Birthright

“Next time we'll do it better.”

Mihal shrugged. “I think we'd better be getting back. We've been gone almost forty minutes.” They returned to Rodat's side and took turns watching him throughout the remainder of the day. As night fell his breathing became more uneven, and his left arm started twitching spasmodically. Finally he opened his eyes.

“Still here, priest?”

“I'm not about to leave you,” said Mihal solemnly. The old man muttered something unintelligible. Its tone was not complimentary. Suddenly his body stiffened, as if riddled with intense pain. Mihal reached out and held his hand. “Have courage,” he said softly, as Rodat began to relax. “I wish you the same,” said the old man. “And strength.” “Me? Why?”

“Because, priest, you're going to need it.” He sat in silence for a few minutes. Then he started reading from his prayer book again. Rodat told him to keep quiet and stared boldly out at the darkness, eyes unblinking, jaw set, ready to meet his Maker on his own terms.

Mihal closed the book and sighed. He suddenly had a terrible apprehension that he was going to spend the rest of his life being tolerated.

“I think you're right, old man,” he said at last. “Eh?”

“It's going to be a long tour of duty.” 25: THE PACIFISTS

(No mention of the Pacifists can be found inOrigin and History of the Sentient Races. ) The huge room was filling up. Here was a Canphorite, tall, slender, dignified; there sat an Emran, muscles bulging, shifting uncomfortably; walking through the doorway were ambassadors from Lodin XI, Castor V, and Procyon III, looking as unalike as any three sentient beings could look. And standing in the midst of the gaudily dressed beings who had come from all points of the galactic compass were two Men.

“Looks like a pretty good turnout,” said Lipas, the smaller of the two. “It's even better than I had hoped for,” said Thome. “We just may come out of this in good shape.”