"Stop sounding off, Treb, and say something." Neilson scrubbed vigorously. "Of course I would--if I ever had a kid, I mean." "We could help, Harl. By calling off the duel and making peace right here. Of course there might be new balloting--even another battle between our countries. But we would crack the theory that victory means more than humanity." Neilson snorted. He splashed water into his eyes and over his soapy beard and hair. "And go home penniless? To have every friend and neighbor avoid us? What's eating you? You won. You'll get the quarter of a million." "I want you to share equally. I want our two countries to know that friendship means more than glory." "I don't get it. If neither side wins we get nothing." "You forget about the Hubble Award. Two hundred thousand to each member of both sides, or their survivors, if they declare an armistice." "I had forgotten. You'd give up fifty thousand so I could get the same two hundred thousand! You're a prince, Treb. "But I couldn't do it. Jane would turn against me. The radio, the newswires, television and the magazines would crucify me--both of us." "We'd ride it out. None of the participants in the twenty-two duels here in Satellite has had the courage to admit he hates war. In years to come our stand would be honored." "It means losing Jane. I can't do it." "You've lost her anyway, Harl, if she's the way you say. How about your three wounded buddies: Wasson, Clark, and Thomason? Badly cut up aren't they? Clark blind. Wasson with no arms. "Couldn't they use the two hundred thousand?" Neilson was coming ashore. A sudden resolve hardened his face, and his blue eyes were dark and angry. His jaw jutted through the sandy fairness of his draggled beard. Treb felt his vitals knot at what he sensed in Neilson's expression. He'd gambled on the essential fairness and sympathy of the Andilian's character. But now.... "I'll do it," Neilson said tonelessly. "I hope you'll never regret what you are doing, Harl." "Aw, lock valves!" snarled Neilson. "Get ready to go while I finish shaving." So that was the way it was to be. Treb turned wearily away. He went back through the screen of flowering shrubs and trees to where the coals of their fire turned gray. The grenades and the three cartridges, his own and Neilson's, he buried in a hasty hole under a tree's sprawled roots. Afterward he tamped sod back into place and spread leaves. His needle-knife he laid on the turf. From his pocket he took a long strip of cloth and some of the tough nylon cords from the net. Then he let his trousers drop about his ankles and set about anchoring the needle-knife securely to his upper leg. When he had finished the keen blade projected a foot below his knee-cap. And around it, carefully, he wound some of the cloth. He donned his battered trousers again. The concealed knife was well hidden, although it did impede the freedom of his stride. Then he went down to rejoin Neilson.