Deitrich nodded, and the man consulted some records on his arm. “I do not seem to find—” he started, frowned and changed his approach. “Luggage? Equipment?” A tired officiousness labored his voice, as he asked the familiar questions he asked a hundred times every day.
“I left all that on the tender,” Deitrich explained. “I saw no point in unloading them until we have a place to send them.”
“Ah, but—”
“Don’t you have a hotel inspection service in this system any more?” Deitrich asked.
“Of course.” The man peered intently at Deitrich, studying the uniform. “You… ah—” and he cleared his throat again.
“We just came in from the Home.”
“Oh.” There was a small apologetic laugh. “Of course. For a moment I was puzzled by your uniform.” He turned and pointed at the distant end of the anteroom. “You must report to the subcommissioner. He handles all extrasystemal traffic personally.”
Deitrich walked in the direction indicated, weaving his way through the undulating mass of humanity. Some of the people stared at him; others glared as he thrust his way among them. Most paid no attention, having seen often and tired of the novelty of oddly-attired strangers.
He came to a door with official-looking symbols on it. This, he decided, must be the place.
It was. It was more. He found himself suddenly faced again with the telesensitive blonde. But this time, instead of the blush, she had a cool, superior smile on her face.