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?"
"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.
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