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of living under primitive or barbarian conditions and hierarchies and monarchies and autarchies; and they petition to come into the Empire. And we’re here to enforce plebiscites and protect them against entrenched tyrannies. It’s almost a mathematical formula; you can predict the thing. A class-D world like this will hold out maybe a hundred, hundred and ten years. But Darkover isn’t following the pattern, and we don’t quite know why.”
    He struck his clenched fist on his acres of desk. “They say we just don’t have a damned thing they want. Oh, they trade with us, sometimes; give us silver, or platinum, or jewels, or small matrix crystals— youknow what they are?—for things like cameras and medical supplies and cheap down or syntheticmountain gear, ice axes, that sort of thing. Metal tools, especially; they’re metal-starved. But they don’thave the faintest interest in setting up industrial or technological exchange with us, they haven’t asked fortechnological experts or advice, they don’t have anything resembling a commercial system…”
    Kerwin remembered some of this from his briefing on the ship. “Are you talking about the government orthe common people?”
    “Both,” the Legate snorted. “The government’s a little hard to locate. At first we thought there wasn’t
    any. Hell, there might as well   not   be!”
    The Darkovans, according to the Legate, were ruled by a caste who lived in virtual seclusion; they wereincorruptible and, especially, unapproachable. A mystery, a riddle.
    “One of the few things they do trade for, is   horses   ,” the Legate told him. “Horses. Can you figure that? We offer them planes, surface transit, roadbuilding machinery—and what do they buy? Horses. I gather there are big herds of them, out on the outer steppes, the plains of Valeron and Arilinn, and in the uplands of the Kilghard Hills. They say they don’t want to build roads, and from what I know of the terrain, it wouldn’t be easy, but we’ve offered them all kinds of technical help and they don’t want it. They buy a few planes, now and then. God knows what they do with them. They don’t have airstrips and they don’t buy enough fuel, but they do buy them.” He leaned his chin on his hands.
    “It’s a crazy place. I never have figured it out. To tell the truth, I don’t really give a damn. Who knows?
    Maybe you’ll figure it out some day.”

    When he next had free time, late the next day, Kerwin went out through the more respectable section ofthe Trade City, toward the Spacemen’s Orphanage. He remembered every step of the way. It rosebefore him, a white cool building, strange and alien as it had always been among the trees, set back at theend of a long walk from the street; the Terran star-and-rocket emblem blazed over the door. The outerhall was empty, but through an open door he saw a small group of boys working industriously around aglobe. From behind the building he could hear the high cheery sound of children playing.
    In the big office that had been the terror of his childhood, Kerwin waited until a lady dressed respectablyin muted Darkovan clothing—loose skirt, furred jacket over all—came out and inquired in a friendlymanner what she could do for him.

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    When he told her of his errand, she held out her hand cordially. “So you were one of our boys? I thinkyou must have been before my time. Your name is—?”
    “Jefferson Andrew Kerwin, Junior.”
    Her forehead ridged in a polite effort at concentration. “I may possibly have seen the name in Records, Idon’t remember offhand. I think you must have been before my time. When did you leave? At thirteen? Oh, that is unusual. Mostly our boys stay until they are nineteen or twenty; then, after testing, we findthem work here.”
    “I was sent to my father’s family on Earth.”
    “Then we will surely have records on you, Jeff. If your parents are known— ” She hesitated. ”Of course, we try to