"Don't be silly," the clerk said sharply. "Only graduates can get
reservations this time of year--" He broke off to stare at Dal Timgar,
a puzzled frown on his face. "Let me see that reservation."

Dal fumbled in his pants pocket for the yellow reservation slip. He was
wishing now that he'd kept his mouth shut. He was acutely conscious of
the clerk's suspicious stare, and suddenly he felt extremely awkward.
The Earth-cut trousers had never really fit Dal very well; his legs were
too long and spindly, and his hips too narrow to hold the pants up
properly. The tailor in the Philadelphia shop had tried three times to
make a jacket fit across Dal's narrow shoulders, and finally had given
up in despair. Now, as he handed the reservation slip across the
counter, Dal saw the clerk staring at the fine gray fur that coated the
back of his hand and arm. "Here it is," he said angrily. "See for
yourself."

The clerk looked at the slip and handed it back indifferently. "It's a
valid reservation, all right, but there won't be another shuttle to
Hospital Seattle for three hours," he said, "unless you have a priority
card, of course."

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Dal said. It was a ridiculous suggestion, and
the clerk knew it. Only physicians in the Black Service of Pathology and
a few Four-star Surgeons had the power to commandeer public aircraft
whenever they wished. "Can I get on the next shuttle?"

"You can try," the clerk said, "but you'd better be ready when they
start loading. You can wait up on the ramp if you want to."