The door to the boarding ramp stood open. A metallic voice spoke over an intercom. "Last call for Flight Three-four-seven. Boarding now. Repeat. Last call for...."
"Good luck!" the Investigator said.
Then Hendley was stumbling down the ramp, turning once to wave awkwardly.
There was no sensation of motion beyond a vibration so faint that it could almost be put down to imagination. Yet the knowledge that the copter was in flight gave Hendley, sitting in the blind-walled passenger cabin, a strange feeling of being helplessly adrift. Deprived of the sight of land below, he had no way of knowing whether the ship rose or fell, moved forward or backward, and no point of reference by which to judge its speed. He might have been in a runaway rocket, plunging out of control through space, like those legendary vehicles of an earlier world a century dead.
After a while he recognized the sensation of being watched. Eyes probed like feelers at the back of his neck. When he glanced around, the nearest passenger, a man seated across the center aisle and one row behind, quickly averted his gaze. Only then did Hendley realize that he was sitting apart from the other passengers, who were tightly grouped to the front and rear, as if they had consciously avoided the seats close to him. A woman several rows ahead masked her interest guiltily, pretending to stare over Hendley's head—fascinated by the empty baggage rack.
Puzzled, Hendley frowned. He felt self-conscious enough in this strange uniform....
Understanding came. Of course! The other passengers wore blue, yellow, in two instances beige. His was the only white coverall. The curiosity, the averted and envious eyes, the careful avoidance of adjoining seats were suddenly explained. Freemen were never seen in the city—as far as Hendley knew they never left the Freeman Camps. The fact had never before struck him as unusual. Chances were that none of his fellow passengers had ever seen a white uniform before except on a viewscreen. And it was extremely doubtful that any of them would recognize the meaning of the red sleeve emblem—the only mark, Hendley had been told, distinguishing his coverall from that of a permanent Freeman.
He settled back in his seat, half-amused, aware of a peculiar sense of pleasure, of—what was it?—superiority. If only they knew he was to be free for only twenty-four hours! But they would undoubtedly envy him still. How many had the chance to know what freedom was really like?...
He gave himself up to the feeling of being adrift, carried helplessly along. For the first time since his rebellion began he had time to think. On that first day too much had happened too fast. Even at the Morale Center he'd had no time for the luxury of collecting his thoughts. It had been close to morning when the Investigator's astonishing pronouncement ended his questioning. Hendley had had no rest for twenty-four hours. Exhausted, he had slept through most of the day. Shortly after waking he learned that the morale computer had approved his visit to the Freeman Camp. When he expressed a desire to return to his room to prepare for the trip, the Investigator demurred politely. "That won't be necessary," he said.