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He was thinking of the Darkovan girl in the bar, the one he had rebuffed so unexpectedly—and sostrangely. She had been warm and lissome, and she was clean, and what more could a man want for awelcome home? Why had he sent her away—and sent her away like
 
that
 
?

He felt strangely restless, at loose ends. Home? A home meant more than a familiar sky and starsoverhead. A home meant people. He had had a home on Earth, if that was what he wanted. No, hethought soberly; his grandparents had never wanted him, only a second chance to remake his father intheir own image. In space? Ellers, perhaps, was the closest friend he had, and what was Johnny Ellers? Abum of the spaceports, a planet-hopper. Kerwin felt the sudden hunger for roots, a home, for a peopleand a world he had never known. Never been allowed to know. The words he had said, self-deriding, to Ellers, came back to his mind:
 
I had hoped it was the amulet that would prove I was the long-lostson and heir
 
…

Yes; he knew it now, that was the dream that had lured him back to Darkover, the fantasy that he wouldfind a place where he belonged. Otherwise, why should he have left the last world? He’d liked it there;there had been plenty of fights, plenty of women, plenty of easygoing companionship, plenty of rough andready adventure. But all the time, driving him, there had been that relentless compulsion to get back to Darkover; it had caused him to turn down what he knew, now, had been a sure route to advancement;and further, to kill off any hope of serious promotion.

And now that he was back, now that he had seen the four moons and the swift dark of his dreams,would all the rest be anticlimax? Would he find that his mother was just such another spaceport wench as

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the one who had rubbed up against him tonight, eager to take home some of the plentiful spaceport pay? If so, he didn’t admire his father’s taste. His father? He had heard a lot about his father, in those seven years he’d stuck it out with his grandparents, and the picture he’d gotten from them wasn’t quite like that. His father, he assumed, had been a fastidious man. But that was only, perhaps, how he had seemed to his grandmother… Well, at least he had cared enough to get Empire citizenship for his son.

Well, he’d do what he’d come here to do. He would try to trace his mother, and decide why his fatherhad abandoned him in the spaceport orphanage and how and where he had died. And then?
 
What then
 
? The question nagged him—what would he do then?

I will fly that hawk when his pinions are grown
, Kerwin said to himself, realizing afterward that hehad spoken the Darkovan proverb without thinking about it.

The nocturnal mist had condensed now, and a thin cold rain was beginning to fall. It had been so warmduring the day that Kerwin had almost forgotten how swiftly daytime warmth, at this season, was blottedout in sleety rain and snow. Already there were little needles of ice in the rain. He shivered and walkedfaster.

Somehow he had taken a wrong turning; he had expected to come out into the square fronting on thespaceport. He was on an open square, but it was not the right one. Along one edge there was a line oflittle cafes and cookshops, taverns and restaurants. There were Terrans there, so it was certainly not offlimits to spaceport personnel—he knew that some of them were, he had been carefully briefed aboutthat—but horses were tethered outside, so there was a Darkovan clientele also. He walked along outsidethem, picked one that smelled richly of Darkovan food, and walked inside at random. The smell made hismouth water. Food; that was what he needed, good solid food, not the tasteless synthetics of thestarship. In the dim lights faces were all a blur, and he didn’t look for any of the men from the
 
Southern Crown
 
.

He sat down at the corner table and ordered, and when the food came, he sank his teeth into it withpleasure. Not far away a couple of Darkovans, rather better dressed than most, were idling over theirfood. They wore gaily colored cloaks and high boots, jeweled belts with knives stuck into them. One hada blazing red head of hair, which made Kerwin raise his eyebrows; the city Darkovans were a swarthylot, and his own red hair had made him an object of curiosity and stares when, as a child, he’d gone outinto the city. His father and grandparents, too, had dark hair and eyes, and he had blazed like a beaconamong them. In the orphanage they’d called him
 
Tallo
 
—copper; half in derision, half, he recognized itnow, in a kind of superstitious awe. And the Darkovan nurses and matrons had been at such pains tosuppress the nickname that even then it had surprised him. He had collected the notion somehow, thoughthe Darkovan nurses were forbidden to talk local superstitions to the children, that red hair was unlucky,or taboo.

If it was unlucky the redhead certainly didn’t seem to know about it or care.

On Earth, perhaps because red hair was really not all that uncommon, the memory of that superstitionhad dimmed. But maybe that explained Ragan’s early stare. If red hair was all that uncommon, obviouslyyou would assume, if you saw a red-haired man at a distance, that he was the man you knew, and besurprised when it turned out to be a stranger.

Though, come to think of it, Ragan’s own hair had a rusty dull-red look to it; he might have beenredheaded as a child. Kerwin thought again that the little man had looked familiar, and tried again toremember if there had been any redheads, other than himself, in the orphanage. Surely he had known acouple of them when he was very small…

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Maybe before I went to the orphanage. Maybe my mother was redheaded, or had some relativeswho were
… But try as he might, he could not uncover the blankness of the early years. Only a memoryof disturbing dreams…

A loudspeaker on the wall hiccupped loudly, and a metallic voice remarked, “Your attention please. Allspaceport personnel, your attention please.”

Kerwin lifted his eyebrows, staring at the loudspeaker with definite resentment. He’d come in here to getaway from things like that. Evidently some of the other patrons of the restaurant felt the same way; therewere a couple of derisive noises.

The metallic voice remarked, in Terran Standard, “Your attention please. All HQ personnel with planeson the field report immediately to Division B. All surface transit will be cancelled, repeat, will becancelled. The
 
Southern Crown
 
will skylift on schedule, repeat, on schedule. All surface aircraft on thefield must be moved without delay. Repeat, all HQ personnel with private surface aircraft on the field…”

The redheaded Darkovan Kerwin had noticed before said in an audible and malicious voice—and in the City dialect everyone understood—“How poor these Terrans must be, that they must disturb us all withthat squawking box up there instead of paying a few pennies to a flunkey to bring their messages.” Theword he used for “flunkey” was a particularly offensive one.

A uniformed spaceport official near the front of the restaurant stared angrily at the speaker, then thoughtbetter of it, settled his gold-lace cap on his head and tramped out into the rain. A blast of bitter cold blewinto the room—for he had started a small exodus—and the Darkovan nearest Kerwin said to hiscompanion, “
 
Esa so vhalle Terranan acqualle
…” and chuckled.

The other replied something even more insulting, his eyes lingering on Kerwin, and Kerwin realized thathe was the only Terran left in the room. He felt himself trembling. He had always been childishly sensitiveto insults. On Earth he had been an alien, a freak, a Darkovan; here on Darkover, suddenly, he felthimself a Terran; and the events of the day hadn’t been calculated to sweeten his disposition. But he onlyglared and remarked—to the empty table at his left, “The rain can only drown the mud-rabbit if he hasn’tthe wit to keep his mouth shut.”

One of the Darkovans—not the redhead—pushed his bench back and swung around, upsetting his drinkin the process. The thin crash of the metal goblet, and the bleat of the waiter, drew all eyes to them, and Kerwin edged out of his seat. Inside he was watching himself with dismay. Was he going to make
 
two
scenes, in
 
two
 
bars, and would this rip-rousing welcome to Darkover end up by getting him hauled off tothe local brig for being drunk and disorderly?

Then the man’s companion grabbed his elbow and said something urgent that Kerwin didn’t hear. Thefirst man’s eyes traveled slowly upward, rested on Kerwin’s head, now clearly illumined by a lamp in abracket over him, and he said with a little gulp, “No! I want no trouble with Comyn…”

Kerwin wondered what in the hell he was talking about. The would-be fighter looked at his companion,found no encouragement there; then he flung up his arm before his face, mumbled something that soundedlike “
 
Su serva, vai dom…
 
”, barged across the room, avoiding tables like a sleepwalker, and plungedout into the rain.

Kerwin realized that everybody left in the little restaurant was staring at him; but he managed to meet theeyes of the waiter long enough to drive him away. He sat down and picked up his cup, which contained

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the local equivalent of coffee—a caffeine-rich beverage tasting remotely like bitter chocolate—and

sipped. It was cold.

The remaining well-dressed Darkovan, the redheaded one, got up, came over, and slid into the emptyseat across from Kerwin.

“Who the hell are you?”

He spoke Terran Standard, to Jeff’s surprise; but he spoke it badly, forming each word with care.

Kerwin set his cup down wearily.

“Nobody you know, friend. Go away, will you?”

“No, I am serious,” the red-haired man said. “What is your name?”

And suddenly Kerwin was exasperated. What right did this chap have to come over and demand that hegive an account of himself?

“Evil-eye Fleegle, a very ancient god,” he said. “And I feel every millennium of it. Go away or I’ll put the

whammy on you like I did on your friend.”

The red-haired man grinned—a mocking, unfriendly grin. “He’s no friend of mine,” he said, “and it’sobvious you’re not what you seem; you were more surprised than anyone when he ran out of here. Obviously, he thought you were one of us.” He broke off and amended: “One of my relatives.”

Kerwin said politely, “What is this, Old Home Week? No, thank you. I come from a long line of Arcturian lizard-men.” He picked up the coffeelike stuff and buried his head in his mug again, felt theredhead’s puzzled gaze on the top of his head. Then the man turned away, muttering, “
 
Terranan”
in thattone that made the single word into a deadly insult.

Now that it was too late, Kerwin wished he had answered more politely. That was the second timetonight that someone had thought they recognized him. If he closely resembled someone in Thendara,wasn’t this what he had come here to find out? He had a tardy impulse to go after the man and demandan explanation. But the sure knowledge that this would only mean a new rebuff prevented him. Feelingfrustrated, he put some coins down on the bar, picked up the bundle from the spaceport shop—andwent out again.

By now the rain had become icy sleet; the stars were gone. It was dark and cold, with a howling wind,and he fought his way along, shivering in the thin uniform jacket. Why hadn’t he brought along somethingwarm to wear after dark? He knew what the weather was like here at night! Hell—he
 
had
 
somethingwarm with him. A little peculiar-looking, perhaps, but he could put it on till he got out of this wind. Withstiff fingers he fumbled with the bundle and got out the fur-lined, embroidered cloak. He settled it over hisshoulders with a shrug, feeling the supple warmth of the fur closing around him like a caress.

He turned into a side street and there was the open square fronting on the spaceport, the neon lights ofthe Sky Harbor Hotel facing it across from the gates. He should go into the HQ, get assigned to quarters;he hadn’t reported, he didn’t even know where he was going to sleep. He walked toward the gates;then, on impulse, turned back toward the hotel for a final drink and some time to think before going backinto the world of white walls and yellow lights. Maybe he would take a room here for the night.

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The clerk, busily sorting records, hardly glanced up at him.

“You go through there,” he said curtly, and returned to his book.

Kerwin, startled—had the Civil Service reserved accommodations here?—started to protest, thenshrugged and went through the indicated door.

And stopped, for he had stepped into a room prepared for a private party; a long table was laid in thecenter with some kind of buffet supper and there were flowers in tall crystal vases; at the far end of theroom a tall red-headed man in a long embroidered cape stood hesitantly looking at him—then Kerwinrealized that the black wall was a pane of glass opening on night, and darkness behind it made it a mirror;the cloaked Darkovan was himself. He looked as if he had never seen himself before; a big man, with redhair flattened from the rain, and a lonely and introspective face, the face of an adventurer who has forsome reason been cheated of adventure. The sight of his own face rising above the Darkovan cloakarrested him with a strange surge of—of memory? When had he seen himself dressed like this before? Or—or
 
someone else
 
?