"Because parts of the Ordeal in-clan matters are, not with out-clan or clanless discussed. I can no more of that say."

"Okay. I suppose I'll find out when the time comes." That seemed to describe a lot of today's experiences, Tarlac thought, then he decided not to worry about it. It was easier to cope with situations as they arose, in a case like this.

They arrived at a meal hall, and the smell was enough to make Tarlac hungry. It operated cafeteria-style; Tarlac, unfamiliar with any of the food, copied Hovan's choices, and ended up with more than he could possibly eat. The portions, from salad to stew and a beverage that looked like milk, were sized to fuel a body ma.s.s more than three times his. Still, the food was good, if unfamiliar, and he surprised himself by finishing almost half.

He leaned back with a sigh of repletion, returning Hovan's quick smile as the other continued eating. There was little conversation to hear over the sound of eating utensils, knives and short-tined spoons that doubled as forks. Clearly, eating was serious business for these people. At least he didn't have to worry about the food; bio-studies had shown that Traiti and humans had the same basic nutritional requirements and limitations. No Traiti food should poison him.

Finally Hovan pushed back his tray, his meal finished. "Ranger Esteban Tarlac. We will much together be; object you if we not formal are?

Out-clan it not usual is, names to use instead of t.i.tles, but I think it would fitting be."

Tarlac nodded; under the circ.u.mstances, it did seem appropriate. "I'm called Steve, then, Hovan. That's the short form of my given name."

"Steve. A name that much of strength bears, from the sound." Steve of Clan Ch'kara. Yes, Hovan thought, it did sound fitting, and it was another good sign that the man allowed him that liberty. There was no denying a Ranger's status among humans. It might take the Ordeal to find out whether an individual Ranger was worthy of honor from the Traiti, but prisoners had made it more than clear that Rangers were direct representatives of the Terran Sovereign. They went anywhere they were needed, to tackle crises n.o.body else was capable of handling.

Sometimes, it was said, the mere threat of a Ranger's intervention made actual intervention unnecessary. And it was they, when the need arose, who selected the Sovereigns--so far, always another Ranger. There was more, stories that made Rangers seem like Lords. Hovan didn't believe those, for Steve had used a s.p.a.cesuit to transfer to the Hermnaen; he hadn't breathed vacuum. But even so, to name-call such a one must be as great a privilege as the task Yarra had given him. "Do many you so call?"

"Hmm? Oh. No, not many." Tarlac seldom thought about it, and was surprised at the brevity of the list. "The captain of my cruiser, the Emperor, other Rangers, my mother . . . that's about it." He frowned briefly. "It'd be nice to have more, but the job doesn't allow it. A Ranger's as much a symbol as a person. It's mostly a d.a.m.n good life . . . but sometimes it gets lonely. I think I'm almost looking forward to being adopted, odd as that may seem at my age." Then he shrugged. "Sorry, Hovan. I didn't mean to go crying on your shoulder.

Don't know why I did."

Hovan rose, motioning Steve to follow. He had never heard of "crying on your shoulder," but could guess from context what the man meant, and thought it best not to go into something so personal, at least while Steve was out-clan. "Come. I will you our sleep-room show, while it still early is."

Tarlac went along, surprised at his self-revelation. He'd seldom mentioned the occasional loneliness before, even to the other Rangers, who shared it. It didn't fit the image. He grinned sardonically for a second. Image. Hah. Thanks to the image, not even newsies pushed a Ranger too hard, and n.o.body else pushed at all. n.o.body with any brains, at least.

Hovan interrupted his brooding. "What can you of the Empire and Rangers say? I wish not to intrude or offend, but I curious am."

Tarlac gave that a moment's thought, and found the answer an easy one.

"Quite a bit, as a matter of fact. I'll tell you anything you want to know, except cla.s.sified military information. Your High Command must know as well as I do how this war's gone up to now."

"Telling us even that would little difference make," Hovan said quietly. "You know not how close you to victory are. In less than another year, there will no more Traiti be."

The Ranger stopped where he was, deeply shocked. "Hovan, what are you saying? The Empire isn't out to commit genocide! We don't kill non-combatants on purpose!"

"No such thing as noncombatants is. When we to Homeworld retreat, we no other place to go will have. All will fighters be, except the very youngest. It happened so, in the clan wars nearly four thousand years ago."

Hovan's calm words meant the Empire was in the process of exterminating an entire intelligent race, a crime more monstrous than any recorded in the history of all three Imperial races combined. And the Empire didn't even know it! The Ranger would have cursed, but not even a s.p.a.ce-scout's inventive vocabulary could express his feelings.

Not really expecting an affirmative answer, Tarlac asked, "Can they--the women and children, anyway--can any of them surrender?"

"No word for that in Language is," Hovan said. "We the concept from humans learned. They cannot."

And that was a certain indicator in any language. Lacking the word, it lacked the concept, and so did the people who spoke it. It was true that no Traiti had surrendered during the entire course of the war, and there had been speculation about the reason; the hypothesis that Traiti were incapable of it had gained some favor over the years.

Tarlac wasn't glad to find it was right. That meant that even more than the chance of peace rode on his survival of this Ordeal. d.a.m.n!

Tarlac thought the word with vehement intensity, but didn't say it aloud. It wasn't fair! A race's extinction should not depend on one man, especially one who wasn't at all sure of his own ability to survive!

Clearly, he could no longer afford such doubts. So, think of something else for now.

Okay. He'd already begun to see how complex the Traiti were, much more so than the Empire suspected. The Empire's knowledge was limited to these people's savage ferocity--or what seemed like savage ferocity.

The war had exploded suddenly and simply: a scoutship exploring about 150 pa.r.s.ecs coreward from Irschcha had fallen silent. A rescue ship sent to check on the scout had had time to describe its attackers before it was destroyed as well. The third ship was the Emperor Chang, a battle cruiser which survived its Traiti attack and brought word that, like it or not, the Empire was at war with an unreasoning enemy.

Traiti hostility was long proven, but Tarlac could no longer believe it was unreasoning.

"Hovan--why did your people attack that first scout, ten years ago? I feel certain it didn't give any deliberate provocation."

"I cannot fully say, since I have not the tapes seen. We knew not that its intention peaceful was. You should the Supreme ask, when you him see. But this much all know: an alien ship suddenly over a new-landed homeship was, a possible danger to females and younglings. It responded not to challenge, and visual contact obscene horror showed."

Claws flickered briefly on one hand, then Hovan continued. "Our guard-ship the only way it could reacted. That we since learned a mistake was, but too late."

"Most of that I understand, I think, but I'll take your advice and ask to see the tapes." No wonder the Traiti had acted as they had. Their hyperdrive at the time had been slow to transition; when an Imperial ship appeared within seconds, it was only natural that they'd interpret it as a threat. And scoutships were armed--had to be--so that even if the ship hadn't tried to attack, it was obviously not harmless. The Traiti had challenged instead of firing instantly at the invader, and the challenge, not understood, had been ignored. So the colony's guard-ship acted. "d.a.m.n! What a waste! One misunderstanding led to-- Oh, h.e.l.l!" Tarlac stared at the deck, scarcely aware of his surroundings.

When he looked up, Hovan's green eyes were appraising him. "If that you disturbs, let it not. They would have anyway fired, I think."

Tarlac recalled the unexplained factor. "The obscene horror. What was that? What could be so bad it'd cause that kind of a reaction?"

"Females on a ship that might have into battle gone. No race insane enough to that allow . . ." Hovan shook his head. "We have since learned that you so many females have that it not insane for you is, but it still unacceptable to most of us is. For us, a female in unnecessary danger to place, the death penalty earns. One who actual harm on a female inflicts, unless in self-defense, his clan full dishonor brings. That one also dies, in public at his Clan Mother's claws, the clan's honor to restore. Then he buried is, not to the Lords presented. See you now?"

That was quite a taboo, Tarlac thought, taken aback, but why--? He was beginning to put things together: paintings of Madonnas, humans having "so many" females . . . "How much of your race is female?"

"One in four."

Oh. Dear. G.o.d.

The Imperial ship had been a threat to Traiti women and children. It had ignored a challenge, and the seeming invaders had shown a complete disregard for even their own females' safety. With that gender ratio, protection of females and young had to be the prime Traiti racial imperative. The crew of that Imperial scout might or might not have violated first-contact procedure--he'd find out when he saw the tape Hovan had mentioned--but it was certain they'd triggered an instinct-level reaction.

They had come to the sleeproom by the time the Ranger reached that point in his thoughts. The compartment was wider than it was deep, with lockers along the bulkheads to either side of the entry door.

There were two other doors on the left, and the right wall held what looked like oversized square pigeon-holes--but it was the mural on the long wall opposite the entrance that captured Tarlac's attention.

It was a mountain scene, one that might have been of a remote spot on Terra except for details of the foreground forest. And it was beautiful. Tarlac found himself relaxing, and smiled.

"You our Homeworld like?"

"It's . . . like my home, the way it was when I was a boy. We had a house near a lake like that. It could only be reached by grav-hopper.

We didn't have much company, but I didn't miss it; I had the lake, the woods, the animals . . ." For the first time since he'd left for the Academy, Tarlac felt a twinge of homesickness. He wondered why, briefly, before dismissing it. It had to be the mural; Linda had said that art could evoke emotion even between cultures.

"You alone grew up? No kin had?" Hovan sounded faintly shocked.

"My parents, of course, and family get-togethers every couple of years.

We weren't really close; the family was too big for that. Uncle Martin and Aunt Gisele alone had ten kids." Tarlac shook his head, grinning.

"What a mob!"

"Kids?"

It seemed Hovan's vocabulary had a blank spot; Tarlac tried again.

"Children. Younglings."

"Ten . . . younglings?" Hovan's voice was little more than a whisper, sounding awed. He turned away abruptly, toward the right-side-wall pigeon-holes. Tarlac followed, accepting the bundle he was handed, then he followed his guide back to unroll the bundle on the floor. It proved to be a Traiti-sized bedroll with a pillow and a flocked-foam blanket.

Then Hovan showed him to a locker, and Tarlac found Arjen's comment that his needs would be supplied was exactly accurate. The locker held Terran-style soap, comb, toothbrush, underwear--everything, it seemed, except uniforms.

"Thanks. You people are thorough."