I was legally, at
this moment, on my "planet of destination."
"I haven't been charged--"
"Did I say you had?" snapped one man.
"Shut up, he's doped," the other said hurriedly. "Look," he continued,
pronouncing every word loudly and distinctly, "get up now, and come with
us. The co-ordinator will hold up blastoff if we don't get off in three
minutes, and Operations will scream. Come on, please."
Then I was stumbling along the lighted, empty corridor, swaying between
the two men, foggily realizing the crew must think me a fugitive caught
trying to leave the planet.
The locks dilated. A uniformed spaceman watched us, fussily regarding a
chronometer. He fretted. "The dispatcher's office--"
"We're doing the best we can," the Spaceforce man said. "Can you walk,
Cargill?"
I could, though my feet were a little shaky on the ladders. The violet
moonlight had deepened to mauve, and gusty winds spun tendrils of grit
across my face. The Spaceforce men shepherded me, one on either side, to
the gateway.
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