He had chosen Mars, since otherwise he would have had to give up his assignment on the Queen Alexandra and wait to draw another. He was in good health, his reflexes were fine, and he didn't expect to hit any snags on the Mars end.
Not much, he thought.
He rose and walked toward the door. "How's that machine of yours coming?"
"We're still computing your curve, Pilot Kendall. It'll take just another moment or two."
Frowning, he took his seat again. He hadn't looked for this sort of trouble on Mars.
The Martian branch of Space Service didn't work with the same smooth efficiency as the Earth office. There, you walked in, let the computer run you over, and in ten minutes your license was stamped for another six-month extension. Here things worked differently.
It had taken him two days just to get an appointment—two days in which he wandered through Mars City, lonely and bitter, shuddering in the biting cold and feeling homesick for Earth and Kathy and good warm air with some oxygen in it. Then he had his exam—and, unaccountably, they requested him to return the next day for a re-test.
A re-test? What the devil for? When Kendall had returned, he had been shivering not only with the cold of Mars but with apprehension. He looked at his hands. They seemed to be steady. Were his reflexes wearing out? Was he washed-up as a spacepilot? He didn't know. The machine was going to tell him that soon enough.
The door opened. A white-smocked computer technician wearing the comet-insignia of Space Service came out, frowning uneasily and riffling a sheaf of papers. Kendall stood up.
"It's about time; I'd like to get going on my return run. Where's my license?"