Where Are You, Mr. Biggs? By NELSON S. BOND _That gangling frame, that easy, fluent grin--lost in the nameless depths of the crypts of space!_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales September 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We're supposed to be an Earth-Mars lugger, but when we got to Mars Central spaceport, the bug-pounder there gave me this solar-gram from Terra. It said: "PROCEED URANUS IMMEDIATELY PICK UP CARGO GALLIUM." So I shoved a frantic for the Old Man over the ship audio, and pretty soon he came lumbering up to my radio room, picking his teeth and scowling like a man with only a half a tummyfull of victuals. "It's a fine state of affairs," he snarled, "when a skipper can't even finish his dinner in peace! Well, what's the matter now, Sparks? You seeing pink rhinoceroses again? 'Cause if you are--" [Illustration: "Well, what's the matter now, Sparks? Seeing pink rhinoceroses again?"] "I'm not," I told him with quiet dignity, "and they aren't pink rhinos, they're lavender lobsters, and anyway, I haven't had a drink for months. Or maybe it's since yesterday? Anyhow, here's the grief." And I gave him the wire. He read it. Read it, your Aunt Nelly--he screamed it out loud. "_Uranus!_" he bellowed. "_This_ crate make _that_ trip? They must be stark, staring mad!" "Them," I agreed, "or me. Flip a coin. What shall I do, Skipper? Tell 'em we can't do it? Tell 'em--?" "No, wait a minute." Cap Hanson's brow looked like a freshly ploughed field. I knew why. The _Saturn_ is an old lugger. And by old, I _do_ mean ancient. It was built before the turn of the century, and by all laws of logic and reason should have been taken off the spaceways long ago, only that Cap Hanson and our screwball First Mate, Lancelot Biggs, had demonstrated time and time again, and in startlingly devious ways, that the old scow was still spaceworthy. But if the _Saturn_ were removed from active service, the chances were ten to one that Hanson would be junked with her. Which was Reason Numero Uno--and a damned good one--why the skipper couldn't risk refusing this order. "We'll go, Sparks," he said slowly. "We've got to. But I could wring his scrawny neck, blast his jets!" I didn't have to ask whom he meant. "Scrawny neck" would mean only one inmate of our void-perambulating asylum. Lancelot Biggs. Genius and crackpot, scarecrow and sage--and soon to become son-in-law of the skipper. I said, "But why blame Biggs for this, Skipper? Is it his fault if the Home Office has gone squirrelly?" "It is," grumbled Hanson savagely. "I never should have agreed to let Diane marry him. He started this mess at my house. Colonel Brophy and him was having dinner with me and Biggs told Brophy all about that new 'velocity intensifier' he invented--"