The technician stared at him strangely for a moment. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kendall. I can't give you your license. The computer shows that you're no longer fit to pilot a spacegoing vessel."
For an instant Kendall didn't react. Then it hit him. The technician had called him Mr. Kendall instead of Pilot Kendall. That meant only one thing.
He blinked and shook his head. "You're kidding. This is some kind of joke. I never felt better in my life."
"I'm just doing my job, Mr. Kendall. The computer says no—and I can't argue. I'll have to refuse you an extension of your certificate."
"But that means—hell, man, the Alexandra's due to blast off for Earth tonight! How—"
"We've already alerted an off-duty pilot to take your place, Mr. Kendall."
Numbly he said, "And how do I get back to Earth then? Hitchhike?"
"There's room on the passenger list of the Queen Alexandra, Mr. Kendall. The fee is—let me see—eight thousand dollars."
"Eight thous—" He stopped. As a cashiered-out spaceman he was entitled to a fat pension: five thousand a year for the rest of his life. But eight thousand right now would wipe out his savings, would—