Part 20 (1/2)

”Bring out the prisoners,” Rip ordered. ”Line them up. Planeteers fall in behind them.”

The landing boats, with snapper-boats in watchful attendance, blasted down to the surface of the asteroid. s.p.a.cemen jumped out, awkward at first on the no-weight surface. An officer glided to meet Rip, and he had a pistol in his hand.

”It's all right,” Rip told him. ”The Connies are our prisoners. You won't need guns.”

The s.p.a.ceman snapped, ”You're under arrest.”

Rip stared incredulously. ”What for?”

”The commander's orders. Don't give me any arguments. Just get aboard.”

”I can't argue with a loaded gun,” Rip said wearily. He called to his men.

”We're under arrest. I don't know why. Don't try to resist. Do as the s.p.a.cemen order.”

Rip got aboard the nearest landing boat, his head spinning. O'Brine had made a mistake of some kind. The landing boats, loaded with Planeteers and Connies, lifted from the asteroid to the cruiser. They slid smoothly into the air locks and settled. The ma.s.sive lock doors slid closed and lights flickered on. Rip waited, trying to keep consciousness from slipping away.

The lock gauges registered normal air, and the inner valves slid open.

Commander O'Brine stepped through, his square jaw outthrust and his face flushed with anger. He bellowed, ”Where's Foster?”

His voice was so loud Rip heard him faintly even through the bubble. He stepped out of the landing boat and faced the irate commander.

O'Brine ordered, ”Get him out of that suit.” Two s.p.a.cemen jumped forward.

One twisted Rip's bubble free and lifted it off. The heavy air of the s.h.i.+p 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 s.p.a.cepot 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 slumped unconscious.

There was no gravity to pull him to the floor, but the action of his relaxing muscles swung him slowly until he lay face down in the air a few feet above the floor.

Commander O'Brine stared for a moment, then he 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 s.h.i.+p's supplies into his veins.

A senior s.p.a.ce officer with the golden lancet of the medical service on his blue 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.”

Commander O'Brine appeared in the door frame. ”Can he talk?”

”Yes. He's fine, sir.”

O'Brine glared down at Rip. ”Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn't have you treated for s.p.a.ce madness, then toss you in the s.p.a.cepot until we reach earth?”