Biggs, having set the studs into lock-posts, slipped from the bucket-shaped pilot's chair and walked to his wife's side. No, he didn't exactly walk, either. Biggs' locomotion can scarcely be dignified by that term. It is a stiff-legged sort of galumph, like an ostrich on ice-skates. But his tone held a proper degree of uxorious dignity. "The _lady_, Major," he said, "is my wife." But the old freezeroo didn't chill Gilchrist at all. He just sniffed down his long, sharp nose at Biggs. "And who," he demanded, "might _you_ be?" * * * * * It was Cap Hanson who answered. The skipper's voice was warm with justifiable pride. "Permit me, Major. This is my son-in-law and First Officer, Lt. Lancelot Biggs. He just reported back for active duty. I'm sure you've heard of him. He invented the V-I unit and the uranium speech-trap--"[1] [Footnote 1: For previous adventures of the Interplanetary Corporation's whackiest wisest young officer, see copies of _Fantastic Adventures_ for 1939-40.--Ed.] "Oh!" said Gilchrist frigidly, and stared at my chum like a vegetarian at a hamburger. "So _you're_ Biggs? This is too bad. I had just succeeded in training Lieutenant Todd to a point of efficiency. Now I suppose I must start over again and teach _you_ how to manage a spaceship!" Imagine it! That kind of crack to Mr. Biggs, one of the brainiest spacers who ever lifted gravs! Dick Todd was a good guy, but he wasn't Biggs' equal by ten decimals! I held my breath and waited for the explosion. Cap Hanson's mottled old cheeks began to glow like a neon sign, and Diane _whooshed_ like an enraged Bunsen burner. But Biggs spoke up hurriedly. "Yes, sir!" he said. "Very good, sir! I'll be most grateful for your instructions, sir!" That was the kind of palaver Gilchrist liked. For a moment he looked half human as a tight little smile shuddered along his lips. He said, mollified, "That's very sensible of you, Lieutenant. We may get along, after all. For a while I feared your--er--lucky accomplishments in the past might--er--make you a bit difficult. Have you plotted our homeward course?" "Yes, sir," replied Mr. Biggs. He lifted a sheet of paper from the chart-desk, handed it to the Major. Gilchrist studied it briefly, lifted his gimlet eyes. "Not bad, Lieutenant. Not bad at all. A little old-fashioned, perhaps--" That was more than I could stand. If Biggs wouldn't take his own part, I had to. I burst out, "But, Major, Biggs just graduated from the Academy two years ago! How could his astrogation be 'old-fashioned'? There's not a better plotter in space. Lance has yanked us out of more troubles--" "_Sparks!_" That was Biggs, warning me with his voice and with his eyes. "Didn't the Major tell you to go turn off your batteries? You'd better run along." "O.Q.," I snarled. "I'm on my way. Come up and see me in my turret some time, Lance--where the air is fresher!" And I beat it before Major Gilchrist caught his breath.