le
pad, but within fifteen minutes she was thinking that maybe disability
retirement might not be such a bad idea after all. Without it she'd be
spending a lot of time in the saddle, hurting worse than usual. On the
other hand, if she got out she'd be spending even more time in the
saddle, unless she abandoned her crusade--and she had no intention of
doing that. So she just had to learn to endure this, too. At least,
she thought, if they had to ride they had a nice day for it. The
temperature was still comfortable in the morning sun, and by the time
it got too warm in the open, cultivated areas, they'd be in forest
shade. And the quiet was pleasant, only an occasional word or two and
the soft sounds of leather or hooves on dirt breaking the silence. She
could see landfolk out working their farms and ranches, but they were
far enough away she couldn't hear them--and they weren't likely to
approach a group of Enforcement troopers, especially one escorting a
prisoner.

Cortin smiled grimly at that thought. Prewar, even Terran, police,
from her reading, had gotten the same reaction: civilians tended to
stay away, unless they needed something. And civs were even less
interested in having anything to do with police carrying out the
enforcement part of their duties. Let one get close enough to see an
Inquisitor's badge, and lack of interest usually turned into active
avoidance of contact; the Harrisons' pleasure at her visits was
unusual. At one time, she'd disliked provoking that reaction; now she
was accustomed to it, and at times found it useful.

She heard a horse speed up slightly, until Lieutenant Bain was riding
beside her. "Is anything wrong, Captain?" he asked. "I've been
noticing you don't look exactly comfortable."

"Nothing that can be helped, thanks. It seems my back doesn't approve
of horses any longer, is all."

"How bad?"

"Late second stage, maybe early third. Nothing I can't handle for a
few hours if I have to--though I'll admit I'm already looking forward
to stopping for the night." She gestured to the rear, where Degas was
leading the unconscious prisoner's horse. "How far did you get on him
before Sis tapped him for surgery?"

"I didn't even start," Bain said, surprising her. "She and I were
looking for a blood type match, plus a couple of other factors she
thought might help; when we finally found one she thought would be
right, we put him straight under." He grinned. "Don't w