"But--they told me--don't you Agency people take care of picking out the routes?" "Yes, sir, of course. Beyond the local Terran sphere of travel, there are very few scheduled flights and most of them are for important cargo. That's why your ticket simply shows your ultimate destination, and that's why the Interstellar Travel Agency was developed--to arrange for the traveler's progress by stages." "Yes," said Winstead. "That is how they explained it to me." The clerk met his worried gaze for a few moments before shaking himself slightly. He prodded the ticket on the counter between him and Winstead with a disdainful forefinger. "Let me put it as simply as possible, Mr.--uh--Winstead," he said very patiently. "Somebody at your last stop sent you in the wrong direction." "But--but--you just said it went by stages. I realize I can't go in a direct line. It depends on whether you can find me the right ship, doesn't it?" The young man glanced about once more for help, but none was available. "We'll see what we can do," he said, examining the ticket sourly. He thumbed a button to roll out a length of note paper from a slot in the counter top and scribbled upon it with his lectropen. "Now, if you will please accompany that young lady to the Agency hotel with those other travelers, we will notify you the moment a desirable ship is scheduled to leave." Winstead thanked him gratefully and turned away to locate his baggage. Under the conditions imposed by space travel, only the barest minimum was permitted. Even so, some little time was required to find his bag--an unlikely occurrence that the clerk accepted with a resigned air. Finally, with the half dozen who also would be traveling onward, Winstead was off to the hotel and a day's rest. As a matter of fact, it was three days' rest, before he was summoned. He was, perhaps by intent, confronted upon his arrival by a different clerk, a solid, square-faced girl. Winstead's nervous questions were reflected unanswered from a shield of impervious calm. He received all the information the Agency seemed to feel was good for him and was sent out with a personal guide. The guide delivered him to a thick thing named the _Stellar Streak_, clearly a workhorse freighter. Somehow, it never did become plain to Winstead until after he had emerged from his acceleration net that the destination was Topaz IV. "But, Captain!" he protested. "Are you sure the people at the spaceport have not made some mistake? That is more or less the direction I came from." The pilot stared impatiently at the papers thrust under his nose. "Can't say, sir. We have our work cut out just to take the ship to where they tell us. Only reason we carry passengers is that regulations require cooperation with the Agency. Don't believe in it myself." * * * * *