The next day the Oligarch called him in.
"I want to thank you again, Herb." He watched his words sink into naked flesh. "If you had not told me, I would never have suspected. But for you, he—he might have succeeded."
Herb refused to look into the Oligarch's face. I did right, he thought. I did what I had to do, what anyone would have done.
"I know it has been a shock," the Oligarch said. "You were very fond of William."
Herb's lips twisted silently.
"I want to tell you a story," the Oligarch said. "Listen, listen carefully. It is about a man called Bud and what he did."
Herb was not listening; and then suddenly he was listening. The Oligarch told the story, and when he was done, leaned forward, waiting. It was as if Herb had just heard the most important story in the world.
"His brother's head," the Oligarch whispered, "he traded his brother's head for power...."
There was something about the idea that reached deep into the ancient folk shadows of Herb's mind and stood as a symbol. But he did not understand about symbols: only their compulsive effects. All his rage and frustration and guilt crystalized around Bud. If he could only see Bud fall and gasp and die, he would have vindicated morality and done all that he could do in the name and cause of justice.
"You may go," the Oligarch said. "Think about what I've told you."