II
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?"