trim. His short-cropped hair covered his head 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. Maj. 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.

Lt. Richard Ingalls Peter Foster, whose initials had given him the
nickname "Rip," asked, "Why don't you sing for us 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?"