ared a moment before
on the screen, stepped off the ladder leading
from the lower level and glided forward in the light
pseudo-gravity followed by the six prisoners he
had escorted from the transport. The prisoners,
without constraints, walked silently. All had their hair
trimmed uniformly close to their heads. The men's
faces were as hairless as the faces of the women.

The second guard brought up the rear.

The forward guard came abreast the Watch
Commander, stopped, barked a command to halt,
and turned to face his charges. They knotted
forward, not anticipating the order, separated
and spaced themselves.

"OK, inmates," the guard grinned, "up against
the bulkhead, please. Relax. You're gonna get the
official greeting to this paradise of the outback."

Swinging about, he tossed a perfunctory salute
in the officer's direction. At ease against
the opposite bulkhead, he watched benignly as
his charges shuffled about and lined up in no
particular order. The guard at the other end
stood astride the passageway in a casual stance.

The Watch Commander cleared his throat with
a slight cough to focus their attention.

"I'm Lieutenant Malcolm," he said. "I run the
Reception Center on this station. You may or
may not know where you are; let's be certain
that you do."

The six faces stared at him. One of the men in
the lineup, third from the head, shifted his gaze
from the officer to the guards and back again.
A bit above medium height, ropy necked and
thick-shouldered he gave the impression of a male
at ease, confident but wary. Below his gray-black
bristle of close-cropped hair and space-bleached
brows his deep-set green eyes moved on to calmly
scan the deck, bulkheads and corridor. He returned
eyes to the officer and the guards. He had the air
of a leader.

The officer drew a deep breath and continued.
"The manifest of the transport from which you just
disembarked listed you as 'cargo' transferred to
this station from the temporary holding jails of
Earth, Luna or Mars, or wherever you were being
held. Don't let being recorded as 'cargo' bother
you. Official visitors and guests are passengers,
prisoners are cargo. If the transport's brigs were
cramped, that's the name of the game; they're not
built for comfort. Each of you did get a separate
cell on board, I understand. In that respect, at
least, you all got better than routine treatment."

The last remark raised sardonic eyebrows on two
faces in the li