Anna stepped on the conveyer belt marked 'Migraines' and was carried through glass doors to the processing hall. She was suddenly nervous. Amongst the hundreds of passengers she felt alone.

'Come on, lady! Move along!' the Chief Migraine Officer barked. 'Over there,' he said, pointing to a doorway marked Customs.

The heavy metal doors rumbled open at her approach. People were seated, completing green questionnaires. She took one.

'Anna Kronisma,' she wrote, 'Born 2092. 28 years old. Citizen of Arcadia.'

The questions had nothing to do with her baggage. They were personal, about opinions, beliefs and preferences. She didn't understand and so she asked.

'Look, lady! We've got to know what customs you've got. Maybe we'll find you don't need the whole re-education programme.'

After a while, the Customs official ran Anna's completed form under a Veracity Scanner. One glance showed him there was no common ground. He turned and walked back to his office.

'Take that one down to the white noise room, Don. She's for total cultural erasure. Bloody Arcadians. They're all the same.'

She was led away to join others waiting to be treated. Like them, she would soon be safely stereotyped.