It was a relief to Monk to shed the heavy space-suit in the air-filled room. And it was a revelation, for with helmet and boots removed, he found himself almost floating with each step he took, moving feather-light over the ground. He was surprised, and a little unnerved at first, but then he remembered that this feeble gravitation was the preserver of his health—and he laughed aloud.
"Something funny?" said the man at the front desk. He was a young man, about thirty, but there was an ageless competence in his features.
Monk smiled. "Just feeling good, that's all." He patted the brown leather bag in his hand.
"Name?"
"Well, it will be listed as Wheeler...."
The official scanned the list. "Here it is. Ben Wheeler." He looked up at Monk curiously. "How old are you, Mr. Wheeler?"
"Fifty," said Monk.
"Pretty old for the Colony, aren't you, Mr. Wheeler?"
Monk smirked. "The first thing we have to do is get rid of that Wheeler business, young man. My name is Monk. Fletcher Monk."
The official looked puzzled. "I don't get it. Why the phoney name?"