ramp that led to the ship’s hatch, and the Krassians kept close behind.
Four men and three women rumbled hastily down the ramp, fleeing the ship. Some carried bags. The group melted into the throng, except for one woman who left her bag with a man and then returned to the ship.
Appy’s accented voice cut the cool air cleanly, calling out the names of those who were welcome on the voyage: “Pitarkin, Nathaniel R . . . Scovill, Cecilia . . . Markwell, Jason Q . . . Scanners activated to verify identities . . . No tricks, and don’t try to sneak on any more baggage. . . . “
But McMurtrey saw a few travelers board with weapons worn outside their clothing, secured by sheaths, straps and various harnessing arrangements. They weren’t rejected, so it seemed that weapons were not considered “baggage.” He wondered about the extent of personal hygiene supplies aboard. If there weren’t any, or if they were inadequate, the odors would not be pleasant.
A small electric sign on one side of the ship’s hatch became apparent, in bright purple letters:
PERSONAL PROPERTY LIMITATION
BRING ONLY WHAT YOU’RE WEARING
This sign hadn’t been there before, or it hadn’t been lit. McMurtrey thought of the pocket knife, coins and wallet in his pickpocket-proof trousers.
Pickpocket-proof trousers, he thought.
On one hand, it struck him funny to have on such attire in the midst of religious people, many of whom rejected all material goods. Most of the voyagers appeared to be unarmed, and a number were obvious ascetics, with bare feet, shaven heads and thin robes. There were nuns, priests, rabbis, pastors, monks, lamas, and perhaps even bishops and archbishops, judging from the elegant, golden-threaded robes of some.
Then McMurtrey remembered having heard someone say that you had to watch out most for Krassians—especially the ones who “wear their religions on their sleeves.” It was a caller on a radio show, he recalled, a fellow who cited bad experiences with the type he spoke about. “They think they can be forgiven for anything,” he said, “so they’ll rob you blind.”
McMurtrey held no personal animosity toward the adherents of any faith, had known a number of Krassians who seemed quite decent, and none of the other variety. Still, the concept of a person who could be forgiven for virtually any act seemed detestable, and he wondered how prevalent this strange doctrine was.
Appy called out the names of Johnny Orbust, C.T. Tully and Kundo Smith. They filed around McMurtrey (Orbust wearing his large, holstered pistol) and boarded the ship. Seconds later when McMurtrey heard his own name, he followed.
A chrome-plated dispensing machine he hadn’t noticed before was mounted on the bulkhead just inside the main passenger compartment. After he went through an Identification scanner in the hatchway, he was instructed by Appy to take a cabin assignment ticket from the dispenser. Nothing was said about the contents of his pockets.
McMurtrey took an oversized red and yellow ticket, caught an elevator to Mezzanine Level 6. He had been assigned Cabin 66, and noticed an abbreviated map on the back of the ticket.
He stepped from the elevator with a half dozen fellow passengers, checked his map and went to the left, tramping along a softly padded walkway for a short distance. The material beneath his feet was light gray and porous, looked like weathered cork with a glossy sealer coat applied over it, and absorbed sound so efficiently he hardly heard his own passage. The walkway opened onto a wide, partitioned mezzanine that had a curved black railing on the left and curved silver-gray interior partitions directly ahead and to the right, all following the contour of the ship’s body.
People from the elevator filed around McMurtrey, into the interior spaces. He was a little confused, studied the map.
“Outside aisle,” a woman said to him, looking over his shoulder, “by the railing.”
McMurtrey had been on one of
Four men and three women rumbled hastily down the ramp, fleeing the ship. Some carried bags. The group melted into the throng, except for one woman who left her bag with a man and then returned to the ship.
Appy’s accented voice cut the cool air cleanly, calling out the names of those who were welcome on the voyage: “Pitarkin, Nathaniel R . . . Scovill, Cecilia . . . Markwell, Jason Q . . . Scanners activated to verify identities . . . No tricks, and don’t try to sneak on any more baggage. . . . “
But McMurtrey saw a few travelers board with weapons worn outside their clothing, secured by sheaths, straps and various harnessing arrangements. They weren’t rejected, so it seemed that weapons were not considered “baggage.” He wondered about the extent of personal hygiene supplies aboard. If there weren’t any, or if they were inadequate, the odors would not be pleasant.
A small electric sign on one side of the ship’s hatch became apparent, in bright purple letters:
PERSONAL PROPERTY LIMITATION
BRING ONLY WHAT YOU’RE WEARING
This sign hadn’t been there before, or it hadn’t been lit. McMurtrey thought of the pocket knife, coins and wallet in his pickpocket-proof trousers.
Pickpocket-proof trousers, he thought.
On one hand, it struck him funny to have on such attire in the midst of religious people, many of whom rejected all material goods. Most of the voyagers appeared to be unarmed, and a number were obvious ascetics, with bare feet, shaven heads and thin robes. There were nuns, priests, rabbis, pastors, monks, lamas, and perhaps even bishops and archbishops, judging from the elegant, golden-threaded robes of some.
Then McMurtrey remembered having heard someone say that you had to watch out most for Krassians—especially the ones who “wear their religions on their sleeves.” It was a caller on a radio show, he recalled, a fellow who cited bad experiences with the type he spoke about. “They think they can be forgiven for anything,” he said, “so they’ll rob you blind.”
McMurtrey held no personal animosity toward the adherents of any faith, had known a number of Krassians who seemed quite decent, and none of the other variety. Still, the concept of a person who could be forgiven for virtually any act seemed detestable, and he wondered how prevalent this strange doctrine was.
Appy called out the names of Johnny Orbust, C.T. Tully and Kundo Smith. They filed around McMurtrey (Orbust wearing his large, holstered pistol) and boarded the ship. Seconds later when McMurtrey heard his own name, he followed.
A chrome-plated dispensing machine he hadn’t noticed before was mounted on the bulkhead just inside the main passenger compartment. After he went through an Identification scanner in the hatchway, he was instructed by Appy to take a cabin assignment ticket from the dispenser. Nothing was said about the contents of his pockets.
McMurtrey took an oversized red and yellow ticket, caught an elevator to Mezzanine Level 6. He had been assigned Cabin 66, and noticed an abbreviated map on the back of the ticket.
He stepped from the elevator with a half dozen fellow passengers, checked his map and went to the left, tramping along a softly padded walkway for a short distance. The material beneath his feet was light gray and porous, looked like weathered cork with a glossy sealer coat applied over it, and absorbed sound so efficiently he hardly heard his own passage. The walkway opened onto a wide, partitioned mezzanine that had a curved black railing on the left and curved silver-gray interior partitions directly ahead and to the right, all following the contour of the ship’s body.
People from the elevator filed around McMurtrey, into the interior spaces. He was a little confused, studied the map.
“Outside aisle,” a woman said to him, looking over his shoulder, “by the railing.”
McMurtrey had been on one of
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