"Over two weeks now," said the other. "The kid's fair enough about it, I must admit. She can't ship me toward Epseri, so she's been giving me a discount on my room."
"Sit down and have some eggs," invited the farmer type. "Brought 'em into town myself, along with my other produce."
Winstead eyed the platter of fried eggs. They were entirely too large to have come from chickens, but they looked good. He decided not to ask any questions.
It developed after he joined them at the table that the farmer was in the habit of boarding with Carole whenever he came to Junction on business. The traveler, one Cecil Feigelson, excused his borrowing Carole's robe on grounds of the scanty baggage allowed space travelers and the fact that he had been hanging about for so long. They assured him that he looked fine in pink.
Winstead drained his cup of coffee substitute, considered having another.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "it hardly seems necessary to spend all that time finding a ship headed for Epseri. I—uh—happen to be going that way too. I suspect that a good, close look at the schedules down at the spaceport might show us a way."
"But Carole is the clerk in charge."
"I also happen to know a little about how it's done," said Winstead quietly. He added, "From traveling so much you know."
"Well, if you think anything can be done, I'm all for it."
"When the kid wakes up, she could drive you down," suggested the farmer.