"Yes," Major Napier said, reaching into his breast pocket and taking out 
a folded sheet of smart foolscap. He told it to uncrease itself on the table 
and prodded it with the nib of a silver fountain pen the size of an artillery 
shell. "Gatehouse records indicate that you do not venture into the L.T. 
often, Mr. Hackworth, which is certainly understandable and speaks well of your 
judgment. There have been two forays in recent months. On the first of these, 
you left in midafternoon and returned late at night bleeding from lacerations 
that seemed to have been recently incurred, according to the"—Major 
Napier could not repress
a tiny smile—"evocative description logged by the border patrol officer 
on duty that night. On the second occasion, you again left in the afternoon and 
returned late, this time with a single deep laceration across the 
buttocks—not visible, of course, but picked up by surveillance."