"It's getting light outside. We better hunt some food."
Morgan and the old man, whose name was Hanson, went out to prowl along the outskirts of the swamp. They returned at mid-morning with a string of perch, a rabbit, and a heart of swamp cabbage. The girl cooked the meal in silence, scarcely looking at them. Her face was sullen, angry. Morgan turned while he was eating and saw her staring contemplatively at the back of his neck—where the Oren-sting was usually planted.
"Nobody's going to force you into anything, Shera," he said quietly. "We won't mention it again."
She said nothing, but stopped glaring at him. He wondered how much the Oren organ had affected her personality.
"Do you still feel the same—as you did a year ago?" he asked her. "Any difference? Any loss of memory? Loss of function?"
"No."
"That means the alien organ exactly duplicates the neural circuits it supplants."
"So?"
"So the rapport is the only special feature. Without it, you're apparently still human."
"Thanks." It was a bitter, acid tone.