“Get to work,” Cloen said.
“I’m going home,” Thorn said.
“You can’t. The door’s locked. The guard won’t let you.”
“Shut up, Cloen,” Betan said. “Thorn, do the work. Please. I’m asking.”
Thorn glared at Cloen. At Betan too. (But it was pleasant that they said please to him. No one did. It occurred to him that they had to worry what they would do if he grew recalcitrant; and that they had to fear him (even Betan) the way he had to fear Duun. And that was a pleasant thought.)
He cut off the tape, found his place in it again as the others drifted back to their places; and he did what Betan had asked until his ear hurt and his head ached.
But when they were leaving he contrived that Cloen should brush against him.
He sent Cloen against the foyer wall with a move of his arm. And stood there, in a shocked tableau of fellow-students and the guard outside the open door.
“I’m hatani. Lay a hand on me again and I’ll break it.”
Cloen’s ears were back. His jaw had dropped. He stood away from the wall and looked at Elanhen. “I never touched him!”
Thorn walked out. An escort always came to bring him home. Duun’s idea, Duun’s direction. Thorn swept a gesture at the man waiting for him outside and never looked back.
“Go to the gym,” Duun said when he came out of his office; and this was not habit, but Thorn went, and stopped and turned. Duun shoved at him.
“I think you hit me,” Duun said, with a darkness in his eyes; and sudden fear washed over Thorn like icewater. Thorn backed up. He had not hit Duun; and one thing came to him at once: that someone had been on the phone when he came in. “What should I do about it?” Duun asked. “Well, Haras-hatani?”
“I’m sorry, Duun.” Thorn sweated. (Gods, move on me! Come on!) His concentration shredded. He dared not back out now. And he had never faced Duun in temper; he had never looked to. (O gods, Duun, don’t kill me!)
“The knife, minnow. Lay it down. Do you hear me? I’m telling you-lay it down.”
Thorn went off-center, shifted his balance back with a lifting of his head. Stood there with his arms loose and a quaking in his knees. “That’s good.” Duun patted his cheek. “That’s very good.” (O gods, Duun, don’t!)
The clawtip traced a gentle path down to his jaw. “I want to talk to you.” The hand dropped to his arm and took it, hurling him staggering to the center of the floor. “Duun-hatani, I’m sorry!” “Sit down.”
He sat down on the fresh-raked sand. Duun came and hunkered down in front of him.
“Why are you sorry?” Duun asked. “Because of Cloen or for me?”
“You, Duun-hatani. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry. He-” “What did he do?”
“He hates me. He hates me, that’s all, and he’s subtle about it.”
“More subtle than you? Haras-hatani, I am confounded by his capacity.”
Heat rushed to Thorn’s face. He looked at the sand. “He tries to be subtle. Anything I do is wasted on him.”
“You’re different; just like Cloen with his baby-spots. And you suspect everyone’s noticing. And you want to make sure they respect you. Am I halfway right?”
“Yes, Duun-hatani.”
“You have a need, Haras. Do you know it? Can you say it to me?”
“Not to be different.”
“Louder.”
“Not to be different, Duun-hatani.”
“Was it reasonable, what you did?”
“He won’t despise me!”
“Is that so important? What do you own? What does a hatani own?”
“Nothing. Nothing, Duun.”
“Yet here we live in a fine place. We have enough to eat. We don’t have to hunt-”
“I’d rather hunt.”
“So would I. But why are we here? We’re here because of what we are. You own nothing. You have no self-interest. If this Cloen should ask you to remove him from a difficulty you would do it. He would have no right to dictate how you did it; or when or where-but Cloen is your charge. The world is your charge, Haras-hatani. Do you know-you can walk the roads and go from house to house and no one will refuse you food or drink or a place to sleep. And when someone comes to you with a thing and says: help me-do you know what to warn him: Do you know, Haras-hatani? Do you know what a hatani will tell him?