There was no dinner for him, and his father beat him with a strap that night. He cried himself to sleep lying on his stomach.
He didn’t have a hoe in his hands that fall, when the children came running after the grown-ups, who were tired from reaping and binding sheaves all day—but in spite of having done their share of binding, the children still had energy enough to run and shout.
The blow took Orgoru full in the back. He stumbled, nearly fell, but managed to catch his balance in only a few steps. He turned to see who had struck him, fighting down anger…
Clyde grinned down at him, a head taller and two years older, with his friends laughing behind him. “Sorry, Orgoru,” Clyde said. “I stumbled.”
Orgoru scrambled to his feet, knowing what was coming, dreading it…
The kick took him in the seat and sent him sprawling on his face. “Aw, now you stumbled! Get up, Orgoru! Can’t you get up?”
Orgoru tried to stay down, knowing their rules, knowing they wouldn’t hit him if he didn’t stand up, but two of the boys yanked him to his feet, and they all took turns giving him a punch or two.
Finally they ran off; finally he heard the heavy tread, and looked up to see his father’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Can’t even fight back, can you? All right, come along home—but cowards get no dinner.”
He had missed so many dinners that it was amazing he had grown up at all. It was completely unfair that he had become chubby—he hadn’t eaten that much!
So Orgoru had grown up knowing that he was useless as a peasant. He had known it because his father growled at him for being too clumsy to throw a ball, for losing every fight, for always being the butt of every prank. He had struggled to please, tried harder and harder with every complaint, but no matter how hard he tried, his mother always found something wrong with what he had done, his father always demanded to know why he couldn’t be like the other boys—until one night, whipped for knocking a loaf of bread onto the dirt floor, then denied his dinner for having shouted at them for the injustice, Orgoru went to bed weeping, feeling as though his little heart would break—and suddenly understood.
All at once it burst on him—why he was so clumsy at peasant’s chores, why he couldn’t even talk to the other children and be liked—because he wasn’t like them! Wasn’t of their kind! So unlike them indeed, that this man and woman couldn’t possibly be his true parents! They didn’t love him, they were ashamed of him, they behaved every day as though he were a burden they had to carry, but only grudgingly—so he couldn’t actually be their child! His real mother and father must have left him with these surly grouches for some mysterious and important reason—and would come back for him someday!
Orgoru fell asleep that night hoping that they would come back soon, and wondering what they were really like. He mulled over the question whenever his mind had time free, and his mother soon took to scolding him for his daydreaming, too. But Orgoru didn’t mind—he had found a much better world than hers, in his imagination. He daydreamed of parents who were wise and kind.
When puberty hit, and he began to notice how lovely some of the girls were, he shyly began to try to talk with them, but they only laughed, amused, or let him talk long enough to find something they could mock in his words. The other boys began to pick fights with him even more often, which always ended in disaster, for if he ran away, he was too slow—because his legs were too short—they caught him and pummeled him all the worse.
Then Mayday came, and the boys stood in a line, waiting for the girls to each choose a boy for the dancing. The young men stood waiting, and one by one they went to step to the fiddle. Althea chose Burl the handsome with the boyish smile, her bosom friend Nan chose Am of the broad shoulders and bulging muscles, their crony Seli chose Gori who won all the races, and so it went, the prettiest choosing the most handsome, the strongest, the most skilled.
Finally Orgoru remained standing alone and turned away quickly, for Ciletha was chatting and giggling with two older girls but glancing at him with concern, and he didn’t want her choosing him out of pity. Truth to tell, he had no great wish to dance with her, either, for she was almost as plain as he, though not so misshapen.
Misshapen! Who was to say he was shaped wrong? So he had a long torso and short legs, whereas the rest of them had long shanks and short waists—what of it? He stumped up to the village pond and stood glaring at his reflection. Yes, his face was round where theirs were long; yes, he had a snub of nose where they had long, straight blades; yes, his eyes were too large for a man’s but too small for a woman’s, and dark brown where theirs were blue or green or gray—and yes, he was plump, but that didn’t make him worse than they!
Then it was as though light exploded in his mind, and Orgoru suddenly understood. No, it didn’t mean he was worse—they were! He was so different because he was so much better! After all, they were only peasants, all of them, but he had known for a long time that they who raised him were not his real parents! He must be of a higher station, the son of parents who were gentry at least, but more probably noblemen, such as the ones who figured in the stories grandmothers told their grandchildren, those who were lucky enough to have grandmothers.
Once he realized that, it all made sense. Of course his parents resented him—they knew what he really was! Of course he didn’t fit in—he was different indeed! Of course none of these peasant girls would choose him, for he was so far above them that they couldn’t even recognize him for what he was!
He turned away from the pond a new man, vibrating within at the wonder of it all, aching to tell someone—but of course, there was none he could speak to, not about this.
There would be, though. One day they would come back for him—or he would find out where they had gone, his parents.
Then he would go to them, and no silly law or magistrate’s command would stop him!
He went back among the roistering, the drinking, the singing. The other boys shoved him, yanked the last tankard from before his reaching hand, sneered at him, mocked him, but he smiled up at them with an amazing new serenity. He didn’t care what they did, these peasants, these lowborns. He knew what he really was, and one day he would know who!
CHAPTER 2
The huge golden disk glided down in the darkness, its outer edge revolving around a stationary center that held gun turrets, sensor dishes, ports—and people. It spun down into a meadow just beyond a forest, a few miles from a town whose lights had blinked out several hours before. It sat immobile for a few minutes as its guiding computer sampled the air, analyzing it to make sure there was enough oxygen for its passengers—and no toxic gases or microbes to which they weren’t immune. The ship’s edge spun more and more slowly until it hissed to a stop; then the ship extended a ramp, and two men came down, dressed in broad-shouldered jackets over bell-sleeved shirts, and balloon trousers gathered into high boots. If worse came to worst and some poacher saw them, he wouldn’t think their clothing odd, though he might wonder about their transportation.
“The ruling class on this planet would wear robes,” Dirk grumbled. “They’re very awkward when it comes to action.” He glanced down at his loose-fitting, square-shouldered jacket and equally loose-fitting trousers, both garments gathered tight at wrists or ankles. “At least the military dresses sensibly. A little extravagantly, but sensibly.”
“Don’t let the clothes worry you, Dirk,” Gar said soothingly. “We’ll probably wind up naked, filthy, and pretending to be madmen again, anyway.”
“Well, it works on most planets,” Dirk admitted. “I keep hoping, though, Gar, that we’ll find a planet where they keep the mentally ill in decent housing of their own.”