Slipping back inside, she pushed the hood off, pulled down the scarf, and scanned her nearest neighbors. Only one of them seemed to notice that she had left and come back. He blinked and frowned before turning his attention to the screen at the far end of the long hall where the names of those to be processed were blinking. Y. MADDOCK was one of them.
She moved forward, squeezing past people until she came to the more eager layers of folk, packed tightly as they waited for release.
“Maddock, Y,” she said to the official, offering her plastics.
“ID,” he said without looking up from his terminal.
She extended her left wrist, and with rough fingers, he turned it so he could see it, bending her hand painfully.
“You’re cold!” He looked up now, seeing her as a person, not a number.
She shrugged. “Leaning against that door.”
“Humpf. Didn’t you attend the briefing?” He frowned. “Don’t touch metal …”
“Even inside?” she asked with the innocent inquiring look she had used to flummox brighter men than this one.
He frowned, and then the terminal required his attention, her plastic having jumped out of the processing slot. It skidded halfway across the worktop before he caught it. Yana kept her face straight: he looked the sort not likely to appreciate chasing anything, much less plastic.
A slip of film extruded from the slot by her hand.
“That has your work number, which you will memorize, work assignment, living quarters, ration status, travel and clothing allowance, and the name of your official guide as well as his office hours. Your travel pack has already been delivered to your quarters.” Then he paused and startled her by smiling. “You can take one of the waiting vehicles outside the terminal. Major Maddock. Welcome to Petaybee.”
Amazed by both the courtesy and the unexpected smile, Yana thanked him and moved smartly out of the way to make room for the next person in line.
A translucent roof shield protected the area outside the passenger terminal. It was filled with the sounds of confusion and impatience as the processed arrivees, most of them lugging their precious 23.5 kilo personal-allowance sacks, searched for each other or for transportation.
“Yellow slip, huh?” someone said in her ear, pulling her hand down to peer at it.
The someone was a young girl, so bundled in furs that only her face was visible, and that slightly obscured by long wisps of fur and, possibly, her own hair. She appeared to be in her early to mid-teens; her keen gray eyes were alive with intelligence and interest
“I’m cleared for yellow, too,” the girl added, and her mittened hand shoved a plastic square under Yana’s eyes. The woman grabbed her hand for a longer look at the official-looking plastic. The girl didn’t resist, though her eyes widened slightly at the strength of Yana’s grasp.
The plastic-covered printed documentation that licensed Buneka Rourke to convey passengers in an authorized snocle within the environs of the port but no farther. There was a large A in the right-hand corner and a renewal date sometime later on in Petaybee’s year.
“How much?”
Buneka Rourke blinked and then grinned companionably. ‘From here to your place, it’s on the PTBs.”
“The PTBs?” Yana wasn’t sure she had heard correctly.
Buneka’s grin broadened, and her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Sure, PTB-the powers that be. Petaybee,” she added. “You didn’t know that’s where this planet got its name?”
“The briefing said it was Planet, Terraformation B,” Yana said.
The girl waved her mitten dismissively. “They would manage to make it sound dull. But it’s really named after them-the Powers That Be that move us from A to B or Z or wherever they gotta plug holes or clean up disasters or fight wars. C’mon. Let me get you out of this mess and give you a proper welcome to Petaybee.” The girl tugged at Yana’s sleeve, pointing to a battered-looking but clean orange/yellow snocle with fluorescent numerals, MTS-80-84, that matched those Yana had seen on the plastic ID. But as Yana stepped off the curb, a big figure intervened.
“Yellow ticket? I take yellow tickets.” The man glared menacingly at the girl. “You doan wanna ride with this flitter-face. She turn you over into snow drift. No one find you. Yellow ticket deserves big, warm snocle.” He gestured toward a large, sleek affair.