Bors said unhappily, "I'm sorry you're going away, Gwenlyn. If things were—different, I—I—"
"You what?" asked Morgan. "By the way! One of our Talents has precognized that your uncle's going back to Tralee as its king again. Largely on your account. You're his heir, aren't you?"
Bors blinked.
"Hero," said Morgan, waving his hand. "Twenty-two planets adoring you, believing you brought Mekin down single-handed. Aching to work with you, follow you, admire you. Naturally, Tralee wants your uncle back. Then they'll have you. Of course," he added complacently, "our Department for Disseminating Truthful Seditious Rumors had something to do with it. But that was necessary wartime propaganda. And you didn't let anybody down." Then he said peevishly, "Not until now!"
Bors gaped. He looked at Gwenlyn. Her cheeks were crimson. Revelation struck Bors like a blow.
"I don't believe it!" he said, staring at her. He said more loudly, "I don't believe it!"
"Damnit," said Morgan indignantly. "She didn't believe it either! She said she'd come here because she was curious, nothing more. But that particular Talent's never missed yet! She just plain knows every time who—"
"Hush!" said Gwenlyn fiercely. "Goodbye."
Bors moved toward her, not to shake hands. She ran out of the door. She ran fast, for a girl. He ran faster.
Morgan puffed contentedly. Presently the completely unreal figure of King Humphrey the Eighth came to where Morgan had surrounded himself with aromatic smoke.