"There's room on the passenger list of the _Queen Alexandra_, Mr.
Kendall. The fee is--let me see--eight thousand dollars."
"Eight thous--" He stopped. As a cashiered-out spaceman he was entitled
to a fat pension: five thousand a year for the rest of his life. But
eight thousand right now would wipe out his savings, would--
No. Sudden rage surged through him.
"Dammit, let me see those papers! This is a fake! Somebody wants me out
of the Service, that's all! Six months ago I had a perfect test!"
The clerk smoothly put the papers behind his back. "I'm sorry,
regulations forbid--"
"To hell with regulations! I'm going to be thrown out, do you
understand? I want to see those test results!"
"It's imposs--"
Kendall leaped.
The clerk went wide-eyed in astonishment as the burly spaceman sprang
for him. He jumped back, and Kendall landed just before him. Kendall
ripped a fist up from his knees and smashed it into the man's jaw,
taking out all his fury and resentment on the harmless clerk. The pale
man crumpled and sagged backward, mouthing stunned syllables.
Kendall hit him again and he fell.
"I want those papers!" He jumped forward atop the man, tried to
turn him over, get the computer reports still clutched in the
technician's hand. Blind rage swept over him. The clerk, dazed and near
unconsciousness, hung on to them grimly.
Kendall felt hands dig into his shoulderblades.
"Get off him," someone growled.
A knee thudded against his back, sending showers of sparks before his
eyes. "Get up!"
He was dragged to his feet. Three powerful-looking Martian policemen
stood over him, fingering heavy wooden truncheons ominously.
"What's the trouble here?" one of them asked. He was a blueskin nearly
seven feet tall. He must have weighed three hundred pounds, and it was
all muscle.
"Someone's trying to swindle me--" Kendall began.
"Let _him_ speak, buddy. He works here."
"This man," the clerk said, "is a former employee of Space Service. He
was just notified of his discharge, and for some reason decided to take
it out personally on me."
"That so? Okay, friend. Come on with us."
"No," Kendall snapped. He bolted past the big blueskin and started
wildly for the door--but a hand caught him. He was dragged back. An
open palm, calloused and horny, crashed into his face. Then another.
Then a fist knocked the air out of his stomach. He doubled up.
"Get away from me," he muttered, lashing out with fists and feet. The
three blueskins laughed harshly and closed in. Their blows descended
one after another. Kendall spun dizzily, bellowing in anger and pain,
and started to topple.
_It isn't fair_, he thought in the last dim moment of consciousness.
_It just isn't fair._
* * * * *
He woke up shivering, feeling as if a planet or two had fallen on him.
_Those blueskins do a job when they beat a man up_, he thought.
Stiffly he rolled over. The chilling winds of Mars came roaring down
to bite at him. He was lying in the gutter outside the Space Service
office, sprawled out with one hand lying casually along the sidewalk
like any drunk's. He was numb all over. Numb and cold.
Slowly he began to remember why he was down here in the gutter, and
anger began to warm him. He was washed-up. Through. At twenty-seven
his career as a spacepilot was over, and he had been booted out of the
Space Service office without ceremony.
Worse than that--he was stuck here on Mars with about ten dollars
in his pocket. It would cost eight thousand to get back home. Eight
thousand--and Kathy with a baby coming, and him with no job now. It was
enough to make a man kill himself.
He started to pull himself wearily to his feet, but his aching muscles
wouldn't support him and he sagged into a limp heap on the side of the
curb. His head dropped into his hands. A couple of tearless sobs shook
him.
A man ought to be better prepared for things like this, he told
himself. One minute a top-flight spaceman; then a machine gives you a
few tests and you're nothing but a bum sobbing in the gutter.
A hand touched his shoulder. Instinctively he shrank away. He was in no
shape for further fighting.
"Leave me alone," he said hollowly. "You want my wallet, take it.
There's ten bucks in it."
"But I don't want your wallet, Pilot Kendall. I want to help you."
Slowly Kendall turned his aching neck and looked up. The speaker was
a blueskin, tall and broad like all his race. He was looking down,
smiling warmly.
"You can't call me _Pilot_ Kendall. I'm not a pilot any more."
"That's only temporary," the blueskin said. "Come with me to Das
Shamra, and perhaps something can be arranged."
Kendall came awake instantly. He rose to his feet--and his six-three
was dwarfed by the blueskin's towering height. "What the hell is this?
Who's this Das Shamra, and what can he arrange for me?"
"Das Shamra is a wealthy merchant, Pilot Kendall. Wealth has many
advantages. Will you come with me?"