<b>From Hugo and Nebula Award Winner Theodore Sturgeon.</b>
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Jeremy Jedd stood in the igneous dust of the spaceport margin, staring into the sky and shading his eyes with his arm. Occasionally he checked the time by his ristkron, shaking it to make sure it was wound, craning back toward the hunched Customs House and the great clock. The sign there announced placidly that the <i>Pinnacle</i> had reported, was overdue, and would discharge passengers at Gate Three.
