Mr. Winstead sighed and returned to his quarters. At least, on this ship, he still had a private compartment in which to float his net. There was even a chair, equipped with a safety belt and folding table, bolted to the deck. What he did miss was the general dining saloon of the liner he had taken from Epseri II. _Still_, he reflected, _travel can't always be luxurious._ He spent some time, after the ship had slipped into stellar drive, in unpacking his one small suitcase. He found that he had to take his shaver to the general head to plug it in, but otherwise got along comfortably enough. One or two of the crew who shared his turn at the galley counter, in fact, took him for an old space hopper and began to exchange yarns. This sort of semi-suspended living passed the four-day hop to the Topaz system and the extra day necessary for planetary approach. When they landed, Winstead was the only passenger, either incoming or outgoing, to show up at the cargo shed designated as the spaceport administration building. Here on Topaz IV, the Agency clerk was a part-time man who had to be called from the mines on the far side of the city. He arrived to find Winstead dozing on a cot at the end of the shed. "Billy Callahan," he introduced himself. "They say you're not for the mines." "That is correct," answered Winstead, stretching a kink out of his back. "I have my destination here in these papers ... if you will bear with me a moment...." He fumbled out his identification, travel record, and ticket. Callahan, rubbing his carroty hair with a large, freckled hand, pored over them. A few minutes of searching through the battered desk that was his headquarters revealed the official arrival stamp. Its inky smear was duly added to the record. "Now for your way outa here," grunted Callahan. "Meanwhile, how about a cigar, Mr. Winstead?" "Why--thanks very much." Winstead regarded the torpedo doubtfully. He wondered upon which planet the tobacco for it--if it was tobacco--had been grown. "This might take a little while," said Callahan, applying to the ends of their cigars a lighter that could have welded I-beams. "It ain't every day we get a through traveler here. I gotta look up the Galatlas an' the shipping notices." He hoisted a bulky catalogue from a side table onto his desk and blew off a cloud of dust. Winstead seized the excuse to cough out a lungful of smoke. His host reached out for the ticket. "Ultimate destination Fomalhaut VIII," he read off. "Say! That ain't one I ever had to handle before!" He leafed through the volume for some minutes, reexamined the ticket, then dug into two or three appendices. He tapped a knobby knuckle against his chin. "It don't look to me, Mr. Winstead," he said thoughtfully, "like you shoulda wound up here at all. Fomalhaut VIII! That's a hell of a way from here!" "The clerk at the last spaceport _did_ seem to think there had been a mistake," Winstead volunteered cautiously.