His leanto was still standing in the clearing, though it looked ludicrously flimsy. He stacked the wood next to it, then began scraping leaves and other debris to make a safe spot for a fire in front of it. He hadn't needed Hovan to tell him that; this part was no different from his childhood camping trips. He could almost hear his father's voice, its calm but firm emphasis: "Always be super-cautious with fire in the woods, son. You don't have any margin for error, no slack at all." His father would have liked Homeworld, Tarlac thought; he'd been as much at home in the woods as he had at the gunnery controls of the destroyer Victrix, where he'd been killed in the bloody running battle between Tanin and Cosmogard five years ago. "Don't worry, Dad," Tarlac said softly. "I'll be careful." He'd been aboard the Lindner at the time, as he had almost since the war's beginning. He'd had a Ranger's reserve then, and the detachment he'd thought was real had shielded him from the full hurt of his father's death. His mother had understood, too, when he called her instead of returning to Terra even for the memorial service. "He wouldn't have expected it, Steve," she'd said. "He was like you that way--duty first, always." "If you need anything . . ." "No, I'll be fine. You've both seen to it that I don't have any financial worries, and your Aunt Betty will be staying with me for awhile. But . . . I do miss you, son." "I know, Mother. I'll come home next time I make it to Terra." And he had. Tarlac was suddenly very glad of that. He'd been uncomfortable, vaguely guilty that he hadn't been able to feel more sorrow, but his mother had been happy to see him and made no effort to hide it. She'd let him leave without objecting, too, and he could guess, now, how much that had cost her. If he made it back, he'd have to let her know he did understand, and show her some of the open love he'd been unable to express before. To make it back, though, he'd better stop reminiscing and get some work done. The fire area was down to clear soil, so he stood and brushed off his hands on the only cloth available, his shorts. Time to scout around for food, and the means to trap some animals. The inner bark of the torva bush--actually a low-growing tree--made a substitute for rope or twine, according to Hovan. But it was tough by Traiti standards, and damn near impenetrable for a human, even with a knife. By the time he'd peeled off a half-dozen strips, one hand was blistered and the sun was getting low.