Rip Foster in Ride the Gray Planet | Page 3

with acceleration harness. We'll fall free, with just
enough flame going for control, after ten seconds of retrothrust to de-orbit."
The ten-second-warning bell sounded, and, before the bell had ceased, the voice horn
blasted. "Get it! Foster, R.I.P., Lieutenant. Report to the platform commander. Show an
exhaust!"
Rip leaped to his feet. "Hold on, Flip. I'll see what the old man wants and be right back."
"Get flaming," the rocket officer called. "Show an exhaust, like the man said. This bucket
leaves on time, and we're sealing the port."

Rip hesitated. The rocket would leave without him!
Flip said urgently, "You better ram it, Rip."
He knew he had no choice. "Tell my folks I'll make the next rocket," he called, and ran.
He leaped through the valve, jumped for the high-speed track, and was whisked around
the rim of the space platform.
He ran a hand through his short red hair, a gesture of bewilderment. His records had
cleared. So far as he knew, all his papers were in order, and he had his next assignment.
He couldn't figure why the platform commander would want to see him. But the horn had
called, "Show an exhaust!" which meant to get there in a hurry.
He jumped off the track at the main crossrun and hurried toward the center of the
platform. In a moment he was at the commander's door, waiting to be identified.
The door swung open, and a junior officer in the blue tunic and trousers of a spaceman
motioned him to the inner room. "Go in, Lieutenant."
"Thank you." He hurried into the commander's room and stood at attention.
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, at Special
Order Squadron headquarters on Earth, aboard the cruiser Bolide in high space, and
aboard the newly landed cruiser Scorpius.
Rip listened, spellbound.
"Foster, R.I.P., Lieutenant, SOS. Serial seven-nine-four-three. Assigned SOS Four.
Change orders, effective this date-time. Cancel Earth leave. Subject officer will report to
commander, SCN Scorpius, with detachment of nine men. Senior noncommissioned
officer and second in command, Koa, A.P., Sergeant Major, SOS. Serial
two-nine-four-one. Commander of Scorpius will transport detachment to coordinates
given in basic cruiser astro-course; deliver orders to detachment en route. Take required
steps for maximum security. This is Federation priority A, Space Council security
procedures."
Rip swallowed hard. The highest possible priority, given by the Federation itself, had
canceled his leave. Not only that, but the cruiser to which he was assigned was instructed
to follow Space Council security procedures, which meant that the job, whatever it was,
was more urgent than secret!
Commander Jennsen looked up and saw Rip waiting. He snapped, "Did you get all of
that?"
"Y-Yes, sir."

"You'll get written copies on the cruiser. Now flame out of here. Collect your men and
get aboard. The Scorpius leaves in five minutes."
Rip ran. The realization hit him that the big nuclear cruiser had stopped at the platform
for the sole purpose of collecting him and nine enlisted Planeteers.
The low gravity helped him cover the hundred yards to the personnel office in five leaps.
He swung to a stop by grabbing the push bar of the office door. He yelled at the enlisted
spaceman on duty. "Where do I find nine men?"
The spaceman looked at him vacantly. "What for? You got a requisition, Lieutenant?"
"Never mind requisitions," Rip snapped. "I've got to find nine Planeteers and get them on
the Scorpius before it flames off."
The spaceman's face cleared. "Oh. You mean Koa's detachment. They left a few minutes
ago."
"Where. Where did they go?"
The spaceman shrugged. The doings of Planeteers were no concern of his. His shrug said
so.
Rip realized there was no use talking further. He ran down the long corridor toward the
outer edge of the platform. The enlisted men's squad rooms were near Valve Ten. So was
the supply department. His gear had departed on the Terra rocket, and he couldn't go into
space with only the tunic on his back. He swung to the high-speed track and braced
himself as he sped along the platform's rim.
There was no moving track inward to the enlisted Planeteers' squad rooms. He legged it
down the corridor in long leaps, muttering apologies as blue-clad spacemen and cadets
moved to the wall to let him pass.
The squad rooms were on two levels. He looked in the upper ones and found them
deserted. The squads were on duty somewhere. He ran for the ladder to the lower level,
took the wrong one, and ended up in a snapper-boat port. He had trained in the deadly
little