"Let's have your bag," he said.
Winstead handed it over. The spacer shoved it into what seemed to be a spacious compartment in spite of the yard-square door.
"Now you," he said. "I'll give you a hand up."
"Up where?" asked Winstead innocently.
"In there. That's your acceleration compartment. Plenty of room. Armored, air-conditioned, has its own emergency rations of air and water."
Winstead stooped to peer into the opening. It was deeper than he had thought, but a three-foot square was not much of a cross section. All surfaces inside were thickly padded and springy to the touch.
"Here's the light switch," the spacer said, turning on a soft interior light. "The rest of the facilities and instructions are on this plate beside the hatch. Okay now, grab that handhold up there so you go in feet first. Alley-oop!"
As long as I don't come out that way, thought Winstead, sliding into the compartment with surprising ease. He twisted around and discovered that the door had a small window.
"Make yourself comfortable," said the spacer. "Just don't forget to close the hatch when the takeoff buzzer sounds. You'd better listen for it."
He turned away. Winstead saw him look into several other little windows along the bulkhead.