Rip followed the spaceman through a maze of passages, growing more
weightless with each step. The closer to the center of the ship they went,
the less he weighed. He was pulling himself along by plastic pull cords
when they finally reached the door marked "Commander."
The spaceman left without a word or a salute. Rip pushed the lock bar and
pulled himself in by grabbing the door frame. He couldn’t help thinking it
was a rather undignified way to make an entrance.
Seated in an acceleration chair, a safety belt across his middle, was
Space Commander Keven O’Brine, an Irishman out of Dublin. He was short, as
compact as a deto-rocket, and obviously unfriendly. He had a
mathematically square jaw, a lopsided nose, green eyes, and sandy hair. He
spoke with a pronounced Irish brogue.
Rip started to announce his name, rank, and the fact that he was reporting
as ordered. Commander O’Brine brushed his words aside and stated flatly,
"You’re a Planeteer. I don’t like Planeteers."
Rip didn’t know what to say, so he kept still. But sharp anger was rising
inside of him.
O’Brine went on, "Instructions say I’m to hand you your orders enroute.
They don’t say when. I’ll decide that. Until I do decide, I have a job for
you and your men. Do you know anything about nuclear physics?"