The ten-second-warning bell sounded, and, before the bell had ceased, the
voice horn blasted. "Get it! Foster, R.I.P., Lieutenant. Report to the
platform commander. Show an exhaust!"

Rip leaped to his feet. "Hold on, Flip. I'll see what the old man wants
and be right back."

"Get flaming," the rocket officer called. "Show an exhaust, like the man
said. This bucket leaves on time, and we're sealing the port."

Rip hesitated. The rocket would leave without him!

Flip said urgently, "You better ram it, Rip."

He knew he had no choice. "Tell my folks I'll make the next rocket," he
called, and ran. He leaped through the valve, jumped for the high-speed
track, and was whisked around the rim of the space platform.

He ran a hand through his short red hair, a gesture of bewilderment. His
records had cleared. So far as he knew, all his papers were in order, and
he had his next assignment. He couldn't figure why the platform commander
would want to see him. But the horn had called, "Show an exhaust!" which
meant to get there in a hurry.

He jumped off the track at the main crossrun and hurried toward the
center of the platform. In a moment he was at the commander's door,
waiting to be identified.

The door swung open, and a junior officer in the blue tunic and trousers