"Funny man," one said, and they went on reading.
"Okay," the large inspector said at last. "We'll examine him for everything."
For the next three hours, they took blood specimens to see if I had microscopic livestock hidden there, they X-rayed me and my baggage, fluoroscoped everything again, put the baggage through an irritator life-indexer, investigated my orifices in detail with a variety of instruments, took skin scrapings in case I was wearing a false layer, and the only thing they found was my dark glasses.
"Why don't you wear modern contact lenses?"
"It's none of your business," I said, "but these old-style spectacles have liquid lenses."
There was a flurry and they sent away for analysis a small drop from one of the lenses. There were no signs of prohibited life in the liquid.
"I could have told you that," I said. "It's dicyanin, a vegetable extract. Diminishes the glare."
I put the glasses on my nose and hooked on the earpieces. The effect was medieval, but I could see the little diver now. I could also see disturbing evidence of the inspectors' mental condition. A useful little device invented by Dr. W. J. Kilner (1847-1920) for the study of the human aura in sickness and health. After a little practice, which I was not going to allow the Lamavic inspectors, the retina became sufficiently sensitive to see the micro-wave aura when you looked through the dicyanin screen. As was true of most of these psi pioneers at that time, nothing was done to further Kilner's work when he died. I noticed, without surprise, that the inspectors had a mental field of very limited extent and that the little diver had survived the journey nicely.
"Can I go now?" I asked.