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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 38 The small-craft warnings were up, but the big fifty-footer was out there, making its course for the hotel marina. It was Armstrong, from Customs and Immigration. Dory had met the man across the line in the football game, playing for the police. "Baghdad," the officer was asking, "Where is Baghdad. They were staring up into a suite where the chambers had been curtained for the women. "Well of course it's in Iraq, on the Tigris--" "Oh I know, I know," the customs man said, almost irritably, "I have it all right here," he emphasized, motioning with his clipboard, up toward the harem. "Exotic," he pronounced carefully. "I've got to classify them as exotics." "Exactly," Dory responded enthusiastically. "With all the original meaning of the word. Introduced from another country. Alien." The beautiful wife Sela parted the curtains to smile down at them. "Notice the heavy-lidded eye," Armstrong said professionally, trim in his blue Federal uniform. "Negroid type." "And the definition of those bellies," Dory offered. "tight from all that dancing." |