"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 of 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 absently rubbed the radiation scar on his cheek as he looked
them over. They were like twelve chicks out of the same nest. They were
about the same size, a compact five feet eleven inches, 175 pounds. They
wore belted, loose black tunics over full trousers which gathered into
white cruiser boots. The comfortable uniforms concealed any slight
differences in build. All twelve were lean of face, with hair cropped to
the regulation half inch. Rip was the only redhead among them.

"Sit down," Barris commanded. "Here's my speech."

The twelve seated themselves on plastic stools. Major Barris remained
standing.