"Fortunately, I'm not. The cross I bear is Emergency Inspection. Do they land or don't they? How long are you going to let those people — ?"
"Stop calling them people. They probably have six heads and forty-eight tentacles, and eat their young for breakfast."
"Anybody that has brain enough to transport themselves a hundred thousand light-years across space is people in my book," said Joe. He picked up a thick cigar and chomped heavily on it. "And they're in trouble. Do they land or don't they?"
"We're proceeding according to I.G. Board agreement," said O'Conners. "Regulations provide —"
"That even if a guy is about dead he can go ahead and die as long as he hasn't got a letter of introduction from I.G."
"Regulations provide," continued the inspector patiently, "that in case of first contact between a visiting race and a given planet, the representatives arriving shall present adequate data for identification which shall then be verified through the I.G. Central Operations unit. That is what we are doing."
"Even if it kills the strangers."
"No exceptions were provided or could be provided for emergency cases. You know that very well. You cannot have forgotten the Trojan incident of Malabar Seven. And so we are proceeding according to regulations and agreement. Any of us would get the same treatment from their planet, wherever that might be."
"You mean you haven't even got them pegged, yet? I told you yesterday they were from Nerane IV and I pointed it out on the charts and showed your central operators the encyclopedic data —"
O'Conners waved disparagingly. "Your sorter isn't official. It has to be verified by our official machines."