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 medical service on his blue 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[pg 158] arm is fully restored."
Commander O'Brine appeared in the door frame. "Can he talk?"
"Yes. He's fine, sir."
O'Brine glared down at Rip. "Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn't have you treated for space madness, then toss you in the spacepot until we reach earth?"
"Best reason in the galaxy," Rip said cheerfully. "But before we talk about it, I want to know how my men are. One got cut and another had his bubble cracked. Also, one of the Connies got badly cut, another had some broken bones, and a third one bled into high vack when Koa cracked his bubble."