He made his request, and they tied him between the posts, and finally the new ristable came, with its snow-white horn lowered, and fire in its eyes.
He watched the ristable pawing and snorting and charging, and he knew his request would be carried out.
How strange, he thought, as the tip of the horn plunged deep to the softness that lies within all hard men. Of all the trophies I've gathered...
Then there was no thought of trophies.
* * * *
So there it is, hanging between the hartebeest and the szlygor in the Trottersmen's trophy room. There was no choice about hanging it; after all, thirteen million dollars is thirteen million dollars. But it does give the members a chill from hell.
Still, there it hangs, and usually the room is closed off. But occasionally, if drinks are too many, and wit is abundant, the tale will be told. Perhaps not always with accuracy, but always with wonder.
Because it is a marvelous job of taxidermy.
There are even members who are willing to pay to find out how the Ristabite natives who did the job were able to retain the clean white color of the hair...
...and that damned watchfulness in the eyes.