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lenses. And build spaceships. As far as I can tell, it’s all they can do.”
    “And fight wars,” he said, but I didn’t take that up. “I’ll show you the camera, too. I won’t tell you what I paid for it, though—you’d think I was crazy.”
    I went through the cases, and Marius sat beside me, looking at things and asking diffident questions. He was obviously interested, but for some reason he seemed to be trying to conceal it. Why?
    At last I drew out the long shape of the sword. And as I touched it, I felt the familiar mixture of revulsion and pleasure.
    All the time I’d been off Darkover, it had been dead. Dormant. Hidden between blade and hilt of the heirloom sword, the proximity of the strong matrix made me tremble. Off-world it was an inert crystal. Now it was alive, with a strange, living warmth.
    Most matrices are harmless. Bits of metal, or crystal, car stone, which respond to the psychokinetic wave lengths of thought, transforming them into energy. In the ordinary matrix mechanic—and in spite of what the Terrans think, matrix mechanics is just a science, which anybody can learn—this psychokinetic ability is developed independent of telepathy. Though telepaths are better at it, especially on the higher levels.
    But the Sharra matrix was keyed into the telepathic centers, and into the whole nervous system; body and brain.
    It was dangerous to handle. Matrices of this kind were traditionally concealed in a weapon of some sort. Sharra’s matrix was the most fearful weapon ever devised. It was reasonable to hide it in a sword. A lithium bomb would have been better. Preferably one that would explode and destroy matrix and all . and me with it.
    Marius was gazing down at me, with a set, horror-stricken face. He was shaking.
    “Sharra’s matrix!” he whispered between stiff lips. “Why, Lew? Why?”
    I turned on him, and demanded hoarsely, “How do you know—”
    He had never been told. Our father had agreed to keep it from him. I got up, suspicion surging over me, but before I could complete the question, a burp from the intercom interrupted. Marius reached past me to grab it; listened, then held out the receiver and vacated his seat for me. “Official, Lew,” he said in an undertone.
    “Department three,” said a crisp, bored voice, when I identified myself.
    “Zandru!” I muttered. “Already? No—excuse me—go ahead.”
    “Official notification,” said the bored voice. “A statement of intention to murder, in fair fight, has been filed with this office against Lewis Alton-Kennard-Montray-Alton. Declared murderer is identified as Robert Raymon Kadarin, address unregistered. Notification has been legally given; kindly accept and acknowledge the notice, or file a legally acceptable reason for refusal.”
    I swallowed hard. “Acknowledged,” I said at last, and put down the receiver, sweating. The boy came and sat beside me. “What’s wrong, Lew?”
    My head hurt, and I rubbed it with my good hand.
    “I just got an intent-to-murder.”
    “Hell,” said Marius, “already? Who from?”
    “Nobody you know.” My scar twitched. Kadarin—leader of the rebels of Sharra; once my friend, now my sworn, implacable foe. He hadn’t lost any time in inviting me to settle our old quarrel. I wondered if he even knew I’d lost my hand. Tardily it occurred to me—as if it were something happening to someone else—that this would have been a legally admissible reason for refusing. I tried to reassure the staring boy.
    “Take it easy, Marius. I’m not afraid of Kadarin, in fair fight. He never was any good with a sword. He—”
    “Kadarin!” he stammered. “But, but Bob promised—”
    “Bob!” Abruptly my fingers bit his arm. “How do you know Kadarin?”
    “I want to explain, Lew. I’m not—”
    “You’ll do a lot of explaining,. brother,” I said curtly. And then someone started to hammer purposefully on the door.
    “Don’t open it!” said Marius urgently.
    But I crossed the