"I'm washed up," Prestongrowled bitterly. "Theymade a postman out of me.Me—a postman!"
He crumpled the assignmentmemo into a small, hardball and hurled it at thebristly image of himself inthe bar mirror. He hadn'tshaved in three days—whichwas how long it had beensince he had been notified ofhis removal from Space PatrolService and his transferto Postal Delivery.
Suddenly, Preston felt ahand on his shoulder. Helooked up and saw a man inthe trim gray of a Patrolman'suniform.
"What do you want,Dawes?"
"Chief's been looking foryou, Preston. It's time foryou to get going on your run."
Preston scowled. "Time togo deliver the mail, eh?" Hespat. "Don't they have anythingbetter to do with goodspacemen than make lettercarriers out of them?"
The other man shook hishead. "You won't get anywheregrousing about it,Preston. Your papers don'tspecify which branch you'reassigned to, and if they wantto make you carry the mail—that'sit." His voice becamesuddenly gentle. "Come on,Pres. One last drink, andthen let's go. You don't wantto spoil a good record, doyou?"
"No," Preston said reflectively.He gulped his drinkand stood up. "Okay. I'mready. Neither snow nor rainshall stay me from my appointedrounds, or howeverthe damned thing goes."
"That's a smart attitude,Preston. Come on—I'll walkyou over to Administration."
Savagely, Preston rippedaway the hand that the otherhad put around his shoulders."I can get there myself. Atleast give me credit for that!"
"Okay," Dawes said, shrugging."Well—good luck,Preston."
"Yeah. Thanks. Thanksreal lots."
He pushed his way past theman in Space Grays andshouldered past a couple ofbarflies as he left. He pushedopen the door of the bar andstood outside for a moment.
It was near midnight, andthe sky over Nome Spaceportwas bright with stars. Preston'strained eye picked outMars, Jupiter, Uranus. Therethey were—waiting. But hewould spend the rest of hisdays ferrying letters on theGanymede run.
He sucked in the cold nightair of summertime Alaskaand squared his shoulders.
Two hours later, Prestonsat at the controls of a one-manpatrol ship just as hehad in the old days. Only thecontrol panel was bare wherethe firing studs for the heavyguns was found in regularpatrol ships. And in the cargohold instead of crates ofspare ammo there were threebulging sacks of mail destinedfor the colony on Ganymede.
Slight difference, Prestonthought, as he set up hisblasting pattern.
"Okay, Preston," came thevoice from the tower. "You'vegot clearance."
"Cheers," Preston said,and yanked the blast-lever.The ship jolted upward, andfor a second he felt a littleof the old thrill—until he remembered.
He took the ship out inspace, saw the blackness inthe viewplate. The radiocrackled.
"Come in, Postal Ship.Come in, Postal Ship."
"I'm in. What do youwant?"
"We're your convoy," ahard voice said. "Patrol Ship08756, Lieutenant Mellors,above you. Down at threeo'clock, Patrol Ship 10732,Lieutenant Gunderson. We'lltake you through the PirateBelt."
Preston felt his face go hotwith shame. Mellors! Gunderson!They would stick two ofhis old sidekicks on the