“I make a damn fine handcar,” the gunner growled.
“Don’t bitch,” the sergeant told him. “At least you got a civilian occupation.” He kicked the door open and they walked and rolled into the welcome warmth of the operations office.
“You have a can of solvent?” Bill asked the man behind the counter.
“You have travel orders?” the man asked, ignoring his question.
“In my bag I got a can,” the gunner said, and Bill pulled it open and rummaged around.
They handed over their orders; the gunner’s were buttoned into his breast pocket, and the clerk fed them into the slot of the giant machine behind him. The machine hummed and flashed lights, and Bill dripped solvent onto all of the gunner’s electrical connections until the water was washed away. A horn sounded, the orders were regurgitated, and a length of printed tape began clicking out of another orifice. The clerk snatched it up and read it rapidly.
“You’re in trouble,” he said with sadistic relish. “All three of you are supposed to get the Purple Dart in a ceremony with the Emperor and they’re filming in three hours. You’ll never make it in time.”
“None of your bowb,” the sergeant grated. “We just got off the ship. Where do we go?”
“Area 1457-D, Level K9, Block 823-7, Corridor 492; Chambers FLM-34, Room 62, ask for Producer Ratt”
“How do we get there?” Bill asked.
“Don’t ask me, I just work here.” The clerk threw three thick volumes onto the counter, each one over a foot square and almost as thick, with a chain riveted to the spine. “Find your own way, here’s your floor plan, but you have to sign for it. Losing it is a courtsmartial offense punishable by …”
The clerk suddenly realized that he was alone in the room with the three veterans, and as he blanched white he reached out for a red button. But before his finger could touch it the gunner’s metal arm, spitting sparks and smoking, pinned it to the counter. The sergeant leaned over until his face was an inch from the clerk’s then spoke in a low, chill voice that curdled the blood.
“We will not find our own way. You will find our way for us. You will provide us with a Guide.”
“Guides are only for officers,” the clerk protested weakly, then gasped as a steel-bar finger ground him in the stomach.
“Treat us like officers,” the sergeant breathed. “We don’t mind.”
With chattering teeth the clerk ordered a guide, and a small metal door in the far wall crashed open. The Guide had a tubular metal body that ran on six rubber-tired wheels, a head fashioned to resemble a hound dog’s, and a springy metal tail. “Here, boy,” the sergeant commanded, and the Guide rushed over to him, slipped out a red plastic tongue, and, with a slight grinding of gears, began to emit the sound of mechanical panting. The sergeant took the length of printed tape and quickly punched the code 1457-D K9 823-7 492 FLM 34 62 on the buttons that decorated the Guide’s head. There were two sharp barks, the red tongue vanished, the tail vibrated, and the Guide rolled away down the corridor. The veterans followed.
It took them an hour, by slideway, escalator, elevator, pneumocar, shanks’ mare, monorail, moving sidewalk, and greased pole to reach room 62. While they were seated on the slideway they secured the chains of their floor plans to their belts, since even Bill was beginning to realize the value of a guide to this world-sized city. At the door to room 62 the Guide barked three times, then rolled away before they could grab it.
“Should have been quicker,” the sergeant said. “Those things are worth their weight in diamonds.” He pushed the door open to reveal a fat man seated at a desk shouting into a visisphone.
“I don’t give a flying bowb what your excuses are, excuses I can buy wholesale. All I know is I got a production schedule and the cameras are ready to roll and where are my principals? I ask you-and what do you tell me-” he looked up and began to scream, “Out! Out! Can’t you see I’m busy!”