And that was that.
Ganti grimaced at Jorgenson:
"I'll speak and say and observe something useful for you presently, Jorgenson. Right now I'm going to march on foot and talk to the provincial governor. I'll take a train of attendants, so he'll receive me. Then I'll tell him that he's about to die with nobody touching him. He's earned it!"
Unquestionably, Ganti was right.
Any Thrid official, to whom it was impossible to be mistaken, would develop eccentric notions.
Most humans couldn't stand by and watch. They got off Thriddar as soon as possible. At the moment, Jorgenson couldn't leave the planet, but he didn't want to see what Ganti could and would and by human standards probably ought to do. He camped in the steam-copter, in hiding, until Ganti sent him a message.
Then he started up the copter and flew back to the trading post. It was empty. Gutted. Looted. But there was a high official waiting for him in the courtyard. He held a scroll in his hand. It glinted golden. When Jorgenson regarded him grimly, the high official made a sound equivalent to clearing his throat, and the Witness-hatted Thrid around him became silent.
"On this day," intoned the high official, "on this day did Ganti, the Never-Mistaken, as have been his predecessors through the ages;—on this day did the Never-Mistaken Ganti speak and say and observe a truth in the presence of the governors and the rulers of the universe."
Jorgenson listened grimly. The new Grand Panjandrum had made him—Jorgenson—a provincial governor.