"Oh, listen." Don was impatient. "That flight developed into a national affair. All kinds of witnesses. It was spread out all over the map. People got killed. Who could set up something like that and make it look genuine?"
Pete didn't look around.
"Look who got killed. A lot of old-line royalists," he said shortly. "And some of the Waernu. You think my uncle would kill his own clansmen?" He expelled an explosive breath.
"And there's one man who could set up something like that. He doesn't like the old royalists very well, either. And he hates the Waernu. Think it over." He walked quickly out of the room.
Don looked after him for a few seconds, then sat down and fixed an unseeing gaze on the far wall of the locker room.
"Gaah!" he told himself, "the kid really pulled the door open. Wonder why he picked me?"
Come to think of it, he wondered, why was it people seemed to tell him things they never mentioned to anyone else? And why was it they seemed to get a sort of paralysis when he barked at them? He scratched an ear. He couldn't remember the time when the ranch hands hadn't jumped to do what he wanted—if he really wanted it. The only person who seemed to be immune was Dad. He grinned.
"Imagine anyone trying to get the Old Man into a dither—and getting away with it."
He laughed and looked at the wall for a few more seconds, then opened a book.