"No. Spacemen aren't required to join the U.F.W."
"If you want to give me a part payment on the initiation fee, I'll be glad to issue—"
"It'll be a long, hard winter before Eric Young gets any of my credits," Hunter said, his eyes narrowing. Considering how Hunter felt about the Union of Free Workers and the labor czar, Eric Young, he thought he had phrased his answer with remarkable restraint.
"Anti-labor," the clerk said, and typed the designation on the form.
"No," Hunter snapped, "and I won't be labeled that. As far as the individual goes, I believe he has every right to organize. No one can stand up against the cartels in any other way. But this exploitation by Young—"
"You either join the U.F.W., or you're against us." The clerk shrugged disinterestedly. "It's all one and the same thing to me, Captain. However, if you expect a job in the city, you'll have to get it through the union." He typed again on the customs form. "According to a new regulation, I'm obliged to classify you as unemployed, and that restricts you to limited areas of Los Angeles as well as—"
"When the hell did they put over a law like that?"
"Two weeks ago, sir. It gives the clinics a closer control over the potentially maladjusted, and it should help ease the pressure—"
"There are no exceptions?"
"The executive classifications, naturally—professionals, and spacemen. That would have included you, Captain Hunter, but you say you've left the service."