We played follow-the-leader halfway down the cloister, then hung a left through another heavy wooden door. (No chrysanthemum on this one, as if it mattered.) Two more suit-clad sammies were waiting for us in the room—a small antechamber decorated in muted tones, very serious and elegant. The two new sammies pulled out scanners and went over every centimeter of my body. Very polite about it, they were—as polite as you can be when you're doing something like that—constantly murmuring "Sumimasen, chotto, excuse me." Never once did they touch me—no pat-down, no search of my pockets or whatever. The process took a couple of minutes and evidently they were satisfied with the results, confident that I didn't have a heavy pistol concealed in my left ear or a hand grenade in my cheek. Both sammies bowed formally to me with one last "Sumimasen, " and focused their attention on a resigned-looking Scott.