Dawson looked at her sharply. "It means that much to you? Well, I don't see why not; take it." "I thank you." Corina retrieved the blade, ran her fingers gently along it before returning it to its sheath, and resumed her seat. She sensed the Marine's puzzlement, and decided she should try to explain. "It is a part of me, in a way. Having it in someone else's possession makes me quite uncomfortable." Dawson shook his head. "I don't understand. I know it means you're an adult, but it's just a knife." "It is more," Corina said, her ears twitching. "My mind pattern--" She broke off at Dawson's blank look. "It is an Irschchan thing," she said apologetically. "I fear I cannot explain it well." "Or I don't have the background to understand." Dawson gave her a lopsided smile. "Ranger Medart will; whether or not I do isn't really important." He turned his attention back to his report. Corina took that opportunity to think. She was, she had to admit to herself, still more than a little frightened. It was less fear for her life now, as it had been when the Sanctioners captured her; it was more nervous apprehension about her future. She could not remain on Irschcha, she knew. If she did, as she had told Dawson, she would be killed. But then where could she go? What could she do? Her peaceful life had not prepared her for this kind of situation, suddenly caught in the midst of a rebellion. Things were happening too fast, overwhelming her. She wasn't sure what to expect from the Ranger, either. He'd said she had to be valuable; what had he meant? Urr . . . there was nothing she could do now but wait, as patiently as she could, until he arrived. * * * * * The next hour went slowly. Corina's patience, not one of her strongest points at best, was almost exhausted when the door behind her slid open. Dawson stood, coming to attention; Corina turned, to see if she should stand as well. She hadn't quite made it around when a calm voice said, "As you were." She sat back as Dawson resumed his seat. The newcomer was Ranger Medart; he propped himself on one corner of the desk, crossing his arms, and the two studied each other. Medart was good-looking for a human, Corina thought, though not really outstanding in any way but one: he moved with almost Irschchan grace, something unusual in a human male, especially considering this one's 180-cm height. She'd seen pictures of him, of course; one Ranger or another was usually in the news. So his appearance was familiar: medium build, youthful-looking thanks to anti-agathics despite graying hair at the temples and an age--about 75, if she remembered correctly--when an Irschchan would be preparing for death. The plain forest-green uniform was familiar too, with pants bloused over black boots and the wide pouched gun-and-equipment belt, its only decoration the platinum star-in-circle badge of his rank.