 INTRODUCTION OF THE COLORS OF SPACE It was a week before the lorry ship went into warp drive, and all that time young Bart still had stayed in his cabin. He was so bored with his own company that Mentorian Medic was a welcome sight when he came to prepare him for a cold sleep. The Mentorian paused, needle in hand. Do you each be awakened for the time we shall spend in each of the three star systems, sir? You can, of course, be given enough drug to keep him in cold sleep until we reach your destination. Bart fell tempted. He wanted very much to see the other star systems, but he couldn't risk meeting other passengers. The needle went into his arm. In sudden panic he realized he was helpless. The ship would touch down on three worlds and on any of them the lorry might have his description or his alias. He could be taken off unconscious and might never wake up. He tried to move to protest, but he couldn't. There was a freezing moment of intense cold and then nothing. End of introduction. Chapter 1 of The Colors of Space. This is a LibriBox recording. All LibriBox recordings are on the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriBox.org. Recording by NSVC Mount Portugal. The Colors of Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Chapter 1. The lorry spaceport didn't belong on Earth. Bart still had thought that a long time ago when he first saw it. He had been just a kid then, 12 years old and all excited about seeing Earth for the first time. Earth, the legendary home of mankind before the age of space, the planet of Bart's far-back ancestors. And first thing it seen on Earth when he got off the starship was the lorry spaceport. And he thought, right then, it doesn't belong on Earth. He had said so to his father, and his father's face had gone strange, bitter and remote. A lot of people would agree with you, son. Captain Rupert still had said softly. The trouble is, if the lorry spaceport wasn't on Earth, you wouldn't be on Earth either. Remember that. Bart remembered it five years later as he got off the strip of moving sidewalk. He turned to wait for Tommy Kendron, who was getting his baggage off the center strip of the moving roadway. Bart still and Tommy Kendron had graduated together the day before from Space Academy of Earth. Now Tommy, who had been born on the ninth planet of Star Capella, was taking lorry starship to his faraway home and Bart's father was coming back to Earth on the same starship to meet his son. Five years, Bart thought, that's a long time. I wonder if they'll know me. Let me give you a hand with that stuff, Tommy. I can manage. Tommy shuckled, hefty in the plastic cases. They don't allow you much baggage weight on lorry ships. Certainly not more than I can handle. The two lads stood in front of Space Port gate for a minute. Over the gate, which was high and pointed and made of some clear colorless material like glass, was a jacked symbol resembling a flash of lightning. The sign, in lorry language, for the home world of lorry. They walked through the pointed glass gate and stood for a moment by mutual consent, looking down over the vast expanse of the lorry Space Port. This had once been a great desert. Now it was all floored in with some strange substance that was neither glass, metal nor concrete. It looked like climbing crystal. Though it felt soft underfoot and in the glare of the noonday sun, it gave back the glare in a million rainbow flashes. Tommy put his hands up to his eyes to shield them. The lorry must have funny eyes if they can stand all this glare. Inside the glass gate, a man in the guard's uniform gave them each a pair of dark glasses. Put them on now, boys, and don't look directly at ship when it lands. Tommy hooked the earpieces of the dark glasses over his ears and sided with relief. Bart frowned, but finally put them on. Bart's mother, Edwin the Mentorian, from the planet Mentor, had starred then at a hundred times brighter than sun. Bart had her eyes. But Mentorians weren't popular on earth, and Bart had learned to be quiet about his mother. Through the dark lenses the glare was only a pale gleam. Far out in the very center of the Space Port, a high, clear glass skyscraper rose, catching the sunlight in a million colors. Around the building, small copters and robocaps veered, discharging passengers, and moving sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going. Here and there in the crowd, standing out because of their hide and silvery metallic cloaks they wore, would strange tall figures of the lorry. Well, how about going down? Tommy glassy patiently at his timepiece. Less than half an hour before the starship touches down. All right, we can get the sidewalk over here. Relaxantly, Bart tore his eyes from this fascinating spectacle and followed Tommy, stepping onto one of the sidewalks. It put him down along, slopping ramp towards floor of the Space Port, then sped toward the glass skyscraper. Came to rest at wide pointed doors, depositing them in the midst of the crowd. The jacked lightning flash was there over the doors of the building and the wards. Here, by the grace of the lorry, is doorway to all the stars. Bart remembered, as if it were yesterday, how he and his father had first passed through this doorway. And his father, looking up, had said under his breath, Not for always, son. Someday, men will have a doorway to the stars and the lorry won't be standing in the door. Inside the building, it was searingly bright. The high open ruchanda was filled with immense mirrors and glass ramps running up and down, moving staircases, confusing signs and flashing lights on tall, oddly shaped pillars. The place was crowded with men from all over the planet, but the dark glasses they all wore, giving a strange sort of family resemblance. Tommy said, I better check my reservations. Bart nodded. Meet you on the upper level later. He said, and got on a moving staircase that soared slowly upward, bus level after level, toward the information desk located on the topmost mezzanine. The staircase moved slowly, and Bart had plenty of time to see everything. On step immediately in front of him, two lorry were standing. With their backs turned, they might almost have been men. Unusually tall, unusually thin, but men. Then Bart amended that mentally. The lorry had two arms, two legs and a head apiece. They were that much like men. Their faces had two eyes, two ears, and a nose and mouth, all in the right places. But similarity ended there. They had skin of a curious pale silvery gray and pale, pure white hair rising in what looked like a feathery crest. The eyes were long and slanting, the forehead high and narrow, the nose delicately thin and chiseled with long vertically-sleep nostrils, the ears long, pointed and lovelace. The mouth looked almost human, though the chin was abnormally pointed. The hands would almost have passed inspection as human hands. Except for the long, triangular nails curved over the fingertips like the claws of a cat. They were skin-type clothes of some metallic silky stuff and long flowing, gleaming silvery capes. They looked unearthly, healthy and strange, and in their own way they were beautiful. The two lorry in front of Bart had been talking softly in their fast, twitching speech. But as some of the crowds on the upper levels grew louder, they raised their voices and Bart could hear what they were saying. He was a little surprised to find that he could still understand the lorry language. He hadn't heard a word of it in ears, not since his Mentorian mother died. The lorry would never guess that he could understand their speech. Not one human in a million could speak or understand the dozen words of lorry, except Mentorians. Do you really think that human? The first lorry spoke the words as if it were a filthy insult. We'll have the humility to come in by this ship. No reasonable being can tell what humans will do, said Second Lorry. But then no reasonable being can tell what our own poor authorities will do either. Its message had only reached us sooner, it would have been easier. Now I suppose it will have to clear through a dozen officials and a dozen different kinds of formalities. The younger lorry sounded angry. And we have only a description, no name, nothing. How do they expect us to do anything under those conditions? What I can't understand is how it ever happened or how the man managed to get away. What worries me is the possibility that he may have communicated with others we don't know about. Those bungly fools who let first men get away can't even be sure. Do not speak of it here, said all lorry sharply. There are Mentorians in the crowd who might understand us. He turned and looked straight at Bart, and Bart felt as if the slanted strange eyes were looking right through to his bones. The lorry sat in universal. Who are you, boy? What is your business here? Bart replied in same language, politely. My father's coming in on this ship. I'm looking for the information desk. Up there, said old lorry, pointing with a clotted hand and lost interest in Bart. He sat with companions in their own language. Always I regret these episodes. I have no malice against humans. I suppose even this wagon that we are seeking has a young and a mate who will regret his loss. Then he should not have pride in two lorry matters, said the younger lorry fiercely. If they'd kill him right away, the soaring staircase souped up to top level. The two lorry stepped off and mingled swiftly into the crowd, being lost to sight. Bart whistled in dismay as he got off and turned towards the information desk. A vagant, some poor guy from his own planet was in trouble with the lorry. He felt a cold, crowding chill down his insides. The lorry got spoken regretfully, but the way they speak of a fly they couldn't manage to swat fast enough. Sooner or later you had to get down to it, they just weren't human. Here on earth nothing much could happen, of course. They wouldn't let lorry hurt anyone. Then Bart remembered his course in universal law. The lorry's spaceport in every system, by 3D, was lorry territory. Once you walked beneath lightning flash-tight, the authority of the planet ceased function. You might as well be on that unbelievably remote world in the other galaxy that was the lorry home planet, that world no human had ever seen. On a lorry's spaceport, or on a lorry's ship, you were under jurisdiction of lorry law. Tommy stepped off and moving stair and joined him. The ship's on time. It reported best lunacy a few minutes ago. I'm thirsty. How about a drink? There was a refreshment stand on this level. They debated briefly between orange juice and a drink with a lorry name that meant simply cold sweet, and finally decided to try it. The name proved descriptive. It was very cold, very sweet, and indescribably delicious. Does this come from the lorry world, I wonder? I imagine it's synthetic, Bart said. I suppose it won't hurt us. Bart left. They wouldn't serve it to us if it would. No, men and lorry are alike in a lot of ways. They breathe same air, eat about same foods. Their bodies were adjusted to about same gravity. They had same body chemistry. In fact, you couldn't tell lorry blood from human even under a microscope. And in a terrible Orion spaceport wrecked 60 years ago, doctors had found that blood plasma from humans could be used for wounded lorry and vice versa, though it wasn't safe to transfuse whole blood. But then, even among humans, there were five blood types. And yet, for all their likeness, they were different. Bart sipped cold lorry drink, seeing himself in the mirror behind refreshment stand. A tall teenager, looking older than 17 years. He was slight and well muscled from five years of sports and acrobatic subspace academy. He had curling red air and grey eyes, and he was almost as tall as a lorry. Will that know me? I was just a little kid when he left me here, and now I'm grown up. Tommy greened him in the mirror. What are you going to do? Now we finish our so-called education. What do you think? Go back to Vega with Dad, buy lorry ship and help him run Vega into planet? Why else would I bother with all that astrogation and math? You're the lucky one, with your father owning a dozen ships. He must be almost as rich as the lorry. Bart shook his head. It's not that easy. Space travel inside the system these days is small stuff. All the real travel and shipping goes to the lorry ships. It was a sore point with everyone. Thousands of years ago men had spread out from Earth, first to the planet, then to the nearest stars, crawling in ships that could travel no faster than speed of light. They had even believed that was an absolute limit, that nothing in the universe could exceed speed of light. It took years to go from Earth to the nearest star. But they'd done it. From nearest stars they had sent out colonizing ships all through the galaxy. Some vanished and were never heard from again. But some made it. And in a few century men had spread all over a hundred of star systems. And then men met the people of the lorry. It was a big universe, with measureless millions of stars and plenty of room for more than two intelligent civilizations. It was unsurprising that lorry, who had only been traveling space for a couple of thousand years themselves, had never come across humans before. But they had been delighted to meet other intelligent race. And it was extremely profitable. Because men were still held, mostly, to the planets of their own star systems. Ships traveling between stars by light drive were rare and durianously expensive. But lorry had warp drive and almost overnight the old picture changed. By warp drive, hundreds of times faster than light that peak, the years long trip between Vega and Earth, for instance, was reduced to about three months at a price anyone could pay. Mankind could travel all over their galaxy, but it did it on lorry ships. The lorry had an absolute, unbreakable monopoly on star travel. That's what hurts, Tommy said. It wouldn't do us any good to have star drive. Humans can stand faster than light travel, except in cold sleep. But not it. The lorry ships traveled at normal speed, like the regular planetary ships, inside each star system. Then, at the borders of the vast gulp of emptiness between stars, they went into warp drive. But first, every human on board was given cold sleep treatment that placed them in suspending animation, allowing their bodies to endure the warp drive. It finishes drink. The increasing bustle in the crowds below them told him that time must be getting short. A tall, impressive-looking lorry strolled through the crowd, followed at a respectful distance by two Mentorians, tall, red-headed humans wearing metallic cloaks like those of the lorry. Tommy Nedg's butt is face-spitter. Look at those lousy Mentorians. How can they do it? Fawning up lorry that way. Yet they're as human as we are, slaves of lorry. Bart felt involuntary surge of anger, instantly controlled. It's not that way at all. My mother was a Mentorian, remember? She made five cruises on a lorry ship before she married my father. Tommy sighed. I guess I'm just jealous. Think the Mentorians can sign on the lorry ship as a crew, while you and I will never pilot a ship between starts. What did she do? She was a mathematician. Before the lorry met up with men, they used a system of mathematics as clumsy as the old Roman numerals. You have to admire them when you realize that they learned stellar navigation with their old system, though most ships use human math now. And of course, you know their eyes aren't like ours. Among other things, they're colorblind. They see everything in shades of black or white or gray. So they found out that humans aboard their ships are useful. Remember how humans, in the early days in space, used certain birds who were more sensitive to impure air than they were. When the birds killed over, they could tell it was time for humans to start looking over the air systems. The lorry used Mentorians to identify colors for them. And since Mentor was the first planet of humans that lorry had contact with, they've always been closer to them. Tommy looked after the two Mentorians infiously. The fact is, I'd chip out with the lorry myself if I could, wouldn't you? Bart's mouth twisted in the right smile. No, he said. I could, I'm half Mentorian, I can even speak lorry. Why don't you? I would. Oh no, you wouldn't. Bart said softly. Not even very many Mentorians will. You see, the lorry don't trust humans too much. In the early days, men were always planting spies on lorry ships to try and steal secretive warp drive. They never managed it. But nowadays, the lorry give all the Mentorians what amounts to a brainwashing, deep hypnosis before and after every voyage, so that they can neither look for anything that might threaten the lorry monopoly of space, nor reveal it, even under a truth dug, if they find it out. You have to be pretty fanatic about space travel to go through that. Oh, my mother could tell us a lot of things about her cruises with lorry. The lorry can tell a diamond from a ruby, except by spectrographic analysis, for instance. And she? A high-conk note sonnets somewhere, touching off an explosion of warning bells and buzzers all over the enormous building. Bart looks up. Chip must be coming in to land. I've got a check into the passenger side. Tommy said. He stuck out his hand. Well, Bart, I guess this is where we say goodbye. They shook hands, their eyes meeting for a moment in honest grief. In some indefinable way, this parting marked the end of their boyhood. Good luck, Tom. I'm going to miss you. They wrung each other's hands together, hard. Then Choy picked up his luggage and started on a sloping ramp toward an enclosure marked the passenger entrance. Warning bells rang again. The glaring testified until the glowing sky was unendurable, but Bart looked anyhow, making out strange shape of lorry ship from stars. It was huge and strange, glowing with colors Bart had never seen before. It settled down slowly, softly, enormous, silent, vibrating, glowing. Then swiftly faded to white hot, gleaming blue, dulling down through the visible spectrum to red. At last it was just gleaming lacy lorry metal color again. High up in ship's side, a yawning gap slide open, extruding star steps, and men and lorry began to descend. Bart ran down a ramp and searched out on the field with crowds. His eyes, alert for his father's tall figure, noted the surprise that ship's stairs were coated by four cloaked lorry, each of them ensuring an interpreter. There was stopping each person who got off the starship, asking for identity papers. Bart realized he was seeing another segment of the same drama he had ever heard discussed and wish he knew what it was all about. The crowd was thinning now. Robo-caps were surfing in, hovering above the ground to pick up passengers, then veering away. The gap in the starship's side was closing, and still Bart had not seen the tall, slim, flim-haired figure of his father. The port on the other side of the ship, he knew, was for loading passengers. Bart moved carefully through the thinning crowd, almost to the foot of the stairs. One of the lorry-checking papers stopped and fixed him with an inexcrutable gray stare, but finally turned away again. Bart began really to worry. Captain Steelwood never missed his ship. But he saw only one disembarking passenger who had not yet been surrounded by a group of welcoming relatives or summoned a robo-cab and gone. The man was wearing wagon clothes, but he wasn't Bart's father. He was a fat little man with ruddy cheeks and the fringe of curly gray hair all around his bald dome. Maybe he'd know if there was another wagon on the ship. Then Bart realized that the little fat man was staring straight at him. He returned a man's smile rather hesitantly. Then blinked, for a fat man was coming straight toward him. Hello, son! The fat man said loudly. Then, as two of the lorry started toward him, the strange man did an incredible thing. He reached out his two hands and grabbed Bart. Well, boy, you sure groaned. He said in a loud, cheerful voice. But you're not too grown up to give your old dad a good hug, are you? He pulled Bart roughly into his arms. Bart started to pull away and stammer that the fat man had made a mistake, but the pudgy hand gripped his wrist with unexpected strength. Bart listened to me. The stranger whispered with a harsh, fast voice. Go along with this, or we're both dead. See those two lorry watching us? Call me dead, good and loud, if you want to live. Because, believe me, your life's in danger, right now. End of chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Colors of Space This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org. Recording by NSFAC Mount Portugal The Colors of Space by Mary and Jimmer Bradley Chapter 2 For a moment, pulled off Vela's in fat stranger's hug, Bart remained perfectly still. And repeated in that loud, jovial voice, How you've grown? He let him go, stepping away a pace or two, and whispered urgently, Say something, and take that stupid look off your face. As he stepped back, Bart saw his eyes. In the chubby, good-natured red face, the trender's eyes were half mad with fear. In a split second, Bart remembered the two lorry and the shock of a fugitive. In that moment, Bart still grew up. He stepped toward men and took him quickly by the shoulders. Dev, you sure surprised me. He said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Been such a long time, I've... I've forgotten what you looked like. Have a good trip. About like always. The fat man was breathing hard, but his voice sounded firm and cheerful. Can't compare with the trip on the whole Asterian, though. The Asterian was flagship of Vega interplanet. Rupert still's own ship. How's everything? Bands of sweat were standing out on the man's ruddy forehead, and his grip on Bart's wrist was so hard it hurt. Bart, grasping at random for something to say, gabbled. Too bad you couldn't get to my graduation. I made... stood in the class of four hundred. The lorry surrounded them and were closing in. The fat man took a deep breath or two, said, Just a minute, son, and turned around. You want something? The tallest of the lorry, the old one, whom Bart had seen on the escalator, looked long and hard at him. When they spoke universal, their voices were sibilant, but not nearly so unhuman. Could we trouble you to show us your papers? Certainly. Nonchalantly, the fat man dug them out and handed them over. Bart saw his father's name printed across the top. The lorry jasted to a Mentorian interpreter. What color is this man's hair? The Mentorian said in the lorry language, His hair is gray. He used a universal word. There were, of course, no words for colors in the lorry's speech. The man we seek as hair of red, said lorry. And he is tall, not fat. The boy is tall and with red hair. The Mentorian volunteered, and the old lorry made a gesture of disdain. This boy is 20 years younger than the man whose description came to us. Why did they not give us a picture, at least a name? He turned to the other lorry and said in their own shrill speech, I suspected this man because he was alone, and I had seen this boy on the upper mezzanine and spoken with him. We watched him, knowing sooner or later the father would seek him, ask him. He chanced toward and Mentorian said, Who is this man you? Bart Gulp. For the first time he noted that Andrew John Ray shockers at the belts of the lorry. He heard about those. They could stun, or they could kill, and quite horribly. He said, This is my father. One of my cards too? He hauled out his identity papers. My name is Bart Steele. The lorry, with the gesture of disgust, handed them back. Go then, father and son. He said, not unkindly. Let's get going, son, said little bald man. His hands shook on Bart's, and Bart thought, If we're lucky, we can get out of the boat before he faints dead away. He said, I'll get a copter. And then, feeling sorry for the stranger, he gave him his hand to lean on. He didn't know whether he was worried or scared. Where was his father? What did this man have his dad's papers? Was his father hiding in some lorry ship? He wanted to run to brush away from the imposter, but the guy was shaking so hard Bart couldn't just leave him standing there. If the lorry got him, he was a dead duck. A copter swooped down, the pallet siniling. The little man said hoarsely, No, robocab. Bart waved the copter away, getting a dirty look from the pallet, and punched the button at stand for one of the unmanned robocabs. It swung down, hovered motionless. Bart boosted fat men in. Inside, the man collapsed on the seat, leaning back, puffing, his hand pressed hard to his chest. Punched a camber for Denver. He said hoarsely. Bart obeyed automatically. Then he churned on the man. It sure came, mister. Now, tell me what's going on. Where's my father? The man's eyes were half shut. He said, gasping. Don't ask me any questions for a minute. It thumbed the tablet into his mouth and presently his breathing quieted. We're safe for a minute. Those lorry would have cut us down. You, maybe. I haven't done anything. Look, you. Bart said in sudden rage. You owe me some explanations. For all I know, you're a criminal and lorry have every right to chase you. Why have you got my father's papers? Did you steal them to get away from the lorry? Where's my father? It's your father they were looking for, you young fool. Said the man, gasping hard. Like they had only a description and not a name. You've probably got that by now, encoded. We've only confused them for a little while. But if you hadn't played along, they'd have had you watched and when they got hold of the name still, they will sooner or later. The people in the proscened system. Where is my father? I hope I don't know. The fat man said, if he's still where I left him, he's dead. My name is Briscoe, Edmund Briscoe. Your father saved my life years ago, never mind how. The less you know, safer you'll be for a while. His major worry just now is about you. He was afraid if he didn't turn up here, you'd take the first ship back to Vega. So he gave me his papers and sent me to Warnew. Bart shook his head. It all sounds phony as can be. How do I know whether to believe you or not? His hand hovered over the robocap controls. We're going straight to the police. If you're okay, then we'll turn you over to Dlari. If you're not, you're young fool. Sad fat man with feeble violence. There's no time for all that. Ask me questions, I can prove I know your father. What was my mother's name? Oh God, Briscoe said. I never saw her. I knew your father long before you were born. Until he told me, I never knew he'd married or had a son. I never have known you except that you're a living image. He shook his head helplessly and his breathing sounded hoarse. Bart, I'm a sick man, I'm going to die. I want you to do what I came here to do because your father saved my life once when I was young and healthy and gave me twenty good years before I got old and fat and sick. Win or lose, I won't live to see you handed down like a dog, like my own son. Don't talk like that. Bart said a creepy feeling coming over him. If you're sick, let me take you to a doctor. Briscoe did not even hear. Wait, there is something else. Your father said, tell Bart I've gone looking for the eighth color. Bart will know what I mean. That's crazy, I don't know. He broke off for the memory I'd come full blown. He was very young, five, six, seven. His mother, tall and slender and very fair, was bending over a blueprint, pointing with a delicate finger at something, straightening, singing her light musical tone. The fuel catalyst. It's a strange color, a color you never saw anywhere. Can you think of a color that isn't red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, indigo, or some combination of them? It isn't any of the colors of the spectrum at all. The fuel is a real eighth color. And this father had used the phrase, almost adopted it. When we know what the eighth color is, we'll have the secret of the star drive too. Briscoe saw his face changed, not that weakly. I see it means something to you. Now, what do you do as I tell you? In a couple of hours they'll be combing the planet for you, but by that time the ship I came in on will have taken off again. They only stop a short time here for mail, passengers, no cargo. They may get under my way again before all messages are cleared and decoded. It stopped and breathed hard. The Earth's authorities might protect you, but you'd never be able to board the lorry ship again. That would mean staying on Earth for the rest of your life. You've got to get away before they start comparing notes. Here. His hand went into his pockets. For your hair. It's a dye, a spray. He pressed a button on the bulb in his hand. Bart gasped, feeling cold wetness on his head. His own hand came away stained black. Keep still. Briscoe said irritably. You'll need it at the prosion end of the run. Here. He stuck some papers into Bart's hand, then punched some buttons on the RoboCab's control. It wheeled and swept so rapidly that Bart fell against Fat Man's shoulder. Are you crazy? What are you going to do? Briscoe looked strange into Bart's eyes. In his hoarse, sick voice he said. Bart, don't worry about me. It's all over for me, whatever happens. Just remember this. What your father is doing is worth doing. And if you start stalling, arguing, demanding explanations, you can foul up a hundred people and kill about half of them. He closed Bart's fingers roughly over the papers. The RoboCab hovered over the spaceport. Now listen to me very carefully. When I stop the cab, down below, jump out. Don't stop to say goodbye or ask questions or anything else. Just get out, walk straight through the passenger door and straight up the ramp of the ship. Show them that ticket and get on. Whatever happens, don't let anything stop you. Bart, briscoe shook his shoulder. Promise, whatever happens, you'll get on that ship. Bart swallowed, feeling as if it'd been shoved into a silly cops and robbers game. But briscoe's urgency had convinced him. Where am I going? All I have is a name, Rainer 3. Briscoe said. And messaged about eighth collar. That's all I know. His mouth twisted the can in that painful gas. The cab swooped down. Bart found his voice. But what then? Is that there? Will I know? I don't know any more than I've told you. Briscoe said. Abruptly, the RoboCab came to a halt, swaying a little. Briscoe jerked the door open, gave Bart a push, and Bart found himself stumbling out of the ramp beside spaceport building. He caught his balance, looked around, and realized that RoboCab was already climbing the sky again. Immediately before him, nanolethers spelled, to passenger entrance only. Bart stumbled forward. The lorry-bite gate thrust out the disinterested claw. Bart held up what briscoe had shoved into his hand, only noticing that it was a thin wallet, a set of identity papers, and a strip of pink tickets. Briscoe in alpha, corridor B, straight through. The lorry jessered, and Bart went through narrow passageway, came out at the other end, and found himself at very base of a curving stair that led up and up toward the door inside of the huge lorry ship. Bart hesitated. In another minute, he'd be on his way to a strange sun in the strange world, on what might well be the wild goose chase of all time. Passengers were crowding steps behind him. Someone shouted suddenly, Look at that! And someone else yelled, Is that guy crazy? Bart looked up. A robo-cap was swooping over the spaceport in wild, crazy circles, deepened down, suddenly making a dart like an enraged wasp at a little nest of lorry. They ducked and scattered. The robo-cap served the way, hovered, swooped back. This time it struck one of the lorry crazily with landing gear and knocked him sprawling. Bart stood at his mouth open, as if paralyzed. Briscoe, what was he doing? The fallen lorry lay without moving. The robo-cap moved it again, as if for the kill buzzing violently overhead. Then a beam of light harsed from one of the Tron-Energon grey tubes. The robo-cap glowed briefly red, then seemed to sag, think together. Then puddled, a slag heap of molten metal on the glassy floor of the port. A little moon of horror came from the crowd, and Bart fell a sudden, wrenching sickness. It had been like a game, a silly game of cops and robots, and suddenly it was as serious as melted dust lying there on spaceport. Briscoe! Someone shoved him and said, Come on, quit gawking head. They would hold sheep all day just because some nut finds a new way to commit suicide. Bart, his legs numb, walked up the ramp. Briscoe had died to give him this chance. Now it was up to him to make it worth having. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of the Colors of Space This is a LibreBox recording. All LibreBox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreBox.org Recording by Ana Suia Simão de Portugal. The Colors of Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Chapter 3. At the top of the ramp, a larry clasp briefly at his papers motioned him through. Bart passed through the airlock and into a brightly lit corridor half full of passengers. The line was moving slowly, short first time Bart had a chance to think. He had never seen violent death before. In this civilized world you didn't. In Yume, if you thought about Briscoe, it starts bawling like a baby. So he sold hard a couple of times, set his chin and concentrated on the trip to Prozion Alpha. That meant his sheep was outbound on the alt bar and run. Prozma Centari, Sirius, Pollux, Prozion, Capella and Altbaran. The line of passengers was disappearing through the doorway. All men of head of Bart churned and sat nervously. We won't be put into cold sleep right away, will we? Here he assured her, remembering his unbound trip five years ago. No, no. The sheep weren't going to warp drive until they were well past Pluto. It will be several days at least. Beyond the doorway, the lights dwindled and the Mediterranean interpreter took his dark glasses saying, Kindly remove your belt, shoes and other accessories of leather or metal before stepping into the decontamination chamber. They will be separately decontaminated and return to you. Papers, please. With a small twinge of fright, Bart surrendered them. Would Menturin ask why he was carrying two wallets? Inside the other one, he still had his Academy ID card which identified him as Bart's steel and if Menturin looked through them to check and found out he was carrying two sets of identity papers, but Menturin merely dumped all his pocket paraphernalia without looking at it into a sack. Just step through here. Holding up his trousers at both hands, Bart stepped inside the indicated cubicle. It was filled with faint blueish light. Bart felt a strong tingling and a faint electrical smell and along his forearms there was a slight prickling where small hairs were all standing on hand. He knew that invisible iron rays were killing all the microorganisms in this body so that no disease germ or stray fungus would be carried from planet to planet. The blueish light died. Outside, Menturin gave him back his shoes and belt, handing him the paper sack of his belongings and a paper cup full of greenish fluid. Drink this. What is it? The medics had patiently. Remember, the arrays killed all the microorganisms in your body, including the good ones, the antibodies that protect you against disease and small yeast and bacteria that live in your intestines and have appointed a jesson of your food. So we have to replace those you need to stay healthy. See? The green stuff tasted a little breakish, but Bart got it done all right. He didn't much like the idea of drinking a solution of germs, but he knew that was silly. There was a big difference between disease germs and helpful bacteria. Another Menturin official, this one a young woman, gave him a key with a numbered tag and a small booklet with welcome board printed on the cover. The tag was numbered 246B, which made Bart raise his eyebrows. B-class was normally too expensive for Bart's father's mother's purse. It wasn't quite a luxurious class A, reserved for planetary governors and ambassadors, but it was plenty luxurious. Britsky had certainly sent him traveling style. B-deck was a long corridor with oval doors. Bart found one numbered 246, and, not surprisingly, the key opened it. It was a pleasant little cabin, measuring at least six feet by eight, and he would evidently have it to himself. There was a comfortably big bunk, a light that could return on and off instead of the permanent glow walls of the cheaper class, a private shower on the toilet, and a play card on the walls informing him that passengers in B-class had the freedom of the observation dome and recreation lounge. There was even a row of buttons dispensing synthetic food, in case a passenger preferred privacy or didn't want to wait for meals in the dining hall. A buzzer sounded, and a mentoring voice announced. Five minutes to room check. Passengers will please remove all metal in their clothing and deposit in the lived drawers. Passengers will please recline in their bunks and fasten the retaining stress before the steward arrives. Repeat, passengers will please... Bart took off his belt, stuck it in his cufflinks in the drawer and lay down. Then, in a sudden panic, he got up again. His papers as Bart's steel were still in the sack. He got him out, and with the feeling as if he were crossing a bridge and burning it after him, drew up every scrap of paper that identified him and made a four-graduated Space Academy of Earth. Now, for better or worse, he was... Who was he? He hadn't even looked at new papers Briscoe had given him. He clashed through them quickly. They were made out of David Warren Briscoe of Aldebaran IV. According to them, David Briscoe was twenty years old, hair black, ice hazel, eight thick's foot one inch. Bart wondered, painfully, if Briscoe had a son and if David Briscoe knew where his father was. There was also a license, validated with four runs on the Aldebaran Inter-Satellite Cargo Company, planetary ships, with rank of apprentice astrogator and a considerable sum of money. Bart put the papers in his pants' pocket and turned up scraps of his old one into the trash bin before he realized that they looked exactly like what they were, turned up legal identity papers and a broken plastic card. Nobody destroyed identity papers for any good reason. What could he do? Then he remembered something from the Academy. Starships were closed system cycles. No waste was discarded, nothing was collected in big chemical tanks, broken down to separate elements, purified and built up again into new materials. He threw the paper into the toilet, worked plastic card back and forth, back and forth, until he had drenched it into inch-wide bits and threw it after them. The cabin door opened and the venturing had set irritably. Please lie down and fasten your straps, I haven't all day. Hastily Bart flushed the toilet and went to the bank. Now everything that could identify him as Bart Steele was on its way to the breakdown tanks. Before long the complex hydrocarbons and cellulose would all be innocent little molecules of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen. They might turn up in new combinations as sugar on the table. The mentorion grumbled. You young people think the rules mean everybody but you. And strapped him far too tightly into the bank. Bart felt resentful, just because mentorions could work on larry ships did they have to act as if they owned everybody. When the man had gone, Bart drew a deep breath. Was he really doing the right thing? If he refused to get out of the robo cab? If he driven Briscoe straight to the police? Then maybe Briscoe will still be alive. And now it was too late. A warning siren went off in the ship, rising to hysterical intensity. Bart thought incredulously, this is really happening. It felt like a nightmare. His father, a fugitive from the larry, Briscoe dead. He himself travelling with forged papers to a star he had never seen. He braced himself, knowing siren was last warning before takeoff. First there would be the hum of great turban's deepened ship, then the crushing surge of acceleration. He had made a dozen trips inside solar system, but no matter how often he did it, there was the strange excitement, the little pinpoint of fear, like an exotic taste that was almost pleasant. The door opened and Bart grabbed the fistful of bad ticklings as too larry came into bedroom. One of them said in their strange shrill speech, this boy is the right age. Bart froze. You're seeing spies in every corner ransom, said the other, then in your universal. Could we trouble you for your papers, sir? Bart, strapped down and helpless, moved his head toward the drawer, hoping his faith did not betray his fear. He watched the two larry riffle through his papers with their odd pointed claws. What is your planet? Bart bit his lip, hard, yet almost said Vega 4, Aldebaran 4. The larry said in his own language, we should have margeline here. He actually saw them. The other replied, but I saw the machine that disintegrated. I still say there was enough protoplasm residue for two bodies. Bart fought to keep his face perfectly straight. Did anyone come into your cabin? The larry asked in your universal. Only one steward. Why? Is something wrong? There is some thought that the stoolway might be on board. Of course, we could not allow that. Anyone not properly protected would die in fort shift into warp drive. Just steward, Bart said again, I'm a torian. The larry said, I'm him keenly. You are ill, or discomolded? Bart crossed the trend and for an excuse. That stuffed medic made me drink made me feel sort of sick. You may send for a medical officer after acceleration, said larry expressionously. The summoning bell is at your left. The chunan went out and Bart gulped. Larry in person, checking the passengers' decks. Normally you never saw one on board. Just mentorians. Larry treated humans as if they were too dumb to bother about. Well, at least for once, someone was acting as if humans were worthy antagonists. We'll show them, someday. But he felt very alone and scared. A low hum rose, summer in the ship, and Bart grabbed ticking as he felt slow urge. Then a valentess of pressure popped his eardrums, weight crowded down on him like an elephant sitting on his chest, and there was a horrible squash sensation dragging his limbs out of shape. It grew and grew. Bart lay still and sweated, trying to ease his uncomfortable position, unable to move so much as a finger. The larry ships hit twelve gravities in the first surge of acceleration. Bart felt as if he were spreading out, under the weight, into a puddle of flesh, knelted flesh like briskos. Bart witted and bit his lip till he could taste blood, wishing he were young enough to ball out loud. Approximately it eased, and the blood started flow again in his numbed limbs. Bart loosened his straps, took a few deep breaths, wiped his face, ringing wet, whether it's sweat or tears he wasn't sure, and set up in his bunk. The loudspeaker announced, acceleration one is completed. Passengers on A and B decks are invited to witness the passing of satellites from the observation lounge in half an hour. Bart caught up and washed his face, remembering that he had no luggage with him, not so much as a toothbrush. At the back of his mind, packed up in a corner, was continuing worry about his father, the horrid briskos ghastly death, cheer of the larry. But he slammed the lid firmly on them all. For the moment he was safe. They might be looking for Bart still by now, but they were looking for David Briskie of Aldebaran. He might just as well relax and enjoy the trip. He went down to the observation lounge. It had been darkened, and one whole wall of the room was made of clear quartzite. Bart threw a deep breath, as the vast panorama of space opened out before him. They were sitting from the sun at some thousand of miles of minute, swirling past ship, gleaming in the reflected sunlight like iron filling moving to the motion of a magnet, were the waves up and waves of cosmic dust, tiny-free electrons, ions, particles of gas, free of the heavier atmosphere, themselves invisible, deforming their buildings into bright clouds around ship, pale, swirling veils of mist. And through their dim shine, the brilliant flares of thick stars burned clear and steady, so far away that even the hurling motion of ship could not change their positions. One by one he picked out constellations. Aldebaran swung on the pendant chain of churros like a giant ruby. Orients throwed across the sky, a swirling nebula at his belt. Zeke burned, cobalt blue, in the art of the lyre. Colors, colors. Inside the atmosphere of Earth's night, the stars had been pale with sparks against black. Here, against misty pale swirls of cosmic dust, they burned with color, hips on color. The bloody burning crimson of Antares, the metallic gold of Capella, the selling posting of battle-gues. They burned, each with its own inward flame and light, like handfuls of burning jewels flung by some giant hand upon swirling darkness. It was a sight Bart felt he could watch forever and still be hungry to see, never changing, ever changing colors of space. Behind him in the darkness, after a long time, someone says softly, Imagine being a larry and not being able to see anything out there but bright or brighter light. A bell rang melodiously in the ship and the passengers in the lounge began to stir and move toward the door, to stretch limbs cramped like Bart's by trance-watching to talk quickly of ordinary things. I suppose that Bell means dinner, said the vaguely familiar voice at Bart's elbow. Synthetics I suppose, but at least you can all get acquainted. The light from the undarkened hull fell on their faces as they moved toward the door. Bart, why, it can't be. In utter dismay Bart looked down into the face of Tommy Kendron. In the rush of danger he had absolutely forgotten that Tommy Kendron was on this ship to make his alias useless. Tommy was looking at him in surprise and light. Why didn't you tell me, or did you and your father decide that last minute? Hey, it's great that we can go part-way together at least. Bart knew he must cut his short very quickly. He stepped out into the full corridor light so that Tommy could see his black hair. I'm sorry, you're confusing me with someone else. Bart, come off it. Tommy's voice died out. Sorry, I'd have soon you were a friend of mine. Bart wondered suddenly, heavy than the wrong thing. He had a feeling he might need a friend, badly. Well, it was too late now. He stared Tommy in the eye and said, I have never seen you before in my life. Tommy looked deflated. He stepped back slightly, shaking his head. Never saw such a resemblance. Are you a vegan? No, Bart liked flatly. Aldebaran, David Briscoe. Glad to know you, Dave. With undiscussable friendliness, Tommy stick out a hand. Say, that well means dinner. Why don't you go down together? I don't know what's so long ship, and it looks like luck. Running to a fellow who could be my best friend's twin brother. Bart fell warm and run, but sensibly he knew he could not keep up the pretence. Sooner or later he'd give himself away, use some habitual phrase or gesture Tommy would recognize. Should he take a chance? Reveal himself to Tommy and ask him to keep quiet. No, this wasn't the game. One man was already dead. He didn't want Tommy to be next. There was only one way out. He said coldly. Thank you, but I have other things to attend to. I intend to be very busy all through the voyage. He spun on his eel and walked away before he could see Tommy's eager, friendly smile, chin-hurt and defensive. Back in his cabin he clumpily dilated some syntactic jealous, thinking with annoyance of the anticipated good food of the dining room. He knew he could risk meeting Tommy again and rarely resigned himself to stay in his cabin. It looked like a hopefully boring trip ahead. It was. It was a week before Larry ship went into Ark Drive, and all that time Bart stayed in his cabin, not caring to go to the observation lounge or dining hall. He got tired of eating syntactics. All they were nourishing enough, but they were altogether uninteresting. And tired of listening to the tapes, the room's steward guard him from the ship's library. By the time they had been in space a week he was so bored with his own company that even the venturient medic was a welcome sight when he came in to prepare him for cold sleep. Bart had had the best education on earth, but he didn't know precisely how the Larry Warp Drive worked. He'd been told that only a few of the Larry understood it, just as many of the Warcopters didn't need to understand Newton's three laws of motion in order to get himself back and forth to work. But he knew this much. When ship generated the frequencies, which accelerated it beyond speed of light, in effect the ship went into a sort of force dimension and came out of it a good many light years away. As far as Bart knew, no human being had ever survived Warp Drive except in the suspended animation which they called Cold Sleep. While the medic was professionally resuring him and strapping him in his bunk, Bart wondered what humans would do with Larry's Star Drive if they had it. Well, he suppose they could use automation in their ships. The venturient paused, needle in hand. Do you wish to be awakened for the week we shall spend in each of the proscema, series and Pollock systems, sir? You can, of course, be given enough drug to keep you in cold sleep and to reach the proscema system. Bart wondered if the room steward had mentioned the passenger so bored with the trip that he didn't even visit the observation lounge. He felt tempted. He was getting awfully tired of staring at walls. On the other hand, he wanted very much to see the other star systems. When he passed through them on the trip to Earth, he had been too young to pay much attention. Firmly he put temptation aside. Better not to risk meeting other passengers. Tell me especially if he decided he couldn't take the boredom. The needle went into his arm. He felt himself sinking into sleep and in sudden panic realized that he was helpless. She put touch down on three worlds and on any of them Dlari might have a description or his alias. He could be taken off, drugged and unconscious, might never wake up. He tried to move, to protest, to tell them he was changing his mind but already he was unable to speak. There was a freezing moment of intense, painful cold. Then he was floating in what felt like waves of cosmic dust. Swirling many colors before his eyes. And then there was nothing, no color, nothing at all except no where night of sleep. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of The Colors of Space This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Colors of Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley Chapter 4 Bart felt cold. He stirred, moved his head in drowsy protest. Then memory came flooding back and in sudden panic he sat up, flinging out his arms as if to ward away anyone who would lay hands on him. Easy! said a soothing voice. A mentorian, not the same mentorian, bent over him. We have just entered the gravitational field of Procyon Planet Alpha, Mr. Briscoe. Touchdown in four hours. Bart mumbled an apology. Think nothing of it. Quite a number of people who aren't used to the cold sleep drug suffer from minor lapses of memory. How do you feel now? Bart's legs were numb and his hands tingled when he sat up, but his body processes had been slowed so much by the cold sleep that he didn't even feel hungry. The synthetic jelly he'd eaten just before going to sleep wasn't even digested yet. When the mentorian left for another cabin Bart looked around and suddenly felt he would stifle if he stayed here another minute. He wasn't likely to run into Tommy twice in a row and if he did, well, Tommy would probably remember the snub he'd had and stay away from Dave Briscoe. And he wanted another side of the stars before he went into worry and danger. He went down to the observation lounge. The cosmic dusk was brighter out here and the constellations looked a little flattened. Textbook tables came back to him. He had traveled forty-seven light-years. You couldn't remember how many billions of miles that was. Even so, it was only the tiniest hop, skip, and jump in the measureless vastness of space. The ship was streaking toward Procyon, a soul-type star. Bright yellow, the three planets Alpha, Beta, and Gamma ringed like Saturn and veiled in shimmering layers of cloud swung against the night. Past them other stars, brighter stars, faraway stars he would never see, glimmered through the pale dust. Hello, Dave. Been space-sick all this time? Remember me? I met you about six weeks ago in the lounge down here, just out from Earth. Oh, no. Bart turned with a mental groan to face Tommy. I've been in cold sleep, he said. He couldn't be rude again. What a dull way to face a long trip, Tommy said cheerily. I've enjoyed every minute of it myself. It was hard for Bart to realize that, for Tommy, their meeting had been six weeks ago. It all seemed dreamlike. The closer he came to it, the less he could realize that in a few hours he'd be getting off on a strange world with only the strange name Rainer III as a guide. He felt terribly alone, and having Tommy close at hand helped, even though Tommy didn't know he was helping. Maybe I should have stayed awake. You should, Tommy said. I only slept a couple of hours at each work-drive shift. We had a day-long stop over at Sirius 18, and I took a tour of the planet. And I've spent a lot of time down here, just stargazing. Not that it did me much good. Which one is Antares? How do you tell it from Aldebaran? I'm always getting them mixed up. Bart pointed, Aldebaran, that's the big red one there, he said. Think of the constellation Taurus as a necklace, with Aldebaran hanging from it like a locket. Antares is much further down in the sky, in relation to the arbitrary side-real axis. And it's a deeper red, like a burning coal, while Aldebaran is like a ruby. He broke off in mid-work, realizing that Tommy was gazing at him in a mixture of triumph and consternation. Too late, Bart realized he had been tricked. Studying for an exam the year before, he had explained the difference between the two red stars in almost the same words. Bart, Tommy said in a whisper, I knew it had to be you. Why didn't you tell me, fella? Bart felt himself start to smile, but it only stretched his mouth. He said very low, don't say my name out loud, Tom, I'm in terrible trouble. Why didn't you tell me, what's a friend for? We can't talk here, and all the cabins are wired for sound in case somebody stops breathing, or has a heart attack in space, Bart said, glancing around. They went and stood at the very foot of the court's window, seeming to tread the brink of a dizzying gulf of cosmic space, and talked in low tones while Alpha and Beta and Gamma swelled like blown-up balloons in the port. Tommy listened almost incredulous, and you're hoping to find your father with no more information than that? It's a big universe, he said, waving at the gulf of stars. The lorry ships, according to the little tourist pamphlet they gave me, touched down at 922 different stars in this galaxy. Bart visibly winced, and Tommy urged, come to Capella with me. You can stay with my family as long as you want to, and appeal to the Interplanet Authority to find your father. They'd protect him against the lorry, surely. You can't chase all over the galaxy playing Interplanetary Spy all by yourself, Bart. But Briscoe had deliberately gone to his death to give Bart the chance to get away. He wouldn't have died to send Bart into a trap he could easily have sprung on Earth. Thanks, Tommy, but I've got to play it my way. Tommy said firmly, count me in, then. My ticket has stopover privileges. I'll get off at Procyon with you. It was a temptation to have a friend at his back. He put his hand on Tommy's shoulder, grateful beyond words, but fresh horror seized him as he remembered the horrible puddle of melted roto cab with Briscoe somewhere in the residue. Protoplasm residue enough for two bodies. He couldn't let Tommy face that. Tommy, I appreciate that. Believe me. But if I did find my father and his friends, I don't want anyone tracing me. You'd only make the danger worse. The best thing you can do is stay out of it. Tommy faced him squarely. One thing's for sure. I'm not going to let you go off and never know whether you're alive or dead. I'll try to get a message to you, Bart said, if I can. But whatever happens, Tommy, stay with the ship and go on to Capella. It's the one thing you can do to help me. A warning bell rang in the ship. He broke sharply away from Tommy, saying over his shoulder. It's all you can do to help, Tom. Do it, please. Just stay clear. Tommy reached out and caught his arm. Okay, he said reluctantly. I will. But you be careful, he added fiercely. You hear me? And if I don't hear from you in some reasonable time, I'll raise a stink from here to Vega. Bart broke away and ran. He was afraid if he didn't, he'd break up again. He closed the cabin door behind him, trying to calm down so that the Mentorian steward coming to strap him in for deceleration wouldn't see how upset he was. He was going to need all his nerve. He went through another decontamination chamber and finally moved with a line of passengers out of the yawning airlock under the strange sun into the strange world. At first sight it was a disappointment. It was a lorry spaceport that lay before him, to all appearances identical with the one on earth. Sloping glass ramps, tall colorless pylons, a skyscraper terminus crowded with men of all planets. But the sun overhead was brilliant and clear gold, the shadow sharp and violet on the spaceport floor. Behind the confines of the spaceport he could see the ridges of tall hills and unfamiliarly colored trees. He longed to explore them, but he got a grip on his imagination, surrendering his ticket stub and false papers to the lorry and Mentorian interpreter who guarded the ramp. The lorry said to the Mentorian in the lorry language. Can you pimp our questioning, but don't tell him why? Bart fell to cold chill icing his spine. This was it. The Mentorian said briefly, we wish to check on the proper antibody component for Aldebaran natives. There will be a delay of about thirty minutes. Will you kindly wait in this room here? The room was comfortable, furnished with chairs and a vision screen with some colorful story moving on it. Small bright figures and capes, curious beasts racing across an unusual veld. But Bart paced the floor restlessly. There were two doors in the room. Through one of them he had been admitted. He could see, through the glass door, the silhouette of the Mentorian outside. The other door was opaque and marked in large letters. Danger! Humans must not pass without special lenses, type X. Ordinary space lenses will not suffice. Danger! Lorry opening! Adjust X lenses before opening. Bart read the sign again. Well, that was no way out for sure. He had heard that the lorry's son was almost five hundred times as bright as Earth's. The Mentorians alone among humans could endure lorry lights. He supposed the warning was for ordinary spaceport workers. A sudden rather desperate plan occurred to Bart. He didn't know how much light he could tolerate. He'd never been on Mentor, but he had inherited some of his mother's tolerance for light. And blindness would be better than being burned down with an energon gun. He went hesitantly toward the door and pushed it open. His eyes exploded into pain. Automatically his hands went up to shield them. Light! Light! He had never known such cruelly glowing light. Even through the lids there was pain and red after-images. But after a moment opening them a slit he found that he could see and made out other doors, glass ramps, pale lorry figures coming and going. But for the moment he was alone in the long corridor beyond which he could see the glass ramps. Nearby a door opened into a small office with glass walls. On a peg one of the silky metallic cloaks worn by Mentorians doing spaceport work was hanging. On an impulse Bart coded up and flung it around his shoulders. It felt cool and soft and the hood shielded his eyes a little. The ramp leading down to what he hoped was street level was terribly steep and there were no steps. Bart eased himself over the top of the ramp and let go. He whooshed down the slick surface on the flat of his back feeling the metal of the cloak heat with the friction and came to a breathless jarring stop at the bottom. Phew! What a slide! Three stories at least. But there was a door and outside the door may be safety. A voice tailed him in lorry. Yo! There! Bart could see well now. He made out the form of the lorry only a colorless blob in the intense light. You people know better than to come back here without glasses? Do you want to be blinded, my friend? He actually sounded kind and concerned. Bart tensed, his heart pounding. Now that he was caught could he bluff his way out? He hadn't actually spoken the lorry language in years, though his mother had taught it to him when he was young enough to learn it without a trace of accent. Well, he must try. Margill sent me to check. He improvised quickly. They were holding someone for questioning. He seems to have gotten away somehow, so I wanted to make sure he didn't come through here. What is the matter that one man can give us all the slip this way? The lorry said curiously. Well, one thing is sure. He's vegan or solarian or cappellan, one of the dim-starred people. If he comes through here, we'll catch him easily enough while he's stumbling around, half-blind. You know that you shouldn't stay long, he gestured. Out this way, and don't come back without special lenses. Bart nodded, jerking the cloak around his shoulders, forcing himself not to break into a run as he stepped through the door the lorry indicated. It closed behind him. Bart blinked, feeling as if he had stepped into pitch darkness. Only slowly did his eyes adapt, and he became aware that he was standing in a city street, in the full glow of prosci and sunlight, and apparently outside the lorry's spaceport entirely. He'd better get to cover. He took off the mentorian cloak, thrust it under his arm. He raised his eyes, which were adjusting to ordinary light again, and stopped dead. Just across the street was a long, low, rainbow-colored building, and the letters, Bart blinked, thinking his eyes deceived him, spelled out. Eight colors transshipping corporation, cargo, passengers, messages, express. A. Rainer I. Manager. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Colors of Space Recording by Mark Nelson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. The Colors of Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Chapter 5 For a moment the words swirled before Bart's still-watering eyes. He wiped them, trying to steady himself. Had he so soon reached the end of his dangerous quest? Somehow he had expected it to lie in deep, dark concealment. Rainer I. The existence of Rainer I presupposed a Rainer II, and probably a Rainer III. For all he knew, Rainer's four, five, six, and sixty-six. The building looked solid and real. It had evidently been there a long time. With his hand on the door he hesitated. Was it, after all, the right eight colors? But it was a family saying, hardly the sort of thing you'd be apt to hear outside. He pushed the door and went in. The room was filled with brighter light than the proscian sun outdoors. The edges of the furniture rimmed with the neon in the Mentorian fashion. A prem-looking girl sat behind a desk, or what should have been a desk, except that it looked more like a mirror, with little sparkles of lights, different colors, in regular rows along one edge. The mirror top itself was a blue violet, and gave her skin and her violet eyes a bluish tinge. She was smooth and lacquered and glittering, and she raised her eyebrows at Bart as if he were some strange form of life she hadn't seen very often. I'd er like to see Rain or One, he said. Her dainty pointed fingernail, varnished blue, stabbed at points of light. On what business, she asked, not caring. It's a personal matter. Then I suggest you see him at his home. I can't wait that long. The girl studied the glassy surface and punched it some more of the little lights. Name, please. David Briscoe He had thought her perfect painted face could not show any emotion except his dain, but it did. She looked at him in open, blank consternation. She said into the vision screen, calls himself David Briscoe. Yes, I know. Yes, sir, yes. She raised her face, and it was controlled again, but not bored. Rain or One will see you through that door and down to the end of the hall. At the end of the hallway was another door. He stepped through it into a small cubicle, and the door slid shut like a closing trap. He whirled in panic, then subsided in foolish relief as the cubicle began to rise. It was just an automatic elevator. It rose higher and higher, stopping with an abrupt jerk, and slid open into a lighted room and office. A man sat behind a desk, watching Bart step from the elevator. The man was very tall and very thin, and the gray eyes and the intensity of the lights told Bart that he was a Mentorian. Rain or One? Under the steady, stern gray stare Bart felt the slow, clutching suck of fear again. Was this man a slave of the lorry who would turn him over to them? Or someone he could trust? His own mother had been a Mentorian. Who are you? Rain or One's voice was harsh, and gave the impression of being loud, though it was not. David Briscoe? It was the wrong thing. The Mentorian's mouth was taught, forbidding. Try again. I happen to know that David Briscoe is dead. I have a message for Rain or Three. The cold gray stare never altered. On what business? On a sudden inspiration Bart said, I'll tell you that if you can tell me what the eighth color is. There was a glint in the grim eyes now, though the even, stern voice did not soften. I never knew myself. I didn't name it eight colors. Maybe it's the original owner you want. On a sudden hope Bart asked, was he, by any chance, named Rupert Steele? Rain or One made a suspicious movement. I can't imagine why you think so, he said, guardedly, especially if you've just come in from Earth. It was never very widely known. He only changed the name to eight colors a few weeks ago, and it's for sure that your ship didn't get any messages while the lorry were in Warp Drive. You mention entirely too many names, but I notice you aren't giving out any further information. I'm looking for a man called Rupert Steele. I thought you were looking for Rain or Three, said Rain or One, staring at the Mentorian cloak. I can think of a lot of people who might want to know how I react to certain names and find out if I know the wrong people, if they are the wrong people. What makes you think I'd admit it if I did? Now, Bart thought, they had reached a deadlock. Somebody had to trust somebody. This could go on all night. Perry and Raposte questioned an evasive answer, each of them throwing back the other's questions in a verbal fencing match. Rain or One wasn't giving away any information, and, considering what was probably at stake, Bart didn't blame him much. He flung the Mentorian cloak down on a table. This got me out of trouble the hard way, he said. I never wore one before and I never intend to again. I want to find Rupert Steele because he's my father. Your father? And just how are you going to prove that exceptionally interesting statement? Without warning, Bart lost his temper. I don't care whether I prove it or not. You try proving something for a change, why don't you? If you know Rupert Steele, I don't have to prove who I am. Just take a good look at me. Or, so Briscoe told me, a man who called himself Briscoe anyway. He gave me papers to travel under that name. I didn't ask for them, he shoved them into my hand. That, Briscoe is dead. Bart struck his fist hard on the desk, bending over Rain or One angrily. He sent me to find a man named Rain or Three, but the only one I really care about finding is my father. Now you know as much as I do. How about giving me some information for a change? He ran out of breath and stood glaring down at Rain or One. Fists clenched. Rain or One got up and said, quick, savage and quiet. Did anyone see you come here? Only the girl downstairs. How did you get through the lorry? In that. He moved his head at the Mentorian cloak. Bart explained briefly and Rain or One shook his head. You were lucky, he said. You could have been blinded. You must have inherited flash accommodation from the Mentorian side. Rupert Steele didn't have it. I'll tell you this much, he added, sitting down again. In a manner of speaking, you're my boss. Eight colors, it used to be alpha-trend shipping, is what they call a middleman outfit. The interplanet cargo lines transport from planet to planet within a system. That's free competition, and the lorry ships transport from star to star. That's a monopoly all over the galaxy. The middleman outfits arrange for orderly and business-like liaison between the two. Rupert Steele bought into this company a long time ago, but he left it for me to manage, until recently. Rain or Punched a button said to the image of the glossy girl at the desk, Rupert, get three for me. You may have to send a message to the multi-phase. He swung round to Bart again. You want a lot of explanations? Well, you'll have to get them from somebody else. I don't know what this is all about. I don't want to know. I have to do business with the lorry. The less I know, the less I map to say to the wrong people. But I promised three that if you turned up, or if anyone came and asked for the eighth color, I'd send you to him. That's all. He motioned Bart ungraciously to a seat, and shut his mouth firmly, as if he had already said too much. Bart sat. After a while he heard the elevator again, the panel slid open, and Rain or Three came into the room. It had to be Rain or Three. There was no one else he could have been. He was as like Rain or One as Tweedledum to Tweedledee, tall, stern, ascetic, and grim. He wore the full uniform of a mentorion on lorry ships, the white smock of a medic, the metallic blue cloak, the low silvery sandals. He said, What's doing one, Violet? And then he caught sight of Bart. His eyes narrowed, and he drew a quick breath, his face twisting up into apprehension and shock. It must be Steel's boy, he said, and immediately Bart saw the difference between the—were they brothers? For Rain or One's face, controlled and stern, had not altered all during the interview, but Rain or Three's smile was rye and kindly at once, and his voice was low and gentle. He's the image of Rupert. Did he come in on his own name? How'd he manage it? No, he had David Briscoe's papers. So the old man got through, said Rain or Three with a low whistle. But that's not safe. Quick, give them to me, Bart. The lorry have them. Rain or One walked to the window and said in his dead pan voice, It's useless, but get the kid out of here before they come looking for me. Look! Rain or Three pointed. Below them the streets were alive with the uniformed lorry and mentorions. Bart felt sick. If they had the same efficiency with red tape that we humans have, he'd never have made it this far. Rain or Three actually smiled. But you can count on them for that much inefficiency, he said, and his eyes twinkled for a moment at Bart. That's how it was so easy to work the old double shuffle trick on them. They had Steele's description but not his name, so Briscoe took Steele's papers and managed to slip through. Once they landed on earth they had the Steele names, but by the time that cleared you were outbound with another set of papers. It may have confused them because they knew David Briscoe was dead, and there was just a chance you were an innocent bystander who could raise a real row if they pulled you in. Did old Briscoe get away? No, Bart said harshly. He's dead. Rain or Three's mobile face held shocked sadness. Two brave men, he said softly. Edmund Briscoe, the father, David Briscoe, the son. Remember the name, Bart, because I won't remember it. Why not? Rain or Three gave him a gold-glinting enigmatic glance. I'm a Mentorian, remember? I'm good at not remembering things. Just be glad I remember Rupert Steele. If you'd have been a few days later I shouldn't have remembered him, though I promised to wait for you. Rain or One demanded, get him out of here, Three? Rain or Three swung to Bart. Put that on again, he indicated the Mentorian cloak. Pull the hood right up over your head. Now, if we meet anyone, say a polite good afternoon in Larry. You can speak Larry, and leave the rest of the talking to me. Bart felt like cringing as they came out into the street full of Larry. But Rain or Three whispered, Attack is the best defense, and went up to one of the Larry. What's going on, Rieko Mori? A passenger on the ship got away without going through Deacon Tam. He may spread disease, so, of course, we have alerted all authorities, the Larry said. As the Larry strode passed, Rain or Three grimaced. Clever that. Now the whole planet will be hunting for any stranger, worrying themselves into fits about some unauthorized germ. Better get you to a safe place. My country house is a good way off, but I have a copter. Bart demanded as they climbed in, Are you taking me to my father? Wait till we get to my place, Rain or Three said, Taking the controls and putting the machine in the air. Just lean back and enjoy the trip, huh? Bart relaxed against the cushions, but he still felt apprehensive. Where was his father? If he was a fugitive from the Larry, he might by now be at the other end of the galaxy. But if his father couldn't travel on Larry's ships, and if he had been here, the chances were that he was still somewhere in the Prussian system. They flew for a long time, across low hills, patchwork agricultural districts, towns, and then for a long time over water. The copter had automatic controls, but Rain or Three kept it on manual, and Bart wondered if the Mentorian just didn't want to talk. It began to descend at last toward a small green hill, bright in the last gold rays on sunset. A small dome-like pink bubble rose out of the hill. Rain or Three set the copter neatly down on a platform that slid shut after them, unfastened their seat-belts, and gave Bart a hand to climb out. He ushered him into a living-room of glass and chrome, softly lighted, but deserted and faintly dusty. Rain or pushed a switch. Soft music came on, and the carpets caressed his feet. He motioned Bart to a chair. You're safe here for a while, Rain or Three said, though how long nobody knows, but so far I've been above suspicion. Bart leaned back. The chair was very comfortable, but the comfort could not help him to relax. Where is my father? he demanded. Rain or Three stood looking down at him, his mobile face drawn and strange. I guess I can't put it off any longer, he said softly. Then he covered his face with his hands. From behind them horse-words came choked with emotion. Your father is dead, Bart. I... I killed him. Chapter 6 For a moment Bart stared, frozen, unable to move, his very ears refusing the words he heard. Had this all been another cruel trick, then a trap, a betrayal? He rose and looked wildly around the room, as if the glass walls were a cage closing in on him. Murderer! he flung at Rainer and took a step toward him, his clenched fists coming up. He'd been shoved around too long, but here he had one of them right in front of him, and for once he'd hit back. He'd start by taking Rain or Three apart in small pieces. You! you rotten murderer! Rain or Three made no move to defend himself. Bart, he said compassionately, sit down and listen to me. No, I'm no murderer. I... I shouldn't have put it that way. Bart's hands dropped to his sides, but he heard his voice crack with pain and grief. I suppose you'll tell me he was a spy or a traitor, and you had to kill him. Not even that. I tried to save your father. I did everything I could. I'm no murderer, Bart. I killed him, yes. God forgive me, because I'll never forgive myself. Bart's fists unclenched and he stared down at Rain or Three, shaking his head in bewilderment and pain. I knew he was dead. I knew it all along. I was trying not to believe it, but I knew. I liked your father. I admired him. He took a long chance, and it killed him. I could have stopped him. I should have stopped him. But how could I? Where did I have the right to stop him, after what I did too? He stopped almost in mid-word, as if a switch had been turned. But Bart was not listening. He swung away, striding to the wall as if he would kick it in. Striking it with his two clenched fists, his whole being in revolt. Dad, oh, Dad. I kept going. I thought at the end of it you'd be here, and it would all be over. But here I am at the end of it all, and you're not here. You won't ever be here again. Dimly he knew when Rain or Three rose and left him alone. He leaned his head on his clenched fists and cried. After a long time he raised his head and blew his nose, his face setting itself in new, hard, unaccustomed lines, slowly coming to terms with the hard, painful reality. His father was dead. His dangerous, dead in earnest game of escape had no happy ending of reunion with his father. They couldn't sit together and laugh about how scared he had been. His father was dead. And he, Bart, was alone and in danger. His face looked very grim indeed and years older than he was. After a long time Rain or Three opened the door quietly. Common have something to eat, Bart. I'm not hungry. Well, I am, Rain or Three said. And you ought to be. You'll need it. He pulled knobs and the appropriate tables and chairs extruded themselves from the walls. Rain or unsealed hot cartons and spread them on the table, saying lightly, Looks good. Not that I can claim any credit. I subscribed to a food service that delivers them hot by pneumatic tube. Bart felt sickened by the thought of eating, but when he put a polite fork in the food he discovered that he was famished and ate up everything in sight. When they had finished, Rainer dumped the cartons into a disposal chute, went to a small portable bar and put a glass into his hand. Drink this. Bart touched his lips to the glass, made a face and put it away. Thanks, but I don't drink. Call it medicine. You'll need something, Rain or Three said crossly. I've got a lot to tell you and I don't want you going off half-primed in the middle of a sentence. If you'd rather have a shot of tranquilizer, all right. Otherwise, I prescribed that you drink what I gave you. He gave Bart a quick rye grin. I really am a medic, you know. Feeling like a scolded child, Bart drank. It burned his mouth, but after it was down he felt a sort of warm burning in his insides that gradually spread a sense of well-being all through him. It wasn't alcohol, but whatever it was, it had quite a kick. Thanks, he muttered. Why are you taking this trouble, Rain or? There must be danger. Don't you know, Rain or broke off. Obviously you don't. Your mother never said much about your Mentorian family tree, I suppose. She was a Rain or. He smiled at Bart a little ruefully. I won't claim a Kinsman's privileges until you decide how much to trust me. Rain or three settled back. It's a long story, and I only know part of it, he began. Our family, the Rainors, have traded with the Larry for more generations than I can count. When I was a young man I qualified as a medic on the Larry ships, and I've been star-hopping ever since. People call us the slaves of the Larry. Maybe we are, he added, Riley. But I began it just because space is where I belong, and there's nowhere else that I've ever wanted to be, and I'll take it at any price. I never questioned what I was doing until a few years ago. It was your father who made me wonder if we Mentorians were blind and selfish. This privilege ought to belong to everyone, not just the Larry. More and more the Larry monopoly seemed wrong to me, but I was just a medic. And if I involved myself in any conspiracy against the Larry, they'd find it out in the routine psych-checking. And then we worked out how it could be done. Before every trip, with self-hypnosis and self-suggestion, I erase my own memories, a sort of artificial amnesia, so that the Larry can't find out any more than I want them to find out. Of course, it also means that I have no memory while I'm on the Larry ships, of what I've agreed to while I'm... His face suddenly worked, his mouth moved without words, as if he had run into some powerful barrier against speech. It was a full minute, while Bart stared in dismay before he found his voice again, saying, So far it was just a sort of loose network, trying to put together stray bits of information that the Larry didn't think important enough to censor. And then came the big breakthrough. There was a young apprentice astrogator named David Briscoe. He'd taken some runs in special test ships and read some extremely obscure research data from the early days of the contact between men and Larry, and he had a wild idea. He did the bravest thing anyone has ever done. He stripped himself of all identifying data so that if he died no one would be in trouble with the Larry and stowed away on a Larry ship. But Bart's lips were dry. Didn't he die in the warp drive? Slowly Rainor III shook his head. No, he didn't. No drugs, no cold sleep, but he didn't die. Don't you see, Bart? He leaned forward urgently. It's all a fake. The Larry have just been saying that to justify their refusal to give us the secret of the catalyst that generates the warp drive frequencies. Such a simple lie, and it's worked for all these years. A Mentorian found him and didn't have the heart to turn him over to the Larry. So he was smuggled clear again. But when that Mentorian underwent the routine brain checks at the end of the voyage, the Larry found out what had happened. They didn't know Briscoe's name, but they wrung that Mentorian out like a wet dishcloth and got a description that was as good as fingerprints. They tracked down young Briscoe and killed him. They killed the first man he talked to. They killed the second. The third was your father. The murdering devils! Reignor sighed. Your father and Briscoe's father were old friends. Briscoe's father was dying with incurable heart disease. His son was dead, and old Briscoe had only one thought in his mind, to make sure he didn't die for nothing. So he took your father's papers, knowing they were as good as a death warrant, slipped away and boarded a Larry's ship and found about to stars where the message hadn't reached yet. He led them a good chase. Did he die or did they track him down and kill him? Bart bowed his head and told the story. Meanwhile, Reignor III continued, your father came to me, knowing I was sympathetic, knowing I was a Larry-trained surgeon. He had just one thought in his mind, to do again what David Briscoe had done and make sure the news got out this time. He cooked up a plan that was even braver and more desperate. He decided to sign on a Larry's ship as a member of the crew. As a mentorian, Bart asked, but something cold like ice water trickling down his back told him that this was not what Reignor meant. The brainwashing... No, said Reignor, not as a mentorian. He couldn't have escaped the psych-checking. As a Larry... Bart gasped. How? Men and Larry are very much alike, Reignor III said. A few small things, skin color, the shape of the ears, the hands and claws, keep humans from seeing that the Larry are men. Don't say that! Bart almost yelled. Those filthy, murdering devils! You call those monsters men? I've lived among the Larry all my life. They're not devils, Bart. They have their reasons. Physiologically the Larry are, well, humanoid if you like that better. They're a lot more like a man than a man is like, for instance, a gorilla. Your father convinced me that with minor plastic and facial surgery he could pass as a Larry. And finally I gave in and did the surgery. And it killed him. Not really. It was a completely unforeseeable thing. A blood clot broke loose in a vein and lodged in his brain. He was dead in seconds. It could have happened at any time, he said, yet I feel responsible, even though I keep telling myself I'm not. And I'll help you as much as I can, for his sake and for your mother's. The Larry don't watch me too closely. They figure that anything I do they'll catch in the brainwashing. But I'm still one step ahead of them as long as I can erase my own memories. Bart was sifting it all slowly in his mind. Why was Dad doing this? What could he gain? You know we can build ships as good as the Larry ships, but we don't know anything about the rare catalyst they use for warp drive fuel. Captain Steele had hopes of being able to discover where they got it. But couldn't they find out where the Larry ships go for fueling? No, there's no way to trail a Larry ship, he reminded Bart. We can follow them inside a star system, but then they pop into warp drive and we don't know where they go when they aren't running between our stars. We've gathered together what information we do have and we know that after a certain number of runs in our part of the galaxy, ships take off in the direction of Antares. There's a ship, due to come in here in about ten days, called the Swift Wing, which is about due to make the Antares run. Captain Steele had managed to arrange, I don't know how, and I don't want to know how, for a vacancy on that ship and somehow he got credentials. You see, it's a very good spy system, a network between the stars, but the weak link is this. Everything, every message, every man has to travel back and forth by the Larry ships themselves. He rose, shaking it all off impatiently. Well, it's finished now. Your father is dead. What are you going to do? If you want to go back to Vega, you can probably convince the Larry you're just an innocent bystander. They don't hurt bystanders or children, Bart. They aren't bad people. They're just protecting their business monopoly. The safest way to handle it would be this. Let me erase your memories of what I've told you tonight. Then just let the Larry capture you. They won't kill you. They'll just give you a light psych check. When they find out you don't know anything, they'll send you back to Vega and you can spend the rest of your life in peace, running Vega interplanet and eight colors. Bart turned on him furiously. You mean go home like a good little boy and pretend none of this ever happened? What do you think I am, anyhow? Bart's chin set in the new hard line. What I want is a chance to go on where dad left off. It won't be easy and it could be dangerous, Rainor III said, but there's nothing else to be done. We had the arrangements all made and now somebody's got to take the dangerous risk of calling them off. Are you game for a little plastic surgery? Just enough to change your looks again with new forged papers? You can't go by the Swift Wing. It doesn't carry passengers. But there's another route you can take. Bart sprang up. No, he said. I know a better way. Let me go on the Swift Wing in dad's place as a lorry. Bart, no, Rainor III said. You'd never get away with it. It's too dangerous. But his gold eyes glinted. Why not? I speak lorry better than dad ever did and my eyes can stand lorry lights. You said yourself it's going to be a dangerous job just calling off all the arrangements. So let's not call them off. Just let me take dad's place. Bart, you're only a boy. What was Dave Briscoe? No, Rainor, dad left me a lot more than Vega Interplanet and you know it. I'll finish what he started and then maybe I'll begin to deserve what he left me. Rainor III gripped Bart's hand. He said in a voice that shook. All right, Bart, you're your father's son. I can't say more than that. I haven't any right to stop you.