The sergeant-major nodded and took a book of forms from a drawer in his desk. He wrote for a while, then said, "That's C-r-o-w-l-e-y, ma'am?"
"Right."
"Any time limit on the pass?"
"None at all," Jane said, still amazed that her ruse, her show of elation had actually worked.
The sergeant-major applied the finishing touches to the pass with an ink-stamp duplicate of the Colonel's signature and handed the stiff plastic rectangle to Jane. "There you are, ma'am," he said. "But watch your step, Miz Crowley. The last ship's blasting off in twenty hours, with or without the Mandmoorans. Twenty hours, ma'am. So please don't get lost."
Jane thanked him, smiled again, and got out of there.
Five minutes later, the Colonel buzzed for his sergeant-major. "Yes, sir?" the sergeant asked, poking his head in through the irising door.
"Well, I see the lady reporter didn't give much trouble after I made it clear the answer was no. Now, about that Sbogan file. Sbogan, that is the name?"
"Yeah, Sbogan. Fomalhautian name. What did you ... did you say, sir?"
"The Sbogan file should—"