Yes; he knew it now, that was the dream that had lured him back to Darkover, the fantasy that he would find a place where he belonged. Otherwise, why should he have left the last world? He’d liked it there; there had been plenty of fights, plenty of women, plenty of easygoing companionship, plenty of rough and ready adventure. But all the time, driving him, there had been that relentless compulsion to get back to Darkover; it had caused him to turn down what he knew, now, had been a sure route to advancement; and further, to kill off any hope of serious promotion.
And now that he was back, now that he had seen the four moons and the swift dark of his dreams, would all the rest be anticlimax? Would he find that his mother was just such another spaceport wench as the one who had rubbed up against him tonight, eager to take home some of the plentiful spaceport pay? If so, he didn’t admire his father’s taste. His father? He had heard a lot about his father, in those seven years he’d stuck it out with his grandparents, and the picture he’d gotten from them wasn’t quite like that. His father, he assumed, had been a fastidious man. But that was only, perhaps, how he had seemed to his grandmother. ... Well, at least he had cared enough to get Empire citizenship for his son.
Well, he’d do what he’d come here to do. He would try to trace his mother, and decide why his father had abandoned him in the spaceport orphanage and how and where he had died. And then? What then? The question nagged him—what would he do then?
I will fly that hawk when his pinions are grown, Kerwin said to himself, realizing afterward that he had spoken the Darkovan proverb without thinking about it.
The nocturnal mist had condensed now, and a thin cold rain was beginning to fall. It had been so warm during the day that Kerwin had almost forgotten how swiftly daytime warmth, at this season, was blotted out in sleety rain and snow. Already there were little needles of ice in the rain. He shivered and walked faster.
Somehow he had taken a wrong turning; he had expected to come out into the square fronting on the spaceport. He was on an open square, but it was not the right one. Along one edge there was a line of little cafés and cookshops, taverns and restaurants. There were Terrans there, so it was certainly not off limits to spaceport personnel—he knew that some of them were, he had been carefully briefed about that—but horses were tethered outside, so there was a Darkovan clientele also. He walked outside them, picked one that smelled richly of Darkovan food, and walked inside at random. The smell made his mouth water. Food; that was what he needed, good solid food, not the tasteless synthetics of the starship. In the dim lights faces were all a blur, and he didn’t look for any of the men from the Southern Crown.
He sat down at the corner table and ordered, and when the food came, he sank his teeth into it with pleasure. Not far away a couple of Darkovans, rather better dressed than most, were idling over their food. They wore gaily colored cloaks and high boots, jeweled belts with knives stuck into them. One had a blazing red head of hair, which made Kerwin raise his eyebrows; the city Darkovans were a swarthy lot, and his own red hair had made him an object of curiosity and stares when, as a child, he’d gone out into the city. His father and grandparents, too, had dark hair and eyes, and he had blazed like a beacon among them. In the orphanage they’d called him Tallo—copper; half in derision, half, he recognized it now, in a kind of superstitious awe. And the Darkovan nurses and matrons had been at such pains to suppress the nickname that even then it had surprised him. He had collected the notion somehow, though the Darkovan nurses were forbidden to talk local superstitions to the children, that red hair was unlucky, or taboo.
If it was unlucky the redhead certainly didn’t seem to know about it or care.
On Earth, perhaps because red hair was really not all that uncommon, the memory of that superstition had dimmed. But maybe that explained Ragan’s early stare. If red hair was all that uncommon, obviously you would assume, if you saw a red-haired man at a distance, that he was the man you knew, and be surprised when it turned out to be a stranger.
Though, come to think of it, Ragan’s own hair had a rusty dull-red look to it; he might have been redheaded as a child. Kerwin thought again that the little man had looked familiar, and tried again to remember if there had been any redheads, other than himself, in the orphanage. Surely he had known a couple of them when he was very small....
Maybe before I went to the orphanage. Maybe my mother was redheaded, or had some relatives who were.... But try as he might, he could not uncover the blankness of the early years. Only a memory of disturbing dreams ...
A loudspeaker on the wall hiccupped loudly, and a metallic voice remarked, “Your attention please. All spaceport personnel, your attention please.”
Kerwin lifted his eyebrows, staring at the loudspeaker with definite resentment. He’d come in here to get away from things like that. Evidently some of the other patrons of the restaurant felt the same way; there were a couple of derisive noises.
The metallic voice remarked, in Terran Standard, “Your attention please. All HQ personnel with planes on the field report immediately to Division B. All surface transit will be cancelled, repeat, will be cancelled. The Southern Crown will skylift on schedule, repeat, on schedule. All surface aircraft on the field must be moved without delay. Repeat, all HQ personnel with private surface aircraft on the field ...”
The redheaded Darkovan Kerwin had noticed before said in an audible and malicious voice—and in the City dialect everyone understood—“How poor these Terrans must be, that they must disturb us all with that squawking box up there instead of paying a few pennies to a flunkey to bring their messages.” The word he used for “flunkey” was a particularly offensive one.
A uniformed spaceport official near the front of the restaurant stared angrily at the speaker, then thought better of it, settled his gold-lace cap on his head and tramped out into the rain. A blast of bitter cold blew into the room—for he had started a small exodus—and the Darkovan nearest Kerwin said to his companion, “Esa so vhalle Terranan acqualle ... ” and chuckled.
The other replied something even more insulting, his eyes lingering on Kerwin, and Kerwin realized that he was the only Terran left in the room. He felt himself trembling. He had always been childishly sensitive to insults. On Earth he had been an alien, a freak, a Darkovan; here on Darkover, suddenly, he felt himself a Terran; and the events of the day hadn’t been calculated to sweeten his disposition. But he only glared and remarked—to the empty table at his left, “The rain can only drown the mud-rabbit if he hasn’t the wit to keep his mouth shut.”
One of the Darkovans—not the redhead—pushed his bench back and swung around, upsetting his drink in the process. The thin crash of the metal goblet, and the bleat of the waiter, drew all eyes to them, and Kerwin edged out of his seat. Inside he was watching himself with dismay. Was he going to make two scenes, in two bars, and would this rip-rousing welcome to Darkover end up by getting him hauled off to the local brig for being drunk and disorderly?
Then the man’s companion grabbed his elbow and said something urgent that Kerwin didn’t hear. The first man’s eyes traveled slowly upward, rested on Kerwin’s head, now clearly illumined by a lamp in a bracket over him, and he said with a little gulp, “No! I want no trouble with Comyn. ...”
Kerwin wondered what in the hell he was talking about. The would-be fighter looked at his companion, found no encouragement there; then he flung up his arm before his face, mumbled something that sounded like “Su serva, vai dom ... ”, barged across the room, avoiding tables like a sleepwalker, and plunged out into the rain.
Kerwin realized that everybody left in the little restaurant was staring at him; but he managed to meet the eyes of the waiter long enough to drive him away. He sat down and picked up his cup, which contained the local equivalent of coffee—a caffeine-rich beverage tasting remotely like bitter chocolate—and sipped. It was cold.
The remaining well-dressed Darkovan, the redheaded one, got up, came over, and slid into the empty seat across from
Kerwin.
“Who the hell are you?”
He spoke Terran Standard, to Jeff ’s surprise; but he spoke it badly, forming each word with care.
Kerwin set his cup down wearily.
“Nobody you know, friend. Go away, will you?”
“No, I am serious,” the red-haired man said. “What is your name?”
And suddenly Kerwin was exasperated. What right did this chap have to come over and demand that he give an account of himself?
“Evil-eye Fleegle, a very ancient god,” he said. “And I feel every millennium of it. Go away or I’ll put the whammy on you like I did on your friend.”
The red-haired man grinned—a mocking, unfriendly grin. “He’s no friend of mine,” he said, “and it’s obvious you’re not what you seem; you were more surprised than anyone when he ran out of here. Obviously, he thought you were one of us.” He broke off and amended: “One of my relatives.”
Kerwin said politely, “What is this, Old Home Week? No, thank you. I come from a long line of Arcturian lizard-men.” He picked up the coffeelike stuff and buried his head in his mug again, felt the redhead’s puzzled gaze on the top of his head. Then the man turned away, muttering, “Terranan” in that tone that made the single word into a deadly insult.
Now that it was too late, Kerwin wished he had answered more politely. That was the second time tonight that someone had thought they recognized him. If he closely resembled someone in Thendara, wasn’t this what he had come here to find out? He had a tardy impulse to go after the man and demand an explanation. But the sure knowledge that this would only mean a new rebuff prevented him. Feeling frustrated, he put some coins down on the bar, picked up the bundle from the spaceport shop—and went out again.
By now the rain had become icy sleet; the stars were gone. It was dark and cold, with a howling wind, and he fought his way along, shivering in the thin uniform jacket. Why hadn’t he brought along something warm to wear after dark? He knew what the weather was like here at night! Hell—he had something warm with him. A little peculiar-looking, perhaps, but he could put it on till he got out of this wind. With stiff fingers he fumbled with the bundle and got out the fur-lined, embroidered cloak. He settled it over his shoulders with a shrug, feeling the supple warmth of the fur closing around him like a caress.
He turned into a side street and there was the open square fronting on the spaceport, the neon lights of the Sky Harbor Hotel facing it across from the gates. He should go into the HQ, get assigned to quarters; he hadn’t reported, he didn’t even know where he was going to sleep. He walked toward the gates; then, on impulse, turned back toward the hotel for a final drink and some time to think before going back into the world of white walls and yellow lights. Maybe he would take a room for the night.
The clerk, busily sorting records, hardly glanced up at him.
“You go through there,” he said curtly, and returned to his book.
Kerwin, startled—had the Civil Service reserved accommodations here?—started to protest, then shrugged and went through the indicated door.
And stopped, for he had stepped into a room prepared for a private party; a long table was laid in the center with some kind of buffet supper and there were flowers in tall crystal vases; at the far end of the room a tall red-headed man in a long embroidered cape stood hesitantly looking at him—then Kerwin realized that the black wall was a pane of glass opening on night, and darkness behind it made it a mirror; the cloaked Darkovan was himself. He looked as if he had never seen himself before; a big man, with red hair flattened from the rain, and a lonely and introspective face, the face of an adventurer who has for some reason been cheated of adventure. The sight of his own face rising above the Darkovan cloak arrested him with a strange surge of—of memory? When had he seen himself dressed like this before? Or—or someone else?
Kerwin scowled, impatient. Of course he looked familiar to himself. What was the matter with him? And this was the answer, too; the clerk had simply taken him for a Darkovan, perhaps someone he knew by sight, and directed him into the reserved room. In fact, that would explain Ragan, too, and the redhead in the restaurant; he had a double, or near-double on Darkover, some big redhead of about his size and coloring, and that deceived people, with a quick look.
“You’re here early, com’ii,” said a voice behind him, and Kerwin turned and saw her.
He thought at first that she was a Terran girl, because of the red-gold hair clustered in curls atop her small head. She was slight and slim, wearing a simple gown that clung to dainty curves. Kerwin quickly averted his eyes—staring at a Darkovan woman in public is insolence punishable by a beating or worse, if any of the woman’s relatives are around and care to take offense—but she returned his gaze frankly, smiling with welcome, and so, even on second thoughts, he believed for a moment she was a Terran, despite her Darkovan speech.
“How did you get here? I thought we had decided to come with our respective Towers,” she said, and Kerwin stared. He felt his face heating, and not from the fire. “My apologies, domma,” he said in the language of his childhood. “I didn’t realize that this was a private room; I was directed here by mistake. Forgive the intrusion; I will go at once.”
She stared at him, her smile fading. “But what are you thinking of?” she demanded. “We have many things to discuss—” She stopped. Then she said, uncertainly, “Have I made a mistake?”
Kerwin said, “Somebody’s made one, that’s for sure.” His voice trailed away on the last words, realizing that she was not speaking the language of Thendara, but some language he had never heard before. And yet he had understood her, so well that for a moment he had not realized that she had spoken an unfamiliar language.
Her mouth dropped open, and she said, “In the name of the Son of Aldones and his divine Mother, who are you?”
Kerwin started to say his name; then realized it could not possibly mean anything to her, and that red imp of anger, held in abeyance for a few moments because he was talking to a beautiful woman, deviled him again. This was the second time tonight—no, the third. Damn it, that double of his must be quite a fellow, if he was recognized simultaneously in a spaceport dive, and in the private reserved suite of Darkovan aristocracy—for the girl could not possibly be anything else.
He said with the heaviest irony he could manage, “don’t you recognize me, lady? I’m your big brother Bill, the black sheep of the family, who ran away to space when he was six years old and I’ve been held captive by space pirates in the Rim Worlds ever since. Find out in the next installment.”
She shook her head, uncomprehending, and he realized that language, and satire, and the allusions he had made, would mean less than nothing to her. Then she said in that language he understood, if he didn’t think too hard about it, “But surely you are one of us? From the Hidden City, perhaps? Who are you?”
Kerwin scowled impatiently, too annoyed to carry the game any further. He almost wished that the man she had mistaken him for would walk in right now so he could punch him in the face.
“Look, you’re mistaking me for someone else, girl. I don’t know anything about your Hidden City—it’s hidden too well or something. What planet is it on? You’re not Darkovan, are you?” For her manners were certainly not those of a Darkovan woman.
If she had seemed startled before, now she appeared thunderstruck. “And yet you understood the language of Valeron? Listen to me,” she began again, and this time she was speaking the City dialect of Thendara. “I think we must have this clearly understood. There is something very strange here. Where can we talk together?”
“We’re dong fine, right here and now,” Kerwin said. “I may be new to Darkover, but not that new; I’m not crazy about having your relatives file an intent-to-murder on me before I’ve been here twenty-four hours, in case you have some touchy male relatives. If you are Darkovan.”
The small pixielike face screwed up in a puzzled little smile. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “You d
on’t know who I am, and what’s worse, you don’t know what I am. I was sure that you must be from one of the remoter Towers, someone I have never seen before face to face, but only in the relays. Perhaps someone from Hali, or Neskaya, or Dalereuth. ...”
Kerwin shook his head.
“I’m no one you know, believe me,” he said. “I wish you’ll tell me who you mistook me for; I’d like to meet him, whoever he is, if I have a double in this city. It might answer a few questions for me.”
“I can’t do that,” she said, hesitant, and he sensed that now, under his opened Darkovan cloak, she had seen the Terran uniform. “No, please don’t go. If Kennard were here—”
“Tani, what is this?” A low, harsh voice broke in, and in the mirrored wall Kerwin saw a man walking toward them. He turned to face the newcomer, wondering—so mad had the world become—if he would see a mirror image of himself. But he didn’t.
The newcomer was slight, tall, fair-skinned, with thick red-gold hair. Kerwin detested him on sight, even before he recognized the red-haired man with whom he’d had that brief and unsatisfactory confrontation in the bar. The Darkovan took in the scene at a glance, and his face took on the look of scandalized conventionality.
“A stranger here, and you alone with him, Taniquel?”
“Auster, I only wanted—” the girl protested.
“A Terranan!”
“I thought, at first, he was one of us, perhaps from Dalereuth.”
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