A normal Betan would have despised this world, but Kennon wasn’t normal, although to the casual eye he was a typical representative of the Medico-Technological Civilization, long legged, fair haired, and short bodied with the typical Betan squint that left his eyes mere slits behind thick lashes and heavy brows. The difference was internal rather than external.
Possibly it was due to the fact that his father was the commander of a Shortliner and most of his formative years had been spent in space. To Kennon, accustomed to the timeless horror of hyper space, all planets were good, broad open places where a man could breathe unfiltered air and look for miles across distances unbroken by dually bulk heads and safety shields. On a planet there were spaciousness and freedom and after the claustrophobic confinement of a hyper ship any world was paradise. Kennon sighed, finished his letters, and placed them in the mail chute. Perhaps, this time, there would be a favorable reply.
CHAPTER II
Kennon was startled by the speed with which his letters were answered. Accustomed to the slower pace of Beta he had expected a week would elapse before the first reply, but within twenty-four hours nine of his twelve inquiries were returned. Five expressed the expected “Thank you but I feel that your asking salary is a bit high in view of your lack of experience.” Three were frankly interested and requested a personal interview. And the last was the letter, outstanding in its quietly ostentatious folder-the reply from Box V-9.
“Would Dr. Kennon call at 10 A.M. tomorrow at the offices of Outworld Enterprises Incorporated and bring this letter and suitable identifications?” Kennon chuckled. Would he? There was no question about it. The address, 200 Central Avenue, was only a few blocks away. In fact, he could see the building from his window, a tall functional block of durilium and plastic, soaring above the others on the street, the sunlight gleaming off its clean square lines. He eyed it curiously, wondering what he would find inside.
* * *
The receptionist took his I.D. and the letter, scanned them briefly, and slipped them into one of the message tubes beside her desk. “It will only be a moment, Doctor,” she said impersonally. “Would you care to sit down? ‘”
“Thank you,” he said. The minute, reflected, could easily be an hour. But she was right. It was only a minute until the message tube clicked and popped a capsule onto the girl’s desk. She opened it, and removed Kennon’s I.D. and a small yellow plastic rectangle. Her eyes widened at the sight of the plastic card.
“Here you are, Doctor. Take shaft number one. Slip the card into the scanner slot and you’ll be taken to the correct floor. The offices you want will be at the end of the corridor to the left. You’ll find any other data you may need on the card in case you get lost.” She looked at him with a curious mixture of surprise and respect as she handed him the contents of the message tube.