Think Yourself to Death
"One more!" he said. "Only one! The rest of you begone."
Behind Pandit there was a general press of bodies, but he was first in line and did not surrender his position. The unctuous-looking man admitted him, half-expecting a bribe. Pandit passed him by; he didn't have a single copper.
He approached a desk. The crowd noise outside was loud, those who had not joined the line crowing because most of those on it had been turned away. Behind the desk sat a small Denebian man of middle years. He looked nervous.
"Can you fly?" he asked in a voice almost desperately thin.
"Yes," Pandit said. Then the rumors were right.
"How much experience?"
"Five years on and off."
"You have a license?"
"There are no licenses on Ophiuchus IX," Pandit pointed out.
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Habit. You