 CHAPTER XII After the first moment of panic Bart realized Montano could not tell him from a lorry. He remained motionless. It's me, Montano—Bart Steele. The man lowered the weapon and put it away. You nearly got yourself cut down, he said. Did you make it all right?" He crossed behind Bart, inspecting the fastenings of the bunker. It's just luck I didn't shoot you first and ask questions afterward. Montano drew a deep breath and sat down on the concrete floor. Anyway, we're safe in here. We've got about half an hour before the radiation will reach lethal intensity. It has a very short half-life, though—only about twelve minutes. If we spend an hour in here, we'll be safe enough. Did you have any trouble putting the radiation counter out of commission? So in half an hour they would all be dead. Ring? Rugal? Captain Varongo? Two dozen lorry, all dead, so that Montano could have a lorry shipped to play with. And what then? More killing? More murder? Would Montano start killing every one who tried to get the secret of the drive from him? The lorry had the star drive. Maybe it belonged to them. Maybe not. Maybe humans had a right to have it, too. But this wasn't the right way. Maybe they didn't deserve it. He turned to look at Montano. The man was leaning back, whistling softly through his teeth. He felt like telling Montano that he couldn't go through with it. He started to speak. Then stopped, his blood icing over. If I try to argue with him, I'll never get out of here alive. It means too much to him. Do I just salve my conscience with that, then? Sit here and let them die? With a shock of remembrance it came to Bart that he had a weapon. He was armed, this time, with the Energon beam that was part of his uniform. Montano had evidently forgotten it. Could he kill Montano? Even to save two dozen lorry? He reached hesitantly toward the beam gun, quickly thumbed the catch down to the lowest point, which was simple shock. He froze, as Montano looked in his direction, hand out of sight under his cloak. How many lorry on board? Twenty-three and three Mentorians. Any one apt to be behind shielding, say, in the drive chamber? No, I think they're all outside." Montano nodded, idly. Then we won't have to worry. Bart slipped his hand toward his weapon. Montano saw the movement, cocked his head in question, then, as understanding flashed over his face, his hand darted to his own gun. But Bart had pressed the charge of his, and Montano slumped over without a cry. He looked so limp that Bart gasped. Was he dead? Hastily he fumbled the lax hand for a pulse. After a long, endless moment he saw Montano's chest twitch, and knew the man was breathing. Well, Montano would be safe here in the bunker. Hastily Bart looked at his timepiece, half an hour before the radiation was lethal. For the lorry. Was it all ready for him? Shakily he unfastened the door. He ran out into the glare, seeing as he ran that his badge was tinged with an ever-darkening gold, orange. Montano had said there was a safety margin. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe all Bart would accomplish would be his own death. He ran back along the line of bunkers, his heart pounding with his racing feet. Two crewmen came along the line. Young, white-crested lorry from the other watch. He gasped, where is the captain? Down that way. What's wrong, Bart, all? But Bart was gone, his muscles aching with the unaccustomed effort inside gravity. Putting on speed he saw the tall austere shape of Vorongil. His band did cloak dark against the glaring light. Vorongil turned, startled, at the sound of his running feet. Suddenly Bart realized that he was still holding his ennegon ray. In shock and revulsion he dropped it at Vorongil's feet. Captain, go warn the men! They'll all be dead in half an hour. There are lethal radiations. What? Are you sun-struck? Bart stopped cold. Never once had it crossed his mind what he would say to Vorongil, or how he would make the captain believe his story without revealing Montano. He started to hold up his badge, realized the lorry captain could not see the colour, and dropped it again, while Vorongil bent over to pick up the fallen gun. Are you sun-struck or mad, Bart, all? What's this babble? Captain, everybody on the swift wing, and speak lorry, Vorongil demanded, and Bart realized that in his excitement he had been shouting in universal. He drew a long, deep breath. Captain, there are lethal radiations being released here, he said. You have just barely half an hour to gather all the men and get them behind shielding. The radiation counter is out of order, Vorongil remarked, unruffled. How can you possibly know? Bart stood in despair. Could he say a ship has landed here? Could he say check that bunker? Even if Montano was a would-be murderer, he was human, and Bart could not betray him to the lorry. There had been too much betrayal. His voice rose in sudden hysteria. Captain, there's no time. I tell you, you'll all be dead if you don't believe me. Get the men into the ship, get them behind shielding, and then check my story. I'm not—' He'd gone this far. He might as well go the whole way. I'm not a lorry. What? One of the crewmen came dashing up, his crest sweat-street. Captain, Rugal has collapsed. We don't know what's wrong with him. Radiation sickness, said Bart, and Vorongil reached out, catching his shoulder in a cruel, tallened grip. Bart said desperately, I'm not a lorry. I signed on in disguise. I knew they meant to take the ship, but I can't let you all die. How can I make you believe me? Here! In desperation Bart reached up. Payne stabbed his eyeballs, fierce, blinding as he pulled out one of the contact lenses. He could not see the captain's face through the light, but suddenly two lorry were holding his arms. The fear of death was on Bart, but it no longer mattered. He saw through watering eyes the ever-deepening orange of the badge disappearing. Here! he said, tearing at it. Radiation! You must be able to see how dark it is, even if it's just darkness. Suddenly Vorongil was shouting, but Bart could not hear. Two men were dragging him along. They hustled him up the ramp of the ship. He could see again, but his eyes were blurred, and he felt sick, colors spinning before his eyes, and nauseated ringing in his head. At first he thought it was his ears ringing. Then he made out the rising, shrieking wail and fall of the emergency siren, steps running, shouting voices, the slow clang of the doors. Someone was pushing at him, babbling words in lorry, but he heard them through an ever-increasing distance. Vorongil's face bent over his, only a blurred, crimson blob that flashed away like a vanishing star in the viewport. It flamed out into green darkness, vanished, and Bart fell through what seemed to be a bottomless chasm of starless night. When he woke, acceleration had its crushing hand on his chest. He tried to move, discovered that he was strapped hard into a bunk, and fainted again. Suddenly the pressure was gone, and he was lying at ease on the smooth sheets of a hospital bunk. His eyes were covered with a light bandage, and there was a sharp pain in his left arm. He tried to move it, and found it was tied down. "'I think he's coming round,' said Vorongil's voice. "'Yes, and a lot too soon for me,' said a bitter voice which Bart recognises that of the ship's medic. Freak. "'Listen, Baldi,' said Vorongil, whoever he is, he could have been blinded or killed. You wouldn't be alive now if it wasn't for that freak, as you call him. Bartle, can you hear me? How much light can your eyes stand?' As much as any mentorian, Bart found he could move his right arm, and twitched the bandage away. Vorongil and the medic stood over him. In the other infirmary bunk a form was lying, covered with a white sheet. Sickly, Bart wondered if they had found Montano. Vorongil followed the direction of his eyes. "'Yes,' he said, and his voice held deep bitterness. Poor old Rugal is dead. He didn't get much of the radiation, but his heart wouldn't stand it, and gave out. He bowed his head. He was bowed in the service of the ships when my crest was new sprouted,' he said in deep grief. Bart felt the shock of that, even through his own fear. He looked down at his left arm. It was strapped to a splint, and fluid was dripping slowly into the vein there. Vorongil nodded. "'I expect you feel pretty sick. You've got a good dose of radiation yourself, but we've given you a couple of transfusions. One of the mentorians matched your blood type, fortunately. It was a close call.' The medic was looking down in ill-disguised curiosity. "'Fantastic,' he said. "'I don't suppose you'd tell me who changed your looks. I admit I wouldn't believe it until I had a look at your foot bones under the fluoroscope.' Vorongil said quietly, "'Bartle, I don't suppose that's your real name. Why did you do it? I couldn't see you all die, sir,' Bart said, not expecting them to believe him. No more than that." The medic said roughly in lorry, "'It's a trick, sir. No more. A trick to make us trust him. Why would he risk his own life then?' Vorongil asked. No, it's more than that.' He hesitated. We checked the bunkers in radiation suits before we took off. We found a man in one of them. "'Was he dead?' Bart whispered. "'No,' Vorongil said quietly. "'Thank God! It was a heartfelt explosion. Then apprehensively. Or did you kill him?' "'What do you think we are?' Vorongil said incredulously. Indeed, no. His own men have probably found him by now. I don't imagine he got half as much radiation as you did.' Bart surveyed the needle in his arm. "'Why are you taking all this trouble, if I'm going to be put out of the way? "'You must have some funny ideas about us,' Vorongil said, shaking his head. "'That would be a fine way to reward you for saving all our lives. No, you're not going to be killed.' "'If I had my way,' the old medic began, and suddenly Vorongil flew into a rage, "'Get out!' The medic went stiffly through the door, and Vorongil stood gazing down at Bart, shaking his yellowed crest. "'I don't know what to say to you. It was a brave thing you did, but perhaps no braver than you'd done all along. "'Are you a mentorian?' "'Only half.' "'Strange,' Vorongil said, looking into space, "'that I could talk to you as I did by the monument, and you knew what I meant. But yes, you would understand.' Abruptly he recalled himself, and his voice was thin and cold. "'I haven't quite decided what to do. I haven't spoken of this to the crew yet. The fewer who know about this, the better. I told them you got a heavy dose of radiation, and you're too sick to see visitors.' He sounded kinder when he said, "'It's true, you know. It won't hurt you to get your strength back.' He went out, and Bart wondered, "'Get my strength back for what?' He lay back, feeling weaker than he had realised. It was a relief to know he wasn't going to be killed out of hand, and somehow he didn't believe he was going to be killed at all." It wasn't like being a prisoner. The medic brought him plenty of food, urging him to eat. You need plenty of protein after radiation burns. And if he stayed in the bunk, it was only because he felt too weak to get up. Actually, he was suffering from delayed emotional shock as well as from radiation. He was content to let things drift. Inevitably, the time came when he had to think about what he had done. He had betrayed Montana. He had been false to the men who sent him. "'But they don't know the lorry,' his conscience replied, justifying what he had done. You sided with the lorry against your own people. You spoiled our chances of learning about the lorry fuel catalyst." I've done something better than stealing a secret by stealth. I've proved that humans and lorry can communicate, that they can trust each other. It's only their looks that are strange. A kind, generous man is a kind, generous man, whether his name is Rainor III or Verongil. But who's going to know it? I know it. And truth comes out sooner or later. Somehow a better understanding between man and lorry will come from this. Securing the knowledge, he turned over and went peacefully to sleep. When he woke again, he felt better. The Mentorian girl, Maitre, was sitting quietly between the bunks, watching him. He started to turn over, flinched at the pain in his arm. Yes, she said, we're giving you one last transfusion—plasma this time. It's lorry, but if you know that much, you know it won't hurt you. She came and inspected the needle in his wrist, and Bart caught her hand with his free one. Maitre, does anyone else know? She looked down with a troubled smile. I don't think so. I was off-watch, waiting for cold sleep. We're just about to make the long jump. When Verongil came to my quarters, I was startled almost out of my wits. He asked if I could keep a secret, then he told me about you. Oh, Bart! Her small, soft hand closed convulsively on his. I was so afraid. I knew they wouldn't kill you, but I was afraid. Yet they had killed David Briscoe, Bart thought, and hunted down two of his friends. It was the only thing he couldn't square with his perception of the lorry. It didn't fit. He could understand that they had shot down the robot cab with Edmund Briscoe in it, in pure self-defense, and that knowledge had taken off the edge of the horror. But the death of young Briscoe and everyone he had talked to could not be explained away. You seem very sure they wouldn't have killed me, Maitre, he said, carefully clasping his hand round hers. They wouldn't, she affirmed, but they could— make you forget. A small chill went over Bart. He let go of her hand and lay staring bleakly at the wall. He supposed that was his probable fate, remembering the tragic tone of Rainor III when he said, I won't remember you. He gritted his teeth, feeling his face twist convulsively. Maitre, watching, misunderstood. Arm hurting? I'll have that needle out of your vein in a few minutes now. When she had freed his arm and put away the apparatus, she came back to his side. Bart, how did it happen? How did they find you out? Suddenly the longing for human contact was too much for Bart, and the knowledge of his secret intolerable. The larry could find out what he knew, if they wanted to know, very simply. He was in their power—he didn't matter any more. The telling of the story took a long time, and when he finished, Maitre's soft small kitten face was compassionate. I'm glad you— decided what you did, she whispered. It's what a mentorium would have done. I know that other races call us slaves of the larry. We aren't. We're working in our own way to show the larry that human beings can be trusted. The other peoples, they hold away from the larry, fighting them with words even though they were afraid to fight them with weapons, carrying on the war that they're afraid to fight. Did it ever occur to you, all the peoples of all the planets, keep saying, we're as good as the larry, but only the mentorians are willing to prove it? Bart, a larry's ship can't get along in our galaxy without mentorians any more. It may be slower than trying to take the warp drive by force or stealing it by spying, but when we learn to endure it, I have faith that we'll get it. Bart, although moved by Maitre's philosophy, couldn't quite share it. It still seemed to him that the mentorians were lacking in something, independence maybe, or drive. I wasn't thinking about anything like that, he said honestly. It was simply that I couldn't let them die. After all, he was speaking more to himself than to the girl. It's their star drive. They found it. And they've given a star trade and star travel cheaply and with profit to both sides. I hope we'll get the star drive someday. But if we got it by mass murder, it would sow the seeds of a hatred between men and larry that would never end. It wouldn't be worth it, Maitre. Nothing would be worth that. We've got enough hate already. Bart was still in his bunk, but beginning to fret at staying there, when the familiar trembling of acceleration, too, started to run through the ship. It was by now so familiar to him that he hardly gave it a second thought, but Maitre panicked. What's happening, Bart? What is it? Why are we under acceleration again? Shift a warp, he said without thinking, and her face went deathly white. So that's it, she whispered. Forongill, no wonder he wasn't worried about what I would find out from you, or what you knew. She drew herself together in her chair, a miserable, shrunken, terrified little figure, bravely trying to control her terror. Then she held out her hands to Bart. I'm—I'm ashamed, she whispered. When you've been so brave, I shouldn't be afraid to die. Maitre, what's the matter? What are you afraid of? It suddenly swept over Bart what she meant and what she feared. But don't you understand, Maitre? he exclaimed. Humans can live through the warp drive. No drugs, no cold sleep. Maitre, I've done it dozens of times. But you're a lorry! It burst from her uncontrollable. She stopped, looked at him in consternation. He smiled bitterly. No, Maitre. They didn't do a thing to my internal organs, to my brain, to the tissues of my body—just a little plastic surgery on my hands, my feet, and my face. Maitre, there's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing, he repeated. She twisted her small hands together. I'm—trying to—to believe that, she whispered. But all my life I've known—the screaming wine in the ship gripped them with the strange, clawing lassitude and discomfort. Bart, gasping under it, heard the girl moan, saw her slump lax in her chair, half fainting. Her face was so deathly white that he began seriously to be afraid she would die of her fear. Fighting his own agonizing weakness, he pulled himself upright. He reached the girl, dug his claws cruelly into her. Girl, get hold of yourself! Fight it! Fight it! The more scared you are, the worse it's going to be. She was rigid, trembling in a trance of terror. You rotten little coward! He yelled at her, snap out of it. Or are all you Mentorians so gutless that you believe any half-baked folk-tail, the lary, pass off on you? You and your fine talk about earning the star drive. What would you do with it after you had got it, if you die of fear when you try? Oh! you! She flung her head back, her eyes blazing with rage. Anything you can do, I can do too! He saw a lie flowing back into her face, and the trembling now was with fury, not fear. She was fighting the pain, the crawling itch, and her nerve ends, the terrible sense of draining disorganization. Bart felt his hold on himself breaking. He whispered hoarsely, That's the girl. Don't be scared if I black out for a minute. He held on to consciousness with his last courage. Afraid if he fainted, the girl would collapse again. She reached for him, and Bart, starved for some human touch, drew her into his arms. They clung together, and he felt her wet face against his own, the softness of her trembling hands. She was still crying a little. Then the blackness closed on him as if endless, and the gray blur of warp-drive peak blotted his brain into nothingness. He came out of it to feel her soft cheek against his, her head trustfully on his shoulder. He said huskily, all right, mate her? I'm fine," she murmured shakily. He tightened his hands a little, realizing that for the first time in months he had physically forgotten his lari disguise, that Maita had given him this priceless reassurance that he was human. But, as if suddenly aware of it again, she looked up at him, and drew hesitantly away. Don't. Maita, am I so horrible to you then? So repulsive? No, it's only—she bit her lip. It's just that the lari are—I can't quite explain it. Different. Bart finished for her. At first I was repelled, physically repelled by myself and by them. It was like living among weird animals and being one of the animals. And then, one day, Ring was just another kid. He had gray skin and long claws and white hair, just the way I once had pinkish skin and short fingernails and reddish hair. But the difference wasn't that I was human inside and he wasn't. If you skinned Ring and skinned me, it would be almost identical. And, all of a sudden then, Ring and Varongil and all the rest were meant to me—just people. I thought you Mentorians, after living with the lari all these years, would feel that. She said in slow wonder, we've lived and worked side by side with them all these years, yet kept so apart. I've defended the lari to you, yet it took you to explain them to me. His arm was still rounder, her head still lying on his shoulder. Bart was just beginning to wonder if he might kiss her when the infirmary door opened and Ring stood in the doorway, staring at them with surprise, shock and revulsion. Bart realized suddenly how it must look to Ring, who certainly shared Meta's prejudice, but even as he comprehended it, Ring's face altered. Meta slipped from Bart's arms and rose, but Ring came slowly a step into the room. I—remembered you had a bad reaction to warp drive, he said. I came to see if you were all right. I would never have believed. But I am beginning to guess. There was always something about you, Bartle. He shut the door behind him and stood against it. His voice lowered almost to a whisper, he said. You're not lari, are you? Varongil knows, Bart said. Ring nodded. That day on Larilis, the crew was talking, but only one or two of them really know what happened. There are a dozen rumors. I wanted to see you. They said you were sick with radiation burns. I was. Ring raised his hand absently to the still-puckered mark on his cheek, saw Bart watching him and smiled. You're not worrying about that fight. Forget it, friend. If anything, I admire someone who can use his claws. Especially if, as I begin to suspect, they're not his. He leaned over, his hand lightly on Bart's shoulder. I don't forget so easily. You saved my life, remember? And you're a hero on the ship for warning us all. Are you really human? Why not get rid of the disguise? Bart laughed wryly. It won't come off, he said, and explained. Ring raised his hands to his own face curiously. I wonder what sort of human I'd make. He looked at me at his small fingers. Not that I'd ever have the nerve. But then it's no surprise to any one that you have courage, Bartle. You seem to accept it. It's a shock," said Ring, honestly. It scares me a little. But I'm remembering the friendship. That was real. As far as I'm concerned, it still is real. The Colours of Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley Chapter 13 Ring was still bending over Mater's hand when Vorongil came into the cabin. He started to speak, then noticed Ring. I might have known, he growled, if there was anything to find out, you'd find it. Shall I go, Rieke or Maury? No, stay. You'll find it out some way or other. You might as well get it right the first time. But first of all, are you all right, Mater? Oh, Chin went up defiantly. Yes, and why have you lied to us all these years, all of you? Vorongil looked mildly startled. It wasn't exactly a lie. Nine out of ten Larry captains believe it with all their heart, that humans die in warp drive. I wasn't sure myself until I heard the debates in Council City last year. But why? Vorongil sighed. His eyes rested disconcertingly on Bart. I presume you know human history, he said, better than I do. The Larry have never had a war in all written history. Quite frankly, you terrified us. It was decided on the highest summit levels that we wouldn't give humans too many chances to find out things we preferred to keep to ourselves. The first few ships to carry Mentorians had carried them without cold sleep. But people forget easily. The truth is buried in the records of those early voyages. As the Mentorians grew more important to us, we began to regret the policy. But by that time the Mentorians themselves believed it so firmly, that when we tried the experiment of carrying them through the shift into warp drive, they died of fear. Pure suggestion. I tried it with you, Mater, because I knew Bart's presence would reassure you. The others were given an inert sedative they believed to be the cold sleep drug. How are you feeling, Bart? Fine. But wondering what's going to happen? You won't be hurt, Barongil said quickly. Then, you don't believe me, do you? I don't, sir. David Briscoe did what I did, and he's dead. So are three other men. Men do strange things from fear. Men and Larry. Your people, as I said before, have a strange history. It scares us. Can you guarantee that some at least of your people wouldn't try to come and take the star-drive by force? We left a man on Larillis, who thought nothing of killing twenty-four of us. I suppose the captain of the multi-phase, knowing he had gravely violated Larry's laws, knowing that Briscoe's report might touch off an intergalactic war between men and Larry. Well, I suppose he felt that half a dozen deaths were better than half a million. I'm not defending him. Just explaining maybe why he did what he did. Bart lowered his eyes. He had no answer to that. No, you won't be killed. But that's all I can guarantee. My personal feelings have nothing to do with it. You'll have to go to cancel Planet with us, and you'll have to be sight-checked there. That is Larry Law, and by treaty with your Federation it is human law, too. If you know anything dangerous to us, we have a legal right to eliminate those memories before you can be released. May it have smiled at him encouragingly, but Bart shivered. That was almost worse than the thought of death. And the fear grew more oppressive as the ship forged onward toward the homeworld of the Larry. And it did not lessen when, after they touched down, he was taken from the ship under guard. He had only a glimpse through dark glasses of the terrible brilliance of the Larry's sun dazzling on crystal towers before he was hustled into a closed surface car. It whisked him away to a building he did not see from the outside. He was taken up by private elevator to a suite of rooms which might, for all he could tell, have been a suite in a luxury hotel or a lunatic asylum. The walls were translucent, the furniture oddly coloured, and so carefully padded that even a homicidal or suicidal person could not have hurt himself or anyone else on it or with it. Food reached him often enough so that he never got hungry, but not often enough to keep him from being bored between meals or from brooding. Two enormous Larry came in to look at him every hour or so, but either they were deaf and dumb, did not understand his dialect of Larry, or were under orders not to speak to him. It was the most frustrating time of his entire voyage. One day it ended. A Larry and a Mentorian came for him and took him down elevators and upstairs and into a quiet, neutral room where four Larry were gathered. They sat him in a comfortable chair, and the Mentorian interpreter said gently with apology, Bart Steele, I have been asked to say to you that you will not be physically harmed in any way. This will be much simpler and will have much less injurious effect on your mind if you cooperate with us. At the same time, I have been asked to remind you that resistance is absolutely useless, and if you attempt it, you will only be treated with force rather than with courtesy. Bart sat facing them, shaking with humiliation. The thought of resistance flashed through his mind. Maybe he should make them fight for what they've got. At least they'd see that all humans weren't like the Mentorians to sit quietly and let themselves be brainwashed without a word of protest. He started to spring up, and the hands of his guards tightened, swift and strong, even before his muscles had fully tightened. Bart's head dropped. Cold, common sense doused over his brave thoughts. He was uncountable millions of light-years from his own people. He was absolutely alone. Bravery would mean nothing. Submission would mean nothing. Would he be more of a man somehow if he let his mind be wrecked? All right, he muttered. I won't fight. You show your good sense, the Mentorians said quietly. Give me your left arm, please, or if you are left-handed, your right, as you prefer. Deathly, almost painlessly, a needle slid into his arm. Giving in. A dizzying welter of thoughts spun suddenly in his mind. Briscoe, Rainor One and Rainor Three, the net between the stars, Ring, Verongil, Mitta, his father, consciousness slid away. Years later, he never knew whether it was memory or imagination. It seemed to him that he could reach into that patch of gray and dreamless time and fish out questions and answers whole, the faces of Larry swelling up suddenly in his eyes and shrinking back into interstellar distance, the sting smell of drugs, the sound of unexpected voices, odd brieflex pains, cobwebs of patchy memories that fitted nowhere else into his life so that he supposed they must go here. He only knew that there was a time he did not remember, and then a time when he began to think there was such a thing as memory, and then a time when he floated without a body, and then another time when the path of every separate nerve in his body seemed to be outlined, a shimmering web in the gray murk. There was a mirror and a face. There were blotchy worms of light, like the star trails of peaking warp drive through the viewport, colors shifting and receding, a green star, the red eye of Antares. Then the peak point faded, his mind began to decelerate and angle slowly down and down into the field of awareness, and he became fuzzily aware that he was lying full-length on a sort of couch. He shook his head groggily. It hurt. He sat up. That hurt, too. A hand closed gently around his elbow, and he felt the cold edge of a cup against his sore mouth. Take a sip of this. The liquid felt cool on his tongue, evaporating almost before he could swallow. The fumes seemed to mount inside the roof of his nose, expanding tremendously inside his head and brain. Abruptly his head was clear, the last traces of gray fuzz gone. When you are able, the Mentorians said courteously, the High Council will see you. Bart blinked. As if exploring a sore tooth with his tongue, his mind sought for memories, but they all seemed clear, marshaled in nine. The details clear and unblurred of his voyage here, his humiliation and resentment against the Larry. They could have changed my thinking, my attitudes. They could have made me admire or be loyal to the Larry. They didn't. I'm still me. I'm ready now. He got up, reeled, and had to lean on the Mentorian. His feet did not seem to touch the ground in quite the right way. After a minute he could walk steadily and followed the Mentorian along a corridor. The Mentorian said into a small grill, the Vagan Bartol, alias Bart Steele, and after a moment a doorway opened. Inside a room rose, high, domed, vaulted above his head, whiteish opalescent, washed with green. For a moment while his eyes adjusted to the light, he wondered how the Larry saw it. Beyond an expanse of black, glassy floor, he saw a low semicircular table, behind which sat eight Larry. All wore pale robes with high collars that rose stiffly behind their domed heads. All were old, their faces lined with many wrinkles, and seven of the eight were as bald as the hull of the Swift Wing. Under their eyes he hesitated. Then, unexpectedly, pride stiffened his back. They should have done a better job of brainwashing if they expected him to skulk in like a scared rabbit. He held his head high and moved across the floor step by steady step, trying not to limp or display that he felt tired or sore. You're human. Act proud of it. No one moved until he stood before the semicircle of ancients. Then the youngest, the only one of the eight with some trace of feathery crest on his high gray head, said, Captain Varongil, you identify this person? I do, Varongil said, and Bart saw him seated before the High Council. To Bart the Larry Captain seemed a familiar, almost a friendly face. Well, Bart Steele, alias Bartol's son of Berehun, said one of the old Larry, what have you to say for yourself? Bart stood silent, not moving. What could he say that would not reveal how desperately alone, how young and foolish and frightened he felt? All his brave resolutions seemed to drain away before their old, gnomish faces. Here he'd been thinking of himself as a brave spy, a gallant fighter in humanity's cause and what not. Now he saw himself for what he was, a reckless boy meddling in affairs too big for him. He lowered his eyes. We have read the transcript of your knowledge, said the old Larry. There is little in it that we do not know. We are not, of course, concerned with human conspiracies unless they endanger Larry's lives. The Antares authorities will deal with the man Montano for an unauthorized landing on the Rillis in violation of Federation Treaty. He smiled, his gnomes face breaking into a million tiny cracks like a piece of gray glazed pottery. Bartol, or whatever you call yourself, you are a brave young man. I suppose you are afraid we will block your memories or your ability to speak of them? Bart nodded, gulping. Did the old Larry read his mind? A year ago we might have done so. Captain Varongil, you will be interested to know that we have discussed this in council, and your recommendations have been taken. The secret that humans can endure Star Drive has outlived its usefulness. For good or ill, it is secret no longer. We cannot possibly eliminate all the old records or the enterprising people who hunt them out. The captain who had David Briscoe killed under the mistaken notion that this would excuse his own negligence in letting Briscoe stow away on his ship is undergoing psychotherapy and may eventually recover. As for the rest, Bart Steele, you know nothing that is a danger to us. You do not know the coordinates of our world or even in which galaxy it is located. You do not know where we secure the catalyst your people seek. In fact, you know nothing that is not soon to become common knowledge. In view of that, we have decided not to interfere with your memories. Talk as much as you like," added another of the ancients, and may your memories of this voyage help in understanding between the Larry and other human races. Good fortune to you." And he was smiling. There is another side to this, said a third, more sternly and gravely. You have broken a treaty between Larry and man. We have dealt with you as the laws required. Now your own people must do so. You must return with the Swift Wing to the planet where the violation originated. He consulted a memorandum. Procyon Alpha. There you and the man, Rainor III, will face charges of unlawful conspiracy to board a Larry ship in violation of intergalactic trade treaties. Captain Varongil, will you be responsible for him? So I've lost, Bart fought drearily. I didn't even learn anything important enough for them to suppress. There was a strange wounded pride in this. After all his trouble he was being treated like a little boy who has used a great deal of enterprise and intelligence to rob a cookie cupboard, and for his pains is sent home with the stolen cookie in his hand. Varongil touched his arm. Come, bottle! he said gently. I'm taking you back to the Swift Wing. I don't have to treat you like a prisoner, do I? Numbly, Bart gave what the old Larry asked, his word of honour not to attempt escape. Escape? Where to? Or to attempt to enter the Drive Chamber of the Swift Wing while they were still among the Larry worlds. As they left the Council Hall, Bart, in a gesture of despair, covered his face with his hands. As he brought them down, he found himself staring at them transfixed. His fingers looked longer and thinner than he remembered them, but they were his own hands again. The nails seemed faintly thick and ridged, and there was still a faint grayish tinge through the pale flesh-colour, but they were human hands, unmistakably. He felt of his nose and ears with fumbling fingers. He raised his hand and touched the very short, crisp hair growing on his newly shaven skull. You fool! said Varongil to the Mentorian in disgust. Why didn't you tell him what the medics had done for him? Easy, Bartle! The old Larry's arm tightened around his shoulder. I thought they'd told you. Somebody come here and give the youngster a hand. Later, in the small cabin, it had been Brugel's, which was to be his prison during the returned voyage of the Swift Wing. He had a chance to study his familiar, strange face. He had thought that only a short time—an hour or so—had a lapse between the time he was drugged and the time they took him before the Council. Later, from what he learned about the dispatch schedules of the Swift Wing, he realised that he had been kept under sedation for nearly three weeks while his face and hands healed. As Rainor III had warned, the change was not altogether reversible. Studying his face in the mirror, he could still see a hint of something thin, strange, alien in the set of his features—the nose and chin somewhat too pointed, elfin, to be human. His hands would always be too long, too narrow, too supple. For the rest, he looked grim, older. He could never go back to what he had been before he became a Larry. It had left its mark on him for ever. Before the Swift Wing lifted, outbound, Vorongil came to his cabin. You've seen very little of our world, he said diffidently. I have permission for you to visit the city before we leave Council Spaceport. You think you can trust me? Bart asked bitterly. Vorongil said gravely, without humour. The question does not arise. You do not know the co-ordinates of this world, and have no way of finding them. Within those limitations you are an honoured guest here, and if it would give you any pleasure, you are welcome to see as much of Council Planet as time permits. It seemed, through Vorongil's kindness, that the old Larry sensed his bitter defeat. Nothing was to be gained by sulking in his cabin, a prisoner. He had an opportunity which no human except the Mentorians had ever had, which perhaps no human would ever have again. He might as well take advantage of it. Ring and Mater both seemed startled at his new appearance, but Mater instantly held out her hands, clasping his quickly and warmly. Bart, I wondered what your real face looked like, but I think I'd have known you anyhow. Rings evade him, wonderingly, shaking his head. Say something, he implored, so I'll know your Bart all. Bart held out his arm. Less grey by the day as the drug wore out of his system. The thin line of the scar was still on it. He raised his forefinger lightly to the fine line on Ring's cheek. I couldn't return that now, so let's not get into any more fights. Ring laughed and gave him a rough affectionate shove. Your Bart all all right. Even his sense of defeat vanished in wonder as they came out into the great spaceport. He saw now that the Larry spaceports and human worlds were built to create for the spacemen so far from their native worlds some feeling of home. But everything here was so vast as to stagger the imagination. There were miles and miles of the great ships lying stream-like pebbles on this monster beach-head into space, bearing the strangeness of a million far-flung stars. He gaped like a child. Above them the burning brilliance of a star gave strange glow and colour to the crystal pylons. What colour was the star? He turned to Mater, irritated at his inability to be sure. Mater, what colour is this sun? I've been all around the spectrum and it's not red, blue, green, orange, violet? He broke off, realising what he had said and what he had seen. An eighth colour, he finished anticlimactically. You and your talk of colours, Ring grumbled. I wish I knew what you Mentorians see. It's like trying to imagine seeing a smell or hearing light. Mater laughed. As far as I know no one's named it. Sometimes we Mentorians call it Catalyst colour. I think only Mentorians can see it as separate colour. So what, Ring said impatiently, what are we going to do, chatter about light waves or see the city? Bart Aquiest, trying to sound eager, but a wild excitement was gusting up in him. He dutifully pretended fascination with the towers, the many-leveled roads, the giant dams and pylons, but his thoughts were racing. The eighth colour. There can't be too many sons of this colour, or that have named it and known it, and telescopes can find it. Could success be salvaged then at the very edge of failure? Maybe he need not go empty-handed, empty-eyed from the lary worlds. They had dismissed him scornfully, stolen cookie in hand, but maybe it would be a bigger cookie than they dreamed. The exhilaration lasted through the tour of the port, through the heavy surge of acceleration which brought them up, out and away from Council Planet. Bart, confined in Rugal's cabin, hardly felt like a prisoner, his mind busy with schemes. I'll study star maps in spectroscopic reports. It lasted almost two days of ship-time, and they were readying for acceleration, too, before he came figuratively down to earth. To pick one star out of trillions, and not even in his own galaxy, it would take a lifetime, and he didn't even know which of the four or five spiral nebulae in the skies of the human worlds was the lary galaxy. A lifetime? A hundred lifetimes wouldn't do it. He might have known. If there had been one chance in the odd billion of his making any such discovery, the lary would never have given Verongil permission for the intruder to visit the planet at all. He would have been returned to the Swift Wing as he had been taken from it, by closed car, and imprisoned, maybe even drugged until he was safely back in the human worlds again. He was under parole not to enter the drive chamber, and sure he would be stopped if he attempted it anyhow. But when acceleration one was completed, he went to the viewport in the recreation lounge, and nobody threw him out. He stood long, looking at the unfamiliar galaxy of the lary stars. The unknown, forever unknowable constellations with their strange shapes. Stars green, gold, topaz, burning blue, sullen red, and the great, strangely colored receding sun of the lary people, known to them by the melodious name of K'eliro, which meant simply, the sun. It was their first home. Where had he seen that color, in that stolen glimpse of the lary ship landing long ago? Of all the colors of space, this one he would never know. He turned away from the unsolvable riddle of the strange constellations, and went to his cabin to dream of the green star Meristem, where he had first plotted known coordinates for a previously unknown world, and to wonder in baffling nightmares where he fed jagged, star-colored pieces of hail into the ship's computer, and watched them come out as tiny, paper-doll spaceships with the letterhead of eight colors printed neatly across their sides. After the warp-drive shift, Varongil came to his cabin, this time crisp and business-like. "'We're back in your galaxy,' he said, among the stars you know. We have no passenger space on the Swiftwing. We had to ship out without replacing Rugal, which means we're short two men. I've no authority to ask this of you. But would you like your old job back for the rest of the voyage?' Bart glanced at his human hands. Varongil shrugged. We've carried Mentorians as full-ranking astrogators. There don't happen to be any on the Swiftwing, but there's no law about it. Bart looked the old lary in the eye. I won't accept Mentorian terms, Varongil. I wouldn't ask it. You worked your way outward on this run, and the High Council didn't see fit to erase those memories or inhibit them. Why should I? Do you want it or not? Did he want it? Until this moment Bart had not identified the worst of his pain and defeat, to travel as a passenger, a super-cargo, when he had once been part of the Swiftwing. Literally, he ached to be back with it again. I do, Reiko Mori. Very well, Varongil rapped. See that you turn out next watch. He spun round and walked out. His tone was no longer gently indulgent, but sharp and distant. Bart had first surprised, suddenly understood. Not now a prisoner, a passenger, a guest on the Swiftwing. He was part of the crew again, and Varongil was his captain. The lary crew were oddly constrained at first, but Ring was the same as always, and before long they were almost on the old terms. With every watch it seemed, he was building a bridge between man and lary. They accepted him. But for what? Something might come in the far future of his acceptance, but he wouldn't get the benefit of it. This would be his only voyage. After this he'd be chained again, crawling from planet to planet of a single sun. And as Warp Ship followed Warp Shift, the Swiftwing retracing the path of her outward crew, star by star, Bart said farewell to them. One day at last he stood on the viewport, watching Procyon Alpha nearing. A year ago, frightened, terribly alone, still unsteady on his new lary muscles, and terrified by the monsters that were his shipmates, he had watched these planets spinning away. Poor old Rugal. Poor old Baldi. Behind him Meta came into the lounge. But—he turned to face her. It won't be much longer, Meta. Tomorrow I'll find out what the Federation is going to do to me. Conspiracy unlawfully to board and all the rest of it. Even if I don't go to a prison-planet, I'll spend the rest of my life chained down to Vega. It doesn't have to be that way. What other choices is there, he demanded? You're half-mintorian, she said, raising her eager face. Oh, Bart, you love it so! You know you can't bear to give it up. Stay with us. Please stay. Before answering, he looked out the viewport a last time. The clouds of cosmic dust swirled and foamed round the familiar jewels of his own sky. Blue beloved Vega, burning in the heart of the liar. Home. When would he go home? He had no home now. Yet his father had left him Vega into the planet, as well as eight colors, and a quest to the stars. He searched for the topaz of Sol, where he had learned astrogation, prosion where he had become a lari, the ruby of Aldebaran, hail and farewell, David Briscoe, the bloodstone of Antares, where he had learned fear in the shape of integrity, the colors, the unknowable colors of space, and others, nameless stars where he and his lari shipmates had worked and played, and stars he had never seen and would never see, all the endless worlds beyond worlds and stars beyond stars. He took a last, longing look at the colors of space, then turned his back on them, deliberately giving them up. He could not pay the price the Mentorians paid. No, Mater, he said huskily. The Mentorian way is one way, but I've had a taste of being one of the masters of space. It's more than most men ever have. Maybe it's more than I deserve, but I can't settle for anything less, not even if it means losing you. He shut his eyes and stood, head bowed. When he looked up again, he was alone with the stars beyond the viewport, and the lounge was empty. CHAPTER XIV This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Red by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, May 2007. Colors of Space, by Marion Zimmer Bradley. CHAPTER XIV The low rainbow building of eight colors near the spaceport of Procyon Alpha had not changed, and when Bart went in, as he had done a year ago, it seemed that the same varnished girl was sitting before the same glass desk, neon-edged and brittle, with the same chrome-tinged hair and blue fingernails. She looked at Bart in his lary clothing, at Meta in her mentorian robe and cloak, at ring, and her unruffled dignity did not turn a hair. May I help you? she inquired, still not caring. I want to see Rainor One. Oh, what business, please! Tell him, said Bart, with immense satisfaction, that his boss is here, Bart Steele, and wants to see him right away. It had a sort of disrupting effect. She seemed to go blurred at the edges. After a minute, blinking carefully, she spoke into the vision screen and reported numbly, Go on up, Mr. Steele. He wasn't expecting a welcome. He said so as the elevator rose. After all, if I'd never come back, he'd doubtless have inherited the whole eight colors line unencumbered. I don't expect he'll be happy to see me, but he's the only one I can turn to. The elevator stopped. Opened. They stepped out, and a man stepped nervously toward them. For a moment, expecting Rainor One, Bart was deceived. Then, as the man's face spread in a smile of welcome, he stopped an incredulous delight. Rainor Three! In overflowing gladness Bart hugged him. It was like a meeting with the dead. He felt as if he had really come home. But—but you remember me! he exclaimed, backing and away in amazement. Slowly the man nodded. His eyes were grave. Yes, I decided it wasn't worth it, Bart, to go on losing everything that meant anything to me. Even if it meant I had to give up the stars, never travel again except as a passenger, I couldn't go on being afraid to remember, never knowing the consequences or responsibilities of what I'd done. His sad smile was strangely beautiful. The multi-phase sailed without me. I've been here, hoping against hope that someday I'd know the rest. Associations clicked into place in Bart's mind. The multi-phase. So Rainor Three was the mentorian who had smuggled David Briscoe off the ship, and whose memories, wrung out by the lary captain of that ship, had touched off so many deaths. But he had paid for that—paid many times over. And now must he pay for this, too? Rainor One's drove toward them. So it's really you. I thought it might be a trap, but Three wouldn't listen. Word came from Antares that Montano had been arrested and his ship confiscated for a legal landing on Larillus. I thought you were probably dead. We sent a boy to do a man's job, Rainor Three said, and he came back a man. But tell me—he looked curiously at Ring and Meta. Bart introduced them, adding, I came for help, really. I'm facing charges, and I'm afraid you are, too. Rainor One said harshly, a trap after all three. He has trapped you, and he's led the lary to you. No, Rainor Three said, or he wouldn't be walking around free and unguarded and with all his memories intact. Tell me about it, Bart. And when Bart had given a quick narration of the lary judgment, he nodded slowly. That's all we ever wanted. Don't think you failed, Bart. The horrible part was only the way they were trying to keep it secret. Ring interrupted. Do not judge the lary by them, Rainor Three. And Rainor Three said in good lary, I don't feather top. Rainors have been working with lary since the days of raison of Nedris. But I wanted an open, official statement of lary policy, not secret murders by fanatics. I had confidence in the lary as a people, but not in individuals. What good did it do to know that the lary council in another galaxy would have condemned the murders and manhunts when they were going on in this one, day after day? Don't you see, Bart? He continued. You didn't fail. Not if we're going to have the publicity of a test case publicly heard. That means the lary are prepared to admit, before our whole galaxy, that humans can survive warp drive without cold sleep. That's all David Briscoe was trying to prove, or your father either. May they rest in peace. So whatever happens, we've won. If you two idealists will give me a minute for cold realities, Rainor One said, there's this. Among other things, Bart's not yet of legal age. You may not know this, Bart, but your father appointed me your legal guardian. When I turned you over to Three, I'm afraid I assumed legal responsibility for all the consequences. I ought to have kept you under my own supervision. Bart smiled at Rainor One's stern face. I crossed two galaxies and faced the lary High Council without you to hold my hand. I can face the Trade Federation. Naturally I will be responsible for your defence, Rainor One said stiffly. But I don't need a defence, Bart said, turning to Rainor Three and meeting his eyes. I'm going to tell the truth and let it stand. Don't worry. I'll make sure they don't hold you responsible for my actions. Another thing. Some lunatic from Capella arrived here and all but accused me of having you murdered. Do you know a Tommy Kendron? Do I know him? Bart interrupted with a joyful yell. Tommy's here! Quick! Where do I get in touch with him? An hour later they were all gathered at Rainor Three's country house. The talk went on far into the night. Tommy wanted to know everything, and both Rainors wanted to know every detail of Bart's year among the lary, while Mater and Ring were both curious about how it had begun. Bart tried to forget that the next day might bring trouble, even imprisonment. The lary council had told him to talk as much as he liked about his voyage, and this might be his only chance. When he had finished, Tommy leaned forward and gripped Bart's hand tightly. You make them sound like pretty decent people, he said, looking at Ring. A year ago, if you told me I'd be here, with a lary spaceman and a bunch of Mentorians, I'd never have believed it. Nor I, that I would be his friend under a human roof, Ring replied. He touched the faint discoloured scars on his brow, saying softly, But for Bart, I would not be here to greet any one, man or lary, his friend. So, said Tommy triumphantly, you haven't failed, even if you didn't discover the secret of the eighth colour. But a sudden blinding light burst over Bart as Ring moved his hand to the scars. Once again he searched a cave beneath a green star, where Ring lay unconscious and bleeding, and played his lary light fearfully over a waterfall of coloured minerals. And there was one whose colour he could not identify—red, blue, violet, green—none of these—the colour of an unknown star, in an unknown galaxy, the shimmer of a landing lary ship, the colour of an unknown element, in an unknown fuel. The secret of the eighth colour, he said, and stood up, his hands literally shaking in excitement. I'm an idiot! No, don't ask me any questions. I could still be wrong. But even if I go to a prison-planet, the eighth colour isn't a secret any more. When the others had gone back to the city, he sat with Rain or Three in the room where the latter had told him of his father's death, where he had first seen his terrifying lary face. They spoke little, but Rain or Three finally asked, Were you serious about not wanting a defence-spot? I was. All I want is a chance to tell my own story in my own way, where everyone will hear me. Rain or Three looked at him curiously. There's something you're not telling Bart. Want to tell me? Bart hesitated, then held out his hand and clasped his kinsmen's. Thanks, but no. Rain or Three saw his hesitation and chuckled. All right, son. Forget I asked. You've grown up. It was good to sleep in a soft human-type bed again, to eat breakfast and shave and dress in ordinary human clothing again, but Bart folded his lary tights in the cloak, tenderly, with regret. They were the memory of an experience no one else would ever have. Rain or Three let him take the controls as they flew back to the spaceport city, and a little before noon they entered the great crystal pylon that was the headquarters of the Federation Trade Bureau on Procyon Alpha. Men and lary were moving in the lobby. Among them Bart saw Barongil, mate at his side. He smiled at her, received a one smile in return. Would Barongil feel that Bart had deceived him, betrayed him when he heard Bart to-day? In the hearing-room, four white-crested lary sat across from four dignified, well-dressed men, representatives of the Federation of Intergalactic Trade. The space beyond was wholly filled with people, crowded together, and carrying stereo cameras, intercom equipment, the creepy-peepy of the on-the-spot space commentator. Mr. Steele, we had hoped to make this a quiet hearing without undue publicity, but we cannot deny the news media the privilege of covering it, unless you wish to claim the right to privacy. No, indeed, Bart said clearly. I want them all to hear what I'm going to say. Rain or one came up to the bench. Bart, as your guardian I advise against it, some people will call this a publicity stunt. It won't do eight colors any good to admit that men have been spying on the lary. I want press coverage, Bart repeated stubbornly, and as many star systems on the relay as possible. All right, but I wash my hands of it. Rain or one said angrily. Bart told his story simply. His meeting with the Elder Briscoe, his meeting with Rain or one, carefully not implicating Rain or one in the plot. Rain or three's work in altering his appearance to that of a lary, and the major events of his cruise on the Swift Wing. When he came to the account of the shift into warp drive, he saw the faces of the press reporters, and realized that for them this was the story of the year or century. Humans can endure star drive. But he went on, not soft peddling Montano's attempted murder, his own choice, the trip to the lary world. One of the board representatives interrupted testily. What is the point of this lengthy narrative? You can give the story to the newsmen without our official sanction, if you want to make it a heroic epic young steal. We have heard sufficient to prove your guilt, and that of Rain or in the violation of treaty, nevertheless. I want this official, Bart said. I don't want to be mobbed when they hear that I have the secret of the star drive. The effect was electric. The four laries sat up, their white crests twitched. Varongal stared, his grey eyes darkening with fear. One of the lary leaned forward, shooting the question at him harshly. You did not discover the coordinates of the council-planet of K. Leroy. You did not discover— I did not, Bart said quietly. I don't know them, and I have no intention of trying to find them. We don't need to go to the lary galaxy to find the mineral that generates the warp frequencies that they call Catalyst A, and that the Mentorians call the Eighth Color. There is a green star called Meristem, and a spectroscopic analysis of that star, I'm sure, will reveal what unknown elements it contains, and perhaps locate other stars with that element. There must be others in our galaxy. But the coordinates of the star Meristem are known to me. Varongal was staring at him, his mouth open. He leaped up and cried out, shaking, but they assured us that among your memories there was nothing of danger to us. Compassionately, gently, Bart said, there wasn't—not that they knew about Varongal. I didn't realize it myself. I might never have remembered seeing a mineral that was of a color not found in the spectrum. Certainly a memory like that met nothing to the lary medics who emptied out my mind and turned over all my thoughts. You lary can't see color at all. So no one but I saw the color of the mineral in the cave. You lary yourselves don't know that your fuel looks unlike anything else in the universe. You never cared to find out how your world looked to your Mentorians. So your medics never questioned my memories of an Eighth Color. To you, it's just another shade of gray. But under a light strong enough to blind any but Mentorian eyes, it takes on a special color. The conference broke up in disorder. The four lary clustering together in a furious babble, then hastily leaving the room. Bart stood waiting, feeling cold and empty. Varongal's stare baffled him with unreadable emotion. You fool, you unspeakable young idiot! Rainor I groaned. Why did you blurt it out like that before every news media in the galaxy? Why, we could have had a monopoly on the Star Drive Eighth Colors and Vega Interplanet. As he saw the men of the press approaching with their microphones, lights, cameras, and TV equipment, he gripped Bart urgently by the arm. We can still salvage something. Don't talk any more. Refer them to me. Say I'm your guardian and your business manager. You can still make something of this. That's just what I don't want to do. Bart replied and broke away from him to approach the newsman. Yes, certainly. I'll answer all your questions, gentlemen. Rainor I flung up his hands in despair, but over their shoulder he saw the glowing face of Meta and smiled. She, at least, would understand. So would Rainor III. A page-boy touched Bart on the arm. Mr. Steele, he said, you are to appear immediately before the world council. He was to be asked one question again and again in the days that followed, but his real answer was to Meta and Rainor III, looking quietly past Rainor I and speaking to the news-cameras that would carry his words all over the galaxy to men and larry. Why didn't I keep it for myself? Because there are always men like Montano, who in their mistaken pride will murder and steal for such things. I want this knowledge to be open to all men, to be used for their benefit. There has been too much secrecy already. I want all men to have the stars. He had to tell a story again and again to the hastily summoned representatives of the Galactic Federation. At one point the delicate from his home star of Vega actually rose and shouted to him, This is treason! You betrayed your home world and the whole human race! Don't you know the larry may fight a war over this? Bart remembered Vrongil's silent, sad confession of the larry fears. No, he said gently. No. There won't be any war unless we start one. The larry won't start any war. Believe me. But inwardly he sweated. What would the larry do? They had to wait for representatives of the larry council to make the journey from their home galaxy. Meanwhile they kept Bart in protective custody. There was, of course, no question of sending him to a prison-planet. Public opinion would have crucified any government that suggested punishment for the man who had discovered a human world with deposits of catalyst A. Bart could claim an explorer's share, and Rainor I had lost no time in filing that claim on his behalf. But he was lonely and anxious. They had confined him to a set of rooms high in the building overlooking the spaceport. From the balcony he could see the ships landing and departing. Life went on, ships came and went, and out there in the vast night of space the suns and colours flamed and rolled heedless of the little atoms that travelled and intrigued between them. A night came when the buzzer sounded, and he opened the door to Rainor I and Rainor III. Better turn on your vision screen, Bart. The elder of the larry council has arrived with their official decision, and he's going to announce it. Bart waited, anxiously pacing the room, while on the TV screen various dignitaries presented the elder. We are the first race to travel the stars. A bald head, an ancient larry face seemed like blazed pottery, looked at Bart from the screen, and Bart remembered when he had stood before that face, sick with defeat. But now he need not pretend to hold his head erect. We have had a long and triumphant time as masters of the stars, the larry said, but triumphant power will sicken and stagnate the race which holds them too long unchallenged. We reached this point once before. Then a larry captain, raisin of Nedron, abandoned the safe ways of caution, and out of his blind leap in the blind dark came many good things, trade with the human race, armentorian allies, a system of mathematics to take the hazards from our star travel. Yet once again the larry had grown cautious and fearful, and a young man named Bartol took a blind leap into unknown darkness, all alone. Not alone, Bart said as if to himself. It took two men called Briscoe, and my father, and a couple of reynors, and even a man called Montano, because without that I'd never have decided. Like raisin of Nedron, like all pioneers, this young man has been cursed by his own people, the very ones who will one day benefit from his daring. He has found his people a firm footing among the stars. It is too late for the larry to regret that we did not sooner extend you the hand of welcome there. You have climbed unaided to join us. For good or ill, we must make room for you. But there is room for all. Competition is the lifeblood of trade, and we face the future without fear, knowing that life still holds many surprises for the living. I say to you, welcome to the stars. Even while Bart stood speechless with the knowledge of success, the door opened again, and Bart, turning, cried out in amazement, Tommy! Ring! Meta! Sure! Tommy exclaimed. We've got to celebrate. But Bart stopped looking past them. Captain Verongil, he said, and went to greet the old larry. I thought you'd hate me, Rieco Mori. The term of respect fell naturally from his lips. I did for a time, Verongil said quietly. But I remembered the day we stood on larry list by the monument, and that you risked perhaps your life, certainly your eyesight, to save us from death. So when the elder asked for my estimate of your people, I gave it. I thought it sounded like you. Bart felt that his happiness was complete. And now, ring cried, let's celebrate! Meta, you haven't even told him that he's free! But while the party got rolling, Bart wondered, free for what? And after a little while he went out on the balcony, and stood looking down at the spaceport, where the swift wing lay in shadow, huge, beloved, renounced. What now, Bartol? Verongil's quiet voice asked from his elbow. You're famous, notorious. You're going to be rich and a celebrity. I was wishing I could get away until the excitement dies down. Well, said Verongil, why don't you? The swift wing ships out to-night, Bartol, for Antares and beyond. It will be a couple of years before your eight colors can be made over into an interstellar line, and as Reino I has said to me several times, you'll have to handle all those details, for you're not of age yet. I've been thinking. Now that we, Larry, must share space with your people, you'll need experienced men for your ships. Unless we all want the disasters born of trial and error, we, Larry, had better help you train your men quickly and well. I want you to go back on the swift wing with me, not an apprentice, but representative of eight colors to act as liaison between men and Larry, at least until your own affairs claim your attention. Behind them on the balcony, Tommy appeared, making signals to Bart, Say yes, say yes, Bart, I did. Bart's eyes suddenly filled. Out of defeat he had won success beyond his greatest hopes. But he did not feel all glad. He felt only a heavy responsibility. Whether good or bad came of the gift he had snatched from the stars would rest in large measure on his own shoulders. He was going back to space to learn the responsibility that went with it. I accept, he said gravely. Oh, boy! Tommy dragged Ring into a sort of war-dance of exuberant celebration, pointing at the flaring glow of the spaceport gates. Here, by grace of the Larry, stands the doorway to all the stars, he quoted, while maybe you were here first, but look out, we're coming. A doorway to the stars. Bart had crossed that doorway once, frightened and alone. Dad, if he could only know. The first interstellar ship of eight colors was to bear the name Rupert Steele, but that was years in the future. Now, looking at the Swift Wing, at Ring and Tommy, at Rainor III and Ferongil, who would all be his shipmates in the new world they were building, he felt suddenly very lonely again. Come in, Bart. It's your party, made her said softly, and he felt her hand lying in his. He looked down at the pretty Mentorian girl. She would be with him too, and suddenly he knew he would never be lonely again. His arm around Mater, his friends, man and Larry at his shoulder, he went back to the celebration, to plan for the first intergalactic voyage to the stars.