All he wanted to do was go
ROUND-AND-ROUND TRIP
from here to there—but somehow
the entire Milky Way had been
converted into a squirrel cage.
By H. B. FYFE
Illustrated by WOOD
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine December 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
When the passengers from Epseri II had been chauffeured from theCentaur Queen to the administration building of the spaceport,the man whose papers identified him as Robert L. Winstead trailedthe others to the Interstellar Travel Agency counter. His taking anunobtrusive place near the end of the line was entirely in keepingwith his unobtrusive appearance.
Of medium height but somewhat underweight, Winstead looked like atired clerk who had not slept well in space. The wide trousers ofhis conservative maroon suit flapped about his thin shins and drewattention to the fact that he had donned one blue and one green sock.
The processing was rapid; most of the two dozen passengers meant tostay here on St. Andrew V. Only a few, of whom Winstead was one,carried "ultimate destination" tickets. They remained after the localshad been taken in charge by a guide who would see them into theadjacent city.
Winstead finally reached a clerk, a dark, extremely brisk young man. Hepresented his papers. The young man riffled through them, stamped thedate of arrival on the travel record according to both local and Terrancalendar, then turned back abruptly to the card showing Winstead'sdestination. He shook his head in puzzled annoyance.
"I'm very sorry, Mr.—uh—Winstead. Is this the proper ticket you'vegiven me? Could you have gotten it mixed up with someone else's?"
The traveler coughed and spluttered worried, questioning noises. A lookof vague alarm spread over his undistinguished features.
His wispy gray hair had become rumpled when he had pulled off andstuffed into a side pocket his rather sporty maroon-and-white checkedcap. This, plus the fact that he had to look up to the clerk, lent himan air of the typical little man in the wrong queue. It did not helpthat he wore old-fashioned sunglasses instead of colored contacts, andhad forgotten to remove them before peering at the ticket.
"Why—er—yes, yes, this is right," he said. "See, here's my name onit."
The clerk sighed as he looked around, but his partner was busy."Someone seems to have blown a nova, sir," he condescended to explain."It says here your ultimate destination is Altair IV."
"Quite right, quite right," said Winstead. "Going out there to see whatthe sales possibilities are for—"
"And they sent you here from Epseri? That can't be, sir."
"But—they told me—don't you Agency people take care of picking outthe routes?"
"Yes, sir, of course. Beyond the local Terran sphere of travel, thereare very few scheduled flights and most of them are for importantcargo. That's why your ticket simply shows your ultimate destination,and that's why the Interstellar Travel Agency was developed—to arrangefor the traveler's progress by stages."
"Yes," said Winstead. "That is how they explained it to me."
The clerk met his worried gaze for a few moments before shaking himselfslightly. He prodded the ticket on the counter between him and Winsteadwith a disdainful forefinger.
"Let me put it as simply as possible, Mr.—uh—Winstead," he said verypatiently. "Somebody at your last stop sent you