Space Station 1

There was a pretty waitress behind the long counter, and as he came abreast of her she smiled at him. For an instant he hesitated, eyed the stool opposite her, and fought off an incongruous but almost irresistible impulse to sit down. Quick warmth and sudden sympathy. Yes, he could do with a bit of both, Corriston thought.

It was sheer insanity, but he did sit down. He eased himself into the stool and ordered a cup of coffee.

“Something with it?” the waitress asked. “A sandwich, or — ”

“No, no, I don’t think so,” Corriston said quickly. “Just the coffee.”

The waitress seemed in no hurry to depart. “It was pretty terrible what happened. Wasn’t it?”

“Did you see it?” Corriston asked.

“I saw most of it. I saw the ship go past the Station and start to explode. I saw that black wing, or whatever it was, drop off. Then someone started shouting in here and I came back. They say it crashed on Earth.”

“That’s right,” Corriston said, telling himself that he was a damned fool for wanting to look at her hair and hear her friendly woman’s voice when every passing second was adding to his danger.

“You saw it crash?”

Corriston nodded. “I just came from the promenade.” “That was a crazy thing to ask you. How excited can you get? I saw you come through that door. You looked kind of pale.”

“I still feel that way,” Corriston said.

The waitress then said a surprising thing: “I wonder what it is about some men. You just have to look at them once and you know they’re the sort you’d like to be with when something terrible happens. You know what I mean?” “Sure,” Corriston said. “Any port in a storm.”

The waitress smiled again. “I don’t mean that, exactly. Please don’t think I’m handing you a line. There’s just something . . . comfortable about you. You go all pale when something bad happens to other people. That’s good; I like that. It means you can feel for other people. You’re a gentle sort of guy, but I bet you can take care of yourself and anyone you care about. I just bet you can.” The waitress flushed a little, as if afraid that she had said too much. She turned and walked slowly toward the coffee percolator at the far end of the counter.

He was glad now that he had ordered the coffee. The coffee would help too. He suddenly felt that he was under observation, that hostile eyes were watching him. But it was no more than just a feeling; and coffee and sympathy might drive it away.

How blindly, stupidly foolish could a guy be? Corriston thought. If he had any sense at all he wouldn’t wait for the coffee. He’d get up quickly and head for the door at the other end of the cafeteria. He’d either do that, or swing about abruptly and attempt to catch the silent watcher by surprise.

Corriston decided to wait for the coffee.

The waitress looked at him strangely when she returned. She set the coffee down before him and started to turn

away, her eyes troubled. Then, suddenly, she seemed to change her mind. She leaned close to him and whispered: “You’d better leave by the promenade door. That man over there has been watching you. I know him very well. He’s a Security Guard.”

Corriston nodded and stared at her gratefully for a moment. He was more relieved than alarmed. It was far better to have a Security Guard watching him than a killer with a poisoned barb. He wasn’t exactly happy about it, but he was confident he could elude the agent.

The waitress’ eyes were suddenly warm and friendly again. “Space shock?” she asked.

“So they claim,” Corriston said. “I happen to think they’re mistaken.”

He started sipping the coffee. It was hot but not steaming hot. He could have tossed it off like a jigger of rye but he had some quick thinking to do.

“Tell me,” he said. “Just where is that guard sitting?”At the other end of the counter,” the waitress replied, the anxiety coming back into her eyes. “He’s close to the door. You’d have to go past him. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think you want to get away from him. So you’d better go the way you came — by the promenade door.” “That’s not too good an idea, I’m afraid,” Corriston said. “He’d follow me and get assistance on the promenade. What’s beyond the other door? Where does it lead to?” “It opens on a corridor,” the waitress said quickly. “If you can get past him you might have a better chance that way. There’s nothing but a corridor with two side doors. One opens on an emergency stairway that goes down to the Master Sequence Selector compartments.” She seemed to take pride in her knowledge. Due to a space-shocked guy’s difficulties, the Master Sequence Selector had become an important secret shared between them. Corriston wondered if she knew that the Selector functioned on thirty-two separate kinds of automatic controls.