“Oh, yes,” he said. He gestured to the open wall at the far end of the office. Sounds of celebration from the city outside drifted lightly in on the evening breeze. “The better forty per cent of your fighting forces are out there. Mercenaries. Mercenaries who appreciate a commander who can give them a victory at the cost of next to no casualties at all. What do you suppose their reaction would be if you tried me for betrayal, and found me guilty, and had me executed?” He paused to let the thought sink in. “Consider it, gentlemen.”

He pinched his jacket shut and looked grimly at the three dead elite guards; and then turned back to the elders, again.

“I consider this sufficient grounds for breach of contract,” he said. “You can find yourself another War Chief.”

He turned and walked toward the door. As he passed through it, Bright shouted after him.

“Go to them, then! Go to the Godless on Mara and Kultis!”

Donal paused and turned. He inclined his head gravely.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “Remember —the suggestion was yours.”

PART-MORON

There remained, the interview with Sayona the Bond. Going up some wide and shallow steps into the establishment—it could not be called merely a building, or group of buildings—that housed the most important individual of the two Exotic planets, Donal found cause for amusement in the manner of his approach.

Farther out, among some shrubbery at the entrance to the—estate?—he had encountered a tall, gray-eyed woman; and explained his presence.

“Go right ahead,” the woman had said, waving him onward. “You’ll find him.” The odd part of it was, Donal had no doubt that he would. And the unreasonable certainty of it tickled his own strange sense of humor.

He wandered on by a sunlit corridor that broadened imperceptibly into a roofless garden, past paintings, and pools of water with colorful fish in them—through a house that was not a house, in rooms and out until he came to a small sunken patio, half-roofed over; and at the far end of it, under the shade of the half-roof was a tall bald man of indeterminate age, wrapped in a blue robe and seated on a little patch of captive turf, surrounded by a low, stone wall.

Donal went down three stone steps, across the patio, and up the three stone steps at the far side until he stood over the tall, seated man.

“Sir,” said Donal. “I’m Donal Graeme.”

The tall man waved him down on the turf.

“Unless you’d rather sit on the wall, of course,” he smiled. “Sitting cross-legged doesn’t agree with everyone.”

“Not at all, sir,” answered Donal, and sat down cross-legged himself.

“Good,” said the tall man; and apparently lost himself in thought, gazing out over the patio.