"I'm with you, Nask," said Inspector Sprim. "And I don't understand why they _still_ keep routing earthers through Immigration anyway. They claim they're a borderline case, but when you've seen as many as I have, you know, which side of the border they're on." * * * * * Nask went off to the kasser dispenser and his place was taken by Brif, the head Inspector, who had been listening. "Un-edge yourself, Sprim," smiled Brif, contracting one of his heads. "I have good news, rare news and fine news. The Four Council decision just came down to us. Earthers are now to be routed through Livestock instead of Immigration beginning very soon." A cheer went up from the little group of Customs and Immigration officials. The one Livestock Inspector in the lounge groaned in despair. Old Inspector Flimp seemed bothered. "They've made themselves a mistake," he sputtered. "Earthers can be clever and tricky even after they're altered. Why, I seen them pull every trick in the book coming through here. Did I ever tell you about the stunted one with an artificial head who tried to pass himself off as a rest-park planner? Well, it seems that...." Two young, but large inspectors sneaked away from the group when they saw old Flimp was launched into one of his dull yarns again. Outside the lounge, after a quick look up and down the hall, they ducked into the robot-cleaner storage closet. "Boy," gasped the shorter inspector. "I _had_ to get out of there. Besides the torture of listening to that two-headed monster babble on and on about how he outwitted earthers when he was still able to move around, this miserable thing has started to come loose again." He gave an impatient wrench to his left head, and it wobbled enough to expose some of the delicate wires that the earth robotic engineer had labored over so many hours. The other began tightening straps and buckles for him. "There," he said finally. "You look like one of the boys again." Laughing together, the earthers went back into the Customs Lounge. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Customs Lounge, by E.A. Proulx