I'm goin' to have to enter this on the ship's log, and--and I'm afraid them seeds may cost you your job!" * * * * * It was just at that moment the _vocoder_ on my set began chattering. The interruption suited me fine. I leaped to the controls and hastily tuned in my caller. But whatever pleasure I had felt dissipated instantly when I learned who he was and what he wanted. It was Tommy Jenkins, the bug-pounder at Ganymede IV, space-calling in Compang code. He asked, "That you, Donovan?" "It's not my grandmother," I retorted. "Why the Code, Tommy? What's up?" "Taxes," said Jenkins, "skirt-lengths, and the Big Chief's blood pressure. Sparks, how far are you from Iapetus?" I checked traj swiftly on my flight record. "About fifteen hours," I answered. "Twelve, maybe. Why?"