Ethan of Athos

Change is a function of time and experience, and time is implacable.

Ethan thought he understood how a propaganda-stuffed young soldier must feel the first time in combat, stumbling by some sudden chance over his enemy's human face. He had gloried for a red moment in his power to break her. Now he stood foolishly with the pieces in his hands. Not at all heroic.

But why, in God the Father’s name, should they want to destroy Athos? Is Cetaganda—controlled by women or something?” A

Admiral Naismith," said Quinn stiffly, "is not a dwarf. He's nearly five feet tall. And I am not 'in love' with him, you low-minded twit; I merely admire his brilliance. Professionally.

Ethan trembled, waiting for the insanity to strike him from their level, medusan gazes. Nothing happened. After a moment, he unclutched the desk edge. Perhaps then the madness that possessed galactic men, slaves to these creatures, was something only transmitted in the flesh. Some incalculable telepathic aura? Bravely, he raised his eyes again to the figures in the screen. So. That was a woman -- two women, in fact.

There are always survivors at a massacre. Among the victors, if nowhere else.

Ah—hm. Not precisely. Mercenaries get rich by winning with the least possible loss. To win, it helps if you can command the best possible people. And the very best do care who. True,

You can get one thing straight right now, Athosian. There are some things money can’t buy.” “What, mercenary?” She paused at the door, her lips curving up despite her sparking eyes. “Unprofessional moments.

I was just a little taken aback. That—that wasn’t the proposition I was expecting, is all. Excuse me. I fear I am become incurably low-minded.” “You can’t help that, I’m sure,” Ethan said tolerantly. “Being female, and all that.” She