s all right," Rip told him. "The Connies are our prisoners. You won't
need guns."

The spaceman snapped, "You're under arrest."

Rip stared incredulously. "What for?"

"The commander's orders. Don't give me any arguments. Just get aboard."

"I can't argue with a loaded gun," Rip said wearily. He called to his men.
"We're under arrest. I don't know why. Don't try to resist. Do as the
spacemen order."

Rip got aboard the nearest landing boat, his head spinning. O'Brine had
made a mistake of some kind. The landing boats, loaded with Planeteers and
Connies, lifted from the asteroid to the cruiser. They slid smoothly into
the air locks and settled. The massive lock doors slid closed and lights
flickered on. Rip waited, trying to keep consciousness from slipping away.

The lock gauges registered normal air, and the inner valves slid open.
Commander O'Brine stepped through, his square jaw outthrust and his face
flushed with anger. He bellowed, "Where's Foster?"

His voice was so loud Rip heard him faintly even through the bubble. He
stepped out of the landing boat and faced the irate commander.

O'Brine ordered, "Get him out of that suit." Two spacemen jumped forward.
One twisted Rip's bubble free and lifted it off. The heavy air of the ship
hit him with physical force.

O'Brine grated, "You're under arrest, Foster, for firing on the
_Scorpius_, for insubordination, and for conduct unbecoming an officer.
Get out of that suit and get flaming. It's the spacepot for you."

Rip had to grin. He couldn't help it. He started to reply, but the heavy
air of the cruiser, so much richer and denser than that of the suits, was
too much. He slumped unconscious.

There was no gravity to pull him to the floor, but the action of his
relaxing muscles swung him slowly until he lay face down in the air a few
feet above the floor.

Commander O'Brine stared for a moment, then he took the unconscious
Planeteer and swung him upright. His quick eyes took in the patch on the
arm, the safety line tied tightly. He roared, "Quick! Get him to the wound
ward!"

Rip came back to consciousness on the operating table. The wound in his
arm had been neatly repaired, and below the wound, where his arm had
frozen, a plastic temperature bag was slowly bringing the cold flesh back
to normal. On his other side, a pulsing pressure pump forced new blood
from the ship's supplies into his veins.

A senior space officer with the golden lancet of the medica