Journey Between Worlds by Sylvia Engdahl

“Might as well leave it for the busboy,” he said regretfully. “It’s a good thriller, but I doubt if it’ll find its way into New Terra’s electronic library. I’ll never know how it came out.”
    â€œIt can’t weigh much,” I protested. “Take it along. Surely they’ll let you keep it.”
    â€œNot a chance. They never make any exceptions; a fellow I know lost a good phone cam by miscalculating.”
    â€œCouldn’t he have mailed it?”
    â€œHe could if he’d had that kind of money—more than the thing was worth, by a lot.”
    I don’t know why I said what I did then. I didn’t even know his name, and I’ve never been quick to take up with people. There was just something about him, I guess, that made me want to talk to him again.
    â€œLet me carry your book aboard,” I offered, to my own surprise. “My duffel bag was nearly half a kilo under what I expected, so I must be entitled to be that much heavier than before at the gate.”
    â€œWould you? Say, that’s awfully nice of you.” He handed it over. “You can read it, too, when the trip begins to get monotonous.”
    â€œI’d like to,” I agreed, though at the moment monotony was the least of my worries.
    â€œAll passengers for the 13:45 shuttle . . .” the public address system began again. We gathered up our things and started for the gate. There was another long line ahead of us at the entrance to the boarding lounge. All the passengers who had friends or relatives seeing them off had waited till the last minute to say good-bye, naturally, so there were a lot more people crowded around than could possibly fit into one shuttle. Couples were hugging and kissing each other, babies were yelling, and old ladies were crying; it was hectic. It was a relief to have our passports checked and our weights recorded, and get through into the red-carpeted lounge.
    I wasn’t overweight at all, even with the book, probably because I’d eaten so little the past few days. They were particular, though. The woman ahead of me had a long argument with the flight attendant over her little boy’s fleece-lined jacket. “But it’s cold on Mars,” she kept insisting.
    â€œNot where you’ll be going, ma’am. And it puts him over his allowance, so I’m afraid we can’t let him wear it unless you want to give up something else. That’s your privilege, of course.”
    â€œPeople are funny,” our friend said to me softly. “Imagine starting out for Mars without knowing that a coat’s just about the most useless article anybody could cart along.”
    â€œI thought Mars really was cold,” I said, thinking of the treasured sweater that was taking up so much space in my own baggage.
    â€œWell it is, outside—usually so cold that a coat couldn’t be much help. But the groundcars are heated, and you can’t get out of them without a pressure suit anyway, if you want to breathe.” His tone was one of quiet amusement.
    I felt my face grow hot, and I wished that I had taken the trouble to find out just a little more about where I was going beforehand. For the second time I’d displayed my ignorance. Imagine starting out for Mars without knowing, he’d said. How much else was there that he’d think me silly not to know?
    The outer gate of the lounge was already open when we got there, and the elevators were taking people down to the access tunnel. Dad and I stepped into one just as the doors closed, and were separated from our lunch companion. There were several questions I had wanted to ask—for one thing, he’d said he was going back to the Colonies, so he must have been to Mars before; and for another, from the way he’d talked it was obvious that he was planning to stay. He didn’t look like a person who’d want to live on Mars. But, I remembered, Dad and