"We try. I only glad am, that you have honor shown. I would not have it pleasant found, an unworthy one to guide."

The Ranger didn't know what to say to what sounded like praise, or at least like approval, from a Traiti. He settled for, "Thanks again. I try, too." Then he quickly changed the subject. "Uh, Hovan, I don't want to be offensive, but I think it might be a good idea if you show me where the sanitary facilities are."

"That next on the tour was," Hovan said, smiling.

After taking care of immediate necessities, the Ranger decided he could use a bath. He left his gun and equipment belt in the locker, picked out clean underwear, and started toward the bathing room door in the left wall.

Hovan, turning from a nearby locker, stopped him. "Why need you those?"

"To sleep in," Tarlac said, surprised. The Traiti had forgotten one thing; they hadn't thought to salvage pajamas from the Terran supplies.

"You need them not. The air warm is, and you a blanket have."

Uh-oh, Tarlac thought. That must mean the Traiti slept nude, which was definitely not a Terran custom. He was by no means certain he could adjust that far that quickly.

Hovan sensed the man's unease, remembering stories of human prisoners'

behavior. "If you more comfortable that way are, those wear." But he was disappointed. Until now, Steve had been doing quite well.

Tarlac hesitated, thinking, then returned the small bundle of clothing to his locker. "I don't think so. Since it seems I'll be living with you people for quite a while, I might as well get used to it as soon as I can."

He walked hurriedly through the bathing room door, feeling himself blush. This wouldn't be quite so easy. He'd never been nude in public; it was indecent. Then he hesitated, realizing that he wasn't being completely accurate: it was indecent only by current standards, and even at that, not everywhere. Although he'd never visited any, he knew the Empire held worlds where nudity was unremarkable. That was obviously the case here, and he didn't have any choice, so he'd have to make the best of it.

He located the cleaner and undressed, putting his uniform and underclothes in, and turned the unit on. Then he picked one of the translucent shower stalls, experimented with the unfamiliar controls, and began soaping himself.

By the time he was clean and, he hoped, no longer blushing, there were Traiti in the stalls to either side of him, gray bodies seen dimly through the shower walls and an occasional bit of melodic speech sounding over the noise of running water. Bracing himself, he left the scanty concealment of the stall and picked up a towel off the stack he'd spotted earlier. Drying himself didn't take nearly long enough, but he forced himself to stop when he was done, and walked into the sleeproom.

To his relief, no one was there, though another dozen mats unrolled on the floor were evidence there soon would be. Hovan joined him seconds later, still damp, and gave Tarlac a quick, searching glance. "Be easy, Steve," he said. "You will none offend, you so little body hair have. There nothing wrong with you seems."

Tarlac stared at him in disbeief, then couldn't keep from grinning.

"None offend . . . Body hair!" Embarra.s.sment dissolved into helpless laughter, subsiding only when the Ranger had collapsed onto his sleeping mat. "That did it, Hovan," he finally managed to say.

"Nudity's okay, but not body hair--Whew!"

He stood, shaking his head and smiling, no longer disturbed by his own state of undress or by the equally bare Traiti now moving about the room. They seemed more impressive this way than when clothed, unlike most humans--himself, Tarlac admitted wryly, included. He felt pale in contrast with their rich, even coloring. And while he was in good shape, he was nowhere near as muscular as the beings around him. They made him feel out of place in a half-remembered way, almost like . . .

what? Yes, that was it. Like a kid.

Well, that didn't really matter. Rangers weren't picked for their bodies. The primary criteria were mental: among other things were intelligence, imagination, an adaptable but stable mind, a generalist's variety of knowledge, intense loyalty to the Empire . . . and no close personal ties.

Hovan returned the man's smile, pleased. From what he had heard of human prisoners, he'd guessed that sidetracking Steve's train of thought might help; it seemed to have worked. He waved a hand, indicating the others in the room. "You have part of my team seen.

Now that you relaxed are, may I a favor ask?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"My men have humans fought and killed, but have never any truly met.

If you willing are, they would like to you examine, and then questions ask. But you out-clan to all of us are; if you wish it not, none will offended be."

"I don't see why I shouldn't do it, as long as it works both ways. I'd like to examine a live Traiti as much as they'd like to examine a live human."

"That reasonable is. I willing am, to your subject be." Hovan called his men over, conveying Steve's a.s.sent, then stood relaxed. "I ready am."

Tarlac had seen Traiti corpses, and read medical and autopsy reports, so he was familiar with the sleek, almost hairless bodies. But there was a tremendous difference between that rather abstract understanding and the immediacy of a living, vital warrior towering over him. It was only then that he realized Hovan was one of the scarred ones--his embarra.s.sment must have kept him from noticing earlier. Not sure whether it might give offense, he reached hesitantly to touch the scars. They were darker than the surrounding skin, but the texture was only a little bit rougher. He was surprised at the supple softness and warmth of skin he knew to be tough as leather armor. Had he really been expecting the human-dubbed "Sharks" to be literally cold-blooded?

That private fallacy laid to rest, he stepped back, wondering what to expect. "Okay, your turn."

Hovan didn't have to translate that; his men got the idea and crowded around the Ranger. He didn't take part himself because he'd learned what he needed to know while the man was examining him. Just the fingertips lightly touching his scars had been more than enough to confirm his earlier impression. The man's every action, from coming aboard armed to allowing his alien hosts to satisfy their curiosity, showed the courage and self-a.s.surance of one whose sense of honor was so much a part of him that he felt no need to stand on ceremony. The brief physical touch had even given him the feeling of belonging shared by n'ruhar--what English inadequately referred to as clanmates.

Steve was worthy of Ch'kara; Hovan was convinced of that. And the sense of belonging in Steve's touch made it almost certain he would accept the offer. Hovan told himself ruefully that he shouldn't have entertained even the small doubts he'd had of Ka'ruchaya Yarra's wisdom. It had seemed impossible that an alien could truly be a ruhar, and Steve was undoubtedly an alien, even though he wasn't frightened, as so many humans seemed to be, by the sheer size of beings so alien to them. Yet the clan-feeling was definitely there--how had Yarra guessed?

Hovan dismissed that unseemly question. She was Ka'ruchaya of Ch'kara, not he; such things were the concern of Clan Mothers and Speakers, not of fighters. He obeyed in this as they would obey him in his field-- though he prayed the need would never arise for them to defend Ch'kara as fighters.

But he could still feel wonderment at being empowered to perform the adoption. Males shared in the creation of life, but it was females who actually brought it forth into the clan, by birth or adoption. In the case of adoption, the new ruhar should be brought into the gathering hall, with as many of the clan as possible attending. Steve wouldn't have that, or even a close approximation, until Homeworld; there weren't enough of Ch'kara in the Fleet. But he would have the best Hovan could manage, next wake-time.

Tarlac was still being examined by curious but carefully gentle commandos. It wasn't embarra.s.sing; his own laughter had cured that problem, at least here. Being poked and prodded wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be, even as closely as he was being checked out.

Naturally enough, his examiners were paying closest attention to the points where the two races differed most: head, hands, and skin. He was willing to swear, for instance, that a dentist couldn't have gone into more detail over his teeth.

But finally that was over and it was question time. Tarlac seated himself cross-legged on his sleeping mat, where Hovan promptly joined him to translate for the others. Then the questioning started, hesitantly at first, not touching on anything too significant until Tarlac's quiet manner and responsive answers put the commandos at ease.

When that happened, the questions became more searching.

"Do humans honor have?" one asked.

"I'm not really sure just how you use the term," Tarlac said slowly, "so I'll have to go by the human ideal. We have a few cultures, mostly warrior ones like the Sandeman and Tharn, that are honor-directed, but in the rest of the Empire I'd have to say most people don't. Not the way warrior races define it, anyway, and I've got a hunch you're more like them, at least in that way, than you're like the rest of the Empire. Outside of the warrior cultures, it's the military that thinks most about honor, though not even all of them care; to a lot of civilians . . ." The Ranger hesitated, frowning. "Well, honor and profit just don't seem to mix."

"You different are," another said. "Why?"

Tarlac shrugged. "I don't quite know. Maybe because I've always been something of an idealist." He grinned. "Though I was called a lot of other things before I was recruited."

"All Rangers like you are, in that?"

"Idealists? Yes, or they wouldn't be Rangers."

"Is it true there female Rangers are?"

"Sure. Right now, three of them. We can't afford to discriminate, not for any job. Local affairs aren't an Imperial concern, so some do things differently, but the Empire itself doesn't judge anything but what you can do. Especially if the comps and Sovereign agree that you've got what it takes to be a Ranger."

That got a murmur of some sort, and from the tone Tarlac guessed it was disapproval. Hovan didn't translate; instead, he said something that silenced them.

"It's okay, Hovan," Tarlac said, not offended but curious. "What is it?"

"They say that insane is. Not only that you females in such danger place, but that you machines use, your best to choose. I them told, there so many humans are, you no choice have."

Tarlac nodded, surprised. "Right! Well, mostly. The comps don't exactly choose; they just eliminate the ones who don't measure up to the specs. Which, I admit, doesn't leave many. Then the Sovereign checks the comp's choices, and sends a Ranger to invite the ones @ chooses. After that, only about a quarter of those who're asked to join, refuse." His expression sobered. "I almost did refuse, almost decided to go into the Navy instead of taking Linda's offer. I'm glad I didn't. I'd've had more security, but a lot less challenge."

"Or danger?" Hovan was smiling.

"Or danger," Tarlac agreed.

Hovan's translation of that got a discussion going. The Ranger remained silent, listening to the commandos and enjoying the musical sounds of their speech. He felt oddly at ease, sitting open and relaxed in the group of beings whose appearance was so sharklike; he was well aware that in a similar situation with a human enemy, he would have been anything but at ease. When Hovan turned back to him and started to speak, Tarlac held up his hand. "About time for one of my questions, isn't it?"

"Ask."