An engorged gland in Tropile's adrenals--it was only a pinhead in Citizen Boyne's--gushed raw hormones into his bloodstream. He could die, yes--that was a skill everyone had to acquire, sooner or later. But while he was alive, he could not stand to be bested in an encounter, an argument, a relationship--not and stay alive. Wolf? Call him Wolf. Call him Operator, or Percentage Player; call him Sharp Article; call him Gamesman. If there was an advantage to be derived, he would derive it. It was the way he was put together. He said, for time: "You're right. Stupid of me. I must have lost my head!" He thought. Some men think by poking problems apart; some think by laying facts side by side to compare. Tropile's thinking was neither of these, but a species of judo. He conceded to his opponent such things as Strength, Armor, Resource. He didn't need these things for himself; to every contest, the opponent brought enough of them to supply two. It was Tropile's habit (and Wolfish, he had to admit) to use the opponent's strength against him, to break the opponent against his own steel walls. He thought. The first thing was to make up his mind: He was Wolf. Then let him _be_ Wolf. He wouldn't stay around for the spinal tap; he would go from there. But how? The second thing was to plan. There were obstacles. Citizen Boyne was one. The Keeper of the House of the Five Regulations was another. Where was the pole which would permit him to vault over these hurdles? There was always his wife, Gala. He owned her; she would do what he wished--provided he made her _want_ to do it. Yes, Gala. He walked to the door and shouted to Citizen Harmane: "Keeper! I must see my wife! Have her brought to me!" It was impossible for the Keeper to refuse. He called gently, "I will invite the Citizeness," and toddled away. The third thing was time. Tropile turned to Citizen Boyne. "Citizen," he said persuasively, "since your death poem is ready and mine is not, will you be gracious enough to go first when they--when they come?" Citizen Boyne looked temperately at his cellmate and made the Quirked Smile. "You see?" he said. "Wolf." And that was true. But what was also true was that Boyne couldn't and didn't refuse. IV Half a world away, the midnight-blue Pyramid sat on its planed-off peak as it had sat since the days when Earth had a real sun of its own. It was of no importance to the Pyramid that Glenn Tropile was about to receive a slim catheter into his spine, to drain his saps and his life. It didn't matter to the Pyramid that the pretext for the execution was an act which human history had long stopped considering a capital crime. Ritual sacrifice in any guise made no difference to the Pyramid. The Pyramid saw them come and the Pyramid saw them go--if the Pyramid could be said to "see." One human being more or less, what matter? Who bothers to take a census of the cells in a hangnail?