humans as individuals. The nonhuman races—I’m no expert on them, but I suspect they have never tried to get in touch with the Empire for the same reason they don’t have much contact with humans on Darkover. Their goals and wishes and so forth are so completely different that there’s no point of contact; they don’t want any and they don’t have any.”
Page 41
“You mean even Darkovans have no contact with nonhumans?”
“I wouldn’t say no contact. There’s some small amount of trade with the trailmen—they’re what you might call half-human or subhuman, and they live in the trees in the forests. They trade with the mountain people for drugs, small tools, metal and the like. They’re harmless enough unless you frighten them. The catmen—they’re a race something like the cralmacs , the furred servants at Armida. Cralmacs aren’t very intelligent; feline rather than simian, but they do have culture of a sort, and some of them are telepathic. Their level is about that of a moron, or a chimpanzee who suddenly acquired a tribal culture. A genius among the cralmacs might learn a dozen words of a human language but I never heard of one learning to read; I suspect the Empire people gave them pretty wide benefit of the doubt in classifying them as I.B.’s.”
“We tend to do that. We don’t want later squawks that we treated a potential intelligent race as higher
animals.”
“I know. Cralmacs are listed as real or potential I.B.’s and let alone. The catmen, I suspect, are a hell of a lot more intelligent; I know they use metal tools. Fortunately I’ve never been close to them; they hate men and they’ll attack when they feel safe in doing it. I’ve heard that they have a very elaborate feudal culture with the most incredible tangle of codes governing face-saving behavior. The Dry-towners believe that some of the elements of their own culture came from cultural interchange with the catmen millennia ago, but an I.B. xenthropologist could tell you more about that.”
“Just how many races of I.B.’s are there on Darkover anyway?” Barron asked.
“God only knows, and I’m not being funny. Certainly no Terran knows. Maybe a few of the Comyn know, but they’re not telling. Or the chieri ; they’re another of the nearly human races, but they’re as far above humans, most people think, as the cralmacs are below ’em. It’s for sure no Terran knows, though; and I’ve had more opportunity than most.”
Barron hardly heard the last sentence for a minute, in his interest in the nonhumans, then suddenly itpenetrated. “ You’re a Terran?”
“At your service. My name is Larry Montray; they call me Lerrys because it’s easier for a Darkovan to
pronounce, that’s all.”
Barron felt suddenly angry and irked. “And you let me make a fool of myself trying to speak Darkovanto you?”
“I offered to interpret,” Larry said. “At the time I was under a pledge to Valdir, never to mention that I
was a Terran—not to anyone.”
“And you’re his ward? His foster son? How’d that happen?”
“It’s a long story,” Larry said. “Some other time, maybe. In brief, his son, Kennard, is being schooled on Terra with my family, and I’m living here with his people.” He scrambled to his feet. “Look, Gwynn’s looking for us; I think we ought to get on. We want to reach the fire tower before nightfall tomorrow, if we can—the rangers there are due to be relieved—and it’s still a long way into those hills.”
It gave Barron plenty to think about, as they rode on, but his thoughts kept coming back, with aninsistence he could not understand—it was as if some secret watcher, far back in his mind, kept dwelling
Page 42
on that point almost with frenzy.
A Terran could pass as a Darkovan. A Terran could pass as a Darkovan. A Darkovan could passhimself off as a Terran. A Terran could pass as a Darkovan.
Page 41
“You mean even Darkovans have no contact with nonhumans?”
“I wouldn’t say no contact. There’s some small amount of trade with the trailmen—they’re what you might call half-human or subhuman, and they live in the trees in the forests. They trade with the mountain people for drugs, small tools, metal and the like. They’re harmless enough unless you frighten them. The catmen—they’re a race something like the cralmacs , the furred servants at Armida. Cralmacs aren’t very intelligent; feline rather than simian, but they do have culture of a sort, and some of them are telepathic. Their level is about that of a moron, or a chimpanzee who suddenly acquired a tribal culture. A genius among the cralmacs might learn a dozen words of a human language but I never heard of one learning to read; I suspect the Empire people gave them pretty wide benefit of the doubt in classifying them as I.B.’s.”
“We tend to do that. We don’t want later squawks that we treated a potential intelligent race as higher
animals.”
“I know. Cralmacs are listed as real or potential I.B.’s and let alone. The catmen, I suspect, are a hell of a lot more intelligent; I know they use metal tools. Fortunately I’ve never been close to them; they hate men and they’ll attack when they feel safe in doing it. I’ve heard that they have a very elaborate feudal culture with the most incredible tangle of codes governing face-saving behavior. The Dry-towners believe that some of the elements of their own culture came from cultural interchange with the catmen millennia ago, but an I.B. xenthropologist could tell you more about that.”
“Just how many races of I.B.’s are there on Darkover anyway?” Barron asked.
“God only knows, and I’m not being funny. Certainly no Terran knows. Maybe a few of the Comyn know, but they’re not telling. Or the chieri ; they’re another of the nearly human races, but they’re as far above humans, most people think, as the cralmacs are below ’em. It’s for sure no Terran knows, though; and I’ve had more opportunity than most.”
Barron hardly heard the last sentence for a minute, in his interest in the nonhumans, then suddenly itpenetrated. “ You’re a Terran?”
“At your service. My name is Larry Montray; they call me Lerrys because it’s easier for a Darkovan to
pronounce, that’s all.”
Barron felt suddenly angry and irked. “And you let me make a fool of myself trying to speak Darkovanto you?”
“I offered to interpret,” Larry said. “At the time I was under a pledge to Valdir, never to mention that I
was a Terran—not to anyone.”
“And you’re his ward? His foster son? How’d that happen?”
“It’s a long story,” Larry said. “Some other time, maybe. In brief, his son, Kennard, is being schooled on Terra with my family, and I’m living here with his people.” He scrambled to his feet. “Look, Gwynn’s looking for us; I think we ought to get on. We want to reach the fire tower before nightfall tomorrow, if we can—the rangers there are due to be relieved—and it’s still a long way into those hills.”
It gave Barron plenty to think about, as they rode on, but his thoughts kept coming back, with aninsistence he could not understand—it was as if some secret watcher, far back in his mind, kept dwelling
Page 42
on that point almost with frenzy.
A Terran could pass as a Darkovan. A Terran could pass as a Darkovan. A Darkovan could passhimself off as a Terran. A Terran could pass as a Darkovan.
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