Gordon Dickson - The Human Edge

“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.