"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."

Lt. 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 weeks' Earth 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, openmouthed. 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!