Mclntyre shook his head. “You’re expected to give up your weapon when you’re taken prisoner, but you don’t hafta strip naked! That helmet costs the Empire money.”
“I know, Sarge,” Giradaux looked miserable, “and I could use the glare visor, too.”
“Here, fish in this pocket and get my spare goggles before you go blind , ..”
“Thanks, Mac!”
“Think I’m gonna let you charge the Empire for a disability pension because you’re careless?”
The going got rougher as the long afternoon wore on. Before they reached high ground again, Mclntyre was allowing Giradaux and Vorgens to take turns supporting him. The priest gave them water from a canteen he carried within the folds of his robe. The Komani warriors were impassive, except for insisting that the prisoners maintain the pace of the march.
“How come the Komani don’t need glare visors?” Giradaux asked as they struggled up a slope.
“Look at their eyes,” Mclntyre answered. “They narrow down to slits … just like a rotten cat’s.”
Finally they reached the crest of a wooded ridge, and were out of the glaring heat. They rested for a few minutes, then were on their way again—this time along the ridge, under the tall trees.”
With Mclntyre able to get along by himself again, Vorgens turned his attention to the surroundings. The trees, the grass, the blue sky, the sounds of birds and insects … it was practically the same as on his homeworld. The leaves were a darker shade of green, the birds were slightly different … yet not so different after all. And the native priest—he was smaller than Vorgens, his skin slightly darker. No doubt his bones and joints and internal organs were somewhat different, but he was human.