The trip seemed shorter, though, than it had the previous evening. Winstead skidded to a halt at their destination and discovered that he was perspiring slightly. His passengers were in a frank sweat and lost several yards trailing him into the terminal and over to the Agency counter.
When they arrived, still quite pale, Winstead was already up to his elbows in shipping schedules and blank forms. A few passing clerks glanced curiously at Feigelson's frilly pink dressing gown, but they were used to outworld garb.
"Wait! That's my Galatlas you're tearing apart!" Carole protested breathlessly.
"How would you know, my dear?" asked Winstead, riffling the pages furiously. "Hah! Just as I thought—this cruise ship down here for supplies, the Virgo, is listed to make New Ceres next. The Galatlas shows that New Ceres is halfway to Epseri, Feigelson!"
"Wilfie!" wailed Carole. "Make him stop tearing the place apart like a saloon! Look at that stack of folders spilled all over the floor!"
Wilfie bestirred himself, but he was handicapped by being on the other side of the counter with Carole and Feigelson.
"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded truculently. "Where did you come from, anyway?"
"I came from Terra," said Winstead, pausing in filling out a form, "and I am more than ready to return. Combining a vacation with a business inspection trip occasionally becomes too exciting for a man of my years."
"Inspection trip?" echoed Carole, freezing.
"My hobby," said Winstead. "It keeps one in touch with the people who make the Agency go. This place, now, is the most slapdash, disorganized—Young man! You quit one of your jobs and take over this branch of the Interstellar Travel Agency. Don't argue—of course you can! What is your full name?"