“No, listen—the Terrans found us, speaking languages long dead on Terra itself; but we were a primitive world, which had lost its technology, or so they thought. They gave us Closed World status, so that we would not be disturbed by too-rapid social upheavals—they do that with all primitive societies, so that they can evolve at their own rate. Then they found out that we were not so primitive a planet after all, and they found out about our laran, our matrix technology. They found that the linked minds in the Tower circles could mine metals, power aircraft, all those other things—well, they wanted matrix technology, and they tried all sorts of things to get some of it.”
“Regis, I know all that, but—”
“Will you listen? You know as well as I; some Darkovans wanted, and still want, the advantages of Terran technology, a place in the Empire, status for Darkover as a colony with political strength, representation in the Empire Senate—all those things. Others, especially in the Comyn, felt that Empire citizenship would destroy our world and our people. That we’d become just another colony like a dozen others, dependent on Terran trade, offworld metals and luxuries, tourists— They’ve had their way so far. I can see that there will have to be changes on Darkover. But I want them to come at a rate we can assimilate.”
“And I don’t want them to come at all,” Danilo said.
“Who would? But the Terrans are here, like it or not. And I will not be accused of trying to keep our people primitives, barbarians, so that my family and I can maintain our superstitious powers over them!”
He had spoken more forcefully than he realized, forgetting where they were. A languid voice said, “Bravo! The Heir to Hastur has come of age and learned that Terrans are a reality, not a crew of bogeymen to frighten little children!”
Regis started. He had forgotten they were not alone. He turned to see a tall thin man, fair-haired, with the stamp of the Comyn on his angular features; elegantly dressed in foppish Darkovan clothing, but with rich alien furs adorning his cloak. Regis bowed, his face set in rigid politeness.
“Cousin,” he acknowledged. “I did not see you, Lerrys.”
“Nor I you, DomRegis,” said Lerrys Ridenow, “but when you shout so loudly that the Terrans in their Headquarters could hear you across the city, why should I pretend I did not hear? I am glad to know that you understand the situation. I hope this means there will be another advocate for sanity in the Council this year, and that the Ridenow need not stand alone against that doddering conclave of maiden ladies of either sex!”
Regis said stiffly, “Please don’t believe that I am altogether in agreement with you, DomLerrys. I do not like to think of the kind of social upheavals there would be, if we became just another Terran colony—”
“But we areanother Terran colony,” Lerrys said. “And the sooner we recognize it, the better. Social upheavals? Bah! Our people want the good things Terran citizenship will bring them, and they would accept the rest, once they were confronted with an accomplished fact. They simply haven’t enough education to know what they want, and the Hasturs, and the worthy lords of the Comyn, have made sure they won’t have it!” He half-rose. “Must we shout this from table to table? Will you not join us, cousin—and your friend as well?” He used the intimate inflection of the word, with its implications, and Regis, flicked raw, glanced at Danilo, half-wishing the other would refuse; but there was no reasonable cause for denial. Lerrys was Comyn and his kinsman. There was no reason for his distaste.
Only, perhaps, that we have more in common than I could wish. He flaunts abroad what I must, for the sake of my grandfather, keep discreetly within bounds. I envy him, perhaps, that he is a younger son of a minor Comyn house, that he is not always in the public eye. Everything he does, does not immediately become public property for gossip or censure.
They took a seat at Lerrys’s table and accepted a fresh round of drinks, which neither of them wanted. After another round or two, he thought, he would make some excuse, then he and Danilo would go somewhere and dine; Early Quarters had been some time ago. Soon there would be the sound of Night Quarters from the Guard Hall and he could invent an engagement somewhere. The places he chose to dine would be too tame for Lerrys and his elegant hangers-on; most of them, he could see, were Darkovan, but they wore elaborate Terran clothing; not the functional uniform of the spaceports, but brilliant and colorful things from the far corners of the Empire.
Lerrys, pouring the wine he had ordered, went on, taking up the conversation he had interrupted, “After all, we areTerrans; we deserve all the privileges of our heritage. Everyone in the Domains could benefit from Terran medicine and science—not to mention education! I happen to know you can read and write, Regis, but you must admit you are a happy exception. How many, even of the cadets, can do more than scribble their names and spell their way through the arms manual?”
“I think they have enough education for what they must do in the world,” said Regis. “Why should they burden themselves with idle nonsense, which is what most written matter turns out to be? There are enough idle scholars in the world— and in the Empire, for that matter.”
“And if they are uneducated,” Lerrys said with a sardonic smile, “it is easier to keep them in superstitious bondage to the Comyn, fabulous tales about the God-given rulership of the Hasturs, kinfolk to the Gods—”
“Certainly I would agree with you that there is no excuse for that kind of mental slavery,” said Regis. “If you heard what I was saying before, you would hear that I was protesting against that sort of tyranny. But you cannot say that we are Terrans and no more.” He reached across the table; took Lerrys’s hand and laid his own palm-to-palm with it, counting the six fingers; then touched the small leather bag at his throat, where the matrix stone rested; a small warmth, a pulse…
“The powers of the Comyn are real.”
“Oh— laran,” said Lerrys with a shrug. “Even some of the Terrans who come among us have developed it; it, too, is part of our Terran heritage, and we can teach them something of this, too… Why should it be limited to the Comyn? In return we will have their sciences; knowledge of weather control, which would be like a blessing from the Gods in some of the country across the Hellers; the Dry-town desert, perhaps, reclaimed for agriculture, and some of the impassable mountains across the Wall Around the World, brought into contact with the Domains; astronomy, star-travel—and in return, laranand knowledge all through the Galaxy—”
“That could be dangerous, too dangerous to spread indiscriminately through the Empire,” said one of Lerrys’s young companions diffidently. “Were you there when Caer Donn burned, Lerrys?”
“I was,” Regis said, and looked sharply at the young stranger. “I know you. Rakhal—Rafe—”
“Rakhal Darriell-Scott, z’par servu,” said the young man. “They call me Rafe Scott, in the Terran Zone. I saw then what laranuncontrolled can do—and hope never to see it again!”
“No fear of that,” Lerrys said. “The Sharra matrix was destroyed. As far as we know, that was the only one of those old matrixes from the Ages of Chaos left on our world. Besides, if there are such things, we should learn how to control and use them, not hide like banshee-birds in the sunlight, and pretend they do not exist. Believe me, the Terrans are no more anxious than you to see laranout of control that way.”
“And, no matter what happens, there will always be those who can use laranand those who cannot,” said another youngster. There was something familiar about him, too; Regis thought he was probably one of Rafe Scott’s kinsmen. He was not eager to remember that time at Castle Aldaran, and the frightful time when Sharra had raged and ravened in the hills across the river. He and Danilo, escaping from Aldaran, had come near to dying in those hills—