_The Sexual Morality Act was fierce
to buck, but the Algolian sex surrogate
was ... er ... even fiercer!_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity March 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ralph Garvey's private space yacht was in the sling at Boston
Spaceport, ready for takeoff. He was on yellow standby, waiting for the
green, when his radio crackled.
"Tower to G43221," the radio buzzed. "Please await customs inspection."
"Righto," said Garvey, with a calmness he did not feel. Within him,
something rolled over and died.
Customs inspection! Of all the black, accursed, triple-distilled bad
luck! There was no regular inspection of small private yachts. The
Department had its hands full with the big interstellar liners from
Cassiopeia, Algol, Deneb, and a thousand other places. Private ships
just weren't worth the time and money. But to keep them in line,
Customs held occasional spot checks. No one knew when the mobile
customs team would descend upon any particular spaceport. But chances
of being inspected at any one time were less than fifty to one.
Garvey had been counting on that factor. And he had paid eight hundred
dollars to know for certain that the East coast team was in Georgia.
Otherwise, he would never have risked a twenty-year jail sentence for
violation of the Sexual Morality Act.