"Oh, well, it's time to close up anyway," the girl decided. She swept his papers into a drawer, after a fast glance at them. "We can fix these up tomorrow, Bob."
"You are a very quick reader," Winstead said.
"It said 'Robert L.,' didn't it? That's all I was looking for—your name. Mine's Carole, just to keep things straight. Now, since no more ships are due and no passengers can leave tonight, let's get out of here."
Winstead looked around, but the mechanic who had brought him in from the field had long since disappeared. Other clerks went about their own affairs in the background without showing any interest in him.
Carole hoisted herself onto the counter and twisted across in a swirl of skirts. There was no way for Winstead to avoid catching her. He saw that she was not really slim anywhere.
Grabbing his hand, she set off at a smart pace. He had just time to hook his bag off the counter as they passed it.
"You'll be wanting a place to stay," she said. "I'll bet you never slept well on that spaceship."
This so neatly paralleled Winstead's own opinion that he rejected a half-formed impulse to drag his feet.
They dashed pell-mell through a wide exit from the building to a parking lot. Carole led the way to a monstrous groundcar that looked as if its mother had been frightened by a truck. A moment later, they were boosting up to stellar speed along a more-or-less paved road to the city.
"They call it 'Junction,'" Carole informed him. "You'd think they could have picked a better name for the only real city on the planet."