He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strode under a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casually to the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and a pansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.
"Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?"
Wayne grinned down. "Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey."
"Well," the sergeant said. "How tough we are this evening. You have a pass, killer?"
"Wayne Seton. Draft call."
"Oh." The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wrote on a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. "Go to the Armory and check out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report to Captain Jack, room 307."
"Thanks, sarge dear," Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.
A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne. Finally he said, "So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kid breaking out tonight?"
"Hold your teeth, pop," Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting a cigarette. "I've decided."
The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement. "Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city and you're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babes are clever hellcats in a dark alley."