Mr. Biggs Goes To Town - Paperback

One thing is certain. When bigger and better shirts are made, the officials of the Corporation which underpays us will stuff 'em. We were squatting in a cradle on Earth, waiting for flight orders, when the control turret door swung open and in marched two owl-eyed zombies dressed in frowns and white mess jackets.

One of these looked at us, then at a slip of paper. He said, "Donovan, Herbert J.?" "Present," I said, "but not accountable for. Otherwise known as 'Sparks.' What's the matter, Satyr? Who found out what about me?" "Come," ordered the stranger curtly, "with me!"

And he jerked a thumb in the general direction of the doorway. Cap Hanson-he's the skipper of our space-shuttling freighter, the Saturn-bridled like a mick at an Orangeman's Ball. If there's one thing he cannot tolerate, it is hearing anyone else issue orders on his bridge. His brows congealed into fur-line cumulus clouds.