He stepped across a curtain of hot air that blew up from a narrow slit in the deck and found himself in the main foyer of Chilblains Base.
The entrance looked like the entrance to a theater—a big metal and plastic opening, like a huge room open on one side, with only that sheet of hot air to protect it from the storm raging outside. The lights and the small doors leading into the building added to the impression that this was a theater, not a military base.
But the man who was standing near one of the doors was not by a long shot dressed as an usher. He wore a sergeant’s stripes on his regulation Space Service parka, which muffled him to the nose, and he came over to Mike the Angel and said: “Commander Gabriel?”
Mike the Angel nodded as he shook icy drops from his gloved hands, then fished in his belt pocket for his newly printed ID card.
He handed it to the sergeant, who looked it over, peered at Mike’s face, and saluted. As Mike returned the salute the sergeant said: “Okay, sir; you can go on in. The security office is past the double door, first corridor on your right.”
Mike the Angel tried his best not to look surprised. “Security office? Is there a war on or something? What does Chilblains need with a security office?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Don’t ask me, Commander; I just slave away here. Maybe Lieutenant Nariaki knows something, but I sure don’t.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
Mike the Angel went inside, through two insulated and tightly weather-stripped doors, one right after another, like the air lock on a spaceship. Once inside the warmth of the corridor, he unzipped his electroparka, shut off the power, and pushed back the hood with its fogproof faceplate.
Down the hall, Mike could see an office marked security officer in small letters without capitals. He walked toward it. There was another guard at the door who had to see Mike’s ID card before Mike was allowed in.