Bureaucracy, the bane of any traveller’s life. Also a dangerous weapon of control. ‘They’re not supposed to discriminate,’ said the angular man to my left, ‘but they do. Yes sir...’ His voice trailed off in bitter resentment. There were three of us, humans, sitting together—the idiotic herd instinct. Moreover, we had been together for nine units, and I knew the whole orchestral range of his indignation, from the low whine to the high, heated complaints. I was sweating. The temperature of the room was very uncomfortable. You had to admit those Spicans had it all weighed up. This was acceptable heat for most races. Not for us, though, and that was the main reason for it being set so high. The woman said, ‘Discriminate? I’ve been here thirteen times.’ Here was the location of the only Spican bureau in the Affiliation—the moon of a remote planet that circled Algol. ‘But I’ll get past them,’ she muttered, tight-lipped. She was thin and brittle and, I guessed, touching seventy Earth years.
What do You think about Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales?
