“I’m sorry, sir,” the Spacer said. “You cannot enter here.”
Danson was on the other side, he knew. Nicholas Danson, the artist, the man with whom he had traded places. Suddenly he wanted to speak with the man, find out about him. All at once, Danson was not just another Terran - he was a man, with feelings, emotion...
“I’m Firstspacer Lors,” he heard his voice rumble with authority. “I’d like to speak with the Terran.”
The guard stiffened. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know who you were.”
“You will open the door, spacer?”
“Yes, sir, but you’d best leave your sidearm with me.”
Lors nodded and pulled his auto-pistol from the black leather holster and handed it to the guard who stuffed it into his belt. He reached back and unlocked the door. As it swung open, Lors stepped inside.
The room was not large; it couldn’t be very big on a starship, but it was serviceable. There was a dresser and locker for uniforms, as well as a visi-screen, a couch and a small bed. The Terran was lying on the bed, reading.
Lors smiled at him. They could have been twins of the same mother, were it not for the fact that Terran’s disposition was different. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his black hair was [p117] tangled. Even the fatigue uniform he wore was rumpled badly.
“Hello, Danson,” Lors said, in English, and to his acute surprise, the Terran answered in Lors’ tongue.