the same size, a compact five-feet-eleven inches, 175 pounds.
They wore loose black tunics, belted over full trousers which gathered
into white cruiser boots. The comfortable uniforms concealed any slight
differences in build. The twelve were all lean of face, with hair cropped
to the regulation half inch. Rip was the only redhead among them.

"Sit down," Barris commanded. "I'm going to make a farewell speech."

Rip pulled a plastic stool toward him. The others did the same. Major
Barris remained standing.

"Well," he began soberly, "you are now officers of the Special Order
Squadrons. You're Planeteers. 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. Some of the
spacemen have been high-vacking for twenty years or more, and they're
tough. They're as nasty as a Callistan _teekal_. They like to eat
Planeteer junior officers for breakfast."

Lieutenant Felipe "Flip" Villa asked, "With salt, Joe?"

Major Barris sighed. "No use trying to tell you space-chicks anything.
You're lieutenants now, and a lieutenant has the thickest skull of any
rank, no matter what service he belongs to."

Rip realized that Barris had not been joking, no matter how flippant his
speech. "Go ahead," he urged. "Finish what you were going to say."

"Okay. I'll make it short. Then you can catch the Terra rocket and take
your eight earth-weeks leave. You won't really know what I'm talking about
until you've batted around space for a while. All I have to say adds up to
one thing. You won't like it, because it doesn't sound scientific. That
doesn't mean it isn't good science, because it is. Just remember this:
when you're in a jam, trust your hunch and not your head."

The twelve stared at him, open-mouthed. For six years they had been taught
to rely on scientific methods. Now their best instructor and senior
officer was telling them just the opposite!

Rip started to object, then he caught a glimmer of meaning. He stuck out
his hand. "Thanks, Joe. I hope we'll meet again."

Barris grinned. "We will, Rip. I'll ask for you as a platoon commander
when they assign me to cleaning up the goopies on Ganymede." This was the
major's idea of the worst Planeteer job in the Solar System.