F. O. B. Venus by Nelson S. Bond

Something had gone a little haywire with my bug, and I had just repaired it and was CQ-ing on the 20 band when the door opened and Captain Hanson walked in.

Naturally, I was surprised. We were only four hours out of the Venus H-layer, and I hadn’t expected any visitors; least of all the skipper. But he plunked himself down in the best chair and said, “Sparks, look at me! What do you see?”

That gave me a jolt. Even the best of them make the old dipsy-doo once in a while, but I never thought I’d live to see the day when Captain Hanson went space nutty. He’d been with the Corporation, man and boy, for more than thirty years now, and had never spent a day in dry-dock. I reached behind me cautiously and said in as soothing a voice as I could muster, “Why, I see a very nice man, Captain. Now, just you sit quiet for a minute. I’ve got to—”

“Stop bein’ a damned fool, Sparks!” said the skipper wearily, “An’ put down that monkey-wrench! I’m not slippin’ my gravs—yet. I’m just askin’ you a simple question. What do you see?”

I said, “Is it facts you’re after, Cap, or am I allowed poetic license? If it’s facts, I see a swell, slightly gray-haired guy in his middle fifties who’s been through the mill, knows space like a book, and—”

“Wrong!” said Hanson. “Sparks, all radiomen are dumb. I guess that’s why they’re radiomen. What you see before you is a broken man. A man sadly buffeted by Fate and the dread clutch of circumstances. Not to mention meddlesome vice-presidents.”

This time I got it.

“Biggs?” I said.

“Yes, Sparks. Biggs. Now tell me, man to man, what did I ever do to deserve Biggs?”