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 space pot 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 fell, unconscious.
There was no gravity to pull him to the floor, but the action of his relaxing muscles swung him slowly until he lay facedown in the air a few feet above the floor.
Commander O'Brine stared for a moment, then 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 medical service on his tunic, bent over him. "How do you feel?"
Rip's voice surprised him. It was as full and strong as ever. "I feel wonderful. Can I get up?"
"When we get enough blood into you, and your arm is fully restored."
Commander O'Brine appeared in the door frame. "Can he talk?"