For a long moment no one answered, then young Lt. Serrano spoke up. "If I understand yours, it's much the same. Tell the truth, keep promises, stand by friends, don't turn your back on an enemy."

"I notice you didn't mention God," Kate said. "Is that because those NewTex nutcases have you scared, or what? Any of you folks got religion?"

This time the captain spoke up. "The Familias legal codes-and those of the Regular Space Service-allow freedom of belief, and freedom of religious practices which are not directly harmful to others. Because of the wide variety of beliefs, many held strongly, we do not generally discuss religion with those we do not know."

Kate cocked her head and gave him her best mischievous kid grin. "In other words, it's bad manners to talk about God?"

"Something like that," he said.

"You people must have been descended from Anglicans," Kate said. "Well, I'm not here to make you nervous, though I don't see why a good argument about God should do anything but keep your digestion going. It's one of our favorite forms of entertainment."

"You . . . uh . . . are religious yourself?"

Kate looked him in the eye. "You bet. So far as I know, every member of my family back to Old Earth has been, and I'm not about to break tradition."

"And what, since you don't mind our asking, is your religion?"

"Baptist," Kate said. "But my mother's family was about half Anglican, and my dad's grandmother was Methodist. There's even the odd Presbyterian in there somewhere."

Glances passed back and forth.

"Y'all don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Not . . . exactly." That was a female officer.

"You do have Christians, right?"

"Certainly . . . many kinds, though I don't know all the names."

"Then just call me a Christian, and don't worry about it. God'll sort it out."

"Do you have any . . . uh . . . dietary or special needs we should know about?"

"No, that's somebody else. I'll eat anything I like the flavor of, any day of the week. We don't

drink alcohol on the Baptist side of our family, 'cept when we're being young and sowing wild oats. Every once in awhile I sow an oat myself."

She sensed the mood warming even more.

"What do your kind of rangers do?"

"Anything that needs doin'. We're a lot like a police force, but we tend to work alone. Keep order, track down the bad guys, help the people who need it."

"How do you know who the bad guys are?" came a call from down the table.

"Same way you do, I expect," Kate said. "Liars, cheats, killers, the kind of people who'd pour

gasoline on a dog-" She felt the total noncomprehension of that one, and stopped. "You have dogs, don't you?"

"Oh . . . like . . . dogs? Hounds or something?"

"Dogs, like hounds, sheepdogs, cowdogs, even those awful nippy-yippy poodley things. And do you

have mean people who hurt animals?"

"Yeah . . ." That more cautiously, as if the speaker weren't entirely sure.

"Well, we don't much like people who mistreat animals, kids, or old ladies. Or old men, for that

matter. They're on my list of bad guys."

By the end of that meal she sensed that most of the officers were at least neutral, if not actually friendly.

The next day, Kate met the antique historian, Professor Meyerson, and sighed to herself. So predictable, that type. The lady academic, tweedy and warty . . . not that Meyerson actually had warts, but she looked as if they should be there to complete the official look. Even on Bluebonnet, known for its beautiful women, a certain kind of academic woman looked like this, only with better tweeds.

At least Meyerson knew more about the Lone Star Confederation than the rest of the people she met.

And she was finally able to clear up a question that bedeviled Kate for days.

"That young fellow, Barin Serrano?"

"Yes . . ." Meyerson, head down in a scanner as usual, didn't seem to be paying close attention.

"What do you know about him?"

"He's giving you trouble?" Meyerson's head came up, and her expression was mingled mischief and surprise.

"No, just the opposite. He's ignoring me as if I had bark like a mesquite tree, but I just can't believe he's a mango."

Meyerson laughed, a surprisingly full-throated laugh for a frowsty old professor. "He's not. He's

engaged to another officer, in the first place, and in the second place he's burdened with all those NewTex women and children."

"Why him in particular?"

"They consider him their protector, and for them this means he's the only one who can make decisions about them. The Regular Space Service has taken his pay to help support them, so he can't marry until he figures out what to do with them."

"I suppose shipping them back isn't an option?"

"No, they'd kill them, at least mute them. He's stuck with them."

"That's too bad." Kate thought about it. "He's a nice boy, and if he's minded to marry, he should have the chance. You suppose those women would listen to me?"

Meyerson looked her up and down. "As a messenger of the devil, maybe. They're very serious about their religion."

"And I'm very serious about mine, Wally." They had come to first names several days before, and Kate refused to struggle with Waltraude after the first few tries. "You don't have to go barefoot and wear rags to be a believer." She cocked her head. "You ought to send those women to us-we'll make real Texans out of 'em. They had to have some gumption to get up and leave in the first place."

Day by day, the officers relaxed around her, and if she hadn't had the appetite of a healthy horse, she'd have starved, for all the talking at the table.

She talked more than she asked questions, and the information flowed her way without her having to ask. By the time they reached Rockhouse Major, she had most of them eating out of her hand, men and women, and had invited most of them to come visit sometime. She thought a few of them actually would.

All but the young lieutenant junior grade who had remained coolly distant no matter what. Well, if he wanted to sulk, let him. She had many, many other fish to fry, and others had told their own tales of Barin Serrano and Esmay Suiza. So he was in love with a hero-if the stories were true, Suiza would have made a good Ranger-and perhaps worried about whether she'd stick it out.

Security concerns kept her from touring Rockhouse Major, though she could tell it was much bigger than any of the orbital stations in the Lone Star Confederation. A Fleet shuttle took her downside, and she got her first look at Castle Rock.

Boring, she thought, but did not of course say. The government buildings, mostly gray stone, looked substantial and dull. Insides matched the outsides; the Foreign Office was all dark paneling and dark tiles and thick dark green or blue carpeting in the offices she was led to.

Everyone wore dark suits-men and women both-and had a dark, muffled, hurried way of speaking.

"Sera Briarly-so pleased-" That was the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the first person she'd seen in this dismal building who looked completely awake. He wore a different style of shirt, with a tiny ruffle at the collar, and he had several blue-and-silver rings in his ear. She knew what that would mean in San Antone, but not here. "You are so . . . so decorative, my dear."

This she had met before, twinkling of the eyes and all. "Mister Minister," she said, putting out her hand. "I'm Ranger Briarly, but you can call me Kate."

"But I thought your . . . er . . . Rangers . . . were sort of . . . er . . . policemen?"