corridor to the supply room. The spaceman first class in charge of
supplies was turning an audio-mag through a hand viewer, chuckling at the
cartoons. At the sight of Rip's flushed, anxious face he dropped the
machine. "Yessir?"

"I need a spack. Full gear, including bubble."

"Yessir." The spaceman looked him over with a practiced eye. "One full
space pack. Medium-large, right, sir?"

"Correct." Rip took the counter stylus and inscribed his name, serial
number, and signature on the blank plastic sheet. Gears whirred as the
data was recorded.

The spaceman vanished into an inner room and reappeared in a moment
lugging a plastic case called a space pack, or "spack" for short. It
contained complete personal equipment for space travel. Rip grabbed it.
"Fast service. Thanks, Rocky." All spacemen were called "Rocky" if you
didn't know their names. It was an abbreviation for rocketeer, a title
all of them had once carried.

Valve Eight was some distance away. Rip decided a cross ramp would be
faster than the moving track. He swung the spack to his shoulder and made
his legs go. Seconds were ticking off, and he had an idea that the SCN
_Scorpius_ would make space on time, whether or not he arrived. He
lengthened his stride and rounded a turn by going right up on the wall,
using a powerful leg thrust against a ventilator tube for momentum.

He passed an observation port as he reached the platform rim, and caught
a glimpse of ruddy rocket exhaust flames outlined against the dark curve