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woman who had shoulder-length black hair. He smiled faintly but, without waiting for a response, turned his concentration back toward the lock control counter he had almost reached.
    The counter held only a screen, a speaker, and a scanner.
    â€œWhite,” he said softly to the screen.
    A face appeared on the formerly blank screen, the face of a pleasant young woman.
    â€œMay I help you, citizen?”
    â€œYou called me. Space Available Passenger White.”
    â€œMay I help you, citizen?” the screen repeated mindlessly, the carefully constructed female face showing the proper degree of abstracted concern, dark eyebrows rising with the words’ inflection.
    â€œYes. My name is Hale White.” The man looked down at the keyboard, finally touching one of the studs.
    â€œYes, citizen White,” the computer persona answered. “There has been a late cancellation. If you will accept a minimal amenities cabin, Republic Interstellar can fulfill your request for transportation to Haversol on the J. P. Morgan . If you accept, please depress the lighted panel on the console and insert your credtab.”
    The man called White tapped the “inquiry” stud instead.
    â€œYou have a further question?”
    â€œPrice. My funds are limited.” At the same time, he touched the “Cr” button, followed by another tap on the “inquiry” stud.
    â€œThe total price, including Imperial tax, Haversolian entry fees, pilotage surcharges, and minimal sustenance charges, will be Cr 1,087. If you accept, please insert your credtab.”
    He reluctantly pulled the thin strip from his belt and inserted it into the slot.
    â€œYour funds are sufficient, and your place on the J. P. Morgan is confirmed. Place your hand on the scanner.”
    A flash followed, creating a combined record of handprint and picture, against which any passenger claiming to be Hale White could be compared at the actual lock entry control port.
    â€œThank you for choosing Republic Interstellar. The J. P. Morgan is currently disembarking passengers through lock three. We anticipate beginning boarding passengers within one standard hour. Your boarding time will be in approximately one and one half standard hours. Please be at lock port three by 1430 Imperial Standard time.”
    The muscled man, who could have been a Solarian tough, an out-of-work steel-bending spacer, or someone even less reputable, turned away from the now blank screen and picked up the set of heavy bags, almost with contempt. Crossing the corridor back to the waiting area for lock port three, he ignored the scrutiny of women too young and too old, and another admirer of roughly the right age but the wrong sex.
    From the handful of empty chairs, he picked one away from the single large wall screen displaying the planet below, and nearer the lock port itself, where shortly the departing passengers would be entering the station for either shuttle service planetside or transfer to another ship.
    â€œDown on luck, spacer?” asked the white-haired and thin man in the flimsy chair next to him. His eyes were shielded behind heavy old-fashioned, black-lensed glasses.
    â€œNot yet,” the younger muscular man grunted. “Actinic burns?”
    â€œLaser.”
    The younger man shifted in his seat carefully, as if he were worried that the thin tubes and stretched fabric would collapse under him. He noted the thin wires running from the mirrored glasses to the bioplugs behind the older man’s ears.
    â€œScanner glasses? How do they work?”
    â€œAll right. Can’t do color, and they blur clothes. Some places shut me down. Don’t like broadcast energy, even low power. Hell on shapes, though. You look like ex-commando pilot type. Sort of like Dubnik.”
    â€œDubnik? Friend of yours?”
    â€œDubnik? That spineless musclehead? Hardly. When I was chief on the Alvarado , he gave me these scanners. Used to