“Let a bunch of barbarians take over the holy throne?” muttered Goram.

Heym closed his mouth, and gathering determination tightened his gaunt face. He looked around the pulsing city, and a vast tenderness and pity welled up in him—poor geniuses, poor helpless unwitting supermen—and answering it came a steely implacable resolve.

There was too much at stake to let his own personal fate matter. Certainly a mindlessly destructive atavist could not be allowed to block history. He would keep trying, he’d do his best to talk Goram over, because the alternative was fantastically risky for the station and against all his own training and principles—including elementary self-preservation.

But if he failed, if Goram remained obdurate, then he’d have to apply the same primitive methods as the soldier. Goram would have to die.

* * *

Rain clouds came out of the west with sunset, thunder rolling over the sky and a cool wet wind blowing from the sea. Goram and Heym finished a primitive but satisfying meal in a small restaurant and the psychologist said: “We’d better look for a place to stay tonight. Will you be in this city tomorrow?”

“Don’t know,” answered Goram curtly. He had been silent and withdrawn during the day’s tour of the metropolis. “I have to think over what I’ve seen today. It may be enough basis for a decision, or I may want to see more of the planet.”

“I’ll pay the score,” offered Heym. He fought to keep his voice and face blank. “And I’ll ask the waiter to recommend a tavern.”

He followed the man toward the kitchen. “Please,” he said in the common tongue, “I wish to pay the check.”

“Very well,” answered the native. He was a tall young fellow with the faintly weary eyes of a scholar—probably a student, thought Heym, doing his stint here and getting his education free. He took the few coins casually.

“And—is there a place to stay overnight near here?”

“Right down the street. Stranger, I take it?”

“Yes. From Caralla on business. Oh—one other thing.” It was a tremendous effort to meet that steady gaze. Heym was aware of his own clumsiness as he blurted the request: “I…uh…I’ve lost my knife and I need it to prepare some handicraft samples for display tomorrow. The stores are all closed now. I wonder if you have an extra one in the kitchen I could buy.”

“Why—” The native paused. For a vertiginous instant, Heym thought he was going to ask questions, and he braced himself as if to meet a physical impact. But on a world where crime was virtually unknown and lying hardly ever went beyond the usual polite social fibs, even so crude a fiction could get by. “Yes, I suppose we have,” said the waiter. “Here, I’ll get one.”

“No…I’ll come along…save you the trouble…choose one for my purpose if…uh…if you have several you can spare.” Heym stuck close to the waiter’s heels.

The kitchen was spotlessly clean, though it seemed incredible that cooking should still be done with fire. Heym chose a small sharp knife, wrapped it in a rag, and slipped it into his pocket. The waiter and chef refused his money. “Plenty where this one came from—a pleasure to help out a visitor.”