Zeth watched Jord's handling tentacles wrap about his sister's forearms. She looked down, trembling, as the small, moist laterals slid into place. "It's all right," Jord murmured. Then his lips grazed hers, and he began dismantling his grip.
Mrs. Carson stared at him. "That's all?"
He smiled at her. "That's all there is to it, Sis. You're low-field now."
Mrs. Carson was blushing as the blood returned to her skin with the end of her fear. "Oh, Jord!" Suddenly she hugged her brother, and the look of happiness on Jord Veritt's face took years off his age.
Watching Jord hug his sister, Zeth found for the first time that he believed what Abel Veritt had told him today. He was flooded with compassion for Jord, for Abel, for all the people struggling so desperately against what nature had done to them.
Uel Whelan gave Zeth a strange look, and came to the boy's side as Hope Carson turned from her brother to her mother, holding out her arms. Zeth watched, knowing what
Mrs. Carson did not know—what he had been part of the conspiracy to keep her from knowing.
This morning I was so proud, wanting to be all grown up. And this is what it means, knowing things that hurt–
"Zeth," Uel Whelan said gently, "I'm sorry I scolded you—I forgot completely what day this was for you. I'll take you home now. Rimon would never forgive me if I didn't relieve him so he can come check on Abel and Marji for himself. I wonder if anyone rode over to Farris to tell them?"
Someone had, and Zeth's father was chafing at his own rule that there would always be at least one channel at Farris.
Thus Zeth received no more than a perfunctory examination from his father, and a hug from his mother, before they both galloped off into the twilight.
No light showed under the door of the room he now shared with Owen. It-was too early to be sleeping, so Owen must not be there. But when he opened the door, he saw Owen at the window, silhouetted against the darkening sky. The older boy didn't move, and that in itself told Zeth there was something wrong.
Zeth came to his side, saying, "Owen—what's the matter? Haven't you heard the good news? There's another channel, Owen!"
Owen sniffed, and rubbed his hand against his eyes. In a voice thick with forced-back tears, he said, "Oh, fine! Another channel for me to hurt! They're gonna send me away, Zeth. They're gonna make me cross the border, and I didn't do anything!"
"What happened?"
"My donation. Jord was in need, and—Zeth, I didn't mean it!"
'You gave him transfer?" Zeth asked in an awed whisper.
"No! I didn't even try—but they'll never believe me!"
"Owen—Jord didn't attack you?!"
"Of course not. He's a channel. But he—he wanted me. How can I help feeling sympathy?" Owen stood and paced away. "I was holding back. lord's not... flexible, like Uel. I was trying not to feel anything, but then he—"
"What?"
Even in the dim light Zeth could see the tears on Owen's cheeks. "For a moment I felt something—it was so great– and I thought, maybe I'm the one who can help Jord–and then he pushed me away and collapsed! Shenned himself.
Zeth, your dad thinks I tried to seduce Jord to transfer. But I didn't!"
"I know you didn't," said Zeth. "Anyway, you didn't hurt Jord. He was just fine this evening."
"Sure, once they got transfer into him. He had one of his attacks—voiding selyn. He almost died, Zeth."
"So that's what was going on here! But Jord's all right, Owen. You'd have sworn it was Dad, the way he handled Mrs. Carson."
"Mrs. Carson? What was the matter with her?"
Realizing Owen was thinking of Tom Carson's wife, Zeth said, 'No, Hope Carson—Abel Venn's daughter!" And he told Owen the whole story. "Didn't you hear?"
"I've been up here all day. I just didn't want to face your dad. He's going to send me away, Zeth."
"It wasn't your fault," Zeth repeated helplessly.
"Maybe it was. Maybe I can't help it any more than a Sime can. You don't know what it's like not to be able to help a Sime in need! The 'need to give,' your mother calls it. The Simes say that's gibberish, that Gens don't feel anything but sympathy, but they're wrong. You'll see—if you're Gen."
"I'll be Sime," said Zeth, more positive than ever. The certainty was always strongest when he was around Owen, as if his friend's quintessential Gen-ness called to some opposing polarity in Zeth.
"Yes," said Owen glumly. "You'll be a channel, and you'll drive me crazy, too." He put his hand on Zeth's shoulder. "Zeth—promise me, when you're a channel—let me give you transfer!"
"I can't promise that, Owen. You know what my dad says—I might kill you!"
Zeth felt Owen's hand tighten, then very deliberately release him. Forcing calm, Owen said, "If not you, somebody. You found out today, didn't you? All the older Simes need direct Gen transfer every so often ... so they can go longer between kills. Let me do that. Zeth! Promise me! I can stand to wait if I know I'm going to have a chance at—something real."
A strange feeling stirred in the pit of Zeth's stomach at the idea of Owen giving transfer to someone who—He shoved the thought aside, and said, "Owen, we can't see what the channels see." As Owen pulled sullenly away, Zeth said, "Wait—this I will promise: when I'm a channel, I'll study
you. If there's any way you can give transfer, safely, I'll find it."
Owen sighed. "Thanks, Zeth. I know you would. . . but I'll be on the other side of the border before you change over.''
"No you won't! Nobody can force you to leave."
"If I hurt people by staying here– Do you know what I've been thinking? Wild ideas. I could go into town and . . . and seduce someone into transfer. Prove I could do it!"
"Are you crazy? If you didn't panic and get killed, you'd end up with a dagger between your ribs."
"Not from Slina, I wouldn't," Owen said thoughtfully.
"No, Owen!"
"Why not? She respects us. She sends her little girl to school here. Next time she's in need—"
"Do you want her to be like Mr. Veritt? Or Jord? Or your own pa? Do you deliberately want to hurt Slina?"
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"She raises Gens 'cause someone has to. I used to wonder how Slina could know us, and send Mona here, and still go on raising Gens for the kill. And kill every month herself. It has to be a choice she's made never to know, never to experience transfer without killing. Maybe you think that's a coward's choice, but maybe you just can't understand it. Maybe Gens can never—"
"Stop it!" cried Owen, sinking onto his bunk. "Zeth– what's happened to you? You sound like your dad. Yes, I understand! I won't seduce Slina, or anyone else . . . not to have them go through what Pa does. But that means ... if your dad tells me to leave, I've got to go." •
"He won't. What's it been—four months? It takes some Gens a year to learn everything a Companion can do. And you've been busy just getting well. Dad will understand." It was full dark by now. Zeth lit the lamp, saying, "I guess we better get to bed. But I'm hungry."
"Me, too," said Owen. "I haven't eaten since breakfast."
They went downstairs, past the room where Uel Whelan sat with his feet propped up, reading a book from the small collection kept at Farris. The community's real library, Abel Veritt's pride, was at the Fort. "What are you boys up to?" Uel asked.
"We're just gonna get something to eat," said Zeth.
Uel looked up. "I'm sorry, Zeth. You missed supper at the
Veritts'. Hank puts his foot down when I forget he has to eat."
"Did you eat today?" Owen asked suspiciously.