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Updated: May 4, 2025
She had tried to live by Sandeman custom; she couldn't change that now, simply because it became . . . inconvenient. "You're right, of course. But I can't do it myself right now, and I don't have a clan-chief to help me." The w'woman looked at her with what seemed to Dana like approval. "Perhaps a clan-chief can be found for you." "I'd . . . appreciate that."
She recognized Dawson, and three of the others were as big but the fifth, little taller than Corina herself and seemingly as slight of build, she recognized as by far the most dangerous. The pale-eyed, dark-skinned blonds from Subsector Sandeman were the product of major genetic engineering, particularly their warriors.
"I'm not sure I'd care to let myself be used as a target that way. You must have trusted that warrior implicitly." "No more or less than I trust any Sandeman," Medart said. "I've only known one who was capable of deliberate deception, and that was because his Intelligence field work for the Empire required it.
I believe I know what Master Thark has in mind, and it is important to Irschcha's future that the results not be distorted." Thark looked from her to the Sandeman, reached out gently, and touched the strongest shield he had ever felt. "You, too," he said in resignation. "Guard her well, warrior." Nevan bowed.
He knew precisely how good Nevan was at both conventional and psionic combat; since he'd been chosen as the Sandeman champion for this duel, there was every reason to believe he was just as good at magical combat. And Medart could remember thinking, the first time he saw Nevan battleprepped, how much he'd hate to be on the receiving end of the younger man's skills.
A tranquilizer, if you permit, would help." Dana felt a brief flash of amusement at a doctor asking permission for a treatment but this was Sandeman, where medical treatment was kept as unintrusive and respectful as possible even with an unconscious patient, and never went beyond that permitted by a conscious one. She nodded. "I think I'd like that, Doctor. Thank you." "None needed."
"All his people are top caliber, or they wouldn't be on this ship and one of them, Ranger Medart's bodyguard, is a Sandeman warrior." "Any selected for this vessel's Marine contingent would be formidable, I know," Corina said, "particularly one of that race's warriors.
Now, each member of the Mess leaned back in his chair, straightened his weary legs under the table, and settled down, cigar in mouth, to the perusal of the Spectator or the Tatler, according to rank and literary taste. Colonel Kemp, unfolding a week-old Times, looked over his glasses at his torpid disciples. "Where is young Sandeman?" he inquired. Young Sandeman was the Adjutant.
"We could've, but it wasn't necessary," Medart said. "I was able to use persuasion instead along with five battle fleets to show them the alternative to peace. They'd managed to take over almost half of Sector Five by then, but they accepted annexation as a Subsector, and they've been loyal citizens ever since." "You missed a Sandeman war," Ariel said thoughtfully, "and we missed a Traiti war.
His volunteer crew had given him a good ride to near-Sandeman space, and had been reluctant to leave him to face them alone, but they'd finally obeyed his orders and left. Once the lifecraft was out of sensor range, Medart switched on all the courier ship's external lights, activated the locator beacon, and set course for the center of the Sandeman sphere.
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