"Why yes. For me and my wife."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. "But that would be impossible in any case. You're too old."
He turned away from me and bent over his desk work again.
The words hung in the air. Too old ... too old ... I clutched the edge of the desk and steadied myself and forced down the panic I could feel rising.
"Do you mean," I said slowly, "that you wouldn't sell us tickets even if we had the money?"
He glanced up again, obviously annoyed at my persistence. "That's right. No passengers over seventy carried without special visas. Medical precaution."
I just stood there. This couldn't be happening. Not after all our years of working and saving and planning for the future. Not go back. Not even next year. Stay here, because we were old and frail and the ships wouldn't be bothered with us anyway.
Martha.... How could I tell her? How could I say, "We can't go home, Martha. They won't let us."
I couldn't say it. There had to be some other way.
"Pardon me," I said to the clerk, "but who should I see about getting a visa?"