"Me?" gasped Wilfie. "Wilfred Evans."
"All right, Evans, you're hired. You'll be able to get married and put a stop to all this nonsense of renting rooms while ships go out without our passengers."
"What authority have you to—" began Carole indignantly.
"The first test of a chief agent," said Winstead, scribbling upon a business card, "is to know when to tell an assistant manager to button her hatch."
Wilfie accepted the card and glanced at both print and scribbling.
"Button your hatch!" he ordered Carole over his shoulder.
She stood silent, her mouth open about the same distance as Feigelson's. Winstead looked about for a local clock, and snatched up one of the sheets strewn about the counter. A departure time listed upon it made him swear. He leaped to Carole's phone, switching on sound and screen with one swipe of his thumb.
The blonde advanced a timid step, to read the card bearing Wilfie's appointment.
"Robert Winstead Lewis, Terra ... President, Interstellar Travel Agency...."