The Starchild Trilogy

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The major snapped: "Check in, you Risks! What's the matter with you?" His radar horns made him look like Satan—a sleepy young Satan with an underslung jaw, but dangerous.

"Yes, sir," said Steve Ryeland, peering around. This was Reykjavik— a new world to Ryeland, who had just come from a maximum-security labor camp inside the rim of the Arctic Circle. Ryeland blinked at the buildings, a thousand feet high, and at the jets and rockets scattered across the air field. The little man next to Ryeland sneezed and nudged him. "All right," Ryeland said, and went into the bare little Security lounge. On the teletype that stood in the corner of the room—in the corner of every room—he tapped out:

Information. Steven Ryeland, Risk, AWC-38440, and O. B. Oporto, Risk, XYZ-99942, arrived at—

He took the code letters from the identification plate on the machine.

—Station 3-Radius 4-261, Reykjavik, Iceland. Query. What are personal orders?

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