Part 3 (1/2)

Rip followed the s.p.a.ceman through a maze of pa.s.sages, growing more weightless with each step. The closer to the center of the s.h.i.+p they went, the less he weighed. He was drawing himself along by plastic pull cords when they finally reached the door marked COMMANDER.

The s.p.a.ceman 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 s.p.a.ce Commander Kevin 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 en route.

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?”

Rip's eyes narrowed. He said cautiously, ”A little, sir.”

”I'll a.s.sume you know nothing. Foster, the designation SCN means s.p.a.ce Cruiser, Nuclear. This s.h.i.+p is powered by a nuclear reactor--in other words, an atomic pile. You've heard of one?”

Rip controlled his voice, but his red hair stood on end with anger.

O'Brine was being deliberately insulting. This was stuff any Planeteer recruit knew. ”I've heard, sir.”

”Fine. It's more than I had expected. Well, Foster, a nuclear reactor produces heat. Great heat. We use that heat to turn a chemical called methane into its component parts. Methane is known as marsh gas, Foster.

I wouldn't expect a Planeteer to know that. It is composed of carbon and hydrogen. When we pump it into the heat coils of the reactor, it breaks down and creates a gas that burns and drives us through s.p.a.ce. But that isn't all it does.”

Rip had an idea what was coming, and he didn't like it. Nor did he like Commander O'Brine. It was not until much later that he learned that O'Brine had been on his way to Terra, to see his family for the first time in four years, when the cruiser's orders were changed. To the commander, whose a.s.signments had been made necessary by the needs of the Special Order Squadrons, it was too much. So he took his disappointment out on the nearest Planeteer, who happened to be Rip.

”The gases go through tubes,” O'Brine went on. ”A little nuclear material also leaks into the tubes. The tubes get coated with carbon, Foster.

They also get coated with nuclear fuel. We use thorium. Thorium is radioactive. I won't give you a lecture on radioactivity, Foster. But thorium mostly gives off the kind of radiation known as alpha particles.

Alpha is not dangerous unless breathed or eaten. It won't go through clothes or skin. But when mixed with fine carbon, thorium alpha contamination makes a mess. It's a dirty mess, Foster--so dirty that I don't want my s.p.a.cemen to fool with it.

”I want you to take care of it instead--you and your men. The deputy commander will a.s.sign you to a squad room. Settle in, then draw equipment from the supply room and get going. When I want to talk to you again, I'll call for you. Now blast off, Lieutenant, and rake that radiation.

Rake it clean.”

Rip forced a bright and friendly smile. ”Yes, sir,” he said sweetly.

”We'll rake it so clean you can see your face in it, sir.” He paused, then added politely. ”If you don't mind looking at your face, sir--to see how clean the tubes are, I mean.”

Rip turned and got out of there.

Koa was waiting in the pa.s.sageway outside. Rip told him what had happened, mimicking O'Brine's Irish accent.

The sergeant major shook his head sadly. ”This is what I meant, Lieutenant. Cruisers don't clean their tubes more'n once in ten accelerations. The commander is just thinking up dirty work for us to do, like I said.”

”Never mind,” Rip told him. ”Let's find our squad room and get settled, then draw some protective clothing and equipment. We'll clean his tubes for him. Our turn will come later.”

He remembered the last thing Joe Barris had said, only a few hours before. _Joe was right_, he thought. _To ourselves we're supermen, but to the s.p.a.cemen we're just simps._ Evidently O'Brine was the kind of s.p.a.ce officer who ate Planeteers for breakfast.