"If you should say that to a tribesman, your life would be over. Right then, unless you were very quick. And if you should be quick enough, or lucky enough, to kill the man you insulted, his clan brothers would take it up. It would be either you—or the whole tribe." He stood up.
"I'm not a tribesman. I don't carry the sling, and I'm of galactic ancestry, so I don't have a compulsion toward blood vengeance. But I don't accept that insult. I shall go back to the Morek today and place you out of my mind." He paused.
"No, I won't kill you. I'll simply warn you so you'll have no excuse for such idiocy again." He smiled.
"You know, Mr. Masterson, I don't know how much they pay you by the year to sit around here, but I doubt that it's as much as I pay my beaters for a week end of hunting. So obviously, even if I were for sale, the man who could afford the tab could pick you up with his small change." He paused thoughtfully.
"Come to think of it, if your annual pay is more than my beaters get, I'll have to raise their wages. They do their job—intelligently."
He turned, then swung back for an instant. The bronze button had come out of his lapel. He tossed it on Masterson's desk.
"Here," he said. "A present for you. I can't stand the smell of it."
Dully, the two men sat, watching the closed door. At long last, Rayson turned his head with obvious effort, to stare at Masterson, who recovered a few milliseconds more slowly.