Still, he reflected, travel can't always be luxurious.
He spent some time, after the ship had slipped into stellar drive, in unpacking his one small suitcase. He found that he had to take his shaver to the general head to plug it in, but otherwise got along comfortably enough. One or two of the crew who shared his turn at the galley counter, in fact, took him for an old space hopper and began to exchange yarns.
This sort of semi-suspended living passed the four-day hop to the Topaz system and the extra day necessary for planetary approach. When they landed, Winstead was the only passenger, either incoming or outgoing, to show up at the cargo shed designated as the spaceport administration building.
Here on Topaz IV, the Agency clerk was a part-time man who had to be called from the mines on the far side of the city. He arrived to find Winstead dozing on a cot at the end of the shed.
"Billy Callahan," he introduced himself. "They say you're not for the mines."
"That is correct," answered Winstead, stretching a kink out of his back. "I have my destination here in these papers ... if you will bear with me a moment...."
He fumbled out his identification, travel record, and ticket. Callahan, rubbing his carroty hair with a large, freckled hand, pored over them. A few minutes of searching through the battered desk that was his headquarters revealed the official arrival stamp. Its inky smear was duly added to the record.
"Now for your way outa here," grunted Callahan. "Meanwhile, how about a cigar, Mr. Winstead?"
"Why—thanks very much."
Winstead regarded the torpedo doubtfully. He wondered upon which planet the tobacco for it—if it was tobacco—had been grown.