"Mine's Sanderson. Kenesaw Sanderson." The other rubbed a broken nose thoughtfully. "So you're new. Well, get this straight. Don't try any tricks with the Swamja or get any ideas."
Vanning tilted his head to one side. "I don't get it."
"New guys," Sanderson said scornfully. "They're always figuring it'll be easy to escape. They try it, and we all suffer. The Swamja are tough babies. Take it easy, do what you're told, and everything's okay. See?"
"Not quite." There was a roughness in Vanning's tone. "How long have you been here?"
"A few weeks, about. I don't recall exactly. What of it?"
"You don't look yellow. It just seems funny that you'd give up so easily. You look pretty tough."
Sanderson snarled deep in his throat. "I am tough! I'm also smart. Listen, Mr. Jerry Vanning, two days after I got here I saw the Swamja punish a guy who tried to escape. They skinned him alive! You hear that? And his bunk-mates—they weren't killed, but one of 'em went crazy. Those Swamja—it's crazy to try and buck them."
"They've got you out-bluffed already, eh?"
Sanderson strode forward and gripped Vanning's shoulder in a bruising clutch. "You talk too much. Trouble-makers don't go here. Get that through your head."
Vanning said gently, "Let go of me, quick. Or—"