might even go with him tonight, since it is starting to be rather disturbing. . . ."
* * *
"I really can't tell you all that much about him myself," said Hathaway, staring out over the vast domed arena that was his special charge. Miles wondered how long it would take to get used to the
smell. "Except that he says he's a Barrayaran. He disappears from time to time, but he always comes back. I've tried to persuade him to go to a Shelter, at least, but he didn't seem to like the idea. Lately, I haven't been able to get near him. You understand, he's never tried to
hurt anybody or anything, but you never know, what with his being a Barrayaran and all—oh, sorry . . ."
Hathaway, Miles, and Bothari picked their way across the
treacherous and uneven footing. Odd-shaped objects in the piles
tended to turn unexpectedly, tripping the unwary. All the detritus of high tech, awaiting apotheosis as the next generation of Betan
ingenuity, gleamed out amid more banal and universal human
rubbish.
"Oh, damn it," cried Hathaway suddenly, "he's gone and lit a fire again." A small curl of grey smoke was rising a hundred meters away.
"I hope he's not burning wood this time. I just cannot convince him how valuable—well, at least it makes him easy to find. . . ."
A low place in the piles gave an illusion of a sheltered space. A thin, dark-haired man in his late twenties was hunched glumly over a tiny fire, carefully arranged in the bottom of a shallow parabolic antenna dish. A makeshift table that had started life as a computer desk
console was evidently now the man's kitchen, for it held some flat
pieces of metal and plastic now doing duty as plates and platters. A large carp, its scales gleaming red-gold, lay gutted and ready for
cooking upon it.
Dark eyes, black smudges of weariness beneath them, flashed up at
the clank of their approach. The man scrambled to his feet, grabbing what appeared to be a homemade knife; Miles couldn't tell what it was made of, but it was clearly a good one, if it had done the job on the fish. Bothari's hand automatically checked his stunner.
"I think he is a Barrayaran," muttered Miles to Bothari. "Look at the way he moves."
Bothari nodded agreement. The man held his knife properly, like a
soldier, left hand guarding the right, ready to block a snatch or punch an opening for the weapon. He seemed unconscious of his stance.
Hathaway raised his voice. "Hey, Baz! I brought you some visitors, all right?"
"No."
"Uh, look." Hathaway slid down a pile of rubble, closer but not too
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