He fought off the questions. He had no time for the puzzle now; there weren't enough pieces to make sense. He had only one thought: to find the doctor.
But that was a major problem all by itself. Washington was a good hour away by fast copter service. And in this big, suspicious city, it wouldn't be as easy to obtain free transport to his destination. He could do nothing—not without money.
When he thought of money, he thought of Adrian.
Adrian....
Of course! Adrian would know what to do next. Adrian always seemed to know what to do. Her father's money had opened every conceivable door in this city, and she herself had often suggested that it open doors for him. Doors to the executive heights of the Space Transport Company. Doors to the plush offices in the sky tower, doors to the select circle of cigar-smoking men who controlled the transportation empire of which Ron had been only a spare part. But Ron Carver had been young (he thought now, sourly) and his head had been stuffed with ideals. He detested the groundworms who stayed home and counted the profits of space travel. He wanted the stars.
So he had become a pilot, one of the best in her father's fleet. She had sworn at him for his decision, and turned away from his embrace. But on the night of their parting, the night before the dawn ascent towards the speck of light that was Andromeda, she had softened, and cried in his arms.
He thought now of that moment, and his small fingers rolled into fists.
Adrian, he thought. I must go to her....
The doorman was magnificent and imposing in his braided uniform, but his eyes were cold when he saw Ron.
"What do you want, son?"