A thousand miles above earth’s surface the great space platform sped from
daylight into darkness. Once each two hours it circled the earth
completely, spinning along through space like a mighty wheel of steel and
plastic.
Through a telescope from earth the platform seemed a lifeless, lonely
disk, but within it, hundreds of spacemen and Planeteers went about their
work.
In a ready-room at the outer edge of the platform, a Planeteer officer
faced a dozen slim, blackclad young men who wore the single golden orbits
of lieutenants. This was a graduating class, already commissioned, having
a final, informal get-together.
The officer, who wore the three-orbit insignia of a major, was lean and
trim. His hair was cropped short, like a gray fur skull cap. One cheek was
marked with the crisp whiteness of an old radiation burn.
"Stand easy," he ordered briskly. "The general instructions of the Special
Order Squadrons say that it’s my duty as senior officer to make a farewell
speech. I intend to make a speech if it kills me—and you, too."
The dozen new officers facing him broke into grins. Major Joe Barris had
been their friend, teacher, and senior officer during six long years of
training on the space platform. He could no more make a formal speech than
he could breathe high vacuum, and they all knew it.
Lieutenant Richard Ingalls Peter Foster, whose initials had given him the
nickname of "Rip," asked, "Why don’t you sing us a song instead, Joe?"
Major Barris fixed Rip with a cold eye. "Foster, three orbital turns, then
front and center."
Rip obediently spun around three times, then walked forward and stood at
attention, trying to conceal his grin.
"Foster, what does SOS mean?"
"Special Order Squadrons, sir."
"Right. And what else does it mean?"
"It means, ’Help!’ sir."
"Right. And what else does it mean?"
"Superman or simp, sir."
This was a ceremony in which questions and answers never changed. It was
supposed to make Planeteer cadets and junior officers feel properly
humble, but it didn’t work. By tradition, the Planeteers were the cockiest
gang that ever blasted through high vacuum.
Major Barris shook his head sadly. "You admit you’re a simp, Foster. The
rest of you are simps, too. But you don’t believe it. You’ve finished six
years on the platform. You’ve made a few little trips out into space.
You’ve landed on the moon a couple times. So now you think you’re seasoned
space spooks. Well, you’re not. You’re simps."
Rip stopped grinning. He had heard this before. It was part of the
routine. But he sensed that this time Joe Barris wasn’t kidding.
The major rubbed the radiation scar on his cheek absently as he looked
them over. They were like twelve chicks out of the same nest. They were
all about the same size, a compact five-feet-eleven inches, 175 pounds.
They wore loose black tunics, belted over full trousers which gathered
into white cruiser boots. The comfortable uniforms concealed any slight
differences in build. The twelve were all lean of face, with hair cropped
to the regulation half inch. Rip was the only redhead among them.
"Sit down," Barris commanded. "I’m going to make a farewell speech."
Rip pulled a plastic stool toward him. The others did the same. Major
Barris remained standing.
"Well," he began soberly, "you are now officers of the Special Order
Squadrons. You’re Planeteers. You are lieutenants by order of the Space
Council, Federation of Free Governments. And—space protect you!—to
yourselves, you’re supermen. But never forget this: to ordinary spacemen,
you’re just plain simps. You’re trouble in a black tunic. They have about
as much use for you as they have for leaks in their air locks. Some of the
spacemen have been high-vacking for twenty years or more, and they’re
tough. They’re as nasty as a Callistan _teekal_. They like to eat
Planeteer junior officers for breakfast."