t know exactly what that
relationship meant, but the Traiti commando had come to mean a great
deal to the human Ranger. More, perhaps, than anyone else he'd met.
He visualized Hovan in forest green, then smiled at himself. Hovan
would never make a Ranger--he was too old, too molded by Fleet
discipline, and far too clan-oriented--but there would be non-human
Rangers someday, and eventually a non-human Sovereign. He liked that
idea. Intelligence was what counted, and the Traiti certainly had as
much of that as any of the Imperial races.

There was no doubt in Tarlac's mind that if he made it through the
Ordeal to end the war, it would be Hovan's doing as much as his own.
Hovan's teaching, his quiet support, and most of all his caring, were
what would bring the Ranger through his Ordeal if it were humanly
possible. He'd have to see that Hovan got the credit he deserved.

It was time to feed the fire and get some rest, if he wanted to make an
early start in the morning. His bed was leaves that rustled under his
weight as he settled down, then lay watching firelight reflect off the
inside of his shelter. It was odd . . . he'd slept alone from the time
he was six until he boarded the Hermnaen, and he'd thought he would
enjoy his privacy here--but he didn't. He missed the sleeproom, the
comfortable presence of his n'ruhar and the sounds of their quiet
breathing as they slept. He smiled drowsily, thinking that he'd shared
sleeprooms with a lot of Traiti, and he'd never heard one snore . . .

As always outdoors, he slept lightly, waking from time to time to feed
the fire until dawn finally roused him for the day. Leftover roots
made an adequate breakfast, and when he checked his snares he decided
that either he was extremely lucky or noxi were even stupider than
Hovan had told him. Three of his snares held prey, the beagle-eared
Homeworld version of rabbits, and one was still reasonably intact. The
two carcasses a derybach had reached before he did meant that at least
one well-fed derybach should have no interest in human prey today, and
one noxi was enough to supply him with moccasins and meat.

Satisfied, Tarlac salvaged his bark strips and returned to camp. He
improvised a spit--a straight limb that would make a good spear, shaped
to a point and fire-hardened--and put a haunch on to roast for lunch.
Thanking whatever Traiti metallurgist had developed a knife alloy that
held an edge under steady abuse, he set a