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.
"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_.
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