Not so long ago I arrived at Dulles airport, outside Washington, after a very protracted journey from Russia, including a layover in Germany. Like most transatlantic voyagers, I was weary, only approximately awake, and felt vaguely unwashed. Standing for a long time in a long line to present my passport to customs officials, I observed that an unusual number of my fellow travelers appeared to be elderly—that is to say, older than myself—and I could only surmise that the rigors of modern air travel were especially taxing for them.

At that moment, a middle-aged gentleman in uniform, wearing sunglasses—I cannot now recall whether he was a policeman of some jurisdiction or a Transportation Safety Administration official—appeared in the no-man’s-land between the rope line and the customs desk. Like a drill sergeant, he strode back and forth with a purposeful air, and began to bellow.