“I’ve a tentative contract for the Friendlies,” said Donal. “I thought I’d pick between the Sects when I got there and had a chance to look over the opportunities for action.”

“Very Dorsai of you,” said William, smiling, from the far end of the table, next to Anea. “Always the urge to battle.”

“You over-compliment me, sir,” said Donal. “It merely happens that promotion comes more quickly on a battlefield than in a garrison, under ordinary conditions.”

“You’re too modest,” said William.

“Yes, indeed,” put in Anea, suddenly. “Far too modest.”

William turned about to gaze quizzically at the girl.

“Now, Anea,” he said. “You mustn’t let your Exotic contempt for violence breed a wholly unjustified contempt for this fine young man. I’m sure both Hendrik and Hugh agree with him.”

“Oh, they would—of course,” said Anea, flashing a look at the other two men. “Of course, they would!”

“Well,” said William, laughing, “we must make allowances for a Select, of course. As for myself, I must admit to being male enough, and unreconstructed enough, to like the thought of action, myself. I . . . ah, here comes the food.”

Brimming soup plates were rising above the surface of the table in front of everybody but Donal.

“You’d better get your order in now,” said William. And, while Donal pressed the communicator key before him and attended to this necessary duty, the rest of them lifted their spoons and began their meal.

“. . . Donal’s father was a class-mate of yours, was he, Hendrik?” inquired William, as the fish course was being served.

“Merely a close friend,” said the marshal, dryly.

“Ah,” said William, delicately lifting a portion of the white, delicate flesh on a fork. “I envy you Dorsai for things like that. Your professions allow you to keep friendship and emotional connections unrelated to your work. In the Commercial area” —he gestured with a slim, tanned hand—”a convention of’ general friendliness obscures the deeper feelings.”

“Maybe it’s what the man is to begin with,” answered the marshal. “Not all Dorsai are soldiers, Prince, and not all Cetans are entrepreneurs.”

“I recognize that,” said William. His eyes strayed to Donal. “What would you say, Donal? Are you a simple mercenary soldier, only, or do you find yourself complicated by other desires?”

The question was as blunt as it was obliquely put. Donal concluded that ingenuousness overlaid with a touch of venality was perhaps the most proper response.

“Naturally, I’d like to be famous,” he said—and laughed a trifle selfconsciously, “and rich.”

He caught the hint of a darkening cloud on the brow of Galt. But he could not be concerned with that now. He had other fish to fry. There would, he hoped, be a chance to clear up the marshal’s contempt for him at some later time. For the present he must seem self-seeking enough to arouse William’s interest.