There were reservation-desks, and
freight-routing desks, and tourist-agency desks ...
"Hmmm," said Cochrane suddenly. "D'you know, I haven't heard of Dabney
in months! What happened to him?"
"Dabney?" said Babs. She beamed. Women in the terminal saw the clothes
she was wearing. They did not recognize her--Cochrane had kept her off
the air--but they envied her. She felt very nice indeed. "Dabney?--Oh, I
had to use my own judgment there, Jed. You were so busy! After all, he
was scientific consultant to Spaceways. He did pay Jones cold cash for
fame-rights. When everything else got so much more important than just
the scientific theory, he got in a terrible state. His family consulted
Doctor Holden, and we arranged it. He's right down this way!"
She pointed. And there was a splendid plate-glass office built out from
the wall of the grand concourse. It was elevated, so that it was
charmingly conspicuous. There was a chastely designed but highly visible
sign under the stairway leading to it. The sign said; "_H. G. Dabney,
Scientific Consultant._"
Dabney sat at an imposing desk in plain view of all the thousands who
had shipped out and the millions who would ship out in time to come.
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