"Because I'm asking you to." Ross came closer; slipped his free arm about her waist. "If you want me to, I can even put logic behind it: even though you probably wonder why, I—well, I wouldn't say I hate you. I'd like you to live long enough to give me a chance to prove it.
"On the other side of it, I'm not sure I can trust you. You held out on me about your brother, and his stealing the catalyst. Then, when I found his body, you hardly shed a tear. Maybe that was nervous exhaustion. Or relief that finally, for good, he was off starak. Or, maybe, you just hated me so much there wasn't any room left for tears.
"Anyhow, regardless of the angle, I want you here, not with me."
Veta's shoulders began to shake, harder and harder. Tears welled and overflowed her eyes; coursed down her face. She brought up a hand and bit at it, as if only thus she could hold back her fury!
"Rack you, Stewart Ross!" she choked. "Rack you! Rack you for a chitza—"
Again, the shaking. The bak under Ross' arm stuck out its thick, prickly tongue to catch the falling tears.
Ross said, "Now you won't feel so bad if I don't come back. And just to make sure you stay here and obey orders—"
He stepped back quickly. The hand that had been about Veta's waist knotted into a club-fist. For the second time in the brief hours that he'd known her, he brought up a short, hard blow that snapped the girl's head back.
Then, catching her before she could fall, he brushed her lips gently with his own and laid her gently in the shadows along the base of the next building.
That done, Ross straightened. Almost casually, he strolled to the front of the warehouse, tugging at the bak's ventral plates as he walked, so that the creature gave out a steady stream of contented sighs and hisses.