"Eight years." Tam looked up at him, anxiously. "Can I have my papers
now?"
A cruel grin played over the officer's lips. "Sure," he said, handing
back the packet of papers. "Happy job-hunting," he added sardonically.
"But remember--the ship's going back to the Rings in a week. You can
always sign yourself over for fare--"
"I know," said Tam, turning away sharply. "I know all about how that
works." He tucked the papers carefully into a tattered breast pocket,
hefted the bag wearily, and began trudging slowly across the cold
concrete of the Port toward the street and the Underground. A wave of
loneliness, almost overpowering in intensity, swept over him, a
feeling of emptiness, bleak and hopeless. A chilly night wind swept
through his unkempt blond hair as the automatics let him out into the
street, and he saw the large dirty "New Denver Underground" sign with
the arrow at the far side of the road. Off to the right, several miles
across the high mountain plateau, the great capitol city loomed up,
shining like a thousand twinkling stars in the clear cold air. Tam
jingled his last few coins listlessly, and started for the downward
ramp. Somewhere, down there, he could find a darkened corner, maybe
even a bench, where the police wouldn't bother him for a couple of
hours. Maybe after a little sleep, he'd find some courage, hidden away
somewhere. Just enough to walk into an office and ask for a job.
That, he reflected wearily as he shuffled into the tunnel, would take
a lot of courage--
* * * * *
The girl at the desk glanced up at him, indifferent, and turned her
eyes back to the letter she was typing. Tam Peters continued to stand,
awkwardly, his blond hair rumpled, little crow's-feet of weariness
creeping from the corners of his eyes. Slowly he looked around the
neat office, feeling a pang of shame at his shabby clothes. He should
at least have found some way to shave, he thought, some way to take
some of the rumple from his trouser legs. He looked back at the
receptionist, and coughed, lightly.
She finished her letter at a leisurely pace, and finally looked up at
him, her eyes cold. "Well?"
"I read your ad. I'm looking for a job. I'd like to speak to Mr.
Randall."
The girl's eyes narrowed, and she took him in in a rapid, sweeping
glance, his high, pale forehead, the shock of mud-blond hair, the
thin, sensitive face with the exaggerated lines of approaching middle
age, the slightly misty blue eyes. It seemed to Tam that she stared
for a full minute, and he shifted uneasily, trying to meet the cold
inspection, and failing, finally settling his eyes on her prim, neatly
manicured fingers. Her lip curled very slightly. "Mr. Randall can't
see you today. He's busy. Try again tomorrow." She turned back to
typing.
A flat wave of defeat sprang up in his chest. "The ad said to apply
today. The earlier the better."
She sniffed indifferently, and pulled a long white sheet from the
desk. "Have you filled out an application?"
"No."
"You can't see Mr. Randall without filling out an application." She
pointed to a small table across the room, and he felt her eyes on his
back as he shuffled over and sat down.
He began filling out the application with great care, making the
printing as neat as he could with the old-style vacuum pen provided.
Name, age, sex, race, nationality, planet where born, pre-Revolt
experience, post-Revolt experience, preference--try as he would, Tam
couldn't keep the ancient pen from leaking, making an unsightly blot
near the center of the form. Finally he finished, and handed the paper
back to the girl at the desk. Then he sat back and waited.
Another man came in, filled out a form, and waited, too, shooting Tam
a black look across the room. In a few moments the girl turned to the
man. "Robert Stover?"
"Yuh," said the man, lumbering to his feet. "That's me."
"Mr. Randall will see you now."
The man walked heavily across the room, disappeared into the back
office. Tam eyed the clock uneasily, still waiting.
A garish picture on the wall caught his eyes, a large, very poor oil
portrait of a very stout, graying man dressed in a ridiculous green
suit with a little white turban-like affair on the top of his head.
Underneath was a little brass plaque with words Tam could barely make
out: