n beings, but in my job--I
hadn't even had time to get my gee-legs.

I stepped off the glide strip in front of the ramp marked OUTGOING
PERSONNEL, handed the efficient looking redhead my Q-chit and ID, and
said: "Priority one."

"Quarantine, O.K.," she checked, smiling. "Feeling antiseptic?"

I had to admit, privately, that I did not. As applied to her, the term:
_coveralls, regulation, gray_ was strictly a euphemism. Perhaps it was
the combination of low gravity and controlled conditions that made
Lunatics of female persuasion blossom so anatomically. Or maybe she was
a plant, a deliberate psych experiment to put outbound starmen in a
particular frame of mind.

She flashed my identification on the screen, took a long look, and
became coldly efficient. _Callum, Ivor Vincent. Age: 40. Height: 5'8".
Weight: 142. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. Rank: Special Agent, Interstel._
"You look much older, Mr. Callum."

She consulted her assignment list.

"Lock Three."

I snapped the identoflake back in its bracelet, picked up my jump bag
and briefing kit, and headed up the ramp, feeling more eyes than the
redhead's. The anonymity of a GS working uniform hadn't lasted very
long.

* * * * *

By the time I was able to capture enough breath to make coherent sounds,
the shuttler was already approaching parking orbit. The pilot had used
maximum grav boost, and the trip must have crowded the record.

"That wasn't exactly SOP, was it?"

"Priority one, sir," the youngster replied, showing teeth wolfishly.

I was still trying to think up an adequate rebuttal when I came out of
the air lock and into the ship. Then I felt better. P 1 means, among
other things, first available transportation--but this giant was the
newest type, crammed to the buffers with the results of science's
latest efforts to make star _voyageurs_ as safe as express-strip
commuters inside a Terran dome. Even the vibrations of the great
Gatch-Spitzer-Melnikov generators, building toward maximum output, had
been dampened to a level more imaginary than tangible. Internal gravity
was momentarily in operation, as an additional blessing; and, walking
down the blue-lit corridor toward Astrogation, I could feel the
occasional, metallic, thermal thump that meant the IP drive was hot and
critical.

I got a second lift when I saw who was bending over the robopilot
console: Antonio Moya, Mexico City's gift to Galactic Survey some
thirty-fiv