“Soon’s we’ve eaten,” he said, “I’d like to check up on the long-necks. See whether they’ve wandered during the night. I’d hate to have them get mixed up with the village herd.”
A driver looked around at him.
“Aw,” he protested, “the master probably pinned ’em down good before he left. Besides, he can identify ’em anyway. They won’t go far—not with those herd boys running around.”
“Sure,” Naran told him. “The master would really like spending half a day cutting out his long-necks from the village herd. And how about that Master Protector? What would he think of our caravan?”
The other looked at him disgustedly. “Aw, who cares about that? Why worry about what one of them witchmen thinks about another? Long’s we don’t get twisted around, what’s the difference?”
Naran growled to himself. He’d blundered on that one. There was no answer to that argument that he could present. He had learned to understand—and in some measure sympathize with—the deep-seated resentment of the non-psi for the psionic. The non-psionics felt they were just as good men as anyone, yet here were these psionics with their incomprehensible powers. And there was nothing to be done about it except obey.
Of course, they didn’t like it—or their masters.
[p 43]
As far as that went, the caravan herd was unimportant now. The only trouble was Retonga. If the herds were mixed, he would be in real trouble.
“Well,” he said aloud, “I’m not about to get the master to spinning. Long’s we keep him happy, we’ll all be a lot better off. As I said, right after breakfast. I want everyone out on the herd.” He started to turn away.
“Aagh,” growled the other. “Why don’t you face it? You’re just one of those guys likes to toss orders around and make people jump. It’s about time someone showed you a few things.”