— and fell sprawling on the deck, Nolan on top of him. He’d forgotten there was gravity inside, dammit. Fortunately it was only a meter or so, and it didn’t take long to get the tangle of limbs unscrambled. The others were still standing around, faces pale, mouths uniform Os of horror, and one sailor had his hand on the window lever. Now wouldn’t it have been fine if he’d figured out how to close the damn thing?
Peters stood, worked his limbs and muscles a bit to see if he’d strained anything; apparently not. Then he carefully arranged his features in a noncommital expression, walked casually over to where Tollison was standing, and punched the First Class in the gut, just above the belt buckle, with all the force he was able to muster. The tall sailor doubled over, and Peters grabbed his hair and dragged until he was moving fairly quickly, then let go. Tollison fell in a heap next to Nolan, and Peters strode over to the lever, swung it the other way, and stood calmly as the windows swung shut and air began hissing in.
The ones on their feet were wide-eyed, but nobody was saying anything; shock, plus apparently they’d discovered the futility of that while the room was airless. When Peters judged that sound would carry, he gestured to the man next to him. “I’d take it kindly if you’d see those two men to the infirmary,” he said in as level a voice as he could manage. “They seem to have met with a accident.”
“You know Tollison’s gonna put you on report,” the other warned.
“And I’m gonna put him on report, for skylarkin’, reckless endangerment, and forcin’ a safeguard,” said Peters, his level tones rising despite a real effort to remain calm. “Any of the rest of you yahoos so fuckin’ impressed with his own crow you can’t take instruction from somebody that knows somethin’ you don’t ‘cause he’s got one less stripe? ‘Cause if you are, you lemme know right now. I can get you a ride home real easy, and save killin’ somebody to prove it!” By the end of that he was bellowing.
The rest of them looked more appalled than before, if possible. Tollison was being helped up by a Machinist’s Mate First. Nolan was still curled in a ball on the floor, eyes screwed tightly shut, teeth clenched, hands clasped together over his sternum like a particularly anguished prayer; another First Class, this one with a corpsman’s badge, was kneeling beside him, hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He looked up at Peters’s outburst. “This man’s in shock,” he said quietly. “I’ll get him to the infirmary.” He glanced at Tollison, who was still bent over but recovering, then back at Peters. “Anything happen out there the doc oughta know about?”
“Nah,” said Peters. He was starting to shake, coming down off the adrenalin high. “Fact is, if he’da known it he was safe as bein’ in his own bunk. Just scared shitless, I reckon.” He shook his head. “Me, too,” he added softly, looking down at the deck. The medic nodded and focused on Nolan, trying to get him to his feet.
“I believe,” said somebody to Peters’s right, “that we have just seen a demonstration of why the suit is required wear. I may never take mine off again.” The tone was of high good humor.
“Yeah,” said the man next to him. “Looks like havin’ a man overboard ain’t the problem it is at sea, provided he’s got the right gear. At least you can spot ‘em easy.”
Faces were beginning to regain color. “Hey, Mannix,” somebody called from the other side of the room, “If you never take the suit off, how’re you gonna shower?”
“Not a problem,” Mannix said with sunny cheer. “Number one, there are no women around, and you apes would never notice the stink. Number two, it’s a luxury I seldom allow myself anyway.” That got a chuckle. Mannix was slight, red-haired, with a Fire Controlman’s badge over his three chevrons and four diagonal stripes, all in gold; almost certainly the senior man in the room. He turned to Peters. “Do please continue the instruction,” he said, his grin belying his solemn tone. “You were admirably quick, but you might not be around if I should get in trouble, and it would be handy if I could get myself out, don’t you think?”
“What about him?” Peters asked, jerking his head to indicate Tollison.
“Hm,” said Mannix. He looked at Tollison, frowning. “Phan Dong, why is that man clutching his stomach? He seems to be in quite a bit of distress.” A quick quirk of the eyebrows at Peters.
“I dunno,” said the sailor helping Tollison. “Maybe he ate something that didn’t agree with him.”
“That—sonova—bitch—sucker—punched—me,” Tollison contradicted in a series of gasps.
Mannix ignored that. “Oh, dear,” he said with obviously feigned worry. “Perhaps he isn’t able to adjust to the diet. That would be unfortunate, no? He certainly can’t eat emergency rations for two years; what if the rest of us needed them? He’ll just have to go downside. I’ll speak to Chief Joshua about it.”
“No!” Tollison choked out, so red-faced that his blonde eyebrows were nearly invisible. “I’ll—be—just fine. Just a—gut cramp—you know how—it is.” A long inhalation. “Feeling better—already.”
“Are you certain?” Mannix asked seriously. “Because I can think of, ah, circumstances under which your symptoms might recur. We can’t take any chances with health problems.”
“No, we—can’t.” Tollison managed to force himself erect. He glanced at Peters, looked out the windows, blinked, and looked Peters in the eye. “I’ll just have to avoid—overindulgence—in the future.”
“Oh, admirably put,” said Mannix. “Peters, do you think we can continue?”
“If Tollison thinks he’s well enough.”
“If you don’t mind, I think—I’d like to rest—a bit,” Tollison said. “Maybe I can attend—a later class.”
“I do think that would be best,” Mannix said solemnly. “Peters, why don’t you help Tollison out, and the rest of us can continue?”
“Sure. You gonna be OK, man?”
“Yeah, I’ll be—fine,” Tollison said.
“All right, this way then,” Peters told him. The blond sailor grasped Peters’s shoulder and followed unsteadily to the door. Peters undogged it and handed him out. “Do you remember which locker your dungarees are in?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Tollison said again. “Thanks. You need to get on—back inside.”
“All right. You probably oughta go lay down for a little while, relax.”
“You’re probably—right,” Tollison agreed. He flapped a hand at Peters. “Go on, you have—a class waiting.”
“Right.” Peters dogged the hatch and turned to the diminished group. He took a deep breath: “All right, as I was sayin’, you got to remember that sound don’t carry when there ain’t no air. You won’t be able to talk to each other unless you’re head to head, ‘bout thirty centimeters away—”
The rest of the class went smoothly. Nobody puked in the zero-gee part, and they readily accepted his statement that they didn’t have enough time in this class to get started on how to use the thrusters.
The incident had thrown them behind, and the next group was waiting when he undogged the hatch and allowed the others to file out. He’d opened his mouth to begin telling the new group to shuck out of their dungarees when Mannix laid a hand on his shoulder, waved him to silence, and sought out a tubby Machinist’s Mate First for a low-voiced colloquy. Heads nearby turned to look at Peters, some of them shaking, and people began discarding outerwear. When the class got underway the tone was serious, and people paid attention.