"I am going to look at my rabbit snares," he said, "and to spring the other traps. We will eat and sleep, and in the morning try to shave and look decent before going to the locks."
Neilson let his head sag between his shoulders, and said nothing. He was leaning against a tree, his arms lashed behind him and to it.
"There is one more thing, Harl, that I wish to discuss. It is about the Paul Hubble Foundation Award. Think about it."
Treb moved off into the darkness.
The sunlight from the overhead "suns" of the Satellite revealed a greatly changed Treb. He was shaved, his hair combed and hacked off above his ears, and he was stitching the last rough patch on his dark green trouser leg.
Now he donned the trousers and went over to the bound Andilian. He cut the ropes, his carbine ready.
"Get down to the lake," he ordered. "You'll find a razor, soap and an old shirt to dry yourself with."
Harl Neilson was chunky and fair-haired, with a healthy looking red-brown skin. His eyes were wide and darkly blue. Now the wide mouth under his shapeless nose twisted into a faint grin.
"I'll try to get away," he warned. "Aren't you afraid of that?"