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."
Dal turned and started across the main concourse of the great airport.
He felt a stir of motion at his side, and looked down at the small pink
fuzz-ball sitting in the crook of his arm. "Looks like we're out of
luck, pal," he said gloomily. "If we don't get on the next plane, we'll
miss the hearing altogether. Not that it's going to do us much good to
be there anyway."
The little pink fuzz-ball on his arm opened a pair of black shoe-button
eyes and blinked up at him, and Dal absently stroked the tiny creature
with a finger.
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