Set well back from the road, its several buildings were surrounded by both native eucalypts and acacias as well as ripening exotics, their leaves a mixture of reds and golds among the green. As I looked at the splendid foliage, I realised I’d never much liked Dallas Baxter. I distrusted his pink and gold smoothness. From some distance away, a plume of steam arose in the cool air. The autoclave must be working, I thought. I pressed the security door and was let into the foyer carrying my gear, video camera and notebook. Challenged at the security desk by a man with a huge belly and a lot of metal hanging off his belt, I told him why I was there and was directed towards the reception counter, a little way down the corridor, where I filled in the visitors’ book. I took a clip-on tag to identify myself and glanced around at the pale grey walls and matching non-slip, easy-clean floor covering. Gone forever was the freedom of movement we’d all once enjoyed, moving around government and private institutions with relatively few restrictions.
