Exceptional noses with aquiline bridges and upswept tips marked the
six adult couples who drifted past me through the valve into the
astraplane, Ap-GG-12C. They were large, tanned, blue-eyed, brown-haired
people; and they wore white coveralls stamped, in strange letters,
"Recessive--Alien Status." The varied children with them were
designated simply, "Alien."
Another big man, almost identical with the male emigrants, but dressed
in a spotted fur G-suit, floated out of the old shuttle, _Joe Nordo
III_. The astraplane's quadpilot stopped watching dials, turned to the
newcomer, and said, "Passenger for you, Ypsilanti. Hunter Ube Kinlock,
meet Dominant Olaf Ypsilanti."
"Low, Ypsilanti," I said, fighting my chronic spacesickness.
The shuttle pilot glared at me. My left hand was a graft, my cheek was
freshly scarred, and my scant red hair needed treatments; but I had not
supposed I was that repulsive.