As he came down the main street, Kilgarin saw a woman with a cat sitting in the doorway of a prefab apartment building. The cat was on her lap and the woman was trying to force its mouth open and feed it a tab of concentrates. The cat was resisting, frantically pawing at the woman’s wrist with a declawed pad and hissing through the corners of its lips, a sound rumbling in its chest that bristled the small hairs at the nape of Kilgarin’s neck. The cat had been Reformed. Its eyes were hooded by thick looming brows, its chest bulging with tufts of black hair and raised ribs, its back straightened to a humanoid line. To accomplish this the spinal column had been fused and the legs broken and reset in an upright position. However, whoever had done the Reforming had neglected to reshape the cat’s ankles; they were now at the wrong angle for the legs, effectively crippling the animal. The woman had dressed the cat in a bright yellow waistcoat and short red knickers; a red hat sat on the cat’s lumpy brow, tied under the chin with a yellow braid. Kilgarin paused under a streetlamp and watched the woman and her pet. She persisted in force-feeding the cat until finally the animal howled and squirmed free. It sprang to the street and stumbled forward a few steps on its unbalanced hind legs, and then dropped to its forepaws, scrambled a foot or two more, finally collapsing on its back in the gutter, mechanically stroking the air with its useless, twisted limbs. The woman said something Kilgarin couldn’t hear, scooped up the cat, and slapped it twice. The cat whimpered. It was a sound Kilgarin had thought only dogs could make, and hearing it come from the cat did something to the pit of his stomach. He walked briskly away, trying to wipe out the image of the girl with the cat dangling limply from her hand, and the implications that echoed in his mind.

  The pneumatic tissues of the tavern tent fluttered like batwings in the evening air. Kilgarin ducked through the doorway and strolled down an alley littered with food and liquor stalls on either side. Overhead the roof rose and fell silently, settling as he paused at one gaily curtained stall, filled a plate with steaming meat and a mug with cold beer, paid a little man with loose, rubbery jowls, and found himself a seat at the end of a table running lengthwise down the center of the cluttered, cavernous room. There was little wind inside the tent, and the tavern was hot and thick with humidity. The lanterns placed at six-meter intervals did little to relieve the darkness, so at each table several candles had been set to bum on worn plastic plates. Kilgarin pushed his candle aside and worked on his meat and brew.

  He could feel the stares of the Physicals sitting a few meters down the table. They obviously recognized the blue dress colors of a mindship Cork, and Kilgarin knew they were all wondering what a Sensitive was doing in an all-Physical tavern. He wondered himself. Perhaps, he thought, he just needed to be away for a while; the silent pressures of the Sensitive District were beginning to unnerve him just a bit, and here, in the main port area, where emotions were less sharply developed, he could relax the psychic barriers all Sensitives were forced to erect in their own company. Perhaps. As he thought it, the released tension ebbed out of him, like the physical draining he experienced before falling asleep. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, suddenly conscious of the hardness of the wood under his elbows, the heat on his neck, the pressure of one leg crossed over the other. Every physical sensation crystallized into focus: the nearby sound of spoons against bowls, the clatter of plates on wood, the undercurrent of voices—all of it seemed to jump at him, as though he’d removed cotton from his ears and could suddenly hear unimpeded. He sighed, pushed away from the table, and walked back to the stalls for another beer.

  The attendant at the stall watched Kilgarin fill his mug, wait for the foam to subside, then fill it a bit more. Kilgarin nodded at him politely as the man took his chit. The card slid back out of the stall’s electric eye and was still warm as Kilgarin returned it to his pocket under the attendant’s intent gaze. “Something wrong?” Kilgarin asked finally, taking a sip of his beer.

  The attendant looked startled. “Oh. No, nothing…You’re a Sensitive, aren’t you, friend?”

  “They pay you for questions?”

  “No, just for my eyes. The questions are my idea. They keep things from getting dull. You are a Sensitive, aren’t you?”

  Kilgarin shrugged. “What if 1 am?”

  The man shifted his weight on the stool and inched forward. “Have to keep it all moving,” be said as the Cork relaxed against the stall wall. “You don’t find many friends on a port world.”

  “No,” said Kilgarin, “I suppose you don’t.”

  “Take that fellow, for instance,” the young man said, indicating a short crewman passing them. “I spent half an hour with him yesterday, talking, even stood him a drink. Half an hour. I was interested, that’s all, just trying to make conversation. I thought he was from Centauri, or maybe even from earth, and I wanted to find out what they were like. Just interested. He took me for a half hour and a drink. Then when somebody else comes up to the stall—it was getting into the dinner hour—he just walks away. Like that. What do you do? The drink 1 don’t mind. But the time…you spend it, just trying to keep things moving…” He broke off and resumed his smile. Kilgarin met it with one of his own. “I mean, what can you do?” the attendant said, helplessly.

  “I don’t know,” Kilgarin said. He held up his stein and raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “Drink?”

  The young man grinned and shook his head. “I’ll get my own.” He did, and settled back, downing half his beer with a long pull. “I’m not supposed to,” he said, “I’m on duty. But what the hell, you know?”

  Kilgarin laughed. “You just try to keep things moving.” The attendant blinked at him and nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess you do.”

  A short way into the District the streets became cobbled again. Kilgarin and the attendant from the tavern tent (who’d introduced himself as Raymond Velacorte after he’d shared Kilgarin’s third stein) walked together in the gutter, taking alternate swigs from the bottle of Endrim Pernod and water that Raymond had supplied. It wasn’t the best absinthe Kilgarin had ever tried, but it served the purpose—which was to provide them with something to drink while they talked. The latter was provided by Raymond, who was eager to gain Kilgarin’s friendship—a not uncommon desire expressed by many Physicals toward Sensitives; in a way, it made a weak Physical feel more important to associate with a Sensitive—and though Kilgarin didn’t think of Raymond as weak, he recognized the motivation and accepted it. The young man had a seemingly endless capacity for monologue. Kilgarin didn’t mind. When the time came for him to talk, be would talk. Until then, he listened.

  Raymond was a big man, a heavy man, but his heaviness wasn’t the product of strength: his flesh rounded his waist and crowded his armpits, and his walk was slow and awkward. From time to time he would nudge into Kilgarin when his balance faltered, which was every second step. At one point Kilgarin had to grab him to keep the Physical from stumbling over the curb. Each time the young man laughed, nervously. He’d become accustomed to his clumsiness, he said; it no longer bothered him. Kilgarin soon realized that there were other things that did.

  “Sorry,” Raymond said. He braced himself and stepped away from Kilgarin’s helping hand. “I’ve been like this for years. Can’t understand it. Almost kept me off the ships, but once I had that Contract—well, I suppose it did keep me off, in the end. No renewals for Raymond. No, no. Endrim’s not so bad though, don’t you think? How long are you Down this time, you know yet?”

  “For good,” Kilgarin said. “I’ve had it, all that bouncing around.”

  “What bouncing around? It’s not so bad. You get to see things, wench it up a bit. You know how it is.” He accepted the bottle, gulped at it, and belched. “Nobody makes you do anything, not really. Machines do all that. Hell, most of the time you’re asleep. All the time in drive, sometimes, you sleep. What’s so bad about that?”

  “You sleep, Raymond. That’s what Physicals are for. You just dream and love and hate, and clean up the halls and work in the hydroponics, and lead your lives like any normal man or woman. I don’t suppose it’s such a bad life, but it wasn’t my life. Do you know how close I came to going insane this last trip out, Raymond? That close. I still don’t know how I survived. Two of the people I was involved with, didn’t. A third, a Communications man who was only my friend, not even a part of the disaster—he cracked up, snapped because he was close to me. Don’t make the mistake of thinking everyone has it like a Physical. Some of us fight for our lives.”

  The young Physical was silent, letting the bottle swing at his side as he walked. Then: “Kilgarin, I’m sorry. I realty am. I must .be. a . terrible ass,…clumsy, mouther}‘too, I-guess. I forgot about what you were. I never met a Cork before, you know that. I’m sorry.”

  “No trauma,” Kilgarin said. “Forget it.”

  “No, I’m really sorry.”

  “So am I.” Kilgarin took the bottle, uncorked it “When did you first hit Endrim, Raymond?”

  “A year ago. Maybe two.”

  “Always at that tavern?”

  “Just this past month.” He stumbled against a lamppost, caught himself. “Stupid. Things like that keep me out, job after job. You don’t Contract for crawler jobs, you know. Things are really tight down here, specially for Physicals. There’s no room at the plants, ail the jobs are taken by off-worlders—you’ve got me why. A girl I had a few nights back was telling me she worked three shifts at once, figuring she’d manage to hold one job at least if the others fell through—that and sleeping every john who had the credit. Not a very optimistic girl, but practical. She had herself a nice place in the District and she kept it clean. You can’t really ask for more, if you’re a Physical. No crawler ever gets a pension or walking time, or anything else—” He stopped speaking. Kilgarin glanced around at the sound of a muffled cry.

  Raymond had halted and was hugging the belly of a streetlamp, the light running over his shoulders and pants in rivulets of electric blue. Kilgarin saw that the young man was shuddering, his chest heaving. Not knowing precisely what was wrong, and not wanting to touch the other man’s mind to find out, Kilgarin could only touch Raymond’s shoulder and supply a moment of pressure to transmit his concern.

  “Sorry,” Raymond said, in a soft voice that for an instant reminded Kilgarin of Marka. Abruptly Raymond shook his head, “No, I’m not sorry, really. There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was just the thought that you could go back to the ships and wouldn’t, and that I…well, it was a silly thought, and I guess I am sorry, after all.”

  He straightened and palmed his cheeks as Kilgarin backed away. The Cork didn’t want to meet the young man’s eyes; he’d just received an emotional blast stronger than anything he’d felt since leaving the Drowner. There was anguish there, and self-pity, and fear and hate and confusion—all of it momentary, returning to the subconscious where Kilgarin hoped it would remain. He disliked having his mind invaded.

  Raymond drew himself together and stepped into the light of the streetlamp. “Kilgarin—are you all right? You look odd.”

  “I feel odd,” Kilgarin said. He started to drink from the bottle and realized it was empty. They crossed the street to a small store where an old man in a stained and wrinkled undershirt sold them another decanter. Back on the street, they continued in the direction of Kilgarin’s town house.

  “I had a family once,” Raymond said. “Brothers and sisters. On earth I would have been an only child, because I was the oldest We were lucky in a way, but my father didn’t think so. The colonies aren’t the best worlds to raise children on, but you weren’t allowed more than one child on the civilized planets, and mother wanted quite a few. My father told me that after she died. She was the one who wanted us, he told me, and he was the one stuck with us. I think he loved us, though. My brothers said no. Neither of them could understand him, but I could. So could my sister. It’s funny, but I think I was the only one he could never really care for. Too clumsy, you know? More than I am now. He couldn’t accept that.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was a laborer on one of the community farms. What else could you do on a colony world? He told me once that in the ancient days on earth you had only two ways to escape from the peasant, laborer life: you could become a priest or a thief. There was something else, about squires for knights, but I never understood any of that.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Kilgarin said. They climbed the steps of a two-story building with a stone porch, stretched their legs out, and looked east toward the rainbow lights of the tavern bazaar. The stars over the tents and lighted alleys were opaqued by the city glow. Most of the eastern horizon was in pitch blackness, the night sky obliterated by the lights of the city and the port. The western sky over the plant area and the nearer Districts, was brilliant and undulled, cloudless and stark with the richness of the galactic Arm. Endrim’s atmosphere acted like a lens on clear nights like this, Kilgarin thought, bringing it all into focus and shattering the night into vividness. From the porthole of a ship the stars would seem one dimensional and flat; the exhilaration of a night sky was something experienced only by planet-bound creatures. Those who’d been there knew the truth.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Kilgarin said, “It is.”

  “Do you have any family, Kilgarin? People you’ve left behind?”

  “Left behind? Sure. A family? Not really. Six years can do odd things to certain bonds.”

  “You think so? You’re probably right. You have any sisters?^

  “A brother. My mother and father died three, maybe four years back. He was a Sensitive too, my father, but he never used it. I think it burned him out from inside.”

  Raymond unwound his arms, grunting as the kink slipped in his shoulders and neck. “Burned out? How do you mean?”

  “You cant let your Sensitivity sit. It’ll rot you. Like wine, or anything that ferments if you bottle it up. When you finally tap it, there’s an explosion. Anything that was once there is expelled”—he unfisted his hands—“and lost.”

  “You make it sound pretty frightening.”

  “It is.”

  “What about your brother? Is he a Sensitive too?”

  Kilgarin set the bottle down carefully on the steps beside him. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” He shrugged. “It’s not a dominant gene. Fifty-fifty; maybe I used it up for the family. We hadn’t noticed anything by the time I left. Marc was still too young for anyone to tell. It’s connected with puberty, except in freak cases. Something about hormone distribution. The planet you come from counts too; whether it has a high electromagnetic field. The stronger the field, the weaker your Sensitivity. Wellington’s field was pretty weak. I suppose Marc could have it” He took a sip of the wine and returned the bottle to the stoop. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From what I hear, he’s on Endrim, looking for me. Tomorrow I suppose 111 go search for him in the communes, send him packing back to Wellington. I don’t have anything to offer him here. What good would a boy be in a brothel?” Kilgarin laughed. “It will be good to see him, though. I don’t really know him anymore; I’ve been sending him credits since our parents died, but that’s the only contact I’ve had with him in years…” His voice trailed off. He looked down at the bottle.

  “How’d you get in, Kilgarin? I mean, get a Contract?”

  “Easily enough. You can sign on at eighteen. I took a year’s training, and from there”—he spread his hands—“I moved up, rung by rung. It’s not hard, if you tend toward the suicidal.”

  ’Training, hey? They don’t train Physicals, so what—?”

  Kilgarin smiled. Raymond’s attempt to change the subject was painfully transparent—as transparent as Kilgarin’s dislike for talk about his family must have been.

  “You think a Sensitive can just bounce into a ship’s crew?” he asked. “You have to work, my friend. It’s not like being a Physical. You have to train, because if you don’t you can’t last a week. You’re a dead man. There’re a lot of broken Corks around as proof, men who never learned to break away, to stand outside. Have you ever been in the District before?”

  “A couple of times. I can’t remember. I was probably drunk.”

  “Must’ve been fun for the crowd around you. Drunk normals blast like a damned foghorn.”

  “Blast?” Raymond blinked at him, eyes glistening from the light on the building above them.

  “Don’t worry about the semantics. Call it broadcasting your emotions. Have you ever really looked at the Sensitives in the District, Raymond?”

  “How do you mean, look?”

  “Their faces.”

  “Oh, sure. You know, I never mean to stare or anything, but—”

  “But you could see it, couldn’t you? There’s something shattered inside them, and it’s echoed in their voices, in the way they speak, and it’s sculptured on their faces and their bands. You have to watch the hands of a Sensitive, Raymond. His hands will tell you things his thoughts and words never can.”

  As Kilgarin spoke Raymond took his bottle from his lips and stared at it, as though the absinthe bad become suddenly sour. He placed it on the stoop beside his feet and closed his eyes, leaning his head back and twisting it from side to side. “I’ve got a muscle wrong in my neck,” he muttered. He glanced at Kilgarin. His eyes were in shadow, and his voice was soft—like Marka’s—as he said, “What’s wrong with you, Kilgarin? You’ve been a Cork a long time. Why aren’t you like the others, the broken . ones?”

  The Cork smiled bitterly, a self-mocking tug at his lips.

  “I got out before it worked on me,” he said. “Bonus Contracts or no, I wasn’t going to spend another term on that ship. I’ve no desire to break myself, if I can help it.” He rapped his hands together, rubbed them on his knees. “And I can, Ray. Believe me, I can.”

  “How do you now when you’ve had enough, Kilgarin?” Raymond asked. Both men were speaking quietly; realizing this, Kilgarin laughed.

 

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