t, hundreds of spacemen and Planeteers went about their
work.

In a ready-room at the outer edge of the platform, a Planeteer officer
faced a dozen slim, blackclad young men who wore the single golden orbits
of lieutenants. This was a graduating class, already commissioned, having
a final, informal get-together.

The officer, who wore the three-orbit insignia of a major, was lean and
trim. His hair was cropped short, 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. Major Joe Barris had
been their friend, teacher, and senior officer during six long years of
training on the space platform. He could no more make a formal speech than
he could breathe high vacuum, and they all knew it.

Lieutenant Richard Ingalls Peter Foster, whose initials had given him the
nickname of "Rip," asked, "Why don't you sing us a song 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 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. 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.

The major rubbed the radiation scar on his cheek absently as he looked
them over. They were like twelve chicks out of the same nest. They were
all about