They were in one such lull in the game when the curtained panels closing off the room swirled back and Valdir Alton came in followed by another man—a tall Darkovan, with copper hair sweeping back from a high stern forehead marked with two wings of white hair. He wore an embroidered cloak of a curious cut. The boys broke off in their game, and Kennard with a start of surprise, made the stranger a deep and formal bow. The newcomer glanced sharply at Larry, and, not wishing to seem rude, Larry repeated the gesture.
The man spoke some offhand phrase of polite acknowledgment, nodding pleasantly to both boys; but as his gray gaze crossed Larry’s, he started, narrowed his brows, then, turning his head to Valdir, said, “Terran?”
Valdir did not speak, but they looked at one another for a moment. The stranger nodded, crossed the room and stood in front of Larry. Slowly, as of compelled, Larry looked up at him, unable to draw his eyes away from his intense and compelling stare. He felt as if he were being weighed in the balance, sorted out, drawn out; as if the old man’s searching look went down beneath his borrowed clothes, down to the alien bones under his flesh, down to his deepest thoughts and memories. It was like being hypnotized. He found himself suddenly shivering, and then, suddenly, he could look away again, and the man was smiling down at him, and the strange gray eyes were kind.
He said to Valdir, speaking past the boys, “So this is why you brought me here, Valdir? Don’t worry I have sons of my own. Introduce me to your friend, Kennard.”
Kennard said “The lord Lorill Hastur, one of the Elders of the Council.”
Larry had heard the name from his father, spoken with exasperation but a certain degree of respect. He thought, I hope my being here doesn’t mean trouble, after all, and for a brief instant almost regretted coming; then let it pass. The tension in the room slackened indefinably. Valdir picked up one of the books Larry had brought Kennard, turning the pages with interest; Lorill Hastur came and looked over his shoulder, then turned away and began examining the darts. He drew back his arm and tossed one accurately into the target. Valdir put the book down and looked up at Larry.
“I was sure that you would be able to come today.”
“I wanted to. But I may not be able to come again,” Larry said.
Valdir’s eyes were narrowed, curious: “Too dangerous?”
“No,” said Larry, “that doesn’t bother me. It’s that my father would rather I didn’t.” He stopped; he didn’t want to discuss his father, or seem to complain about his father’s unreasonableness. That was something between his father and himself, not to be shared with outsiders. The conflict touched him again with sadness. He liked Kennard so much better than any of the friends he had made in Quarters, and yet this friendship must be given up almost before it had a chance to be explored. He took up one of the darts and turned it, end for end, in his hand; then flung it at the target board, missing his aim. Lorill Hastur turned and faced him again.
“How is it that you were willing to risk trouble and even punishment to come today, Larry?”
It did not occur to Larry to wonder—not until much later—how the Elder had known his name, or the inner conflict that had forced a choice on him. Just then it seemed natural that this old man with the searching eyes knew everything about him. But he still wasn’t ready to sound disloyal.
“I didn’t have a chance to make him understand. He would have realized why I had to come.”
“And breaking your word would have been an insult,” Lorill Hastur said gravely. “It is part of the code of a man to make his own choices.”
He smiled at the boys, and turned, without formal leave-taking. Valdir took a step to follow him, turned back to Larry.
“You are welcome here at any time.”
“Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to come again. Not that I wouldn’t like to.”