A thousand miles above Earth's surface the great space platform sped
from daylight into darkness. Once every two hours it circled the earth
completely, spinning along through space like a mighty wheel of steel and
plastic.
Through a telescope on Earth the platform looked to be 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, black-clad 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 short-cropped hair covered his head 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. Maj. 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.
Lt. Richard Ingalls Peter Foster, whose initials had given him the
nickname "Rip," asked, "Why don't you sing for us 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 of 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 absently rubbed the radiation scar on his cheek as he looked
them over. They were like twelve chicks out of the same nest. They were
about the same size, a compact five feet eleven inches, 175 pounds. They
wore belted, loose black tunics over full trousers which gathered into
white cruiser boots. The comfortable uniforms concealed any slight
differences in build. All twelve were lean of face, with hair cropped to
the regulation half inch. Rip was the only redhead among them.
"Sit down," Barris commanded. "Here's my speech."
The twelve seated themselves on plastic stools. 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."