Two spacemen jumped forward. One twisted Rip's bubble free and lifted it
off. The heavy air of the ship hit him with physical force.
O'Brine grated, "You're under arrest, Foster, for firing on the
_Scorpius_, for insubordination, and for conduct unbecoming an officer.
Get out of that suit and get flaming. It's the space pot for you."
Rip had to grin. He couldn't help it. He started to reply, but the heavy
air of the cruiser, so much richer and denser than that of the suits, was
too much. He fell, unconscious.
There was no gravity to pull him to the floor, but the action of his
relaxing muscles swung him slowly until he lay facedown in the air a
few feet above the floor.
Commander O'Brine stared for a moment, then took the unconscious
Planeteer and swung him upright. His quick eyes took in the patch
on the arm, the safety line tied tightly. He roared, "Quick! Get him
to the wound ward!"
* * * * *
Rip came back to consciousness on the operating table. The wound in his
arm had been neatly repaired, and below the wound, where his arm had
frozen, a plastic temperature bag was slowly bringing the cold flesh back
to normal. On his other side, a pulsing pressure pump forced new blood
from the ship's supplies into his veins.
A senior space officer, with the golden lancet of the medical service on
his tunic, bent over him. "How do you feel?"
Rip's voice surprised him. It was as full and strong as ever. "I feel
wonderful. Can I get up?"
"When we get enough blood into you, and your arm is fully restored."