powerful ones as he spoke.
"I'm not a saint," Slade went on in the new silence. "I've done terrible things." He swallowed.
Only a few of the faces turned toward Slade understood the sort of things he meant. The profession of slaughter, like others, has its arcana. No one could doubt Slade's sincerity when he went on. "I don't need to lie, people. If somebody's going to be shot, I'll tell you. Bev isn't, and neither are his boys."
There was another roar and surge of agreement. This time Slade responded to every hand, every enthusiastic greeting with the comment, "I appreciate that. You'll want to get down to your people right away and explain that the trouble's over."
He himself was walking slowly toward the door. Marilee paced just ahead of the tanker to boost Councilors to escape velocity with her own handshake and grim smile. She had not promised to forget.
Councilor Hauksbee was the last. "I owe you an apology, Mister Slade," the pudgy man said. He extended his hand but did not snatch at Slade's the way so many others had done.
"It y