It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.
With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.
Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable. Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.
A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be available for consultation."
Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he asked. "It's merely a matter of information."
"We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostily. "I can't give you any information until you comply with them."
"Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to the first counselor."
"You are speaking to her," she said. Her face disappeared from the screen.
Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.
Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantly supplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him, Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had of him. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions and answers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney 21 was his own business.