"All right," said The Brutogas, "I respect your desire not to admit your goal. Not that you can seriously believe after all your politicking through the last two seasons that anybody can be left in doubt about what you're after." He breathed out through his nose thoughtfully, stroked his graying cat-whiskers that were nearly twice the length of Kator's, and added, "Of course it would do our family reputation no harm to have a member of our house in charge of such an expedition."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it. However, the political climate at the moment is not such that I would ordinarily commit the family to attempting to capture the Keysman post in this expedition—or even the post of Captain. Something perhaps you don't know, for all your conversations lately, is that the selection board will be a seven-man board and it is a practical certainty that the Rods will have four men on it to three of our Hooks."
Kator felt an unhappy sinking sensation in the region of his liver, but he kept his whiskers stiff.
"That makes the selection of someone like me seem pretty difficult, doesn't it, sir?"
"I'd say so, wouldn't you?"
"Yes. sir."
"But you're determined to go ahead with it anyhow?"
"I see no reason to change my present views about the situation, sir."
"I guessed as much." The Brutogas leaned back in his chair. "Every generation or so, one like you crops up in a family. Ninety-nine per cent of them end up familyless men. And only one in a million is remembered in history."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you might bear in mind then that the family has no concern in this ambition of yours and no intention of officially backing your candidacy for Keysman of the expedition. If by some miracle you should succeed, however, I expect you will give due credit to the wise counsel and guidance of your family elders on an unofficial basis."
"Yes, sir."
"On the other hand, if your attempt should somehow end up with you in a scandalous or unfavorable position, you'd better expect that that mortgage you sold one of the—Chelesi, wasn't it?—on your family rights will probably be immediately called in for payment."
The sinking sensation returned in the region of Kator's liver.
"Yes,. sir."
"Well, that's all. Carry on, Secondcousin. The family blesses you."
"I bless the family," said Kator, automatically, and went out feeling as if his whiskers had been singed.
Five days later, the board to choose officers for the Expedition to the Homeworld of the Muffled People, was convened. The board sent out twelve invitations for Keysman, and the eleventh invitation was sent to Kator.
It could have been worse. He could have been the twelfth invited.
When he was finally summoned in to face the six-man board—from the room in which he had watched the ten previous candidates go for their interviews—he found the men on it exactly as long-whiskered and cold-eyed as he had feared. Only one member looked at him with anything resembling approval—and this was because that member happened to be a Brutogas, himself, Ardof Halfbrother. The other five judges were, in order from Ardof at the extreme right behind the table Kator faced, a Cheles, a Worna (both Hooks, politically, and therefore possible votes at least for Kator), and then four Rods—a Gulbano, a Perth, a Achobka, and The Nelkosan, head of the Nelkosani. The last could hardly be worst. Not only did he outrank everyone else on the board, not only was he a Rod, but it was to the family he headed that Aton Maternaluncle, Kator's dead scoutpartner, had belonged. A board of inquiry had cleared Kator in the matter of Aton's death. But the Nelkosani could hardly have accepted that with good grace, even if they had wanted to, without losing face.
Kator took a deep breath as he halted before the table and saluted briefly with his claws over the central body region of his heart. Now it was make or break.
"The candidate," said The Nelkosan, without preamble, "may just as well start out by trying to tell us whatever reasons he may have to justify awarding such a post as Keysman to one so young."
"Honorable Board Members," said Kator, clearly and distinctly, "my record is before you. May I point out, however, that training as a scout, involving work as it does both on a scientific and ship-handling level, as well as associating with one's scoutpartner . . ."
He talked on. He had, like all the candidates, carefully prepared and rehearsed the speech beforehand. The board listened with the mild boredom of a body which has heard such speeches ten times over already—with the single exception of The Nelkosan, who sat twisting his whiskers maliciously.
When Kator finally concluded the board members turned and looked at each other.
"Well?" said The Nelkosan. "Shall we vote on the candidate?"
Heads nodded down the line. Hands reached for ballot chips—black for acceptance, white for rejection—the four Rods automatically picking up black, the three Hooks reaching for white. Kator licked his whiskers furtively with a dry tongue and opened his mouth before the chips were gathered—
"I appeal!" he said.
Hands checked in midair. The board suddenly woke up as one man. Seven pairs of gray eyes centered suddenly upon Kator. Any candidate might appeal—but to do so was to call the board wrong upon one of its actions, and that meant somebody's honor was due to be called in question. For a candidate without family backing to question the honor of elders such as sat on a board of selection was to put his whole future in jeopardy. The board sat back on its collective haunches and considered Kator.
"On what basis, if the candidate pleases?" inquired The Nelkosan, in far too pleasant a tone of voice.
"Sir, on the basis that I have another reason to urge for my selection than that of past experience," said Kator.
"Interesting," purred The Nelkosan, glancing down the table at the other board members. "Don't you think so, sirs?"
"Sir, I do find it interesting," said Ardof Halfbrother, The Brutogas, in such an even tone that it was impossible to tell whether he was echoing The Nelkosan's hidden sneer, or taking issue with it.
"In that case, candidate," The Nelkosan turned back to Kator, "by all means go ahead. What other reason do you have to urge? I must say"—he glanced down the table again—"I hope it justifies your appeal."
"Sir. I think it will." Kator thrust a hand into his belt pouch, withdrew something small, and stepping forward, put it down on the table before them all. He took his hand away, revealing a cube of clear plastic in which a small figure floated.
"A dirt worm?" said The Nelkosan, raising his whiskers.
"No, sir," said Kator. "The body of a being from the planet of the Muffled People."
"
What?
" Suddenly the room was in an uproar and there was not a board member there who was not upon his feet. For a moment pandemonium reigned and then all the voices died away at once as all eyes turned back to Kator, who was standing once more at attention before them.
"Where did you get this?"
It was The Nelkosan speaking and his voice was like ice.
"Sirs," said Kator, without twitching a whisker, "from the artifact I brought back to Homeworld two seasons ago."
"And you never turned it in to the proper authorities or reported the fact you possessed it?"
"No, sir."
There was a moment's dead silence in the room.
"
You know what this means?
" The words came spaced and distinct from The Nelkosan.
"I realize," said Kator, "what it would mean ordinarily—"
"Ordinarily!"
"Yes, sir. Ordinarily. My case, however," said Kator, as self-possessedly as he could, "is not ordinary. I did not take this organism from the artifact for the mere desire of possessing it."
The Nelkosan sat back and touched his whiskers gently, almost thoughtfully. His eyelids drooped until his eyes were almost hidden.
"You did not?" he murmured softly.
"No, sir," said Kator.
"Why did you take it, if we may ask?"
"Sir," said Kator, "I took it after a great deal of thought for the specific purpose of exhibiting it to this board of selection for Keysman of the Expedition to the planet of the Muffled People."
His words went out and seemed to fall dead in the face of the silence of the watching members of the board. A lengthening pause seemed to ring in his ears as he waited.
"For," said the voice of The Nelkosan, breaking the silence at last, "what reason did you choose to first steal this dead organism, and then plan to show it to us?"
"Sir," said Kator, "I will tell you."
"Please do," murmured The Nelkosan, almost closing his eyes.
Kator took a deep breath.
"Elders of this board," he said, "you, whose responsibility it is to select the Keysman—the man of final authority, on ship and off—of this expedition, know better than anyone else how important an expedition like this is to all our race. In ourselves, we feel confident of our own ability to handle any situation we may encounter in space. But confidence alone isn't enough. The Keysman in charge of this expedition must not merely be confident of his ability to scout these aliens we have named the Muffled People because of their habit of wrapping themselves in cloths. The Keysman you pick must in addition be able to perform his task, not merely well or excellently—but
perfectly,
as laid down in the precepts of The Morahnpa. he who originally founded a kingdom for our race on the third planet of Star 12A, among the lesser races there."
"Our candidate," interrupted The Nelkosan from beneath his half-closed eyes, "dreams of founding himself a kingdom?"
"Sir!" said Kator, standing stiffly. "I think only of our race."
"You had better convince us of that, candidate?"
"I shall, sir. With my culminating argument and explanation of why I took the dead alien organism. I took it, sirs, to show to you. To convince you beyond doubt of one thing. Confidence is not enough in a Keysman. Skill is not enough.
Perfection
—fulfillment of his task without a flaw, as defined by The Morahnpa—is what is required here. And for perfection a commitment is required beyond the ordinary duty of a Keysman to his task."
Kator paused. He could tell from none of them whether he had caught their interest or not.
"I offer you evidence of my own commitment in the shape of this organism. So highly do I regard the need for success on this expedition, that I have gambled with my family, my freedom, and my life to convince you that I will go to any length to carry it through to the point of perfection. Only someone willing to commit himself to the extent I have demonstrated by taking this organism should be your choice for Keysman on this Expedition!"
He stopped talking. Silence hung in the room. Slowly, The Nelkosan uncurled himself and reaching down the table, gathered in the cube with the worm inside and brought it back to his own place and held it.
"You've made your gesture, candidate," he said, with slitted eyes. "But who can tell whether you meant anything more than a gesture, now that you've given the organism back to us?" He lifted the cube slightly and turned it so that the light caught it. "Tell us, what does it mean to you now, candidate?"
The matter, Kator thought with a cold liverish sense of
fatalism,
was doomed to go all the way. There was no other alternative now. He looked at The Nelkosan.
"I'll kill you to keep it!" he said.
After that, the well-oiled machinery of custom took over. The head of a family, or a member of a selection board, or anyone in authority of course did not have to answer challenges personally. That would be unfair. He could instead name a deputy to answer the challenge for him. The heads of families in particular usually had some rather highly trained fighters to depute for challenges. That this could also bring about an unfair situation was something that occurred only to someone in Kator's position.
The selection board adjourned to the nearest
salle d'armes.
The deputy for The Nelkosan—Horaag Adoptedson—turned out to be a man ten seasons older than Kator, half again as large and possessing both scars and an air of confidence.
"I charge you with insult and threat," he said formally to Kator as soon as they were met in the center of the floor.
"You must either withdraw that or fight me with the weapons of my choice," said Kator with equal formality.
"I will fight. What weapons?"
Kator licked his whiskers.
"Double-sword," he said. Horaag Adoptedson started to nod—"And shields," added Kator.
Horaag Adoptedson stopped nodding and blinked. The board stared at each other and the match umpire was questioned. The match umpire, a man named Bolf Paternalnephew, checked the books.
"Shields," he announced, "are archaic and generally out of use, but still permissible."
"In that case," said Kator, "I have my own weapons and I'd like to send for them."
The weapons were sent for. While he waited for them, Kator saw his opponent experimenting with the round, target-shaped shield of blank steel that had been found for him. The shield was designed to be held in the left hand while the right hand held the sword. Horaag Adoptedson was trying fencing lunges with his long, twin-bladed sword and trying to decide what to do with the shield which he was required to carry. At arm's length behind him the shield threw him off balance. Held before him, it restricted his movements.
Kator's weapons came. The shield was like the one found for his opponent, but the sword was as archaic as the shield. It was practically hiltless, and its parallel twin blades were several times as wide as the blades of Horaag's sword, and half the length. Kator slid his arm through a wide strap inside the shield and grasped the handle beyond it. He grasped his archaically short sword almost with an underhand grip and took up a stance like a boxer.
The board murmured. Voices commented to the similarity between Kator's fighting position and that of figures on old carvings depicting ancestral warriors who had used such weapons. Horaag quickly fell into a duplicate of Kator's position—but with some clumsiness evident.