A World Divided (27 page)

“The nights up there are about seven days long, and the people there just shut down all their work until the sun comes up again and melts off the ice. I tell you, that babe and I just crawled inside that fur blanket and never put our noses outside ...”

Kerwin applied himself to his drink, losing the thread of the story—not that it mattered, for Ellers’s stories were all alike anyhow. A man sitting at one of the tables alone, over a half-emptied goblet, looked up, met Kerwin’s eyes, and suddenly got up—so quickly that he upset his chair. He started to come toward the table where they were sitting; then he saw Ellers, whose back had been turned to him, stopped short and took a step backward, seeming both confused and surprised. But at that moment Ellers, reaching a lull in his story, looked round and grinned.

“Ragan, you old so-and-so! Might have known I’d find you in here! How long has it been, anyhow? Come and have a drink!”

Ragan hesitated, and it seemed to Kerwin that he flicked an uneasy glance in his direction.

“Ah, come on,” Ellers urged. “Want you to meet a pal of mine. Jeff Kerwin.”

Ragan came and sat down. Kerwin couldn’t make out what the man was. He was small and slight, with a lithe sunburnt look, the look of an outdoor man, and callused hands; he might have been an undersized mountain Darkovan, or an Earthman wearing Darkovan clothes, though he wore the ubiquitous climbing jacket and calf-high boots. But he spoke Terran Standard as well as either of the Earthmen, asking Ellers about the trip out, and when the second round of drinks came, he insisted on paying for them. But he kept looking at Kerwin sidewise, when he thought he wouldn’t be noticed.

Kerwin demanded at last: “All right, what is it? You acted as if it was me you recognized, before Ellers called you over—”

“Right. I didn’t know Ellers was in yet,” Ragan said, “but then I saw him with you, and saw you wearing—” He gestured at Kerwin’s Terran outfit. “So I knew you couldn’t be who I thought you were. I
don’t
know you, do I?” he added, with a puzzled frown.

“I don’t think so,” Kerwin said, sizing the man up, and wondering if he could have been one of the kids from the Spaceman’s Orphanage. It was impossible to tell, after—how long? Ten or twelve years, Terran reckoning; he’d forgotten the conversion factors for the Darkovan year. Even if they’d been childhood friends, that amount of time would have wiped it out. And he didn’t remember anyone named Ragan, although that didn’t mean anything.

“But you’re not Terran, are you,” Ragan inquired.

The memory of a clerk’s sneer—
one of those
—rushed through Kerwin’s mind; but he shoved it aside. “My father was. I was born here, brought up in the Spaceman’s Orphanage. I left pretty young, though.”

“That must be it,” Ragan said. “I spent a few years there. I do liaison work for the Trade City when they have to hire Darkovans: guides, mountaineers, that kind of thing. Organize caravans into the mountains, into the other Trade cities, whatever.”

Kerwin was still trying to decide whether the man had a recognizably Darkovan accent. He finally asked him. “Are you Darkovan?”

Ragan shrugged. The bitterness in his voice was really appalling. “Who knows? For that matter, who cares?”

He lifted his glass and drank. Kerwin followed suit, sensing that he would be drunk fairly soon; he never was much of a drinker and the Darkovan liquor, which of course as a child he had never tasted, was strong stuff. It didn’t seem to matter. Ragan was staring again and that didn’t seem to matter either.

Kerwin thought,
Maybe we’re a lot the same. My mother was probably Darkovan; if she’d been Terran, there’d have been records. She could have been anything. My father was in the Space Service; that’s the one thing I know for sure. But apart from that, who and what am I? And how did he come to have a halfbreed son?

“At least he cared enough to get Empire citizenship for you,” Ragan said bitterly, and Jeff stared, not realizing that he had actually been saying all this aloud. “Mine didn’t even care that much!”

“But you’ve got red hair,” Jeff said and wondered why he had said it, but Ragan seemed not to hear, staring into his glass, and Ellers interrupted, with an air of injury:

“Listen, you two, this is supposed to be a celebration! Drink up!”

Ragan leaned his chin in his hands, staring across the table at Kerwin. “So you came here, at least partly, to try and locate your parents—your people?”

“To find out something about them,” Kerwin amended.

“Had it ever occurred to you that you might be better off not knowing?”

It had. He’d been all the way through that and out the other side. “I don’t care if my mother was one of those girls,” he said, nodding toward the women who were coming and going, fetching drinks, stopping to chaff with the men, exchanging jokes and innuendos. “I want to
know
about it.”

“But aren’t there records at the orphanage?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look,” Kerwin said. “That’s the first place to go, anyhow. I don’t know how much they can tell me. But it’s a good place to start.”

Kerwin fumbled, with fingers made clumsy by drink, at the copper chain that had been around his neck as long as he could remember. He said, “Only this. They told me, in the orphanage, that it was around my neck when I came there.”

“Oh, nuts,” interrupted Ellers rudely. “The long-lost talisman! So you’ll show it to them and they’ll recognize that you’re the long-lost son and heir to the Lord High Muckety-Muck in his castle, and you’ll live happily ever after!” He made an indescribable sound of derision. Kerwin felt angry color flooding his face. If Ellers really believed that rubbish. ...

“Can I have a look at it?” Ragan asked, holding out his hand.

Kerwin slipped the chain off his neck; but when Ragan would have taken it, he cradled it in his palm; it had always made him nervous for anyone else to touch it. He had never wanted to ask them, in Psych, just why. They probably would have had a pat and ready answer, something slimy about his subconscious mind.

The chain was of copper, a valuable metal on Darkover. But the blue stone itself had always seemed unremarkable to him; a cheap trinket, something a poor girl might treasure; not even carved, just a pretty blue crystal, a bit of glass.

But Ragan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at it, and he gave a low whistle. “By the wolf of Alar! You know what this is, Kerwin?”

Kerwin shrugged. “Some semiprecious stone from the Hellers, I suppose. I’m no geologist.”

“It’s a matrix jewel,” Ragan said, and at Kerwin’s blank stare, elaborated, “a psychokinetic crystal.”

“I”m lost,” Ellers said, and stretched out his hand to take the small gem. Quickly, protectively, Kerwin closed his hand over it, and Ragan raised his eyebrows.

“Keyed?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kerwin said, “only I somehow don’t like people touching it. Silly, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” Ragan said, and suddenly seemed to make up his mind.

“I have one,” he said. “Nothing like that size; a little one, the kind they sell in the markets for suitcase locks and children’s toys. One like yours—well, they don’t just lie around in the street, you know; it’s probably worth a small fortune, and if it was ever monitored on any of the main banks, it won’t be hard to tell who it belonged to. But even the little ones like mine—” He took a small wrapped roll of leather out of an inside pocket and carefully unrolled the leather. A tiny blue crystal rolled out.

“They’re like that,” he said. “Maybe they have a low-level form of life, no one has ever figured out. Anyway, they’re definitely one-man jewels; seal a lock with one of them, and nothing will ever open it except your own
intention
to open it.”

“Are you saying they’re magic?” Ellers demanded angrily.

“Hell, no. They register your brainwaves and their distinct EEG patterns, or something like that; like a fingerprint. So somehow you are the only person who can open that lock; a great way to protect your private papers. That’s what I use this one for. Oh, I can do a few tricks with it.”

Kerwin stared at the small blue jewel in Ragan’s palm. It was smaller than his own, but the same distinctive color. He repeated it slowly: “Matrix jewel.”

Ellers, sobering briefly, stared at Kerwin and said, “Yeah. The big secret of Darkover. The Terrans have been trying to beg, borrow, or steal some of the secrets of matrix technology for generations. There was a big war fought here about that, twelve, twenty years ago—I don’t remember, long before my time. Oh, the Darkovans bring little ones into the Trade City, like Ragan’s there, and sell them; trade them off for drugs, or metals, usually daggers, or small tools, or camera lenses. Somehow, they transform energy without fission by-products. But they’re so small; we keep hearing rumors of big ones. Bigger ones even than yours, Jeff. But no Darkovan will talk about them. Hey,” he said, grinning, “maybe you
are
the lost heir to the Lord High Muckety-Muck in his castle after all! It’s for sure no bar girl would be wearing a thing like that!”

Kerwin cradled the thing in his hand, but he did not look at it. It made his eyes blur with a strange dizzy sickness. He tucked it inside his shirt again. He did not like the way Ragan was staring at him. Somehow it
reminded
him of something.

Ragan shoved his own small crystal—it was no longer than the bead a woman might braid at the end of a long tress—toward Kerwin. He said, “Can you look into it?”

Someone had said that to him before. At some time someone had said,
Look into the matrix.
A woman’s voice, low.
Or
had she said
, Do not look into the matrix.... His head hurt. Pettishly he pushed the stone away. Ragan’s eyebrows went up again in appraisal. “That much, huh? Can you use yours?”

“Use it? How? I don’t know
one damn thing
about it,” he said rudely. Ragan shrugged; he said, “I can only do tricks with mine. Watch.”

He up-ended the rough green-glass goblet to drink the last few drops from it, then turned it bottom-up and laid the tiny blue crystal on the foot of the goblet. His face took on an intent, concentrated stare; abruptly there was a small eye-hurting flash, a sizzling sound, and the rigid stem of goblet melted, sagged sidewise, slid into a puddle of green glass. Ellers gasped and swore. Kerwin passed his hand over his eyes; the goblet sat there, bowed down with the wilted stem. There was a Terran artist, he remembered from a course in art history, who had painted things like fur teacups and limp watches. History had judged him a lunatic, rather than a genius. The goblet, stem lolling to one side, looked just as surrealistic as his work.

“Could I do that? Could anybody?”

“With one the size of yours, you could do a hell of a lot more,” Ragan said, “if you knew how to use it. I don’t know how they work; but if you concentrate on them, they can move small objects, produce intense heat, or—well, other things. It doesn’t take much training to play around with the ones this size.”

Kerwin touched the lump at his chest. He said, “Then it isn’t just a trinket.”

“Hell, no. It’s worth a small fortune—maybe a big one; I’m no judge. I’m surprised they didn’t take it away from you before you left Darkover, considering how hard the Terrans have been trying to get hold of some of the larger ones, to experiment with them and test their limits.”

Another of those dim memories surfaced. Drugged, on the Big Ship that had taken him to Terra, a stewardess or attendant of some sort fumbling with the jewel; waking, screaming, nightmares. He had thought it a side-effect of the drugs. He said somberly, “I think maybe they tried.”

“I’m sure the authorities at the HQ would give a lot to have one that size to play around with,” Ragan said. “You might consider turning it over to them; they’d probably give you anything you wanted for it, within reason. You might be able to get a really good assignment out of them.”

Kerwin grinned. He said, “since I feel like hell whenever I take it off, that would present—some difficulties.”

“You mean you never take it off?” Ellers demanded drunkenly. “That must present some troubles. You don’t take it off even in the bath?”

Kerwin said, with a chuckle, “Oh, I
can
. I don’t like to; I feel—oh, I don’t know,
weird
—when I take it off. Or leave it off for any amount of time.” He had always berated himself for being superstitious, irrational, compulsive, treating the thing as a fetish.

Ragan shook his head. “Like I say, they’re a strange kind of thing. They—hell, this makes no sense, but it
happens
: I don’t know how it works, I just know it does; maybe they
are
a low form of life. See, they
attach
themselves to you; you can’t just walk away and leave them behind, and nobody I heard of ever lost one. I know a man who kept losing his keys until he got one of these to tag on his keyring, and whenever he left it behind, believe me, he
knew
where it was.”

That, Kerwin thought, explained a lot. Including a child, screaming as if he were half his age, when a Terran no-nonsense matron deprived him of his “lucky charm.” They had had to give it back to him in the end. He wondered, with a shiver, what would have happened if they had
not
. He didn’t think he wanted to know. He touched the hidden jewel again, shaking his head, remembering his childish sureness that this held the key to his hidden past, to his identity and the identity of his mother, to his obscured memories and half-forgotten dreams.