The Return of Lancelot Biggs

I guess it was about 7:58 Solar Constant Time-yes, it was exactly that, because I'd just received a clearance O.Q. for 8:00 from the Sun City portmaster-when the portal of my radio turret opened and in waddled Cap Hanson, skipper of our void-mangling freighter, the Saturn. The Old Man's optics were dancing like a nudist in a hailstorm, and he wore a grin on his lips that stretched from ear to there. "Guess what, Sparks?" he chortled.

"I got a s'prise for you! Guess who just came aboard?" I said gloomily, "If it's anybody like that sourpuss encyclopedia-on-legs who came aboard at Luna, you can have my resignation right now, if not sooner. I've been hectored and bulldozed and criticised so much lately that I'm beginning to feel like one large apology with corpuscles."

I wasn't joking, either. You know me-Bert Donovan-the easy-goingest bug-pounder who ever loused up the ether with Morse code. I don't get mad often, and my nerves are as steady as a forger's fingers, but this newest addition to the Saturn's personnel had me on the verge of babbling baby-talk.