“You can look for her at supper.”
“I want to see her now.”
“I haven’t any facilities for seeking out any one person at this time. You’ll have to wait.”
“But—” There were several women crowding past us and going on inside. Dad spotted one from our deck in the Mayflower. “Mrs. Archibald!”
She turned around. “Oh—Mr. Lermer. How do you do?”
“Mrs. Archibald,” Dad said intently, “could you find Molly and let her know that I’m waiting here?”
“Why, I’d be glad to try, Mr. Lermer.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Archibald, a thousand thanks!”
“Not at all.” She went away and we waited, ignoring the stern-faced guard. Presently Molly showed up without Peggy. You would have thought Dad hadn’t seen her for a month.
“I didn’t know what to do, dear,” she said. “They said we had to come and it seemed better to get Peggy settled down. I knew you would find us.”
“Where is Peggy now?”
“I put her to bed.”
We went back to the main hall. There was a desk there with a man behind it; over his head was a sign: IMMIGRATION SERVICE-INFORMATION. There was quite a line up at it; we took our place in the queue.
“How is Peggy?” Dad asked.
“I’m afraid she is catching a cold.”
“I hope-” Dad said. “Ah, I HOPE-Atchoo!”
“And so are you,” Molly said accusingly.
“I don’t catch cold,” Dad said, wiping his eyes. “That was just a reflex.”
“Hmm—” said Molly.
The line up took us past a low balcony. Two boys, my age or older, were leaning on the rail and looking us over. They were colonials and one was trying to grow a beard, but it was pretty crummy.
One turned to the other and said, “Rafe, will you look at what they are sending us these days?”
The other said, “It’s sad.”
The first one pointed a thumb at me and went on, “Take that one, now—the artistic type, no doubt.”
The second one stared at me thoughtfully. “Is it alive?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” the first one answered.
I turned my back on them, whereupon they both laughed. I hate self-panickers.
10. The Promised Land
Mr. Saunders was ahead of us in line. He was crabbing about the weather. He said it was an outrage to expose people the way we had been. He had been with us on the working party, but he had not worked much.
The man at the desk shrugged. “The Colonial Commission set your arrival date; we had nothing to say about it. You can’t expect us to postpone winter to suit your convenience.”
“Somebody’s going to hear about this!”
“By all means.” The man at the desk handed him a form, “Next, please!” He looked at Dad and said, “What may I do for you, citizen?”
Dad explained quietly that he wanted to have his family with him. The man shook his head. “Sorry. Next case, please.”
Dad didn’t give up his place. “You can’t separate a man and wife. We aren’t slaves, nor criminals, nor animals. The Immigration Service surely has some responsibilities toward us.”
The man looked bored. “This is the largest shipload we’ve ever had to handle. We’ve made the best arrangements we could. This is a frontier town, not the Astor.”
“All I’m asking for is a minimum family space, as described in the Commission’s literature about Ganymede.”
“Citizen, those descriptions are written back on Earth. Be patient and you will be taken care of.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No, not tomorrow. A few days—or a few weeks.”
Dad exploded. “Weeks, indeed! Confound it, I’ll build an igloo out on the field before I’ll put up with this.”
“That’s your privilege.” The man handed Dad a sheet of paper. “If you wish to lodge a complaint, write it out on this.”
Dad took it and I glanced at it. It was a printed form—and it was addressed to the Colonial Commission back on Earth! The man went on, “Turn it in to me any time this phase and it will be ultramicro-filmed in time to go back with the mail in the Mayflower.”
Dad looked at it, snorted, crumpled it up, and stomped away. Molly followed him and said, “George! Georgel Don’t be upset. We’ll live through it.”