THE COSMIC COMPUTER

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"Thirty minutes to Litchfield, sir," the first officer repeated, and
gave him the clipboard to check the luggage list. Valises, two; trunks,
two; microbook case, one. The last item fanned a small flicker of anger,
not at any person, not even at himself, but at the whole infernal
situation. He nodded.

"That's everything. Not many passengers left aboard, are there?"

"You're the only one, first class, sir. About forty farm laborers on the
lower deck." He dismissed them as mere cargo. "Litchfield's the end of
the run."

"I know. I was born there."

The mate looked again at his name on the list and grinned.

"Sure; you're Rodney Maxwell's son. Your father's been giving us a lot