The girl munched a cheekful of bitter orange pulp and looked thoughtful. "Wish I had some clothes," she muttered indifferently.
He shot her a hard glance then stood up to pace the floor. "Ambush, slaughter, and rob," he amended, and looked at her sharply again.
"Rob?"
"Oren's taken our cities. He's reorganizing industry. With individuals coordinated by a mass-mind, it'll be a different kind of industry, a more efficient kind. Think of a factory in which a worker at one position shares consciousness with a worker in another position. Does away with control mechanisms."
"You said 'rob'."
He grinned sourly. "When they get production started, there'll be plenty to steal. Guns; explosives—clothes."
She nodded slowly. "Trouble is: every time you kill an Orenian, they all feel him die. They come running."
"Sometimes. Unless they're too busy. They don't care too much about individual deaths. It's the total mental commune of Oren that matters. Like now. They could find us if they really tried. But why should they? They'd come as recruiting agents—with bared stingers—if they came."
"They'll come tomorrow," she said fatalistically.
"We'll try to be ready."