A murmur greeted the order. Craig experienced the thrill of knowing the envy of the others. Grav 1—that meant Terra. He crossed the long, dreary room, knowing the eyes of the other men were upon him.
"Your service tapes," the next noncom said. "Where you going?"
"Grav 1—Terra," fumbled Craig. "Los Angeles."
"Los Angeles, eh? Where in Los Angeles?"
"I—I—" Craig muttered, fumbling in his pockets.
"No specific destination," supplied the man as he punched a key on a small instrument, "Air-lock ahead and to your right. Strip and follow the robot's orders. Any metal?"
"Metal?" asked Craig.
"You know, metal."
"Well, my identification key."
"Here," commanded the clerk, extending a plastic envelope.