Skid Row Pilot

Ted Kendall waited with thinly-concealed impatience in the unheatedouter office of Mars' branch of Space Service, cursing the red tapethat kept him anchored on this cold, miserable pebble of a planet.

"We'll have that analysis in just a moment, Pilot Kendall," came thevoice from the inner office. "Please be patient."

"I'll try," Kendall growled bitterly.

Actually, he thought, it was his own fault. A spacepilot had to havea reflex checkup every six months, to determine whether or not he wasstill capable of the myriad split-second decisions that had to be madeduring the course of the Earth-Mars run.

Kendall's six-month exam had been scheduled to fall due about four daysafter he left Earth for his present run. A midflight due-date of thissort gave him an option: he could take the test four days early, onEarth, or he could wait till the journey was completed and be tested atthe Mars end of the run.

He had chosen Mars, since otherwise he would have had to give up hisassignment on the Queen Alexandra and wait to draw another. He was ingood health, his reflexes were fine, and he didn't expect to hit anysnags on the Mars end.

Not much, he thought.

He rose and walked toward the door. "How's that machine of yourscoming?"

"We're still computing your curve, Pilot Kendall. It'll take justanother moment or two."

Frowning, he took his seat again. He hadn't looked for this sort oftrouble on Mars.

The Martian branch of Space Service didn't work with the same smoothefficiency as the Earth office. There, you walked in, let the computerrun you over, and in ten minutes your license was stamped for anothersix-month extension. Here things worked differently.

It had taken him two days just to get an appointment—two days in whichhe wandered through Mars City, lonely and bitter, shuddering in thebiting cold and feeling homesick for Earth and Kathy and good warm airwith some oxygen in it. Then he had his exam—and, unaccountably, theyrequested him to return the next day for a re-test.

A re-test? What the devil for? When Kendall had returned, he hadbeen shivering not only with the cold of Mars but with apprehension.He looked at his hands. They seemed to be steady. Were his reflexeswearing out? Was he washed-up as a spacepilot? He didn't know. Themachine was going to tell him that soon enough.

The door opened. A white-smocked computer technician wearing thecomet-insignia of Space Service came out, frowning uneasily andriffling a sheaf of papers. Kendall stood up.

"It's about time; I'd like to get going on my return run. Where's mylicense?"

The technician stared at him strangely for a moment. "I'm sorry, Mr.Kendall. I can't give you your license. The computer shows that you'reno longer fit to pilot a spacegoing vessel."

For an instant Kendall didn't react. Then it hit him. The technicianhad called him Mr. Kendall instead of Pilot Kendall. That meantonly one thing.

He blinked and shook his head. "You're kidding. This is some kind ofjoke. I never felt better in my life."

"I'm just doing my job, Mr. Kendall. The computer says no—and I can'targue. I'll have to refuse you an extension of your certificate."

"But that means—hell, man, the Alexandr