"It's not that bad," Sunbeam said, still amazing Corina with her ability to eat and talk simultaneously--and neatly. "You remember Major Dawson, don't you, Sir Corina? His name's Pat; we got to talking while you were hassling with Colonel Greggson. He's going to coach me in unarmed combat--he's the ship's men's champion, since Lieutenant DarLeras says it wouldn't be proper for him to compete with non-warriors--and he thinks I may have a chance at the women's championship next month." "You must be quite good, then," Corina said. "What hassle with Greggson?" Medart demanded. "It was nothing serious," Corina said, and summarized the incident for him. "I was nervous, but not badly upset." "That's good," Medart said, then continued silently. *Maybe it doesn't bother you, but it does me. I'll let it go for now, since His Majesty's already warned him and I have a feeling we may need his shield, but if he tries anything else, I want to know about it right away.* Corina was impressed by his seriousness. *Yes, Ranger.* The spoken conversation continued on a light tone, with Sunbeam as usual carrying most of it. Corina was almost silent, content merely to absorb the alien atmosphere and continue accustoming herself to it. She felt occasional twinges of familiarity which she knew must come from the Medart-pattern that was becoming a part of her mind. Most of the integration, of course, would be done by her undermind while she slept that night--but she could feel it beginning already. * * * * * As she had known it would be, Corina's sleep that night was restless, disturbed by her undermind's attempt to fit those alien memories into a pattern that would allow her to grasp and use them. She might never fully understand them, but when the process was complete, she would have more feeling for humans than was possible for an Irschchan who hadn't experienced pattern rapport with one. The integration process worked mostly in the form of dreams, some fragmentary, some less so. She/Jim was laying in a bed with bars, a huge pink face framed in white looking down at her/him and radiating a feeling of peace. Then Corina-as-Jim was sitting beside a wicker basket, stroking a Siamese cat who was giving birth to her first litter of kittens and wouldn't let him leave. There were three already, tiny white-furred things blindly nursing. The mother stared up at him, butting his hand with her head, and purred as only a Siamese could, seeming to be proud of her accomplishment. A nude swim in a warm blue sea--the memory a pleasant one for the human, but one that made Corina's sleeping body tremble with distaste.