But, if Schroeder was a born fighter and perhaps killer, they were characteristics that he expended entirely upon the prowlers. He was Lake’s right hand man; a deadly marksman and utterly without fear.

One evening, when Lake had given Schroeder some instructions concerning the next day’s activities, Schroeder answered him with the half-mocking smile and the words, “I’ll see that it’s done, Commander.”

“Not ‘Commander,’ ” Lake said. “I⁠—all of us⁠—left our ranks, titles and honors on the Constellation . The past is dead for us.”

“I see,” Schroeder said. The smile faded away and he looked into Lake’s eyes as he asked, “And what about our past dishonors, disgraces and such?”

“They were left on the Constellation , too,” Lake said. “If anyone wants dishonor he’ll have to earn it all over again.”

“That sounds fair,” Schroeder said. “That sounds as fair as anyone could ever ask for.”

He turned away and Prentiss saw what he had noticed before: Schroeder’s black hair was coming out light brown at the roots. It was a color that would better match his light complexion and it was the color of hair that a man named Schrader, wanted by the police on Venus, had had.

Hair could be dyed, identification cards could be forged⁠—but it was all something Prentiss did not care to pry into until and if Schroeder gave him reason to. Schroeder was a hard and dangerous man, despite his youth, and sometimes men of that type, when the chips were down, exhibited a higher sense of duty than the soft men who spoke piously of respect for Society⁠—and then were afraid to face danger to protect the society and the people they claimed to respect.