Tam feigned offense, "Whoah doc, stereotyping much? You know the saints watch out for drunks and criminals, so I'm less likely to die than the rest of you. Probably die a hundred and fifty years old with fourteen husbands and a pool-boy gathered around my bed. Naw, what im getting at, is how the hell did the old man know which gear to grab? It's all sorted out neatly, and I guarantee I didn't have some of these tools on me when during the dogfight. I shucked my gear to crawl up in the grav-rings right before we jumped out. So, I can get this whole good samaritan- pulled us out of the wreckage act. But how did he know whose gear was whose? And how did that old bastard carry an entire squad and our gear? Hell, I'm a load and a half for a man in good shape, he doesn't look like he should be lifting more than a glass of prune-juice!"

She looked around to be sure the old man wasn't listening, "Maybe I'm nuts, but this smells like a setup. He knows things about us. Something  he shouldn't, if this whole 'primitive world medicine man' act is kosher. Something's going on."