They drove to the Port Office, where Kennon expected--and got--a bad time from the port officials. He filled out numerous forms, signed affidavits, explained his unauthorized landing, showed his spaceman’s ticket, defended his act of piloting without an up-to-date license, signed more forms, entered a claim for salvage rights to the Egg, and finally when the Legal Division, the Traffic Control Division, the Spaceport Safety Office, Customs, Immigration, and Travelers Aid had finished with him, he was ushered into the presence of the Port Captain. The red-faced chunky officer eyed him with a cold stare. “You’ll be lucky, young man, if you get out of this with a year in Correction. Your story doesn’t hang together.” It didn’t, Kennon thought. But there was no sense telling all of it to a Port Captain. Under no circumstances could the man be any help to him. He had neither the power nor the prestige to request a Brotherhood Board of Inquiry. In rank, he was hardly more than a glorified Traffic Control officer. It would do no good to tell him an improbable tale of slavery on a distant planet. The only thing to do was wait out the storm and hope it would pass. If worst came to worst he’d use his rank, but he’d made enough stir already. He doubted if the Captain had authority to order him into Detention--but he was certain to get a lecture. These minor officials loved to tell someone off. He gritted his teeth. He’d endure it for Copper’s sake--and to get out of here quietly. Alexander would undoubtedly have agents posted by now, and his only chance for temporary freedom of action was to get out of here with as little fuss as possible. He sat quietly, his flushed face and tight jaw muscles betraying his impatience as the Captain paced up and down and talked on and on. The man sounded like he could go for hours. With increasing impatience Kennon listened to the cadenced flow of complaint and condemnation, occasionally inserting a “Yes, sir” or “Sorry, sir” or “No, sir” as the words flowed around him. However, there had to be a breaking point somewhere, and the monotony was beginning to wear his temper thin. Another five minutes, he reflected, was about all he could take. The door chime rang softly. “Come in,” the Port Captain said, breaking off in mid-tirade. The change in his manner was so abrupt that Kennon couldn’t help smiling. A young blond man in an interne’s gray uniform entered the room. “Yes, Doctor,” the Port Captain said. “What can I do for you?” “Do you have a Jac Kennon here? Dr. Jac Kennon?” “Did you say doctor?” the Port Captain said in a half-strangled voice. “You never let me tell you,” Kennon said mildly, “that my landing here was a matter of medicine. Technically you have contributed to a delay in treatment.” The Port Captain’s face paled. “Why didn’t you say something?” he said.