"You know," he said thoughtfully, "it hardly seems necessary to spend all that time finding a ship headed for Epseri. I--uh--happen to be going that way too. I suspect that a good, close look at the schedules down at the spaceport might show us a way." "But Carole is the clerk in charge." "I also happen to know a little about how it's done," said Winstead quietly. He added, "From traveling so much you know." "Well, if you think anything can be done, I'm all for it." "When the kid wakes up, she could drive you down," suggested the farmer. "That should require only a moment to arrange," said Winstead, rising to fill a pitcher with ice water. _Fifty credits a night!_ he thought. _Wait till I get my hands on her shipping schedules!_ Hardly five minutes later, they all spilled out of the elevator into the lobby. Carole was still rather damp and angry. Cecil Feigelson's suitcase zipper was only three-quarters closed. Fortunately, he was wearing pants under the girl's dressing gown, which clashed horribly with Winstead's rumpled orange suit. "Hey!" someone yelped as they blazed through the lobby. Young Wilfie catapulted from a chair where he appeared to have been dozing. _Doesn't he have a home?_ wondered Winstead. * * * * * By the time they reached Carole's groundcar outside, the youth had somehow inserted himself into the group in place of the farmer. Winstead set the machine in motion while the others were scrambling for seats. "Do you know how to drive one of these, friend?" asked Feigelson. "I am an expert groundcar operator," Winstead assured him. Unfortunately, he was soon forced to admit, he was accustomed to Terran cars that floated on cushions of air. Although bumps in the spaceport road encouraged a good deal of floating at the speed he was making, the Gelbchen vehicle was really designed for less intermittent wheel-to-ground contact. The trip seemed shorter, though, than it had the previous evening. Winstead skidded to a halt at their destination and discovered that he was perspiring slightly. His passengers were in a frank sweat and lost several yards trailing him into the terminal and over to the Agency counter. When they arrived, still quite pale, Winstead was already up to his elbows in shipping schedules and blank forms. A few passing clerks glanced curiously at Feigelson's frilly pink dressing gown, but they were used to outworld garb. "Wait! That's my Galatlas you're tearing apart!" Carole protested breathlessly. "How would you know, my dear?" asked Winstead, riffling the pages furiously. "Hah! Just as I thought--this cruise ship down here for supplies, the _Virgo_, is listed to make New Ceres next. The Galatlas shows that New Ceres is halfway to Epseri, Feigelson!" "Wilfie!" wailed Carole. "Make him stop tearing the place apart like a saloon! Look at that stack of folders spilled all over the floor!"