Gordon Dickson - The Human Edge

Only one individual never doubted the promise of reward embodied in the artifact. And that was Kator.

He accepted the reward in wealth that he was given on his return. He took his name off the scout list, and mortgaged every source of income available to him—even down to his emergency right of demand on the family coffers of the Brutogasi. And that was a pledge he would eventually be forced to redeem, or be cut off from the protection of family relationship—which was equivalent to being deprived of the protection of the law among some other races.

He spent his mornings, all morning, in a salle d’armes, and his afternoons and evenings either buttonholing or entertaining members of influential families. It was impossible that such activity could remain uninterpreted. The day the examination of the artifact was completed, Kator was summoned to an interview with The Brutogas—head of the family, that individual to whom Kator was second cousin.

Kator put on his best kilt and weapons-harness and made his way at the appointed hour down lofty echoing corridors of white marble to that sunlit office which he had entered, being only a second cousin, only on one previous occasion in his life—his naming day. Behind the desk in the office on a low pedestal squatted The Brutogas, a shrewd, heavy-bodied, middle-aged Ruml. Kator bowed, stopping before the desk.

“We understand,” said The Brutogas, “you have ambitions to lead the expedition shortly to be sent to the Home world of the Muffled People.”

“Sir?” said Kator, blandly.

“Quite right,” said The Brutogas, “don’t admit anything. I suppose though you’d like to know what’s been extracted in the way of information about them from that artifact you brought home.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kator, standing straight, “I would.”

“Well,” said the head of the family, flicking open the lock on a report that lay on the desk before him, “the deduction is that they’re about our size, biped, of a comparable level of civilization but probably overloaded with taboos from an earlier and more primitive stage. Classified as violent, intractable, and probably extremely dangerous. You still want to lead that expedition?”

“Sir,” said Kator, “if called upon to serve—”

“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.