Part 40 (2/2)

”No.” She drew a breath; released it. ”They told me that you're a s.a.d.i.s.t; that you like to hurt people.”

”Is that the worst they told you?” He leaned toward her.

”Yes,” she said. He wondered if she were telling the truth. Even he had overheard the stories they told about him and Rhani. His own hands were shaking.

He touched the ground, seeking stability. Gra.s.s stems curled around his wrists.

She flinched back.

”Don't be afraid,” he said. ”Please don't be afraid.”

”How can I help it?”

”Say my name.”

”Zed.”

His hands curled like claws in the dirt. She still sounded like Rhani.

”You look like my sister, do you know that?” he said.

Darien said, ”I saw a holo of her.”

”You don't agree?”

”I don't see it.”

”Wait till you meet her.” He glanced at the house. ”Your hair's redder than hers, and your eyes are brown. Hers are the color of topaz. But they're the same shape.” Darien rubbed her chin. A lock of hair, like a copper coil, fell across her cheek. You _don't_ look like her, he thought. You look like what she was, at a time when you were huddling with your family in the snow of an Enchanter winter, when the future seemed as promising as a ripening fruit on a nearby tree, when I was fifteen.

He had wanted to touch her from the first moment he'd seen her. The impulse was frightening. Her jumpsuit was green, glittering with silver reflective threads; it made him think of seasons that Chabad did not have, it made her seem new, virginal.... He did not dare touch her. In that soft, husky voice, she said, ”Why did you buy me?” They faced each other like distorted mirror images, under the shadows of the bitter-pear.

She spoke in Rhani's voice. Zed answered her truthfully. ”I had to.”

”Because I look like your sister?” He nodded. ”Then why ask me questions?

It doesn't matter who I am. Put me back on dorazine; I'll be anything you want me to be.”

”No!” said Zed, with such intensity that Darien flinched away. ”Oh, don't,” he said, and reached with desperate, tense care to touch her cheek.

”That _isn't_ what I need.”

”What do you need?”

He could not tell her. He could not say: I need you to love me and not be afraid of me. He could not say: I need you to help me destroy nineteen years of careful conditioning. All his barriers were coming apart. He was frightened. He should not have talked to Yianni. ”If I had wanted a doll, I could have had one made,” he said. She tossed her hair back, in a gesture that had been Rhani's, when Rhani was seventeen. The uncanny resemblance made his heart leap in his chest. ”I don't understand,” she said.

”Don't try,” said Zed. He stood, and held out a hand to help her to her feet. ”Let's go back to the house,” he said.

”Whatever you wish,” she said quietly. Ignoring his hand, she stood, brus.h.i.+ng bits of gra.s.s from her jumpsuit.

It crossed his mind that it was uncanny, almost frightening, how quickly she had adapted to him, almost as if she had been made for him. Somewhere inside me is a romantic fool trying to get out, he thought, I can hear him screaming.

It's just an accident that she looks and sounds -- and moves, a little -- the way Rhani did. It must be an accident. Nothing in nature accounts for it.

Timidly she touched his right arm. ”Do you want me to be your companion?”

It was as good a word as any. ”You might think of it that way.”

She persisted. ”Is that my work?”

”Does that trouble you?”

”It's not my skill,” she said. ”I'm a computer tech.”

”I'm sure my sister can make use of your skill. She may need a computer tech. She's going to be training a new secretary.”

”Why?” Darien asked. Zed explained briefly. She rubbed her chin. ”I have some experience as a secretary.”

”Perhaps Rhani will want you to take the job on temporarily.”

”I'd like that.”

She faced him, in the kitchen. The house machinery sighed. She touched her upper left arm. ”What about this?” she said.

”Even if I wanted to,” Zed said, ”I couldn't free you. I don't own slaves.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. ”I'll try,” she said, shaking back the hair that fell loose and glowing like a sunset down her back. Zed couldn't tell if she spoke to herself or to him.

”Thank you,” he said. ”I'm going to my room now. It's the third door from the end on the left upstairs. I'll see you later, Darien.” It was the first time he'd said her name. She smiled at him.

He went back to his bedroom. Never had it seemed more of a refuge. He put his palms flat against the cold gla.s.s of the terrace door. There were religions on the Living Worlds, but none thrived on Chabad, and though Zed had heard of several of them, he shared none of their beliefs. But he wished, with the vehemence of prayer, for patience with which to circ.u.mvent the danger in his own reactions.

She's such an innocent, he thought. I don't want to hurt her. He flexed his fingers. His left hand stung. Let me not hurt her. Let her trust my good will and not be disappointed.

Let her want _me_.

He ate a meal alone, in his room. Immeld, still obviously furious at him (probably for cutting Cara off), brought it to him. He looked idly through his booktapes, remembering Darien's questions about the estate and Orrin Yago. He was amused to find among them an old tape of Nakamura's _History_. In the later afternoon, he went to the hangar to repair the bubble. During the flight he had noticed a flaw, a flicker-effect in the opaqueing machanism of the skin. He had a general idea what might be wrong but he was not an engineer. Still, it was something to work on.... He had to take the entire mechanism out of the craft and put it under a light on his workbench. It took him several hours to locate the weak spot on the microchip. He could not replace it himself; a new chip would have to be ordered from the Landingport, and that would take several days.

Oh, well. He put the craft back together. The hangar was cool but not cool enough; by the time he was finished, his s.h.i.+rt was off and he was streaming sweat. Darien was sitting on a sawhorse, watching him.

He had no idea how long she'd been there. ”I didn't hear you come in,” he said. He was not entirely pleased to see her. All afternoon the conviction had been burgeoning in him: Yago, you're crazy. He had almost decided to send her back.

She held out a towel. ”Here,” she said. ”You need it.” It was true: taking it from her, he scrubbed his face and hair until his eyes stopped stinging, and draped the cloth around his neck. She had brought him a pitcher of fruit drink. She filled a gla.s.s and handed it to him.

The drink was precisely to his taste, not too sweet.

”Have some,” he said.

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