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alert the proctor seated nearby that here was a person who needed to be pulled aside for questioning and possible arrest. But this seldom occurred; most of the time, the people who came off the ships had clean records, or at least so far as Earth’s law-enforcement agencies were aware, and what they did after they had gone through passport control was none of his concern.
    In the six months that he’d been at this job, Hawk had seen all kinds on the other side of his window. Indeed, it had become something of a private game, figuring out who they were and why they were here even before he asked his questions. If they wore expensive clothes and carried heavy suitcases, then they were tourists, usually wealthy, who’d come to Coyote for a vacation that might last anywhere between two weeks and a season. If they were well dressed, with only one or two light bags, then they were probably business travelers here for no more than six weeks, or however long it would take for them to conclude whatever deals they were trying to make. The ones who came off small, private ships and had a certain air of privilege were usually government officials—ambassadors, trade emissaries, general consuls, and the like—arriving to take up posts at embassies on New Florida. And every so often, he’d get someone who didn’t fit one of the usual profiles. Celebrities, their entourages in tow, coming to make a vid, research a novel, or simply get away from the press for a while. Missionaries from one religion or another, determined to bring the word of God to the heathens of the new world. Now and then, nervous smugglers, trying hard to pass for normal while sweating out the drugs, liquor, or guns hidden in their bags.
    More often than not, though, the people he met were immigrants.
    They were the easiest to identify. Their clothes were plain, sometimes threadbare, and usually looked as if they’d been worn for days. Their bags and trunks were overstuffed, and Hawk knew that, if he were to watch them being unpacked at the nearby inspection tables, he’d see precious mementos and keepsakes from the life they’d left behind. And they were almost never alone, but were accompanied by husbands or wives, or children, or relatives, or lifelong friends.
    But what really set them apart was the look in their eyes. Like everyone else on Coyote, Hawk had heard stories about how badly things on Earth had deteriorated. Not just environmental collapse—glaciers in northern Europe, desertification of the American heartland, catastrophic floods in the Middle East and Southeast Asia, widespread drought across much of Africa, Australia, and South America—but also the gradual breakdown of human civilization as a result of global climate change. The Western Hemisphere Union was crippled, its system of social collectivism buckling under the strain of having too many mouths to feed. The European Alliance wasn’t faring much better; the great cities of London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Moscow were emptying out, their former residents fleeing south to places like Rome, Athens, and Istanbul, which themselves were struggling with the huge influx of refugees. The Pacific Coalition had all but lapsed into anarchy, with nearly a third of its population reduced to living on anchored ships and barges, while the nations of the southern hemisphere had become a patchwork of city-states, ranging from fundamentalist theocracies to military dictatorships.
    So anyone who was able to do so was leaving Earth, sometimes with little more than the clothes on their backs. But the limited resources of the Moon and Mars colonies couldn’t support so many people, and the Jovian moons were inhospitable to all but the most brave, adaptable, or crazy. Which left Coyote as the last, best refuge for the human race.
    Day after day, Hawk saw the faces of those fortunate enough to buy passage to 47 Ursae Majoris. Even as they pulled dog-eared passports from their pockets and mumbled replies to his