“I can’t, and you know I can’t. The Patrol does not and cannot interfere in purely planetary affairs.”
“You intend, then,” Cloud demanded furiously, “to let this girl put her naked hands and teeth up against four trigger-happy gunnies with DeLameters?”
“Just that. There’s nothing else I or any other Patrolman can do. To interfere in this one instance would alienate half the planets of Civilization and set the Patrol back five hundred years.”
“Well, even though I’m a Patrolman—of sorts—I can do something about it!” Cloud blazed, “and by God, I will!”
“We will, you mean, and we will, too,” Joan’s thought came forcibly at first, then became dubious: “That is, if it doesn’t mean getting you blasted, too.”
“Just what?” Nordquist’s thought was sharp. “Oh, I see . . . and, being a Vegian, as well as a Patrolman, and the acknowledged friend of both the dead man and his sister. . . .”
“Who’s a Vegian?” Cloud demanded.
“You are, and so are the other five of your group, as you would have been informed if the party had not been broken up so violently. Honorary Vegians, for life.”
“Why, I never heard of such a thing!” Joan exclaimed, “and I studied them for years!”
“No, you never did,” Nordquist agreed. “There haven’t been many honorary Vegians, and to my certain knowledge, not one of them has ever talked. Vegians are very strongly psychic in picking their off-world friends.”