Tropile looked over his shoulder. Citizen Boyne was fingering the textured contrasts of a golden watch-case which had been his father's--and soon would be his son's. Boyne's eyes were closed and he wasn't listening. Tropile leaned forward and deliberately put his hand on his wife's arm. She started and flushed, of course. "You _can_," he said, "and what's more, you will. You can help me get out of here. I insist on it, Gala, because I must save you that pain." He took his hand off her arm, content. He said harshly: "Darling, don't you think I know how much we've always meant to each other?" She looked at him wretchedly. Fretfully she tore at the billowing filmy sleeve of her summer blouse. The seams hadn't been loosened; there had not been time. She had just been getting into the appropriate Sun Re-creation Day costume, to be worn under the parka, when the messenger had come with the news about her husband. She avoided his eyes. "If you're really Wolf...." 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.