"Now that I have your attention," he said with forced sternness, "please take your places."
The Council members laughed good-naturedly and complied.
"I've never seen or heard of a more vigorous, more vital, more rowdy bunch of representatives in my life!" Petrical whispered, his face flushed with excitement.
Dalt nodded and inwardly told Pard, I feel pretty vigorous myself.
("About time,") came the sardonic reply. ("It's been a couple of centuries since you've shown much life.")
The president pro tem was speaking. "We have before us a motion to install The Healer as chief executive of the Federation by acclaim. Now what I propose to do is ..." Even with amplification at maximum, his voice was lost in the joyous chaos that was unleashed by the announcement.
Shrugging, the old man stepped back from the podium and decided to let the demonstration run its course. The pandemonium gradually took the form of a chant.
"... healer! healer! healer! ..."
Pard became a demon voice in Dalt's mind. ("They're in the palm of your hand. Take command and you can direct the course of human history from now on.")
And be another Kali?
("Your influence wouldn't have to be malevolent. Look at them! Tarks, Lentemians, Humans! Think of all the great things you could lead them to!")
Dalt considered this as he watched the crowd and drank in its intoxicating chant:
"... healer! healer! healer! ..."
Thoughts of Tolive suddenly flashed before him. You know my answer!
("You're not even tempted?")
Not in the least. I can't remember when I last felt so alive, and I find there are many things I still want to do, many goals I still want to achieve. Power isn't one of them.
Pard's silence indicated approval. ("What will you tell them?") he asked finally.
Don't know, exactly. Something about holding to the LaNague charter, about letting the Federation be the focus of their goals but never allowing those goals to originate here. Peace, freedom, love, friendship, happiness, prosperity, and other sundry political catchwords. But the big message will be a firm "No thanks!"
("You're sure now?") Pard taunted. ("You don't want to be acclaimed leader of the entire human race and a few others as well?")
I've got better things to do.
EPILOGUE
Kolko lounged by the fire and eyed the wagon that sat in darkness on the far side of the flames. His troupe of Thespelian gypsies had turned in early tonight in preparation for their arrival in Lanthus tomorrow. Kolko was hurt and angry—but only a little. Thalana had taken up with the new mentalist and wanted no part of him.
He was tempted to enter the darkened wagon and confront the two of them but had decided against it for a number of reasons. First off, he had no real emotional attachment to Thalana, nor she to him. His pride was in pain, not his heart. Secondly, a row over a love triangle would only cause needless dissension in the peaceful little company. And finally, it would mean facing up to the new mentalist, a thought he did not relish.
An imposing figure, this newest member of the troupe, with all of his skin dyed gold and his hair dyed silver ... a melding of precious metals. And quite a talent. Kolko had seen mentalists come and go but could not figure out how this one pulled off his stunts.
A likable fellow, but distant. Hiding from his past, no doubt, but that hardly made him unique among the gypsies of Thespel. He would laugh with the group around the fire and could drink an incredible amount of wine without ever opening up. Always one step removed. And he had an odd habit of muttering to himself now and again, but nobody ever mentioned it to him ... there was an air about the man that brooked no meddling with his personal affairs or habits.
So let him have Thalana. There would be other dancers joining the troups along the way, probably better-looking than Thalana and better in the bedroll ... although that would take some doing.
Let 'em be. Life was too good these days. Good wine, good company, good weather, good crowds of free-spending people in the towns.
He picked up an arthritic tree limb and stirred the coals, watching the sparks swirl gently upward to mingle with the pinpoint stars overhead.
Let 'em be.