The processing was rapid; most of the two dozen passengers meant to stay here on St. Andrew V. Only a few, of whom Winstead was one, carried "ultimate destination" tickets. They remained after the locals had been taken in charge by a guide who would see them into the adjacent city.
Winstead finally reached a clerk, a dark, extremely brisk young man. He presented his papers. The young man riffled through them, stamped the date of arrival on the travel record according to both local and Terran calendar, then turned back abruptly to the card showing Winstead's destination. He shook his head in puzzled annoyance.
"I'm very sorry, Mr.—uh—Winstead. Is this the proper ticket you've given me? Could you have gotten it mixed up with someone else's?"
The traveler coughed and spluttered worried, questioning noises. A look of vague alarm spread over his undistinguished features.
His wispy gray hair had become rumpled when he had pulled off and stuffed into a side pocket his rather sporty maroon-and-white checked cap. This, plus the fact that he had to look up to the clerk, lent him an air of the typical little man in the wrong queue. It did not help that he wore old-fashioned sunglasses instead of colored contacts, and had forgotten to remove them before peering at the ticket.
"Why—er—yes, yes, this is right," he said. "See, here's my name on it."
The clerk sighed as he looked around, but his partner was busy. "Someone seems to have blown a nova, sir," he condescended to explain. "It says here your ultimate destination is Altair IV."
"Quite right, quite right," said Winstead. "Going out there to see what the sales possibilities are for—"
"And they sent you here from Epseri? That can't be, sir."