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Morbidly curious, the squint-eyed customs official examined the
two holes in Baker St. Cyr’s chest. He touched the flange of
warm, yel ow plastic that rimmed each of the female jacks, and
he tried to determine how the flesh had been coerced into
growing onto the foreign material.
St. Cyr would not have been surprised if the man had sent for a
flashlight and begun a detailed visual inspection of those two
narrow tunnels in St. Cyr’s flesh. On a world as serene as
Darma, largely given over to the sport of the wealthy, a customs
chief would rarely encounter anything unusual; therefore, when
one of the four baggage inspectors had turned up an odd piece
of machinery in St. Cyr’s smal est suitcase, the chief intended,
understandably enough, to milk the incident for al its
“Shal we get on with it?” St. Cyr asked.
The customs chief grunted and straightened from his stoop. He
turned to the open suitcase on the table beside them and
patted the turtle shel , which was not a turtle shel at al .
He said, “Let’s see you put it on.”
The baggage inspector, a young man with a mop of yel ow hair
and skin as white as dusting powder, came forward to have a
better look. He had found the turtle shel machine, after al . He
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