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Updated: May 17, 2025
He rode the wheel, holding the great car true as a bullet down the black streak of boulevard that came sliding to meet him like a wide belt between whirring wheels. The solemn voice that had croaked "S-o-m-e time!" so frequently, took to monotonous, recriminating speech. "No-body home! No-body home! Had to spill the beans, you simps! Nobody home a-tall!
"There's some poor simps in this world, maybe right here in this store, ought to be excused from what they say because they don't know any better." "I know this much: To catch the North End street-car from here, I don't have to walk every night down past the Stag Hotel to do it."
"These birds have got next to a bunch of would-be sports with more money than brains through the athletic director of " he mentioned the name of one of the big athletic clubs "and they been inviting 'em here to watch Brophy training. Every one of the simps will be tryin' to get money down on Brophy, and this bunch will take it all up as fast as they come.
Up to the very last I had hoped that none of the disgrace of this robbery would rest upon his sturdy shoulders, but now I see that it has, anyhow. And I suppose he claims that Billie Budd made him do it, against his better nature, like all the other simps you have jerked up, eh?"
Joe was right, he thought. To ourselves we’re supermen, but to the spacemen we’re just simps. Evidently O’Brine was the kind of space officer who ate Planeteers for breakfast. Rip thought of the way the commander had turned red with rage at that crack about his face, and resolved, "He may eat me for breakfast, but I’ll try to be a good, tough mouthful!" Commander O’Brine had not exaggerated.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
Joe was right, he thought. To ourselves we're supermen, but to the spacemen we're just simps. Evidently O'Brine was the kind of space officer who ate Planeteers for breakfast. Rip thought of the way the commander had turned red with rage at that crack about his face, and he resolved, He may eat me for breakfast, but I'll be a very tough mouthful! Capture and Drive!
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