From where they stopped the plane it was obvious to Martin that something unusual was going on - something to do with security.
They parked inside a hanger, hundreds of meters from any gate. The passengers, with all their hand-luggage, clambered down an old-fashioned ramp, were led through a tight cordon of terminal security people to a large bullpen-like room, almost another baby hanger. It was set with long rows of big, numbered folding tables; the tables were separated by vertical plywood panels to provide a bit of pseudo-privacy. All checked luggage was quickly off-loaded and arrayed before the puzzled and upset passengers, who had to claim all their luggage, pile it in front of themselves with their carry-ons, and wait. There was, of course, no seating. Passengers --with luggage- were led individually to tables -- each passenger separately. Good European style security --
post
flight!
Martin sighed internally and tried to stay calm -- getting upset simply was the wrong thing to do at this point. Fortunately, he was in no hurry -- it was mid-morning, the rest of his day was free, his first lecture was the day after tomorrow, and early next week he was to rendezvous with his long-term paramour for a couple of days of high-intensity bed-games. Also fortunately, he was one of the first to alight, and easily found his lone checked bag. He caught the eye of the agent who was directing traffic, and was pointed to table number 13.
Martin trundled over: behind the desk was a single security employee, a blond young woman of perhaps twenty-eight or so. She was, he thought fleetingly, rather pretty -- too bad the god-awful uniforms were so
genuinely
god-awful! At least, she'd taken pains to wear it neatly. She had the usual un-readable-at-a-distance identification card on a neck-cord, plus a badge and a simple nametag reading "Marsha". She had a subtle air of competence and intelligence about her that was so sadly lacking in 99% of her security compadres.
She motioned him to put his bags on the table. Before doing anything else, she wiped the bag with a cotton swab, then said "Your hands too, please, palms up." He complied. The swab sampled both palms, then disappeared into the tabletop mass spectrometer.
Martin smiled at her and said "No nitrates on me, Marsha. Guaranteed!" Nitrates being the primary ingredient of most high-level explosives, that was what the machine was checking for. Somebody must have called in a bomb threat. She said nothing, glanced at him, then at the machine. A green light lit up, apparently signaling "clean".
She looked back up at him, made solid "Inspecting you now!" eye contact, and said quietly with a significant and very pleasant British accent, "Sorry about the uproar and delay today, Sir. We'll get you through as quickly as we can."
Martin nodded, said "No problem -- good security is a fine idea. Take as long as you wish -- I'm just going to my hotel and have nothing special scheduled tonight. Or all day tomorrow, for that matter. No hurry."
She nodded, very neutral and professional. "Thank you for feeling that way, Sir. A great many passengers do not. And some are quite vocal about it, too. May I see your boarding pass stub and some good ID please?" Martin produced his passport and the requisite stub. "Any other connecting flights for you today, Sir?" she asked. He shook his head no as she compared the passport photo with his face. "Born where?" she asked, as she flipped expertly and rapidly through the visas section. He told her, she nodded, then asked "Not a local resident -- have you any documentation as to where you will be staying?" He produced a paper copy of an e-mail confirming his reservation at a good local hotel, which she scanned as if committing it to memory, then returned. "So why use a passport on a domestic flight, Sir? Not your typical American's habit, is it?"
He shrugged, said "Universally accepted ID, more impressive to some folks than is a mere driver's license. That can be helpful sometimes. It's a good all-purpose document."
She handed it back and said "Lots of foreign travel in there."
He volunteered "Yeah, I like to travel, but most of that is really occupational junketing." She waited -- he left the ball in her court as she snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
"Afraid we're going to have to go through the whole lot in detail this time, Sir. You and everyone else, no exceptions today. Doesn't happen very often. I'll ask you please not to reach out or touch anything in the suitcases as I check things, but you can say anything you want as we go along." He handed her the key for the approved mini-lock: she opened it and handed back the key. "So, Sir, just what is the occupation in question that requires so much travel?"
"I'm a scientist. Oceanography. Visiting here to give a short series of lectures at the university. An old PhD classmate of mine is a prof here." That brought her up short, a flicker of something broke through the impersonal façade but just for a fraction of a second.
She looked at him again, much more attentively, and said "Oh? And just what species of oceanographer might you be?"
That was interesting, Martin thought -- even in the scientific community almost nobody recognized that there were serious, largely independent, divisions of the overall field. He found himself both impressed and curious. "Biological. I'm actually a global-scale systems ecologist. I study blue-water planktonic ecosystems. Central Pacific gyres." That ought to cause something: he grinned to himself, waiting.
"Hmmm..." she said. "So you're one of those kilocalories per square meter per day energy flow up the food chain sorts of people, I suppose?" He blinked in surprise and she cracked the briefest, tiny smile, her face lit up, and then she suppressed it. "Sorry, Sir, we're truly not supposed to make any personal contact with the passengers. But... I wonder, would you happen to be the Jeremiah of a scientific paper by Jeremiah and Reeves, back about twenty years or so? In Deep-Sea Research?"
