But all had gone well. The Border Patrol officer had slotted the credsticks one by one into the reader on his belt, scanning the information they contained via the connection to his datajack. He’d asked a couple of routine questions—reason for travel (even though that was, by law, included on the travel permits), home address (ditto)—but Falcon had answered them smoothly enough. (He fragging well should have, after the way she’d drilled him.) Then, just when she thought they were through, the patrol slot had wanted to talk about the fragging car.