15
Journal #846-
On most planets, the customs officials perform a cursory examination of one’s papers and wave through all but the most blatantly irregular. Naturally there are local quirks and quibbles-only a nitwit would attempt to smuggle raw Lupretian pastries onto Nostilla II, for example. And if there has been some recent smuggling scandal, or some outrageous crime blamed on an off-worlder, inspections understandably become more stringent. But otherwise, little short of an automatic weapon strapped across one’s shoulders seems to catch the agents’ attention.
Things are arranged otherwise on Old Earth. There, the agents inquire closely into one’s origins and business on the planet. Considering that the planet claims to be the home world of the entire human species, one would think the doors would be open to those scattered human descendents seeking to visit the world of their ancestors. Not so-a Syn-Man goes through Old Earth immigration with fewer questions asked than a human bearing an off-world passport.
And so, upon my arrival on the planet, I found myself dealing with a customs official whose interest in my background would have been more appropriate in a bank officer deciding whether to advance me a substantial loan than in a government functionary on whose world I intended to spend a large fraction of my disposable income. My efforts to point out this discrepancy met, I am sorry to report, with utter incomprehension.
After a considerable delay, the two legionnaires had worked their way to the front of the spaceport line leading to the Old Earth customs inspectors. An incredibly archaic-looking electric sign lit up with the word next in three languages that Sushi recognized and a couple more that he didn’t. He and his partner picked up their duffel bags and moved forward.
The official in the booth was a bored-looking Terran with dark hair and a bushy moustache. He raised an eyebrow, and asked, “You two are traveling together?”
“Yeah, we’re on assignment together,” said Sushi, putting his passport on the agent’s desk. He and Do-Wop had worn their Legion uniforms on the assumption that customs might go easier on servicemen. The ploy had worked on enough planets that it couldn’t hurt to try it here.
“Really,” said the customs man, dryly. His plastic badge read agt. g. c. fox. “I wasn’t aware there were any Legion bases on-world. Exactly what assignment do you have on Old Earth?”
“Military secret,” said Do-Wop, before Sushi could get his mouth open. “You shouldn’t wanna know, y’know?”
“Personally, I really couldn’t give a fleener,” said Fox, leaning forward on the desk. His hand rested lightly on Sushi’s passport. “Mind my own business, that’s my policy. But my bosses want to know why people are coming to our planet-they have the idea that’s a good way to prevent trouble. Since they’re the ones paying my salary, I always ask. So I’ll ask you again-secret or not, what kind of assignment do two Space Legion men have here on Old Earth?“
This time Sushi got the first word in edgewise, largely by the expedient of tramping down hard on Do-Wop’s toe. “That’s a great policy, Agent Fox,” he said, while Do-Wop groaned out a series of muffled curses. “As it happens, my friend was a bit hesitant about telling you what we’re here for, because it’s a special training mission for the intelligence branch of the Legion, and of course one of the things they’ve been emphasizing is that we should always keep our real mission secret. But of course, that hardly applies to somebody who’s pretty much in the same kind of business, you know?”
Fox frowned. “Intelligence branch of the Legion? This is the first I’ve ever heard of it.”
“Well, that just goes to show how top secret it is,” said Sushi, with a wink. “I’m sure we can trust you to keep it under your hat, Agent Fox.”
“Oh, I’m very discreet,” said Fox, nodding. “And I certainly understand how an intelligence operation needs to be kept quiet.” He paused, looking first at Do-Wop, then at Sushi. “The only thing is, I’ve been doing this job so long that I have a pretty good nose for a scam. And if this isn’t the biggest scam I’ve seen this month, I’m going to put in for early retirement. Not that that’s a bad idea anyhow. So-one more time: What’s your business here? And if I don’t like your answer this time, I’ll introduce you to the fellows in the back room. They’ve got suspicious minds and disgustingly long fingers.”
“Hey, we ain’t done noth… OW!” said Do-Wop. He began hopping around, holding his injured foot in both hands.
“Well, Agent Fox, the truth is…” Sushi began. Then he caught a glimpse of the customs agent’s face and did an instant revision of his comment. “The truth is, we’re trying to find our commanding officer. He’s needed back at the base, and our last report had him on the way to Old Earth. His name is…”
“That’s enough-I don’t need his name,” said Fox. “The question is, even if I believed you, why should I tell you anything?”
Sushi’s eyes lit up. “Not only do you believe me, you know just who we’re looking for, don’t you? He must have come through here…”
“Now, don’t be hasty,” said Fox, wagging his finger. “I may or may not have seen a Legion officer come through-they’re not common hereabouts, you know.”
“That means that if you did see our captain, you’d probably remember him,” said Sushi. He reached in his pocket and extracted a ten-dollar piece. He put it on the counter near his passport. “Does this help your memory?”
“Maybe…” Fox looked at the passport for a moment, then looked back at the coin, before adding, “Two of ‘em might make my memory even better.”
Sushi sighed, then turned to Do-Wop, who had recovered his balance and stood glaring at the two of them. “OK, buddy, your turn to chip in. Let’s see what the man knows.”
“How come I gotta chip in?” said Do-Wop.
“You want to chip in, or you want to see the guys with long fingers?” said Sushi.
Do-Wop dug into his pocket. A moment later, Agent Fox was filling them in on a few-but by no means all-of the things he’d learned from Phule upon his arrival on Old Earth. They didn’t notice that, at the same time, he was skillfully getting them to tell him far more than he was telling them. “Give a little, get a lot,” was Fox’s motto. He was really very good at it.
Do-Wop gaped at the Roman cityscape, amazement written plainly on his face. “Jeez!” he said, after a moment. “Here I am in Italy-I never thought I’d see the place!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty quaint,” said Sushi, eyeing the odd juxtaposition of hypermodern tourist traps and ruins dating to an age before space travel. “Could use a bit of maintenance, if you want my opinion.”
“Ahh, you wouldn’t understand class if it bit you in the ass,” said Do-Wop, scoffing.
“Y’know, I don’t think anybody with real class would be interested in that,” said Sushi. “Don’t go quoting me, though-I don’t want people to think I’m provincial or anything.”
It would have been hard for either of the two legionnaires to look much more provincial than the tourists thronging the streets around them. The dress code appeared to require some sort of garish locally purchased T-shirt. They were visible everywhere, with cryptic slogans ranging from vini, vidi, vici, and illegitimate non carborundum, to straight advertisements, one of the most popular being singh’s pizza-you’ve tried the rest, now try the best! In contrast, the two black-uniformed legionnaires were practically the definition of class.
On the other hand, to judge from the looks some of the passersby shot at them, the class they represented was not in particular favor locally. Even Do-Wop sensed the undercurrent as they walked through the Forum. When the stares continued, he eventually turned to Sushi, and said, “What’s up, Soosh? Some of these civvies are lookin‘ at us like we’re farting in their lifeboat.”