Tropile's sub-adrenals pulsed and filled him with confident strength.
"_You_ know what I am--you better than anyone else." It was a sly
reminder of their curious furtive behavior together; like the hand on
her arm, it had its effect. "After all, why do we quarrel the way we
did last night?"
He hurried on; the job of the rowel was to spur her to action, not to
inflame a wound. "Because we're _important_ to each other. I know that
you would count on me to help if you were in trouble. And I know that
you'd be hurt--_deeply_, Gala!--if I didn't count on you."
She sniffled and scuffed the bright strap over her open-toed sandal.
Then she met his eyes.
It was the after-effect of the argument, of course. Glenn Tropile knew
just how heavily he could rely on the after-spiral of a quarrel. She
was submitting.
She glanced furtively at Citizen Boyne and lowered her voice.
"What do I have to do?" she whispered.
* * * * *
In five minutes, she was gone, but that was more than enough time.
Tropile had at least thirty minutes left. They would take Boyne first;
he had seen to that. And once Boyne was gone--
Tropile wrenched a leg off his three-legged stool and sat precariously
balanced on the other two. He tossed the loose leg clattering into a
corner.
The Keeper of the House of Five Regulations ambled slack-bodied by and
glanced into the room. "Wolf, what happened to your stool?"
Tropile made a left-handed sign of no-importance. "It doesn't matter.
Except it _is_ hard to meditate, sitting on this thing, with every
muscle tensing and fighting against every other to keep my balance...."
The Keeper made an overruling sign of please-let-me-help. "It's your
last half-hour, Wolf," he reminded Tropile. "I'll fix the stool for
you."
He entered and slammed and banged it together, and left with an
expression of mild concern. Even a Son of the Wolf was entitled to the
fullest appreciation of that unique opportunity for meditation, the
last half-hour before a Donation.
In five minutes, the Keeper was back, looking solemn and yet glad, like
a bearer of serious but welcome tidings.
"It is the time for the first Donation," he announced. "Which of you--"
"Him," said Tropile quickly, pointing.
Boyne opened his eyes calmly and nodded. He got to his feet, made a
formal leavetaking bow to Tropile, and followed the Keeper toward his
Donation and his death. As they were going out, Tropile coughed a
would-you-please-grant-me-a-favor cough.