Coran laughed wickedly. "Don't flatter yourself. You're just a ticket to Venus to me. Meet me at the marriage bureau in half an hour. We haven't much time, and you'll have to be psychographed. We really should know each other. I'm Steve Coran."
"I'm Gerda Mors. In half an hour."
The purser stopped at a door marked No. 200. He was a young, inadequate-looking man.
"You won't have to carry me over the threshold," Gerda said crisply. She went inside and shut the door. In shocked silence, he re-checked the sheaf of papers in his hand.
"She's shy around strangers," Coran explained. "When do we take-off?"
"In five minutes. We're making these emigrant runs under very crowded conditions. All passengers are expected to remain in their own staterooms most of the time. A certain amount of exercise is permitted, of course, once free flight is attained and the A-orbit corrections made. Until then, we recommend that everyone remain out of the crew's way. The safest place during acceleration is in bed."
Coran winked ponderously. "I'll make out all right. One thing, though. I believe I have a friend on board. Am I permitted to examine the passenger lists?"
"Of course, they're public property. See the captain. His office is up near the bow, just aft of the control rooms. But wait till we're out in space."
Coran knocked and entered the stateroom. Gerda was brushing her hair. She glanced up irritably. "This is my room," she told him shortly. "Find yourself another."