the woods as he had at the gunnery controls of the
destroyer Victrix, where he'd been killed in the bloody running battle
between Tanin and Cosmogard five years ago.

"Don't worry, Dad," Tarlac said softly. "I'll be careful." He'd been
aboard the Lindner at the time, as he had almost since the war's
beginning. He'd had a Ranger's reserve then, and the detachment he'd
thought was real had shielded him from the full hurt of his father's
death.

His mother had understood, too, when he called her instead of returning
to Terra even for the memorial service. "He wouldn't have expected it,
Steve," she'd said. "He was like you that way--duty first, always."

"If you need anything . . ."

"No, I'll be fine. You've both seen to it that I don't have any
financial worries, and your Aunt Betty will be staying with me for
awhile. But . . . I do miss you, son."

"I know, Mother. I'll come home next time I make it to Terra."

And he had. Tarlac was suddenly very glad of that. He'd been
uncomfortable, vaguely guilty that he hadn't been able to feel more
sorrow, but his mother had been happy to see him and made no effort to
hide it. She'd let him leave without objecting, too, and he could
guess, now, how much that had cost her. If he made it back, he'd have
to let her know he did understand, and show her some of the open love
he'd been unable to express before.

To make it back, though, he'd better stop reminiscing and get some work
done. The fire area was down to clear soil, so he stood and brushed
off his hands on the only cloth available, his shorts. Time to scout
around for food, and the means to trap some animals.

The inner bark of the torva bush--actually a low-growing tree--made a
substitute for rope or twine, according to Hovan. But it was tough by
Traiti standards, and damn near impenetrable for a human, even with a
knife. By the time he'd peeled off a half-dozen strips, one hand was
blistered and the sun was getting low.

He settled on salvis root for dinner, apprehensive about handling a
plant that bore a strong outward resemblance to poison oak, but he was
hungry. The small patch of salvis yielded plenty for him, though it
would have barely whetted a Traiti's appetite. Dessert came from a
toli vine that was strangling a nearby soh tree--orange berries that
looked something like jelly beans and smelled like dirty socks.
Despite Hovan's assurances, he bit into the first one cautiously.
Nothing that