Alak regarded himself as a case-hardened cynic. In the line of duty, he had often and cheerfully broken the most solemn oaths with an audible snap. But this was one promise he meant to keep though the sky fell down.

On the way back, he stopped at his flitter, where Drogs was hiding from a gape-mouthed citizenry, and put the Galmathian to work in the machine shop.

* * *

A human simply could not eat very much of this planet’s food; he would die in agony. Varris had taken care to have a food-synthesizer aboard his boat, and ate well that night of special dishes. He did not invite Alak to join him, and the Patrolman munched gloomily on what his service imagined to be an adequate, nutritious diet.

After supper, the nobles repaired to a central hall, with a fireplace at either end waging hopeless war on the evening chill, for serious drinking. Alak, ignored by most, sauntered through the crowd till he got to Varris. The fugitive was conversing with several barons; from his throne, King Morlach listened interestedly. Varris was increasing his prestige by explaining some principles of games theory which ought to guarantee success in the next war.

“…And thus, my gentles, it is not that one must seek a certain victory, for there is no certainty in battle, but must so distribute his forces as to have the greatest likelihood of winning—”

“Hogwash!” snapped Alak. The Thunsban phrase he used was more pungent.

Varris raised his brows. “Said you something?” he asked.

“I did.” Alak slouched forward, wearing his most insolent expression. “I said it is nonsense you speak.”

“You disagree, then, sir?” inquired a native.

“Not exactly,” said the Patrolman. “It is not worth disagreeing with so lunkheaded a swine as this baseborn Varris.”

His prey remained impassive. There was no tone in the voice: “I trust you will retract your statement, sir.”

“Yes, perhaps I should,” agreed Alak. “It was too mild. Actually, of course, as is obvious from a single glance at his bloated face, Sir Varris is a muckeating sack of lip-wagging flatulence whose habits I will not even try to describe since they would make a barnyard blush.”

Silence hit the hall. The flames roared up the chimneys. King Morlach scowled and breathed heavily, but could not legally interfere. His warriors dropped hands to their knives.

“What’s your purpose?” muttered Varris in Terran.

“Naturally,” said Alak in Thunsban, “if Sir Varris does not dispute my assertions, there is no argument.”

The Caldonian sighed. “I will dispute them on your body tomorrow morning,” he answered.

Alak’s foxy face broke into a delighted grin. “Do I understand that I am being challenged?” he asked.

“You do, sir. I invite you to a duel.”

“Very well.” Alak looked around. Every eye in the place was welded to him. “My lords, you bear witness that I have been summoned to fight Sir Varris. If I mistake me not, the choice of weapons and ground is mine.”