Round-and-Round Trip

The clerk sighed as he looked around, but his partner was busy. "Someone seems to have blown a nova, sir," he condescended to explain. "It says here your ultimate destination is Altair IV."

"Quite right, quite right," said Winstead. "Going out there to see what the sales possibilities are for--"

"And they sent you here from Epseri? That can't be, sir."

"But--they told me--don't you Agency people take care of picking out the routes?"

"Yes, sir, of course. Beyond the local Terran sphere of travel, there are very few scheduled flights and most of them are for important cargo. That's why your ticket simply shows your ultimate destination, and that's why the Interstellar Travel Agency was developed--to arrange for the traveler's progress by stages."

"Yes," said Winstead. "That is how they explained it to me."

The clerk met his worried gaze for a few moments before shaking himself slightly. He prodded the ticket on the counter between him and Winstead with a disdainful forefinger.

"Let me put it as simply as possible, Mr.--uh--Winstead," he said very patiently. "Somebody at your last stop sent you in the wrong direction."

"But--but--you just said it went by stages. I realize I can't go in a direct line. It depends on whether you can find me the right ship, doesn't it?"

The young man glanced about once more for help, but none was available.

"We'll see what we can do," he said, examining the ticket sourly. He thumbed a button to roll out a length of note paper from a slot in the counter top and scribbled upon it with his lectropen. "Now, if you will please accompany that young lady to the Agency hotel with those other travelers, we will notify you the moment a desirable ship is scheduled to leave."

Winstead thanked him gratefully and turned away to locate his baggage. Under the conditions imposed by space travel, only the barest minimum was permitted. Even so, some little time was required to find his bag--an unlikely occurrence that the clerk accepted with a resigned air.

Finally, with the half dozen who also would be traveling onward, Winstead was off to the hotel and a day's rest.

As a matter of fact, it was three days' rest, before he was summoned. He was, perhaps by intent, confronted upon his arrival by a different clerk, a solid, square-faced girl. Winstead's nervous questions were reflected unanswered from a shield of impervious calm. He received all the information the Agency seemed to feel was good for him and was sent out with a personal guide.

The guide delivered him to a thick thing named the Stellar Streak, clearly a workhorse freighter. Somehow, it never did become plain to Winstead until after he had emerged from his acceleration net that the destination was Topaz IV.

"But, Captain!" he protested. "Are you sure the people at the spaceport have not made some mistake? That is more or less the direction I came from."

The pilot stared impatiently at the papers thrust under his nose.

"Can't say, sir. We have our work cut out just to take the ship to where they tell us. Only reason we carry passengers is that regulations require cooperation with the Agency. Don't believe in it myself."

Mr. Winstead sighed and returned to his quarters. At least, on this ship, he still had a private compartment in which to float his net. There was even a chair, equipped with a safety belt and folding table, bolted to the deck. What he did miss was the general dining saloon of the liner he had taken from Epseri II.

Still, he reflected, travel can't always be luxurious.

He spent some time, after the ship had slipped into stellar drive, in unpacking his one small suitcase. He found that he had to take his shaver to the general head to plug it in, but otherwise got along comfortably enough. One or two of the crew who shared his turn at the galley counter, in fact, took him for an old space hopper and began to exchange yarns.

This sort of semi-suspended living passed the four-day hop to the Topaz system and the extra day necessary for planetary approach. When they landed, Winstead was the only passenger, either incoming or outgoing, to show up at the cargo shed designated as the spaceport administration building.

Here on Topaz IV, the Agency clerk was a part-time man who had to be called from the mines on the far side of the city. He arrived to find Winstead dozing on a cot at the end of the shed.

"Billy Callahan," he introduced himself. "They say you're not for the mines."

"That is correct," answered Winstead, stretching a kink out of his back. "I have my destination here in these papers ... if you will bear with me a moment...."

He fumbled out his identification, travel record, and ticket. Callahan, rubbing his carroty hair with a large, freckled hand, pored over them. A few minutes of searching through the battered desk that was his headquarters revealed the official arrival stamp. Its inky smear was duly added to the record.

"Now for your way outa here," grunted Callahan. "Meanwhile, how about a cigar, Mr. Winstead?"

"Why--thanks very much."

Winstead regarded the torpedo doubtfully. He wondered upon which planet the tobacco for it--if it was tobacco--had been grown.

"This might take a little while," said Callahan, applying to the ends of their cigars a lighter that could have welded I-beams. "It ain't every day we get a through traveler here. I gotta look up the Galatlas an' the shipping notices."

He hoisted a bulky catalogue from a side table onto his desk and blew off a cloud of dust. Winstead seized the excuse to cough out a lungful of smoke. His host reached out for the ticket.