"A reservation, I said. You
know what reservations are like, Lee."
Rynason glared at the heavier man, then subsided. There was no point in
getting into a fight over if's and maybe's; in the outworlds you learned
quickly to confine your clashes to tangibles. "Why did you want to see
me?" he said.
"I want your preliminary report completed," Manning said. "I've got to
have my complete report collated and transmitted within the week, if
it's to have any effect on the Council. Most of the boys have got them
in already; Breune and Larsborg have promised theirs within four days.
But you're still holding me up."
Rynason took a long swallow of his drink and put it down empty. The
noise and smell of the bar seemed to grow around him, washing over him.
It might have been the effects of the tarpaq in the drink, but he felt
his stomach tighten and turn slightly when he thought of how Earth's
culture presented itself, warped itself, here on the frontier Edge. Was
this land of mercenary, slipshod rush really what had carried Earthmen
to the stars?
"I don't know if I'll have much to report for at least a week," he said
shortly.
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