Retief grounded the lighter, in-cycled the lock and stepped out. The
hot yellow Glavian sun beat down on a broad expanse of concrete, an
abandoned service cart and a row of tall ships casting black shadows
toward the silent control tower. A wisp of smoke curled up from the
shed area at the rim of the field. There was no other sign of life.
Retief walked over to the cart, tossed his valise aboard, climbed
into the driver's seat and headed for the operations building. Beyond
the port, hills rose, white buildings gleaming against the deep green
slopes. Near the ridge, a vehicle moved ant-like along a winding road,
a dust trail rising behind it. Faintly a distant shot sounded.
Papers littered the ground before the Operations Building. Retief
pushed open the tall glass door, stood listening. Slanting sunlight
reflected from a wide polished floor, at the far side of which
illuminated lettering over empty counters read IMMIGRATION, HEALTH
and CUSTOMS. He crossed to the desk, put the valise down, then leaned
across the counter. A worried face under an oversized white cap looked
up at him.
"You can come out now," Retief said. "They've gone."
The man rose, dusting himself off. He looked over Retief's shoulder.
"Who's gone?"
"Whoever it was that scared you."
"Whatta ya mean? I was looking for my pencil."
"Here it is." Retief plucked a worn stub from the pocket of the soiled
shirt sagging under the weight of braided shoulderboards. "You can sign
me in as a Diplomatic Representative. A break for you--no formalities
necessary. Where can I catch a cab for the city?"