"Papers," the ISP man said and held out his hand.
With a start Vickers realized that he had reached the end of the gangplank. The ISP man took one look at Vickers' little green book and his face hardened.
"Parolee!" he said.
There were whispers from the crowd. A little boy said: "What's he done, momma? What's he done?"
"Hush!" she bade him.
Vickers gave no sign that he'd heard.
"Two-time loser, eh?" the ISP man went on and ran his eyes over Vickers. He saw a tall man with huge shoulders, the muscle bulging the cheap gray cloth—muscle that could be acquired only in the killing gravity of Jupiter's penal mines. Then he saw Vickers' eyes, and he looked startled.
Vickers had his nictitating lids lowered; his eyes seemed almost normal. Almost but not quite!
"What the devil!" the ISP man wet his lips. "Vickers! By God, I should have recognized the name. Vickers, eh?" He seemed about to say more, then changed his mind. "Move along. You're holding up the line."
"My passport."