Larry clenched his fists, sizing up his new opponent. He supposed the street boy was a year or so older than himself. Tall and stringy, with huge fists, he looked a nasty customer. This wasn’t going to be easy either.
Suddenly the boy rushed him, landing a pounding succession of blows before Larry could counter a single punch. Larry was forced backward. One fist smashed into his eye; a second landed on his chin. He struggled to stay upright, hearing the street toughs yelling encouragement to their mate. The sound suddenly made Larry angry. He rushed forward, head down, and brought up his fist in a hard, rocking blow to the roughneck’s chin; followed it up with a fast punch to the nose. The street boy’s nose began to trickle blood. He struck out at Larry, furiously, but Larry, his rage finally roused, easily countered the wildly flailing blows. He realized that in spite of the street boy’s longer reach, he didn’t have the advantage of knowing what he was doing. The ruffian got in one or two low body punches, but Larry, carefully mustering his knowledge of boxing, slowly forced him back and back, stepping on his toes, keeping him off balance, driving punch after punch at the boy’s nose and chin. Head down, the roughneck tried to clinch; grabbed Larry around the waist and grappled with him, struggling to bring his knee up; but Larry knocked his elbow across the boy’s face, managed to pry him loose, and drove up one single, hard punch in the eye.
The street boy reeled back, swayed, stumbled and crashed down full length on the cobblestones.
“Come on,” said Larry, standing over him in a rage. “Get up and fight!”
The tough stirred. He struggled halfway to his knees, swayed again, and collapsed in a heap.
Larry drew a long breath. His mouth was split and tasted of blood, his eye hurt, and his ribs were bruised; and his fists, knuckles skinned raw, felt as if he’d been banging on a brick wall with them.
The Darkovan aristocrat motioned to one of his bodyguards, who bent to look at the unconscious street boy.
“Now, the rest of you tough fellows—make yourselves scarce!” His voice held stinging contempt. One by one, the gang melted away into the lowering mists of darkness.
Larry stood with his knuckles throbbing, until no one was left in the square but himself, the Darkovan boy, and the two silent guards.
“Thanks,” he said, at last.
“No need to thank me,” the Darkovan lad said brusquely. “You handled yourself well. I wanted to see how you’d come off.” Suddenly, he smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned the freedom of the city. You’ve done something to deserve it. I’ve had an eye on you for several days, you know.”
Larry stared. “What?”
“Do you think a redheaded Terran can walk in places where no other Terran ever dared to go, without half the city knowing it? And things come to the ears of the Comyn.”
Comyn… Larry didn’t know the word.
The boy went on, “I was sure it was only a matter of time until you got into trouble, and I wanted to see whether you’d handle it like the typical Terran”—again there was a trace of contempt in his voice— “and try to scare off your attackers with cowards’ weapons, like your guards with their guns, or shout for the police to come and help you out of your troubles. No Terran ever settles his own affairs.” Then he grinned. “But you did.”
“I couldn’t have without your help, though.”
The boy shook his head in disclaimer. “I didn’t lift a hand. I only made sure that the settlement was an honorable one—and as far as I’m concerned, you can go where you like in the city, from now on. My name is Kennard Alton. What’s yours?”
“Larry Montray.”
Kennard spoke a formal Darkovan phrase, inclining his head. Then, suddenly, he grinned.
“My father’s house is only a few steps away,” he said, “and I’m off duty for the night. You can’t possibly go back to the Terran Zone looking like that!” For the first time, he looked as young as he was, the formal soberness disappearing in boyish lauphter. “You’d frighten your people out of their wits—and if your mother and father worry the way mine do, it’s nothing to look forward to! Anyway, you’d better come home with me.”
Without waiting for Larry’s answer, he turned, motioning to his guards, and Larry, following without a word, felt a smothered excitement. What had looked like a nasty situation was turning into an adventure. Actually invited into a Darkovan house!
Kennard led the way to one of the high houses. A wide, low-walled garden surrounded it; there were flights of stone steps up which Kennard led Larry. He made some curious gesture and the door swung wide; he turned.
“Enter and welcome; come in peace, Terran.”
The moment seemed to demand a formal acknowledgment, but Larry could only say, “Thank you.” He stepped into the wide hall of a brightly-lit house,, blinking in the brilliant entry-way, and looking around with curiosity and wonder.
Someone, somewhere, was playing on a stringed instrument that sounded like a harp. The floors under his feet were translucent stone; the walls were hung with bright thin panels of curtain. A tall, furry nonhuman with green intelligent eyes came forward and took Kennard’s cloak, and at a signal, took Larry’s torn jacket also.
“It’s my mother’s reception night, so we won’t bother her,” Kennard said, and, turning to the nonhuman, added, “Tell my father I have a guest upstairs.”
Larry followed Kennard up another long flight. Kennard flung open a dark door, hummed a low note, and the room was filled suddenly with bright light and warmth.
It was a pleasant room. There were low couches and chairs, a rack of knives and swords against the wall, a stuffed bird that looked like an eagle, a framed painting of a horse, and, on a small high table, something that looked like a chessboard or checkerboard with crystal pieces set up at each end. The room was luxurious, but for all that it was not tidy; various odds and ends of clothing were strewn here and there, and there was a table piled high with odd items Larry could not identify. Kennard threw open another door, and said, “Here. Your face is all blood, and your clothes are a mess. You’d better clean up a little, and you might as well put on some of my things for the time being.” He rummaged behind a panel, flung some curiously shaped garments at Larry. “Come back when you’re presentable.”
The room was a luxurious bathroom, done in tile of a dozen colors, set in geometric patterns. The fixtures were strange, but after a little experimenting, Larry found a hot-water faucet, and washed his face and hands. The warm water felt good on his bruised face, and he realized—looking into a long mirror—that between the gang-jostling and the fight, he had really been given quite a roughing up! He began to worry a little. What would his father say?
Well, he’d wanted to see Darkovan life close at hand, and he’d worry about getting home late, some other time! Dad would understand when he explained. He took off his torn and dirty clothes, and got into the soft wool trousers and the fur-lined jerkin which Kennard had lent him. He looked at himself in the mirror; why, except for his red hair, cut short, he might be any young Darkovan! Come to think of it, except for Kennard, he hadn’t seen any red-haired Darkovans. But there must be some!
When he came out, Kennard was lounging in one of the chairs, a small table drawn up before him with several steaming bowls of food on it. He motioned to Larry to sit down.
“I’m always starved when I come off duty. Here, have something to eat.” He hesitated, looking a little curiously at Larry as the other picked up the bowl and the long pick like a chopstick, then laughed. “Good, you can manage these. I wasn’t sure.”
The food was good, small meat rolls stuffed with something like rice or barley; Larry ate hungrily, dipping his rolls in the sharp fruity pickle-sauce as Kennard did. At last he put down the bowl and said, “You told me you’ve been watching me, while I’ve been exploring the city. Why?”
Kennard reached for the bowl containing some small crisp sticky things, took a handful and passed them to Larry before answering. He said, “I don’t quit
e know how to say it without insulting you.”
“Go ahead,” Larry said. “Look, you probably saved me from getting pretty badly hurt, if not killed. Say anything you want to. I’ll try not to take offense.”
“This is nothing against you. But nobody in Thendara wants trouble. Terrans have been mauled or murdered, here in the city. They usually bring it on themselves. I don’t mean that you would have brought anything on yourself—those street boys are alley rats and they’ll attack perfectly harmless people. But other Terrans have made trouble in the city, and our people have treated them as they deserve. So it should be settled—a troublemaker has been punished, and the affair is over. But you Terrans simply will not accept that. Any time one of your people is hurt, no matter what he has done to deserve it, your spaceforce men come around prying into the whole matter, raking up a scandal, insisting on long trials and questioning and punishment. On Darkover, any man who’s man enough to wear breeches instead of skirts is supposed to be able to protect himself; and if he can’t, it’s an affair for his family to settle. Our people find it hard to understand your ways. But we have made a treaty with the Terrans, and responsible people here in the city don’t want trouble. So we try to prevent incidents of that sort—when we can do it honorably.”
Larry munched absentmindedly on one of the sweet things. They were filled with tart fruit, like little pies. He was beginning to see the contrast between his own world-orderly, with impersonal laws—and Darkover, with a fierce and individualistic code of every man for himself. When the two clashed—
“But it was more than that,” Kennard said. “I was curious about you. I’ve been curious about you since the first day I saw you at the spaceport. Most of you Terrans like to stay behind your walls—they won’t even take the trouble to learn our language! Why are you different?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why they are the way they are, either. Just—well, call it curiosity.” Something else occurred to Larry. “So you didn’t just happen to come along then? You’ve been watching me?”
“Off and on. But it was just luck I came along then. I was off duty and coming home, and heard the racket in the square. And, on duty or off, that’s part of my work.”
“Your work?”
Kennard said, “I’m a cadet officer in the City Guard. All the boys in my family start as cadets, when they’re fourteen winters old, working three days in the cycle as peace officers. Mostly, I just supervise guards and check over the duty lists. What sort of work do you do?”
“I don’t do any work yet. I just go to school.” It made him feel, suddenly, very young and ill at ease. This self-possessed youngster, no older than Larry himself, was already doing a man’s work—not frittering his time away, being treated like a schoolboy!
“And then you have to start in doing your man’s work full time, without any training? How strange,” Kennard said.
“Well, your system seems strange to me,” Larry said, with a flare of resentment against Kennard’s assumption that his way was the proper one, and Kennard grinned at him.
“Actually, I had another reason for wanting to get to know you—and if this hadn’t happened, sooner or later I suppose I’d have managed it somehow. I’m wild to know all about space travel and the stars! And I’ve never had a chance to learn anything about it! Tell me—how do the Big Ships find their way between stars? What moves the ships? Do the Terrans really have colonies on hundreds of worlds?”
“One question at a time!” Larry laughed, “and remember I’m only learning!” But he began to explain navigation to Kennard, who listened, fascinated, asking question after question about the spaceships and the stars.
He was describing his one view of the drive rooms on the starship when the door swung open and a very tall man came in. Like Kennard, he had red hair, graying a little at the temples; his eyes were deepset, hawk-keen and stern, and he looked upright, handsome and immensely dignified in his scarlet embroidered jacket. Kennard got quickly to his feet, and Larry got up, too.
“So this is your friend, Kennard?” The man made a formal bow to Larry. “Welcome to our home, my boy. Kennard tells me you are a brave fellow, and have won the freedom of the city. Please consider yourself free of our house as well, at any time. I am Valdir Alton.”
“Larry Montray, z’par servu,” said Larry, bowing as he had seen Kennard do and using the most respectful Darkovan phrase, “At your service, sir.”
“You lend us grace.” The man smiled and took his hand. “I hope you will come to us often.”
“I would like that very much, sir.”
“You speak excellent Darkovan. It is rare to find one of your people who will do us even the small courtesty of learning our language so well,” Valdir Alton said.
Larry felt inclined to protest. “My father speaks it even better than I do, sir.”
“Then he is wise,” Valdir replied.
“Father,” Kennard cut in, excitedly; he might be a poised young soldier in the streets, but here, Larry saw, he was just a kid like Larry himself. “Father, Larry has promised to lend me some books about space travel and about the Empire! And, to get permission, if he can, to show me over the spaceport!”
“For that last, of course, you must not be disappointed if permission is refused,” Valdir warned the boys, smiling indulgently. “They might think that you were a spy. But the books will be welcome; I myself shall enjoy seeing them. I can read a little of the Terran Standard language.”
“I thought about that,” Larry said. “I wasn’t sure if Kennard could. These are mostly pictures and photographs.”
“Thanks,” Kennard laughed, “I can read our scripts if I have to—well enough for duty lists and the like—but I’m too busy for a scholar’s work! Oh, I can write my name well enough to serve, but why should I spoil my eyes for the hunt by learning what any public scribe can do for me? If it’s a question of pictures, though—that’s something worth seeing!”
Larry, too startled to wonder whether it was polite, blurted out, “You can’t even read your own language? Why, I can read Darkovan!”
“You can?” Kennard sounded honestly awed. “Why, I thought you weren’t even old enough to bear arms—and you read two languages and can write too! Are you a scholar by trade, then?”
Larry shook his head.
“But how old are you? If you can read already?”
“I was sixteen three months ago.”
“I’ll be sixteen in the Dark Month,” Kennard said. “I thought you were younger.”
Valdir Alton, idly eating sweets from one of the bowls, interrupted, saying, “I should be sorry to fail in hospitality, Lerrys”—he spoke Larry’s name with an odd, Darkovan accent—“but it is late and your spaceport curfew will be enforced. I think, Kennard, you must have your guest escorted home—unless you would like to spend the night? We have ample room for guests, and you would be welcome.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’d better not. My father would worry, I’m afraid. If someone can tell me the way—”
“My bodyguards will take you,” Kennard said, “but come again very soon. I’m on duty tomorrow and the next day, but—the day after? Could you come and spend the afternoon?”
“I’d like to,” Larry promised.
“You had better wear those clothes,” Valdir said; “your own, I fear, are fit only to clean floors. These are outworn ones of Kennard’s brother; you need not return them.”
Kennard went to the door with him, repeating his cordial urgings to come again, and Larry, escorted by the silent guard, found his way quickly to the spaceport. His mind still on his adventure, he was brought up with a shock when the spaceport guard stopped him with a sharp challenge.
“What do you think you’re doing here at this time of night? Nobody admitted now but spaceport personnel!”
With a shock, Larry remembered his Darkovan clothing. He produced his identity card, and the guard stared. “What the deuce you doing in that rig, kid? And you’re late; half an h
our more and I’d have had to put you on report for the Commandant. Don’t you know it’s not safe to go prowling around at night?” He caught sight of Larry’s bruised and reddened knuckles, his slowly blackening left eye. “Holy Joe, you look like you’d found that out. I bet you catch it when your Dad sees you!”
Larry was beginning to be a little afraid of that, himself. Well, there was nothing to do but face it.
It had been worth it, whatever Dad said. Even worth a licking, if it turned out that way.
* * *
IV
« ^ »
IT WAS WORSE that he had thought it would be.
As he came through the doors of the apartment in Quarters A, he saw his father, intercom in hand, and heard Wade Montray’s sharp, preoccupied voice, with overtones of trouble.
“—went out after school, and hasn’t come in; I checked with all his friends. The guard at the western gate saw him leave, but hasn’t seen him come back… I don’t want to sound like an alarmist, sir, but if he’d wandered into the Old Town— you know as well as I do what could have happened. Yes, I know that, sir, and I’ll take all the responsibility for letting it happen; it was foolish of me. Believe me, I realize that now—”
Larry said hesitantly “Dad—?”
Montray started, half dropping the cap of the intercom.
“Larry! Is that you?”
Montray said into the intercom, “Forget it. He just came in. Yes, I know, I’ll attend to it… All right, Larry, come in here where I can get a good look at you.”
Larry obeyed, bracing himself for a storm. As he came into the main room, and the light fell on his bruised face, Montray turned pale.
“Larry, your face! Son, what’s happened? Are you all right?” He came forward, quickly, taking Larry by the shoulders and turning him toward the light; Larry tensed, trying to pull away.
“It’s all right, Dad; I got into a fight. A bunch of toughs. It’s all right.” He added quickly, “It looks worse than it is.”