Part 1 (1/2)

Rip Foster in Ride the Gray Planet.

by Harold Leland Goodwin.

CHAPTER ONE

s.p.a.cebound

A thousand miles above Earth's surface the great s.p.a.ce platform sped from daylight into darkness. Once every two hours it circled the earth completely, spinning along through s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.cemen 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 cla.s.s, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 c.o.c.kiest 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 s.p.a.ce.

You've landed on the moon a couple of times. So now you think you're seasoned s.p.a.ce 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.