The man eyed Retief's bag. "What's in that?"
"Personal belongings under duty-free entry."
"Guns?"
"No, thanks, just a cab."
"You got no gun?" The man raised his voice.
"That's right, fellows," Retief called out. "No gun; no knife, not even a small fission bomb. Just a few pairs of socks and some reading matter."
A brown-uniformed man ran from behind the Customs Counter, holding a long-barreled blast-rifle centered on the Corps insignia stitched to the pocket of Retief's powder-blue blazer.
"Don't try nothing," he said. "You're under arrest."
"It can't be overtime parking. I've only been here five minutes."
"Hah!" The gun-handler moved out from the counter, came up to Retief. "Empty out your pockets!" he barked. "Hands overhead!"