Directly after getting into the city, with his canceled contract stiff in his pocket, and cleaning up in his hotel room, Donal went down two flights to pay his visit to Marshal Hendrik Galt. He found him in, and concluded certain business with him before leaving to pay his second call at a different hotel across the city.

In spite of himself, he felt a certain weakness in the knees as he announced his presence to the doorbot. It was a weakness most men would have excused him. William, Prince of Ceta, was someone few persons would have cared to beard in his own den; and Donal, in spite of what he had just experienced, was still a young—a very young—man. However, the doorbot invited him in, and summoning up his calmest expression, Donal strode into the suite.

William was, as the last time Donal had seen him, busy at his desk. This was no affectation on William’s part, as a good many people between the stars could testify. Seldom has one individual accomplished in a single day what William accomplished in the way of business, daily, as a matter of routine. Donal walked up to the desk and nodded his greeting. William looked up at him.

“I’m amazed to see you,” he said.

“Are you, sir?’’ said Donal.

William considered him in silence for perhaps half a minute.

“It’s not often I make mistakes,” he said. “Perhaps I can console myself with the thought that when I do they turn out to be on the same order of magnitude as my successes. What inhuman kind of armor are you wearing, young man, that leads you to trust yourself in my presence, again?”

“Possibly the armor of public opinion,” replied Donal. “I’ve been in the public eye, recently. I have something of a name, nowadays.”

“Yes,” said William. “I know that type of armor from personal experience, myself.”

“And then,” said Donal, “you did send for me.”

“Yes.” And then, without warning, William’s face underwent a change to an expression of such savagery as Donal had never seen before. “How dare you!” snarled the older man, viciously. “How dare you!”

“Sir,” said Donal, wooden-faced, “I had no alternative.”

“No alternative! You come to me and have the effrontery to say—no alternative?”

“Yes, sir,” said Donal.

William rose in swift and lithe motion. He stalked around the desk to stand face to face, his eyes uptilted a little to bore into the eyes of this tall young Dorsai.

“I took you on to follow my orders, nothing else!” he said icily. “And you—grandstand hero that you are—wreck everything.”

“Sir?”

“Yes—‘sir’. You backwoods moron! You imbecile! Who told you to interfere with Hugh Killien? Who told you to take any action about him?”

“Sir,” said Donal. “I had no choice.”

“No choice? How—no choice?”