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Updated: May 23, 2025
No more time now to search for his men. He hoped the sergeant-major had sense enough to be waiting at some sensible place. He went up the ladder hand over hand and sped down the corridor to the supply room. The spaceman first class in charge of supplies was turning an audio-mag through a hand viewer, chuckling at the cartoons. At the sight of Rip’s flushed, anxious face he dropped the machine.
He qualifies higher than any other spaceman, and he has never been found to be unjust! He's one of the finest spacemen ever to hit the wide, deep, and high!" Strong stopped, choked for breath, and turned away. It wasn't often he lost his temper, but something had to be said in defense of his fellow officer, and particularly since that officer was Connel.
"Then get your gear and pile on the truck outside," ordered the sergeant, "or we'll be living in this station for a couple of days." The Marines quickly marched away from the gate, through the waiting room, and out the door. Tom dug into his pocket for the ticket to Atom City and stepped quickly to the gate, presenting his ticket to the steward. "Spaceman Wilson!" Tom growled.
Commander Jennsen, the Norwegian spaceman who had commanded the platform since before Rip’s arrival as a raw cadet, was dictating into his command relay circuit. As he spoke, printed copies were being received in the platform personnel office, Special Order Squadron headquarters on earth, aboard the cruiser Bolide in high space, and aboard the newly landed cruiser Scorpius.
The tyrannosaurus roared with anger and turned toward the boys, head down and the claws of its short forelegs extended. At that moment Connel opened fire, aiming for the monster's vulnerable neck. But it was well protected behind its shoulders and the spaceman only succeeded in drawing the beast's attention back to himself.
"Where’s Santos?" "Here, sir." The corporal had come in unnoticed with Rip’s reference books. Rip had plotted orbits before, but never one for actual use. His palms were wet as he laid it out, using prepared tables. When he had finished he pointed to a spaceman. "That’s it. Will you translate it into analogue figures for the computer, please?"
Maybe it would be for the Lamia, but we have a three-ship fleet and a planetary base to meet expenses on. Out of this raid, a ground-fighter or an able spaceman will get a hundred and fifty stellars. We'll get about a thousand, ourselves. How long do you think we can stay in business doing this kind of chicken-stealing." "You call this chicken-stealing?"
The ship bucked under the force of the counter-acceleration, and the veteran spaceman fought to keep her under control. He snapped out another order. "Cut all rockets!" The ship was suddenly quiet, hanging motionless in space in the middle of the still-twisting wreckage.
"Can't blame them," said Walters, surveying the quiet spaceport. The two Solar Guard officers climbed into another waiting jet boat and shot away from the Polaris toward the tower. Inside the shimmering crystal control tower, Steve Strong paced up and down behind the enlisted spaceman trying to contact the Deimos spaceport across the millions of miles of space.
"Might as well let him go," grunted Roger. "He'd only sneak off later, anyway." Astro grinned sheepishly. "If anyone wants me to check anything, I'll be over at Kit's. Where is your ship?" he asked the veteran spaceman. "Hangar Fourteen. Opposite the main entrance gate." "Fine, that's where I'll be, fellows. See you later."
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