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The ‘copter flew on. There was no answer.

“I’m not good with words,” said Alcala. Then, taking out his pen-knife and unfolding it, he said, “Watch!” He put his index finger on the altimeter dial, where there was light, and pressed the blade against the flesh between his finger and his thumb. He increased the pressure until the flesh stood out white on either side of the blade, bending, but not cut.

“Three generations back, this pressure would have gone right through the hand.” He took away the blade and there was only a very tiny cut. Putting the knife away, he brought out his lighter. The blue flame was steady and hot. Alcala held it close to the dashboard and put his finger directly over it, counting patiently, “One, two, three, four, five—” He pulled the lighter back, snapping it shut.

“Three generations ago, a man couldn’t have held a finger over that flame for more than a tenth part of that count. Doesn’t all this prove something to you?”

The ‘copter was hovering above Alcala’s house. Camba lowered it to the ground and opened the door before answering. “It proves only that a good and worthy man will cut and burn his hand for an unworthy friendship. Good night.”