Finally the conveyer dome around them shimmered into visibility and
materialized; when they emerged, there were policemen in green
uniforms who entered to search the dome with drawn needlers to make
sure they had picked up nothing dangerous on the way. The room outside
was similar to the one they had left on Home Time Line, even to the
shifting, noisy crowd in incongruously-mixed costumes.

* * * * *

The rocketport was a ten minutes' trip by aircar from the conveyer
head; when they boarded the stubby-winged strato-rocket, Vall saw that
two of the passenger-seats had square metal cabinets bolted in place
behind them and blue plastic helmets on swinging arms mounted above
them.

"Everything's set up," the pilot told them. "Dr. Hadron, you sit on
the left; that cabinet's loaded with language tape for Acalan. Yours
is loaded with a tape of Kharanda; that's the Fourth Level Kholghoor
language you wanted, Chief's Assistant. Shall I help you get fixed in
your seats?"

"Yes, if you please. Here, Dalla, I'll fix that for you."

Dalla was already asleep when the pilot was adjusting his helmet and
giving him his injection. He never felt the rocket tilt into firing
position, and while he slept, the Kharands language, with all its
vocabulary and grammar, became part of his subconscious knowledge,
needing only the mental pronunciation of a trigger-symbol to bring it
into consciousness. The pilot was already unfastening and raising his
helmet when he opened his eyes. Dalla, beside him, was sipping a cup