Rip Foster Rides the Gray Planet

  Rip Foster Rides the Gray Planet

  by Blake Savage

  Edition 1, (December 20, 2006)

  Illustrated by E. Deane Cate

  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  hard cover illustration] Front dust jacket] Back dust jacket] Inside cover]

  DUST JACKET BLURB

  "Foster, Lieutenant, R. I. P.," blared the voice horn, and five minuteslater Rip Foster was off into space on an assignment more exciting thanany he had ever imagined. He could hardly believe his ears. Could a greenyoung Planeteer, just through his training, possibly carry out orders likethese? Sunny space, what a trick it would be!

  From the moment Rip boards the space ship _Scorpius_ there is a thrill aminute. He and his nine daring Planeteers must cope with the mercilesshazing of the spacemen commanding the ship, and they must outwit thedesperate Connies, who threaten to plunge all of space into war. There area thousand dangers to be faced in high vacuum--and all of this whilecarrying out an assignment that will take every reader's breath away.

  Major Barris Faced Rip and the New Planeteers]

  Major Barris Faced Rip and the New Planeteers

  RIP FOSTER RIDES THE GRAY PLANET

  CHAPTER ONE - SCN SCORPIUS, SPACEBOUND

  A thousand miles above earth's surface the great space platform sped fromdaylight into darkness. Once each two hours it circled the earthcompletely, spinning along through space like a mighty wheel of steel andplastic.

  Through a telescope from earth the platform seemed a lifeless, lonelydisk, but within it, hundreds of spacemen and Planeteers went about theirwork.

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

  The officer, who wore the three-orbit insignia of a major, was lean andtrim. His hair was cropped short, like a gray fur skull cap. One cheek wasmarked with the crisp whiteness of an old radiation burn.

  "Stand easy," he ordered briskly. "The general instructions of the SpecialOrder Squadrons say that it's my duty as senior officer to make a farewellspeech. 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 hadbeen their friend, teacher, and senior officer during six long years oftraining on the space platform. He could no more make a formal speech thanhe could breathe high vacuum, and they all knew it.

  Lieutenant Richard Ingalls Peter Foster, whose initials had given him thenickname 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, thenfront and center."

  Rip obediently spun around three times, then walked forward and stood atattention, 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 wassupposed to make Planeteer cadets and junior officers feel properlyhumble, but it didn't work. By tradition, the Planeteers were the cockiestgang that ever blasted through high vacuum.

  Major Barris shook his head sadly. "You admit you're a simp, Foster. Therest of you are simps, too. But you don't believe it. You've finished sixyears 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 seasonedspace spooks. Well, you're not. You're simps."

  Rip stopped grinning. He had heard this before. It was part of theroutine. But he sensed that this time Joe Barris wasn't kidding.

  The major rubbed the radiation scar on his cheek absently as he lookedthem over. They were like twelve chicks out of the same nest. They wereall about the same size, a compact five-feet-eleven inches, 175 pounds.They wore loose black tunics, belted over full trousers which gatheredinto white cruiser boots. The comfortable uniforms concealed any slightdifferences in build. The twelve were all lean of face, with hair croppedto 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. MajorBarris remained standing.

  "Well," he began soberly, "you are now officers of the Special OrderSquadrons. You're Planeteers. You are lieutenants by order of the SpaceCouncil, Federation of Free Governments. And--space protect you!--toyourselves, you're supermen. But never forget this: to ordinary spacemen,you're just plain simps. You're trouble in a black tunic. They have aboutas much use for you as they have for leaks in their air locks. Some of thespacemen have been high-vacking for twenty years or more, and they'retough. They're as nasty as a Callistan _teekal_. They like to eatPlaneteer 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 anyrank, no matter what service he belongs to."

  Rip realized that Barris had not been joking, no matter how flippant hisspeech. "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 takeyour eight earth-weeks leave. You won't really know what I'm talking aboutuntil you've batted around space for a while. All I have to say adds up toone thing. You won't like it, because it doesn't sound scientific. Thatdoesn'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 taughtto rely on scientific methods. Now their best instructor and seniorofficer was telling them just the opposite!

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

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

  The group shook hands all around; then the young officers broke for thedoor on the run. The Terra rocket was blasting off in five minutes, andthey were due to be on it.

  Rip joined Flip Villa and they jumped on the high speed track that wouldwhisk them to Valve Two on the other side of the platform. Their gear wasalready loaded. They had only to take seats on the rocket and their sixyears on the space platform would be at an end.

  "I wonder what it will be like to get back to high gravity?" Rip mused.The centrifugal force of the spinning platform acted as artificialgravity, but it was considerably less than earth's.

  "We probably won't be able to walk straight until we get our earth-legsback," Flip answered. "I wish I could stay in Colorado with you instead ofgoing back to Mexico City, Rip. We could have a lot of fun in eightweeks."

  Rip nodded. "Tough luck, Flip. But anyway, we have the same assignment."

  Both Planeteers had been assigned to Special Order Squadron Four, whichwas attached to the cruiser _Bolide_. The cruiser was in high space,beyond the orbits of Jupiter and Saturn doing comet research.

  They got off the track at Valve Two and stepped through into the rocket'sinterior. Two seats just ahead of the fins were vacant and they slid in
tothem. Rip looked through the thick port beside him and saw the distinctiveblue glow of a nuclear drive cruiser sliding sternward toward theplatform.

  "Wave your eye stalks at that job," Flip said admiringly. "Wonder whatit's doing here?"

  The space platform was a refueling depot where conventional chemical fuelrockets topped off their tanks before flaming for space. The newer nucleardrive cruisers had no need to stop. Their atomic piles needed new neutronsources only once in a few years.

  The voice horn in the rocket cabin sounded. "The SCN _Scorpius_ is passingValve Two, landing at Valve Eight."

  "I thought that ship was with Squadron One on Mercury," Rip recalled."Wonder why they pulled it back here?"

  Flip had no chance to reply because the chief rocket officer took up hisstation at the valve and began to call the roll. Rip answered to his name.

  The rocket officer finished the roll, then announced: "Buttoning up intwenty seconds. Blast off in forty-five. Don't bother with accelerationharness. We'll fall free, with just enough flame going for control."

  The ten-second warning bell sounded, and, before the bell had ceased, thevoice horn blasted. "Get it! Foster, R.I.P., Lieutenant. Report to theplatform commander. Show an exhaust!"

  Rip leaped to his feet. "Hold on, Flip. I'll see what the old man wantsand be right back."

  "Get flaming," the rocket officer called. "Show an exhaust like the mansaid. 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," hecalled, and ran. He leaped through the valve, jumped for the high speedtrack and was whisked around the rim of the space platform.

  He ran a hand through his short red hair, a gesture of bewilderment. Hisrecords had cleared. So far as he knew, all his papers were in order, andhe had his next assignment. He couldn't figure why the platform commanderwould want to see him. But the horn had called "show an exhaust," whichmeant to get there in a hurry.

  He jumped off the track at the main crossrun and hurried toward the centerof the platform. In a moment he stood before the platform commander'sdoor, waiting to be identified.

  The door swung open and a junior officer in the blue tunic and trousers ofa 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 platformsince before Rip's arrival as a raw cadet, was dictating into his commandrelay circuit. As he spoke, printed copies were being received in theplatform personnel office, Special Order Squadron headquarters on earth,aboard the cruiser _Bolide_ in high space, and aboard the newly landedcruiser _Scorpius_.

  Rip listened, spellbound.

  "Foster, R.I.P., Lieutenant, SOS. Serial seven-nine-four-three. AssignedSOS Four. Change orders, effective this date-time. Cancel earth-leave.Subject officer will report to commander, SCN _Scorpius_ with detachmentof nine men. Senior non-commissioned officer and second in command, Koa,A.P., Sergeant-major, SOS. Serial two-nine-four-one. Commander _Scorpius_will transport detachment to coordinates given in basic cruiserastrocourse, delivering orders to detachment enroute. Take full steps formaximum security. This is Federation priority A, Space Council securityprocedures."

  Rip swallowed hard. The highest possible priority, given by the Federationitself, had cancelled his leave. Not only that, but the cruiser to whichhe was assigned was instructed to follow Space Council securityprocedures, which meant the job, whatever it was, was rated even moreurgent than secret!

  Commander Jennsen looked up and saw Rip. He snapped, "Did you get all ofthat?"

  "Y-Yessir."

  "You'll get written copies on the cruiser. Now flame out of here. Collectyour men and get aboard. The _Scorpius_ leaves in five minutes."

  Rip ran. The realization hit him that the big nuclear cruiser had stoppedat the platform for the sole purpose of collecting him and nine enlistedPlaneteers.

  The low gravity helped him cover the hundred yards to the personnel officein five leaps. He swung to a stop by grabbing the push bar of the officedoor. He yelled at the enlisted spaceman on duty, "Where do I find ninemen?"

  The spaceman looked at him vacantly. "What for? You got a requisition,Lieutenant?"

  "Never mind requisitions," Rip snapped. "I've got to find nine Planeteersand get them on the _Scorpius_ before it flames off."

  The spaceman's face cleared. "Oh. You mean Koa's detachment. They left afew 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 longcorridor toward the outer edge of the platform. The enlisted men'ssquadrooms were near Valve Ten. So was the supply department. His gear haddeparted on the Terra rocket, and he couldn't go to space with only thetunic on his back. He swung to the high speed track and braced himself asit sped him along the platform's rim.

  There was no moving track inward to the enlisted Planeteers' squadrooms.He legged it down the corridor in long leaps, muttering apologies asblue-clad spacemen and cadets moved to the wall to let him pass.

  The squadrooms were on two levels. He looked in the upper ones and foundthem deserted. The squads were on duty somewhere. He ran for the ladder tothe lower level, took the wrong one, and ended up in a snapper-boat port.He had trained in the deadly little fighting rockets, and they neverfailed to interest him. But there wasn't time to admire them now. He wentback up the ladder with two strong heaves, found the right ladder, anddropped down without touching. His knees flexed to take up the shock. Hecame out of the crouch facing a black-clad Planeteer sergeant who snappedto rigid attention.

  "Koa," Rip barked. "Where can I find him?"

  "He's not here, sir. He and eight men left fifteen minutes ago. I don'tknow where they went, sir."

  Rip shot a worried glance at his wrist chronometer. He had two minutesleft, before the cruiser departed. No more time now to search for his men.He hoped the sergeant-major had sense enough to be waiting at somesensible place. He went up the ladder hand over hand and sped down thecorridor to the supply room.

  The spaceman first class in charge of supplies was turning an audio-magthrough a hand viewer, chuckling at the cartoons. At the sight of Rip'sflushed, anxious face he dropped the machine. "Yessir?"

  "I need a spack. Full gear including bubble."

  "Yessir." The spaceman looked him over with a practiced eye. "One fullspace pack. That would be medium-large, right, sir?"

  "Correct." Rip took the counter stylus and inscribed his name, serialnumber, and signature on the blank plastic sheet. Gears whirred as thedata was recorded.

  The spaceman vanished into an inner room and reappeared in a momentlugging a plastic case called a space pack, or "spack" for short. Itcontained complete personal equipment for space travel. Rip grabbed it."Fast service. Thanks, Rocky." All spacemen were called "Rocky" if youdidn't know their names. It was an abbreviation for rocketeer, a title allof them had once carried.

  Valve Eight was some distance away. Rip decided a cross ramp would befaster than the moving track. He swung the spack to his shoulder and madehis legs go. Seconds were ticking off, and he had an idea the _Scorpius_would make space on time, whether or not he arrived. He lengthened hisstride and rounded a turn by going right up on the wall, using a powerfulleg thrust against a ventilator tube for momentum.

  He passed an observation port as he reached the platform rim and caught aglimpse of ruddy rocket exhaust flames outlined against the dark curve ofearth. That would be the Terra rocket making its controlled fall to homewith Flip aboard. Without slowing, he leaped across the high speed track,narrowly missing a senior space officer. He shouted his apologies, andgained the entrance to Valve Eight just as the high buzz of the radiationwarning sounde
d, signaling a nuclear drive cruiser preparing to take off.

  Nine faces of assorted colors and expressions turned to him. He had aquick impression of black tunics and trousers. He had found hisdetachment! Without slowing, he called, "Follow me!"

  The cruiser's safety officer had been keeping an eye on the clock, hisforehead creased in a frown as he saw that only a few seconds remained todeparture time. He walked to the valve opening and looked out. If hispassengers were not in sight, he would have to reset the clock.

  Rip went through the valve opening at top speed. He crashed head-on intothe safety officer.

  The safety officer was driven across the deck, his arms pumping forbalance. He grabbed at the nearest thing, which happened to be the deputycruiser commander.

  The pre-set control clock reached firing time. The valve slid shut and thetake-off bell reverberated through the ship.

  And so it happened that the spacemen of the SCN _Scorpius_ turned theirvalves, threw their controls and disengaged their boron control rods, andthe great cruiser flashed into space, while the deputy commander and thesafety officer were completely tangled with a very flustered and unhappynew Planeteer lieutenant.

  Sergeant-major Koa and his men had made it before the valve closed. Koa, aseven-foot Hawaiian, took in the situation and said crisply in a voice allcould hear, "I'll bust the bubble of any son of a space sausage wholaughs!"