"But," said the Old Man, "we've done what we was sent here for. We signed a peace pact--which ain't worth the paper it's printed on--and we found out why all former treaties was failures. So if you ask me, the best thing we can do is git out of here before one of them periodic Thagwars, smarter than the rest, discovers a way to wreck our ship. What say, son?" "That," nodded Biggs, "would be my idea, too. Our task is finished; we'll leave it to the Space Patrolmen to figure out the rest. Come on, Dad--let's lift gravs for home and Lancelot, Junior!" "For Lance--!" The Old Man frowned. "Oh, no! No more silly names like that in our family. That young man's name is gonna be Waldemar--after me!" "Lancelot!" said Lancelot stubbornly. "Waldemar!" said Waldemar Hanson the same way. "Lancelot!" "Waldemar!" * * * * * So we all went home and met Christopher Biggs. Only trouble with those two shipmates of mine is that they forgot Diane Hanson, who, being the daughter of Waldemar and the wife of Lancelot, has a stubborn streak of her own. Kit Biggs weighed seven pounds and eight ounces. He and his mother are both doing fine, thanks. Biggs is doing O.Q., too. He's got a new title now. Around his home, that is. He's First Mate in Charge of the Three-Cornered Pants Department. But--what do you expect? After all, life is just one damp thing after another.... THE END