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Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The madness
of Lancelot Biggs
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The madness of Lancelot Biggs

Author: Nelson S. Bond

Illustrator: Julian S. Krupa

Release date: June 29, 2024 [eBook #73942]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company,

1940

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MADNESS

OF LANCELOT BIGGS ***
 The Madness of Lancelot
Biggs

By NELSON S. BOND

There was more at stake than just a football game

for Lancelot Biggs and the crew of the Saturn. So
Biggs made a bargain; his rocket emblem in exchange
for a new uranium condenser—and how it worked!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Fantastic Adventures April 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
 With a sigh, Biggs went to work on the radio while the
captain glared.

We had barely cleared Lunar Three and I was taking final

instructions from Joe Marlowe, the port Sparks, when my plates
dulled out and there I was staring at a blank expanse of metal. So I
said, "Merdejo!" which is Universal for a naughty word, and started
looking for the trouble. I was on my hands and knees under the
audio bank when Cap Hanson came into my control turret.
He said, "You lose somethin', Sparks?"
"Two minutes ago," I told him. "Take a look around. If you see
something bright red and covered with hairy spikes, don't step on it.
It's my temper."
The Skipper sighed. "If my troubles," he declaimed, "was as mild as
your'n, I'd do cartwheels from here to Venus. Sparks, you got a copy
of the Space Manual here, ain't you?"
I nodded toward my bookcase; he found the reg book and leafed
through it carefully. Finally he shook his head.
"It ain't here," he gloomed. "Are you sure this is the latest edition?"
"Just what are you looking for?" I asked him.
"I was kinda thinkin'," he said hopefully, "there might be a paragraph
givin' a space commander permission to boil his First Mate in oil, or
cut him into small cubes an' feed him to the octopussies. But the
waffle-fannies what wrote that book—"
I knew, then. It was the same old complaint. Our lanky and
incredibly omniscient friend, Lancelot Biggs, whose genius for
getting ye goode shippe Saturn out of tight spots was surpassed
only by his ability to fester Cap Hanson's epidermis, was back in the
soup.
I said, "But, sweet comets, Cap, what's he done now? He hasn't had
time to do much. We've just pulled our Ampie[1] out of Earth's H-
layer."
"Which," rasped the skipper, "took three hours. Or time enough for
Mister Biggs to render hisself liable to homicide. I've tooken plenty
from that long-legged scarecrow. I got carpeted for platinum-chasin'
on his say-so.[2] I caressed pirates[3]—which, by the way, if you ever
tell anybody, Sparks, I'll massacre you for—an' I—"
"You also," I reminded him, "got your stripes saved on two separate
occasions. Not to mention your bank-roll and your life. Remember?"
"Nevertheless," said the skipper stiffly, "an' however, this time he's
gone too far. He's been makin' eyes at my daughter."
"Your," I repeated slowly, "daughter!"
"You seen her. She come aboard at Long Island Port for the Venus
trip." Here his space-gnarled, leathery face cracked into a grin that
would have melted custard. "Pretty as a picture, don't you think?
Some say she resembles me."
"Some people," I told him dazedly, "will say anything for a laugh." I
was thinking about that girl. What a girl! Five and a half feet of
cream and velvet, surmounted by hair the color of a Martian sunset.
Eyes like blue haze over Venus, only alive with crinkly laughter. Sure,
she resembled the skipper! They had the same number of arms and
legs; they each had one nose and two eyes and two ears—but there
the similarity ended. Their difference was that between a lumbering
old space freighter like the Saturn and a modern, streamlined man-
o'-war. And I do mean streamlined!
The skipper said sourly, "Well, get the blank look off your pan,
Sparks. An' take down a special message from me to Mr. Romeo
Biggs, on account of if I try to tell him myself I'll forget my dignity
an' tear him into asteroids. Tell him that the next time I catch him
tossin' goo-goo eyes at Diane, I'll give him a one-way ticket through
the air-lock. That's all!"
And he left the turret, snorting. I stared after him dreamily. I found
myself doing something I haven't done since I was a kid, counting
off my name with that of Diane Hanson. "Friendship, courtship, love,
hate, marriage—"
It came out "friendship." I told you I had my troubles....

After a while came a sound like a three-legged pelican doing the

Martian fling in a cornpatch, and Lancelot Biggs ambled into my
turret, eyes aglow, his unbelievable Adam's-apple bobbing up and
down like a photon in a cyclotron. I could tell he was busting with
the desire to spill his overflowing heart to me, but he said, "Trouble,
Sparks?"
See? That's why you just couldn't help liking the guy. Soon as he
saw me fiddling around the audio bank he was ready to help. It's
hard to figure a jasper like Biggs. I sometimes thought he was the
dumbest mortal who ever hopped gravs, but just about the time I'd
be ready to delegate him to the Booby-hatch Convention he'd come
through with a spark of brilliance that would make Sol look like an
infra-red ray.
I told him glumly, "I wish the nearest I'd ever come to radio was
playin' that kid's game with beans. This time the audio's gone
haywire and I can't even find out what the hell ails it."
He came over beside me and looked. He jiggled a few wires,
snapped switches and succeeded in bunting the button of the feed
line cable. At last he said, "The trouble's in the plate, isn't it,
Sparks?"
"Looks as if. It's gone cold and I can't raise a signal out of it."
"These plates you use," he frowned, "are made of a seleno-
aluminum alloy, aren't they?"
"Right," I told him, "as rain. However right that is. And they're as
dependable as a spacecomber's promises. Always going on the blink
just when you need 'em most."
"That's what I thought." Biggs shifted his gawky length from one
foot to the other, a sign of deep cogitation I'd seen before. Then,
suddenly, "Listen, Sparks," he blurted, "I've been thinking over that
problem—"
I rose hastily.
"Look, Mr. Biggs, if you've been thinking, this is where I get off.
Don't tell me or I'll catch the contagion. I'm just a hard-working bug
pounder—"
"—and I think I know a way," he continued eagerly, "to put an end
to space radio transmission difficulties. They're using the wrong
metal in the audio plates, that's the trouble! The seleno-aluminum
alloy was all right for radio in the early days of television, but space-
flight demands a sturdier, and at the same time more sensitive
receptor."
"Like," I demanded, "what? Comet-tails, maybe?"
"Uranium," explained Biggs simply. "As I told you, I've been
experimenting. And I've discovered that uranium, no longer as rare
and expensive as it was when audio plates were first invented, is the
ideal plate."
"It's been nice," I said sarcastically, "seeing you, Mr. Biggs. Any
schoolchild knows that mobile electrons account for the electrical
conducting ability of metals. And as the number of electrons per
atom increases, metallic properties decrease; the metals become
harder, more brittle, less ductile and poorer conductors. Uranium, my
friend, would be what we Universal-hurlers call, in our simple patois,
a first class 'stinkeroo'."
Biggs flushed faintly, and his liquescent larynx leaped in a lopsided
lurch. There was a hurt look in his eyes.
"Would you be convinced if I showed you?"
"St. Louis," I said.
"I—I beg your pardon?"
"I'm from there. It's in the State of Missouri." But I gave my
slumbrous receiving set a glance of despair. "Still—this thing's not
working. If you'd like to try out your new floppola—"
"I've got it in my quarters," he said delightedly. "I'll go get it right
away!" And he started toward the door.
I remembered, then, that I had a message for him.
"Wait a minute," I said, "I just remembered. Our beloved skipper left
you a billet-doux. He told me to tell you to ipskay the assespay at
the aughterday."
Biggs frowned. "Latin?" he hazarded.
"Pig-Latin," I told him, "and horse-sense. Hanson says you've been
wearing it on the sleeve for his gal, Diane. And if he sees it pounding
in the open once more, he's going to chop it into mincemeat."
Biggs' face looked like a national holiday on the calendar. He
strangled gently.
"But—but I like the girl, Sparks. And I believe she likes me."
"She'll revere your memory," I told him frankly, "if you don't obey the
Old Man's orders. When he issued his manifesto he had granite in
his jaw and mayhem in his eyes. You'd better do as he says."
"But it's not fair!" protested Biggs. "After all, I'm an officer and a—"
"And a gentleman," I finished wearily, "by courtesy of the U.S.S.A.
Yeah, I know. But in my estimation, that's just strike two against
you. The skipper doesn't have a lot of use for you graduate
Wranglers, you know. He graduated from the N.R.I. before there
was such a thing as an Academy."

Perhaps, for the sake of you Earth-lubbers who are tuned in I should
explain this. The rivalry between Earth's two great schools of
astronavigation is something paralleled only by that which existed,
centuries ago, between the United States' two military schools, the
U.S.M.A. and the U.S.N.A.
The National Rocket Institute is the older college for spacemen.
Originally designed for merchant marine training, it became a natural
"friendly foe" of the United States Spaceways Academy when that
institution was founded fourteen years later.
Today there is a constant companionable rivalry between graduates
of the two schools; one subordinate, of course, to the routine of
daily work, but that flares into definite feeling when, each Earth
autumn, the current football teams of the academies meet in their
traditional grid battle.
They tell me that in the old days soldiers and sailors the world
around used to gather about their short-wave radios to hear the
broadcast of the Army-Navy game. Well, it's that way—only worse—
nowadays in space. Graduates of the N.R.I. ("Rocketeers," we call
'em) listen, cheek-to-jowl, with "Wranglers" from the Spaceways
Academy. There's a lot of groaning and a lot of cheering and a lot of
drinking and sometimes there's a sizable chunk of fisticuffing. It
usually ends up with the representatives of the winning team
standing treat, and the grads of the losing academy vowing they'll
win "Next year!"
Take our ship, for instance. The Saturn. I won my brevet at the
Academy; so did Dick Todd, the second-in-command, and Lancelot
Biggs graduated just last year. Chief Engineer Garrity, on the other
hand, took his sheepskin from the Rocketeers' school, and so did
Cap Hanson.
Which made another important reason why I should do something—
and do it mighty fast—to get the Saturn's radio clicking again.
Because the annual Rocketeer-Wrangler grid fracas was to be
broadcast just two days from now, and my scalp wouldn't be worth
the price of a secondhand toupee if the old grads from both schools
couldn't hear the game.
Biggs spluttered like my condenser would if my audio had been
working, which it wasn't—if you know what I mean.
"I'm not one to complain, Sparks. But when Hanson tries to come
between Diane and me—"
I said, "So! Mister Biggs, accept my apology. I underrated you. It's
reached the 'Diane' stage already, has it?"
"It—it—" Biggs stammered into silence. Then he said, almost
meekly, "Sparks—can you keep a secret?"
"I'm a mousetrap," I told him.
"Then I'll tell you—this isn't the first time Diane and I have met. We
—we knew each other before I came aboard the Saturn. As a matter
of fact, I asked for this berth in order that I might gain her father's
favor; so we could get married."
That explained a lot of things. I had often wondered why Lancelot
Biggs, whose uncle, Prendergast Biggs, was a Vice-president of the
Corporation, should have chosen to serve out his junior officership
on a wallowing, old-fashioned Earth-to-Venus freighter like the
Saturn. Now it all became clear and I began to feel like the adviser
of a lovelorn column in a daily newspaper.
I said, "So to put it poetically, Biggs, you're a little bit off the gravs
for the gal, hey?"
"Little bit?" he said miserably. "Sparks, you'll never know."
"That's what you think," I told him, remembering how it came out
"friendship."
"What?" Then he forgot his curiosity in a burst of—for him—
uncommon petulance. "But I'll not take this lying down, Sparks. I'll
show the skipper I have a right to love his daughter. I don't care if
he is a graduate of the N.R.I., I'll show the leather-pussed old space
cow—"
"Are you by any chance," roared a voice, "referrin' to me, Mister
Biggs!"
We both started. The Skipper was standing in the doorway!

I said, "Pardon me, folks! I've got to see a guy about a shroud!" and
tried to slide past Cap Hanson to the safety of the deck, but the Old
Man roared me down with a blast.
"Come back here, Sparks! I want you as witness!" He turned to
Biggs, whose face looked like a prism revolving in sunlight. "So! So
I'm a leather-pussed old space cow, Mister Biggs?"
Biggs stammered, "I—I—"
"What!" Hanson's bellow raised a dozen decibels. "You impertinent
young jackanapes! Did you hear him, Sparks? He said, 'Aye, aye!'
Well, I'll show you—"
He extended a horny palm. "Your rocket, sir!"
Lancelot Biggs' lips quivered. He reached up and mechanically
unpinned from its place over his left breast the tiny, shining gold
rocket replica which is the brevet of a space lieutenant. Hanson
snatched it. In a decisive voice he said, "I'm markin' you down,
Biggs, for insubordination, for slander of a senior officer, conduct
unbecomin' an officer, intent to malign an' injure, an'—Well, that's all
for now. Maybe I'll think of a few more things later on.
"To your quarters, Mister Biggs. An' consider yourself under arrest
until further notice."
Biggs saluted; turned on his heel and marched from the room. And it
struck me, suddenly, that for once there was nothing amusing,
nothing humorous, in the youngster's gangling walk. Oh, he stalked,
yes. And I've often kidded him about how much like a crab on stilts
he looks. But now I felt sort of choky when I saw the pathetic
dignity in the set of his shoulders, the proud way he strode away
without a backward glance.
I guess I lifted my own gravs for a minute. My voice sounded harsh
in my own ears when I snarled at Hanson, "Well, you certainly threw
the book at him that time!"
But to my surprise, Cap Hanson was grinning. He looked like an
Ampie in a power plant. And he said, placatingly, "Oh, come now,
Sparks! You don't think I'm such an ogre as all that, do you?"
"You busted him," I accused. "You lifted his rocket and put him
under arrest. When the Corporation learns about it, they'll—"
"The Corporation," said the skipper, "isn't goin' to hear about it. I'm
not even goin' to put this on the log. This is between you an' me and
Lancelot Biggs, Sparks. Don't you see? I had to do somethin' to
separate him an' Diane."
I did see. And I realized how completely I was caught in the middle
by my friendship with two guys, each of whom believed in his own
ideals, each of whom thought he was doing the right thing. I said
slowly, "I get it, Cap. But are you sure you're doing the right thing?
After all, maybe Biggs and your daughter really like each other."
Cap Hanson said seriously, "That's just what I'm afraid of, Sparks.
Put yourself in my place. How would you like to have a grandson
what looked like Lancelot Biggs?"
I don't know. Maybe he had something there.

Well, to make a short story longer, that happened the first day out of
Long Island Spaceport. Tempus, as the old Romans liked to remark,
fidgetted. I spent the working hours of the next two days trying to
get that confounded instrument of mine operating; I spent my off
hours shuttling back and forth between the bridge and the brig.
I had the pleasure—and, boy! you'd better know I mean it—of
meeting Diane Hanson. She was a rag, a bone of contention and a
hank of hair, but if she'd snapped her fingers I would have jumped
out the spacelock and brought her back a handful of galaxies. She
had a voice that made me feel like my backbone was charging .30
amps, and when my eyes met hers my knees went all wobbly.
But her heart belonged to the baddy in the hoosegow. And she
didn't care who knew it—except the Old Man. She asked me, "He's
all right, Sparks, he's comfortable?"
"He's comfortable enough," I told her. "But he's as restless as a
squirrel in a petrified forest. He's been pacing his room so much that
he's not only got corns, but he's got corns on his corns."
She said wistfully, "If Dad would only be reasonable. Sparks, do you
think that if I went to him and told him everything—?"
I shuddered.
"Don't mention it! Don't even think of it! Your old ma—I mean your
father might read your thoughts." I forced a grin named Santa
Claus, because I didn't believe in it myself. "Cheer up, Diane.
Lancelot will find a way out of this trouble."
"He will?" she said hopefully. "You think he will, Sparks?"
"He always does," I told her. I squared myself with Kid Conscience
by muttering under my breath, "Always—except this time."

So finally here we were, a baker's dozen of us, in the radio turret on

the fateful day. Twelve of us were scowling, and me—I was number
thirteen—I was sweating like an ice-box in the Sahara. Because it
was the day, and darn near the hour, of the Big Game back on Earth
—and my radio still was as talkative as a deaf-mute in a vacuum.
Todd was there, and Chief Garrity, and Wilson, the third officer, and
Billings and—oh, shucks!—every one of us who had studied at either
of the two academies. And Cap Hanson was there. He was very
much there. He was howling ghastly threats in my ears, the mildest
of which was that if I didn't have the radio repaired within the next
minute, or maybe less, he'd personally tattoo the word "Scoundrel"
on my forehead with a riveting machine.
I squawked, "Good golly, I'm doing the best I can! Don't you think I
want to hear this game as much as you do? Maybe more. Because
the Wranglers are going to beat the bejeepers out of you Rocketeers
today, anyhow."
Cap raged, "What's that?" but it took some of the blast out of his
tubes, because he knew it was true. The Spaceways Academy team
was strongly favored over the eleven from the N.R.I., having so far
run through an undefeated season while the Rocketeers had lost to
Army and Notre Dame and been tied by Yale. "What's that? Why,
last year—"
"That," Lieutenant Dick Todd taunted him, grinning, "was last year,
Skipper. You beat us then, yes. But this year the shoe's on the other
foot."
"Well, anyhow," howled the Old Man, "my shoe's goin' to be you-
know-where, Sparks, if you don't get that damn radio talkin'."
I stood up and stripped off my rubber gloves. I said, "I've done
everything I know how. I've had the thing apart twice and put it
together again. It won't work—and for one simple reason. The
seleno-aluminum plate is shot."
Chief Garrity said, "Then get ye a new one, lad."
"Right. As soon," I told him, "as we cradle into Sun City spaceport."
The skipper looked like he'd bitten into an apple and found a worm.
"You mean we're not going to hear the game?"
"That's exactly what I—" Then I paused. "Wait a minute! There's a
faint possibility we might. If his invention really works. He has a
spare plate in his quarters, but he'll have to install it. I don't know
how."
"He?" yelled the Old Man. "Who? The man in the moon?"
"The man in the doghouse," I corrected. "Biggs."
"Biggs!" The skipper's look changed. Now he looked like a man
who'd bitten into an apple and found half a worm. But he turned to
Dick Todd. "Go get him, Mister Todd," he ordered.
Todd left. We all watched the clock. Todd returned, bringing with
him L. Biggs, ex-exile. The skipper glared daggers at his First Mate.
"I hear you've an invention, Mister Biggs," he said caustically. "I
distrust it. It may turn out like some of your other brain-children. But
this is no time to be choosey. Attach it. And be kind enough to look
at the radio controls instead of my daughter!"
Lancelot Biggs stood very, very still.
"Well," roared the Old Man, "get going!"
Lancelot Biggs smiled; a faint, thin smile.
"For," he said, "a price, Captain."
"A price!" Hanson's voice lifted the roof an inch. "Lieutenant, you're
not tryin' to dicker with me?"
"Not trying," corrected Biggs, "I'm dickering. For a price, I'll attach
my new plate unit to the radio. Further, I will absolutely guarantee
its operation."
"You—you insolent young pup!" raved the skipper. "Todd, Wilson—
put him in irons! No, stand still you damn fools! Let him alone!
What's your price, Biggs? You can't have her!"
"Her?" said Biggs innocently. "I don't know what you're talking
about, Captain. My price is—my rocket!"
Cap Hanson looked at the faces of the waiting graduates around
him. He knew when he was stalemated. He said, "Well—" and
reached into his pocket.
Biggs pinned the tiny golden emblem where it belonged and I never
saw a man look more proud. Then he said quietly, "Very well,
gentlemen. Now, Sparks, if you'll lend me a hand here...."

The uranium plate worked. Two minutes later, as I tied in the

positive cable, dancing light began to play over the tubes, the
galvanometer skipped gaily, and current began to hum once again. I
yelled, "Biggs, you're terrific!" and reached for the vernier. But Biggs'
hand stayed mine.
"Not there, Sparks! Higher. The ultra-short wave, I believe. About
one over fifty thousand on the Ang vernier."
Cap Hanson rasped, "Sparks knows how to operate a radio, Mister
Biggs, without your help!"
"Not this radio," shrugged the lanky lieutenant. "This plate is
considerably different from the old type. Considerably different!"
I thought I detected a faint note of amusement in his voice, but the
thought vanished as swiftly as it came—for at that instant my fingers
found the proper spot. There was a moment of whining super-het;
then—
"—a great day and a great crowd, folks!" came an excited voice.
"And here comes the next play. The Wranglers have the ball on their
own eighteen yard line, second and ten to go—"
"That's it!" roared Cap Hanson exuberantly. "By golly, that's it! Biggs,
maybe you're not the dope I think you are!"
But the shocks weren't over yet. You remember I told you the
Wranglers were strongly favored to take the Rocketeers down the
ramps? Well—this was evidently just another example that in a
traditional battle anything can happen—and usually does!
We had had the radio on barely five minutes when the Rocketeers
blocked a Wrangler kick, fell on it, and took possession on the
Wrangler nine yard line. In two power plays the eleven from Cap
Hanson's academy had plunged over for a touchdown. One minute
later they made the conversion and the score was 7-0 for the
supposed underdogs.
The faces around that room were a sight! Hanson and Garrity looked
like Venusian bunny-men in a carrot patch; those of us who
acknowledged the Academy as our Alma Mammy would have soured
milk with our smiles. The expression on Lancelot Biggs' face defied
description. He looked faintly startled, faintly pleased, like a man
shouting echoes against a mountainside.
Cap Hanson groped in his hip pocket; brought forth a wad of
hoarded Earth and Venus credits.
"Well, you broken-down Wranglers—any of you like to lay a few
creds on your team making a come-back?"
He got plenty of takers. After all, one touchdown isn't a football
game, and the Wranglers were favored to win. I shelled out to the
extent of thirty credits, Todd staked a few. Chief Garrity unbuttoned
his ancient wallet, shooed away the moths, and risked some of his
own credits after demanding three to one odds.
And the game went on.
The first quarter ended, amazingly, with Rocketeers still leading by
that score of 7-0. In the second quarter, Cap Hanson, overflowing
with the milk of human I-told-you-so, turned to Lancelot Biggs,
crowed tauntingly,
"Well, Mister Biggs, I take notice you're careful not to lay any bets
on that team of your'n?"
Biggs, whose eyes had been fastened hungrily on a girl in that room
—guess which one!—gulped, and his neck-elevator bobbled. He said,
almost embarrassedly,
"I—I don't know whether I should, Captain—"
Hanson snorted. "Just what I might have expected of a Wrangler.
Well—"
Then Chief Garrity shushed him suddenly. "Quiet, skipper!
Something's going on!"
Something was, indeed. The radio announcer was in a dither. "—and
it looks bad for the Wranglers, friends! The Rocketeers' quick kick
has them on the one yard line ... now they're lining up to kick out of
trouble.... Wait a minute! Here comes a substitute from the Wrangler
bench. It's—we don't have time to get you his name, folks, but it's
number 36. He's going in at quarterback for O'Doule—"
Hanson gibed, "Well, Biggs?"
The announcer continued, "Number 36 in at quarterback, folks. Now
he's calling signals. There's the snapback. The new man is going to
kick.... No, he's going to pass.... No, he's going to run.... No—he's
fumbled!
"There's a pile-up behind the goalposts! They're unscrambling the
players. And—it's a touchdown for the Rocketeers, folks! The score
is 13-0!"
Hanson let loose a great roar of delight. "There! I knew it! Good
thing you didn't bet, Biggs!"
And then, astonishingly, Lancelot Biggs spoke up. "How much would
you like to wager, Captain?"
"How—much?" Hanson looked stunned. "Every cred in my poke,
Lieutenant. Two hundred and fifty."
"I'll take that bet," said Biggs.

I sidled to his elbow and gave him a swift poke in the ribs. I hissed,
"Don't be a sap, Biggs! Make him give you odds if you must bet—"
But I spoke too late. The bet had already been placed in the hands
of a neutral party, steward Doug Enderby. And now, a new
tenseness in all of us, we listened to the remainder of the broadcast.
In the third quarter, Dick Todd got out the crying towel. "Gosh,
Sparks," he mourned to me, "what's the matter with our boys? This
is a slaughter. The same as last year."
Because by that time the Rocketeers had scored once again; this
time on a smooth sixty yard forward. Garrity and Hanson were
literally swooning with joy, by this time offering fantastic odds to any
Wrangler who would bet. But we had all pulled in our horns. All, that
is, but one man—First Mate Lancelot Biggs.
In a moment of lull, he turned to the skipper.
"Skipper," he said, "I have no more creds, but I'd like to wager for
another stake."
Hanson chuckled. "Your shirt won't fit me, Biggs."
"I'll bet you," said Biggs thoughtfully, "my space claim against the
privilege of the next three landings that the Wranglers beat the
Rocketeers this year."
We all gasped. They were real stakes. Every space officer is granted,
by the IPS, a space claim consisting of property rights in all
unexplored areas of a given arc. He may either explore in this sector
himself after he has served his trick, or he may delegate the
exploration to professional space-hounds. In either case, a
substantial percentage of all ores, precious stones and miscellany
found in his allotted sector belong to him. Many a space officer has
found himself fabulously rich overnight when his sector turned up
with rock diamond detritus or granules of meteoric ore.
On the other hand, Biggs was asking a great privilege. Before a
space officer can become a commander, he must have made five
personal cradle landings on any planet. Skippers were chary of
granting permission on these, often making junior officers wait years
to earn their Master's ticket.
But it looked like Biggs was again sticking his neck out. I tried to
stop him. I said, "Don't, Biggs! This game is in the bag for the
Rocketeers. Don't be so rash!"
But only half the words had garbled through my larynx when Cap
Hanson yelped exuberantly, "Done! Gentlemen, I call upon you to
witness that wager!" And he rubbed his paws together like a raccoon
eyeing a bowl of honey.

Twenty to nothing! That was the score then, and it was the score
fifteen minutes later when, with but seven more minutes remaining
in the annual fracas, Lancelot Biggs went stark, staring mad.
Now, Cap Hanson contributed to that madness. I must admit that his
glee annoyed me. I can stand taking a licking as well as the next
man, but I hate like hell to have someone rub it in. And that's what
the skipper was doing. As the minutes ticked by, and the Rocketeers'
margin became momentarily more insurmountable, he first taunted
us Wranglers, then insulted us by offering ridiculous odds against
our winning, and finally accused us all of lacking sportsmanship.
Biggs, standing carefully aloof from Diane in order not to rouse the
skipper's latent wrath, had a strange pallor on his cheeks. Not so
strange, maybe. It's hard to stand by and watch everything you
possess slipping down the skids.
Cap didn't make things any easier for him. Every so often the Old
Man would bend over, slap his thighs, and howl, "Anything more
you'd like to bet, Mister Biggs? Whoops! I'm a space-bitten son of
Jupiter if this ain't the most fun I ever had!"
And then Lancelot Biggs jolted out of his curious stupor. He said,
"Yes, Captain—I do have something else to bet!"
Even Hanson was staggered by that one. "Huh?" was his snappiest
come-back.
"If—" There was a dreamy look in Biggs' eyes. "If you'd be kind
enough to step into the corridor with me. You and Sparks, please?"
Good old Sparks; witness extraordinary. But don't think it gave me
any pleasure to witness this example of sheer madness. As we
moved through the doorway, away from the wondering crowd, I
pleaded with Biggs, "Biggs, for gosh sakes—haven't you lost enough
already? Don't make another bet!"
But the glance he turned to me was mildly puzzled. And he
whispered swiftly, "It's all right, Sparks. I know what I'm doing—"
Then, outside, to the skipper,
"Captain Hanson, I have only one more thing of potential value left
in the world. The patent rights to my new invention, the
practicability of which you have witnessed all afternoon, the uranium
audio plate. This will be my share of the wager."
Hanson said suspiciously, "I don't know—" To me, "Sparks, is it
worth anything?"
I nodded sombrely.
"In my estimation," I told him, "it's worth at least a quarter million
credits. It's the first plate I've ever seen that really works. Didn't you
notice we're not even picking up static?"
The Old Man nodded. "Very well. And my stake—?"
Biggs said boldly, "Permission to continue seeing your daughter. And
—if she'll have me—to marry her!"
Something popped, and for a minute I thought it was the Old Man's
fuses, but it was only the top of his head rising two feet.
"What! I thought you understood—" Then a crafty grin touched his
lips. "Just a minute," he said cannily, "I presume that you imply by
this that if you lose, you'll never try to see Diane again?"
I wanted to shout "No!" so bad I could taste it. But I was just the
party of the third part. Biggs' reply was just the opposite.
"Yes!" he said.
I groaned. Love's young dream—twenty points away!

Let's get the agony over with. We returned to a control room full of
madmen. For in our absence the Rocketeers had intercepted a
desperate Wrangler pass, and the score was now 26-0. Just one
point different from that licking they had given the U.S.S.A. boys last
year. And as we listened glumly they kicked the extra point.
And that was about all. For three plays after the next kickoff a gun
boomed, the crowd screamed, and the announcer howled, "—and
there's the end of the game, folks! The Rocketeers win a great ball
game, 27-0. You have been listening to this program through the
courtesy of Hornswimble's Robot Corporation, makers of the world-
famous 'Silent Servants.' Why be lonely? A Robot in the home is a
constant companion—"
Chief Garrity squealed his tight-fisted glee. His palm waved
simultaneously beneath the noses of three sorrowful Wranglers—
including me. "Pay up!" he demanded. "Pay up, ye benighted rascals
—!"
And Cap Hanson was one big grin on legs. He said to Biggs
triumphantly, "Well, Biggs, I hope you've learned a lesson today!
Two hundred and fifty credits, if you please. I'm minded to be kind
with you. I'll not accept your space claim, my lad. But that third bet
—" He beamed on Diane. "That one I'll hold you to! And now—"
Biggs moved. To the radio bank. As he moved, he spoke.
"Yes. And now," he said, "I think you should all hear this—"
He twisted the dial. There was a moment of howling; then came a
voice, clear, crisp, enthusiastic, "—four minutes of playing time
remaining, folks, and the Rocketeers have the ball. But it won't do
them any good. Even if they do score the result will be the same.
They can't overcome that tremendous Wrangler lead, 33-6—"

Thunder and lightning; madness and confusion! The control room

became as noisy as a well-populated tomb, and out of the terrible
silence came the faint, thin voice of the skipper demanding, "What—
what does this mean?"
Biggs boomed pleasantly, "It means, Captain, that you've lost your
bets. You'll remember that all our wagers were based on the result
of this year's game—which you are now listening to.
"It is unfortunate that human memories are so brief. Otherwise
some of you gentlemen might have recognized the astonishing
similarity of the broadcast we've just listened to with that of last
year's game! Which it was!"
Cap Hanson groaned, "Last year's game! But that's impossible! You
couldn't—"
"I couldn't," agreed Biggs pleasantly, "but my new invention could.
You see, I discovered in the course of my experiments that uranium
has some definite peculiarities. It, being highly radioactive itself, has
the strange property of being able to delay, almost indefinitely, the
passage of electrical impulses traveling through it.
"Thus, under certain circumstances—in this case, Sparks, the fact
that it was activated in the ultra-short wave field—it can be used as
a 'time-speech-trap' to recapture sound waves released into the
ether long ago.
"When Earth's scientists have further investigated this phenomenon
I predict some amazing results. Possibly in the near future we may
be able to 'listen' once again to the voices of our ancestors 'way
back in the Elizabethan Age, the Machine Age, or the American
Business Age. But meanwhile—" He grinned amiably. "Meanwhile,
you have just heard a broadcast of last year's Rocketeer-Wrangler
football game. This year's is just concluding!"
And so it was. With the Wranglers out in front by a score of 33-6.
The outraged screams of Chief Engineer Garrity will haunt me all my
days....
Afterward there were just four of us in the turret. Biggs, Diane, the
skipper and me. The Old Man had the look of a St. Bernard who has
lost his brandy cask. He said, "But, confound you, Biggs, you're not
goin' to hold me to them bets, are you? When you knew all the time
—"
Biggs grinned.
"You were magnanimous with me, Skipper. I'll be the same with you.
Keep your money. And I'll settle for two landings. But the third bet—
well, you know the old saying."
"I know," mourned the Captain, "plenty of 'em. What one do you
mean?"
"'All's fair'," quoted Biggs softly, "'in love and—.' We'll skip the other
part. Diane, honey—"
One thing about the skipper; he knew when he'd lost. He forced a
grin to his lips—and, do you know, when he'd had a look at the light
in Diane's eyes as she moved into the circle of Biggs' arms, that grin
began to look almost natural. He gave me the high-sign, and we
started to leave. But I had one more question. In the doorway I
turned and asked, "Biggs, come clean! You didn't know that thing
was going to work that way, did you?"
He frowned gently. "I didn't know. I suspected."
"But when," I insisted, "did you really find out for sure? Your
memory's no better than mine. Certainly you didn't remember the
events of last year's game?"
"Some of them," he said amusedly. "I caught on when I heard that
episode about the awkward quarterback, the substitute, number 36.
Remember?"
"Remember! You bet I do. The clumsy galoot who fumbled in the
end zone and gave the Rocketeers a touchdown? He should have
been drawn and quartered, the dope. But how did you remember
him?"
Biggs smiled wanly.
"I just left the Academy last year, Sparks," he said. "And the football
team. I was number 36!"
Then he turned to Diane, and she turned to him, and—aw, hell! I
know when I'm not wanted!
[1] The strange, energy-devouring Venusian creature that serves
as a protective shield for space ships going through a planetary
Heaviside layer.—Ed.
[2] "FOB Venus", Fantastic Adventures, Nov., 1939.—Ed.
[3] "Lancelot Biggs Cooks a Pirate," Fantastic Adventures, Feb.,
1939.—Ed.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MADNESS OF
LANCELOT BIGGS ***

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