The Sword of Aldones Read Online Free PDF Page A

planet.
    “Darkover, for instance,” he argued. “A planet still in early feudal culture, trying to reconcile itself to the impact of the Terran empire—”
    I lost interest. It was amazing, how many Terrans still thought of Darkover as a feudal or barbarian planet. Simply because we retain, not resistance, but indifference to Terran imports of machinery and weapons; because we prefer to ride horses and mules, as an ordinary thing, rather than spend our time in building roads. And because Darkover, bound by the ancient Compact, wants to take no chance of a return to the days of war and mass murder with coward’s weapons. That is the law on all planets of the Darkovan League, and all civilized worlds outside. Who would kill, must come within reach of death. They could talk disparagingly of the code duello, and the feudal system. I’d heard it all, on Terra. But isn’t it more civilized to kill your personal enemy at hand-grips, with sword or knife, than to slay a thousand strangers at a safe distance?
    The people of Darkover have held out, better than most, against the glamor of the Terran Empire. I’ve been on other planets, and I’ve seen what happened to most worlds when the Earthmen come in with the lure of a civilization that spans the stars. They don’t subdue new worlds by force of arms. The Earthman can afford to sit back and wait until the native culture simply collapses under their impact. They wait till the planet begs to be taken into the Empire. And sooner or later the planet does—and becomes one more link in the vast, overcentralized monstrosity swallowing world after world.
    It hadn’t happened here, not yet.
    A man near the front of the cabin rose and made his way toward me; without permission, he swung himself into the empty seat at my side.
    “Comyn?” But it wasn’t a question.
    The man was tall and sparely built; mountain Darkovan, Cahuenga from the Hellers. His stare dwelt, an instant past politeness, on the scars and the empty sleeve; then he nodded.
    “I thought so,” he said. “You were the boy who was mixed up in that Sharra business.”
    I felt the blood rise in my face. I had spent six years forgetting the Sharra rebellion—and Marjorie Scott. I would bear the scars forever. Who the hell was this man, to remind me?
    “Whatever I was,” I said curtly, “I am not, now. And I don’t remember you.”
    “And you an Alton!” he mocked lightly.
    “In spite of all scare stories,” I said, “Altons don’t go around casually reading minds. In the first place, it’s hard work. In the second place, most people’s minds are too full of muck. And in the third place,” I added, “we just don’t give a damn.”
    He laughed. “I didn’t expect you to recognize me,” he said. “You were drugged and delirious when I saw you last. I told your father that hand would have to come off eventually. I’m sorry I was right about it.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “I’m Dyan Ardais.”
    Now I remembered him, after a fashion, a mountain lord from the far fastnesses of the Hellers. There had never been any love lost, even in the Comyn, between the Altons and the men of the Ardais.
    “You travel alone? Where is your father, young Alton?”
    “My father died on Vainwal,” I said shortly.
    His voice was a purr. “Then welcome, Comyn Alton!” The ceremonial title was a shock as he spoke it. He glanced at the square of paling window.
    “We’re coining in to Thendara. Will you travel with me?”
    “I expect to be met.” I didn’t, but I had no wish to prolong this chance acquaintance. Dyan bowed, unruffled. “We shall meet in Council,” he said, and added, with lazy elegance, “Oh, and guard your belongings well, Comyn Alton.
    There are doubtless, some who would like to recover the Sharra matrix.”
    He spun round and walked away and I sat slack, in shock. Damn! Had he picked my mind as I sat there? How else had he known? The dirty Cahuenga! Still doped with procalamin as I