"Hmm, that's not good,"

I thought. We were the last two left. Looks bad. Evasive.

The customs officer was standing primly in the aisle of the aircraft, at a table that came up to her waist. Tall, blond, in a uniform vaguely dress military.

She looked in our direction, nodding with a slight but insistent smile.

I looked at Jules and squeezed by, while other passengers, having already returned from the woman, were picking up their things and moving on. All of it seemed somehow slightly futuristic, sterile, and threatening.

"A few questions, sir," she said, with an English accent.

I nodded.

"Your doctor's name?"

"Floyd Grant." I have no idea if I was making it up.

"Mmm. Neurologist? Optometrist? Psychologist?

"Uh, GP."

But she was already counting out pills. Big, flat, white ones. Each had a large black letter or number on it.

"Right then, here you are. Enjoy your stay."

Then it was Jules' turn.