"Maybe your name is Grayson and maybe the other guy is Grayson. You look alike and he had identification. I don't know Paul Grayson well enough to accept or deny you—or him. But until you show me credentials entitling you to roam this spaceport, you stay outside!"
"But—"
"The boys I sent out there are capable. Don't get in their way. They might shoot the wrong Paul Grayson."
"But—"
"Get your credentials. Get some sort of identification."
Paul looked at the big standard clock on the wall. "But I've got less than eight minutes until take-off time."
"There's always tomorrow. You'll get cleared first or no entry! And that's final."
"Hell's Eternal Bells!" exploded Paul. "The cops that brought me here did so because I was clipped on the bean and robbed."
"It's my job," explained the guard quietly. "I don't want to be any more of a bastard than I have to be. If you're Paul Grayson and the cops know you were robbed, there's the telephone."
Paul grabbed the phone and started to dial, fuming at the delay. First there was a few seconds until the dial tone came, then Paul dialed the outside line. Another few seconds of delay until he could dial the number of the municipal police department. Then a bored voice asked: