“Larry Montray.”
Kennard spoke a formal Darkovan phrase, inclining his head. Then, suddenly, he grinned.
“My father’s house is only a few steps away,” he said, “and I’m off duty for the night. You can’t possibly go back to the Terran Zone looking like that!” For the first time, he looked as young as he was, the formal soberness disappearing in boyish laughter. “You’d frighten your people out of their wits—and if your mother and father worry the way mine do it’s nothing to look forward to! Anyway, you’d better come home with me.”
Without waiting for Larry’s answer, he turned, motioning to his guards, and Larry, following without a word, felt a smothered excitement. What had looked like a nasty situation was turning into an adventure. Actually invited into a Darkovan house!
Kennard led the way to one of the high houses. A wide, low-walled garden surrounded it; there were flights of stone steps up which Kennard led Larry. He made some curious gesture and the door swung wide; he turned.
“Enter and welcome; come in peace, Terran.”
The moment seemed to demand a formal acknowledgment, but Larry could only say, “Thank you.” He stepped into the wide hall of a brightly-lit house, blinking in the brilliant entry-way, and looking around with curiosity and wonder.
Someone, somewhere, was playing on a stringed instrument that sounded like a harp. The floors under his feet were translucent stone; the walls were hung with bright thin panels of curtain. A tall, furry nonhuman with green intelligent eyes came forward and took Kennard’s cloak, and at a signal, took Larry’s torn jacket also.
“It’s my mother’s reception night, so we won’t bother her,” Kennard said, and, turning to the nonhuman, added, “Tell my father I have a guest upstairs.”
Larry followed Kennard up another long flight. Kennard flung open a dark door, hummed a low note, and the room was filled suddenly with bright light and warmth.
It was a pleasant room. There were low couches and chairs, a rack of knives and swords against the wall, a stuffed bird that looked like an eagle, a framed painting of a horse, and, on a small high table, something that looked like a chessboard or checkerboard with crystal pieces set up at each end. The room was luxurious, but for all that it was not tidy; various odds and ends of clothing were strewn here and there, and there was a table piled high with odd items Larry could not identify. Kennard threw open another door, and said, “Here. Your face is all blood, and your clothes are a mess. You’d better clean up a little, and you might as well put on some of my things for the time being.” He rummaged behind a panel, flung some curiously shaped garments at Larry. “Come back when you’re presentable.”
The room was a luxurious bathroom, done in tile of a dozen colors, set in geometric patterns. The fixtures were strange, but after a little experimenting, Larry found a hotwater faucet, and washed his face and hands. The warm water felt good on his bruised face, and he realized—looking into a long mirror—that between the gang-jostling and the fight, he had really been given quite a roughing up! He began to worry a little. What would his father say?
Well, he’d wanted to see Darkovan life close at hand, and he’d worry about getting home late, some other time! Dad would understand when he explained. He took off his torn and dirty clothes, and got into the soft wool trousers and the fur-lined jerkin which Kennard had lent him. He looked at himself in the mirror; why, except for his red hair, cut short, he might be any young Darkovan! Come to think of it, except for Kennard, he hadn’t seen any redhaired Darkovans. But there must be some!
When he came out, Kennard was lounging in one of the chairs, a small table drawn up before him with several steaming bowls of food on it. He motioned to Larry to sit down.
“I’m always starved when I come off duty. Here, have something to eat.” He hesitated, looking a little curiously at Larry as the other picked up the bowl and the long pick like a chopstick, then laughed. “Good, you can manage these. I wasn’t sure.”