 CHAPTER VII Alright, Bart. Today we'll let you look at yourself," Rainor III said. Bart smiled under the muffling layers of bandage around his face. His hands were bandaged, too, and he had not been permitted to look in a mirror, but the transition had been surprisingly painless, or perhaps his sense of well-being had been due to Rainor III slipping him some drug. He had been given injections of a chemical that would change the colour of his skin. There had been minor operations on his face, his hands, his feet. Let's see you get up and walk around. Bart obeyed awkwardly, and Rainor frowned. Hurt? Not exactly, but I feel as if I were limping. That's to be expected. I changed the angle of the heel tendon and the muscle of the arch. You're using a different set of muscles when you walk. Until they harden up you'll have some assorted charlie horses. Have any trouble hearing me? No, though I'd hear better without all these bandages," Bart said impatiently. All in good time. Any trouble breathing? No, except for the bandages. Fine. I changed the shape of your ears and nostrils, and it might have affected your hearing or your breathing. Now listen, Bart. I'm going to take the bandages off your hands first. Sit down. Bart sat across the table from him, obediently sticking out his hands. Rainor III said, shut your eyes. Bart did as he was told, and felt Rainor III's long fingers working at the bandages. Move each finger as I touched it. Bart obeyed, and Rainor said neutrally, good. Now, take a deep breath, and then open your eyes. Impatiently Bart flicked his lids open. In spite of the warning, his breath went out in a harsh, jolting gasp. His hands lay on the table before him, but they were not his hands. The narrow, long fingers were pearl-grey, tipped with whitish-pink claws that curved out over the tips. Nervously Bart moved one finger, and the long claw flicked out like a cat's, attracted. He swallowed. Collie! He felt strangely wobbly. A beautiful job, if I do say so. Be careful not to scratch yourself, and practice picking up small things. Bart saw that the long grayish claws were trembling. How did you make the claws? Quite simple, really, Rainor beamed. I injected protein compounds into the nail matrix which speeded up nail growth terrifically, and then, as they grew, shaped them. Joining on those tiny muscles for the retracting mechanism was the tricky part, though. Bart was moving his hands experimentally. Once over the shock, they felt quite normal. The claws didn't get in his way half so much as he'd expected when he picked up a pen that lay beside him, and, with the blunt tip, made a few of the strange-looking dots and wedges that were the lary alphabet. "'Practice writing this,' said Rainor III, and laid a plastic-encased folder down beside him. It was a set of ship's papers printed in lary. Bart read it through, seeing that it was made out to the equivalent of astrogator first-class Bartol. That's your name now, the name your father would have used. Memorize it, get used to the sound of it, practice writing it. Don't worry too much about the rating. It's an elementary one, what we'd call apprentice rating, and I have a training tip for you anyhow. My brother got hold of it, don't ask me how, and don't ask him. When am I going to see my face?" "'When I think you're ready for the shock,' Rainor said bluntly. It almost threw you when I showed you your hands." He made Bart walk around some more briefly. Slowly he unwound the bandages, then turned and picked up a mirror at the bottom of his medics case, turning it right side up. Here. But take it easy. But when Bart looked in the mirror he felt no unexpected shock, only an unnerving revulsion. His hair was bleached white and fluffy, almost feathery to the touch. His skin was grayish-rose, and his eyelids had been altered just enough to make his eyes look long, narrow, and slanted. His nostrils were mere slits, and he moved his tongue over the lips that felt oddly thin. "'I did as little to your teeth as I thought I could get away with,' capped the front ones," Rainor III told him. "'So if you get a toothache, you're out of luck. You won't dare go to a lary dentist. I could have done more, but it would have made you look too freakish when we changed you back to human again. If you live that long,' he added grimly. "'I hadn't thought about that. And if Rainor is going to forget me, who will do it?' The cold knot of fear, never wholly absent, moved in him again. Watching his face, Rainor III said gently, "'It's a big network, Bart. I'm not telling you much for your own safety, but when you get to Antares, they'll tell you all you need to know.'" He lifted Bart's oddly clawed hands. "'I warned you, remember. The change isn't completely reversible. Your hands will always look strange. The fingers had to be lengthened, for instance. I wanted to make you as safe as possible among the lary. I think you'll pass anything but an x-ray. Just be careful not to break any bones.'" He gave Bart a package. "'This is the lary-training-tape. Listen to it as often as you can, then destroy it, completely, before you leave here. The swift wing is due in port three days from now, and they stay here a week. I don't know how we'll manage it, but I'll guarantee there'll be a vacancy of one astrogator of first class on that ship.'" He rose. "'And now I'm going back to town and erase the memory.' He stopped, looking intently at Bart. "'So, if you see me, stay away from me and don't speak, because I won't know you from any other lary. Understand? From here on, you're on your own, Bart.' He held out his hand. This is the rough part, son. His face moved strangely. I'm part of this network between the stars. But I don't know what I've done before, and I'll never know how it comes out. It's funny to stand here and look at you and realize that I won't even remember you. The gold-glinted eyes blinked rapidly. Goodbye, Bart. And good luck, son. Bart took his hand, deeply moved. With a strange sense that this was another death, a worse one than Briscoe's, he tried to speak and couldn't. Well, Raynor's mouth twisted into a rye grin. Ouch! Careful with those claws! The lary don't shake hands. He turned abruptly and went out of the door and out of Bart's life, while Bart stood at the dome window, feeling alone as he had never felt alone before. He had to wait six days, and they felt like six eternities. He played the training tape over and over. With his academy background it wasn't nearly so difficult as he'd feared. He read and reread the set of papers identifying him as Astrogator first-class Bartle—forged, he supposed—or was there somewhere a real Bartle? The last morning he slept uneasily late. He finished his last meal as a human, spent part of the day removing all traces of his presence from Raynor's home, burned the training tape, and finally got into the silky silvery tights and cloak that Raynor had provided. He could use his hands now as if they belonged to him. He even found the claws handy and useful. He could write his signature and copy out instructions from the training tape without a moment's hesitation. Toward dusk a young lary slipped unobserved out of Raynor's house and hiked unnoticed to the edges of a small city nearby, where he mingled with the crowd and hired a sky-cab from an unobserved human driver to take him to the spaceport city. The sky-cab driver was startled, but not, Bart judged, unusually so, to pick up a lary-passenger. "'Been doing a little sightseeing on our planet, eh? That's right,' Bart said in Universal, not trying to fake his idea of the lary-accent. Raynor had told them that only a few of the lary had that characteristic sibilant R and S, and warned him against trying to imitate it. Just speak naturally. There are dialects of lary, just as there are dialects of the different human languages, and they all sound different in Universal anyhow. Just looking around some." The sky-cab driver frowned and looked down at his controls, and Bart felt curiously snubbed. Then he remembered. He himself had little to say to the lary when they spoke to him. He was an alien, a monster. He couldn't expect to be treated like a human being any more. When the sky-cab let him off before the spaceport, it felt strange to see how the crowd dodged away from him as he made a way through them. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the mirror-ramps, a tall, thin, strange form in a metallic cloak, head crested with feathery white, and felt overwhelmingly homesick for his own familiar face. He was beginning to feel hungry, and realized that he could not go into an ordinary restaurant without attracting attention. There were refreshment stands all over the spaceport, and he briefly considered getting a snack at one of these. No, that was just putting it off. The time had come when he must face his fear and test his disguise among the lary themselves. Reviewing his knowledge of the construction of spaceports, he remembered that one side was the terminal, where humans and visitors and passengers were fully admitted. The other side, for lary and their mentor and employees only, contained, along with business offices of many sorts, a sort of arcade with amusement centers, shops, and restaurants catering to the personnel of the lary ships. With nine or ten ships docking every day, Raynor had assured him that a strange lary face would be lost in the crowds very easily. He went to one of the doors marked Danger! Lary Lights Beyond, and passed through the glaring corridor of office and storage warehouses, finally coming out into a sort of wide maul. The lights were fierce, but he could endure them without trouble now, though his head ached faintly. Raynor, testing his light tolerance, had assured him that he could endure anything the lary could without permanent damage to his optic nerves, though he would have headaches until he got used to them. There were small shops and what looked like bars, and a glass-fronted place with a sign lettered largely in black letters, a lary phrase meaning roughly, Home Away From Home, Meals Served, Spaceman Welcome, Reasonable. Behind him, a voice said in lary, Tell me, does that sign mean what it says, or is this one of those traps for separating the unwary spaceman from his hard-earned credits? How's the food? Bart carefully took hold of himself. I was just wondering that myself—he turned as he spoke, finding himself face to face with the young lary in the unadorned cloak of a spaceman without official rank. He knew the lary was young, because his crest was still white. The young lary extended his claws in the closed-fist, hidden claw gesture of lary greeting. Shall we take a chance? Ring, son of Rayhan, greets you. Bartle, son of Berryhan. I don't remember seeing you in the port, Bartle. I've mostly worked on the Polaris run. Way off there! Ring, son of Rayhan, sounded startled and impressed. You really get around, don't you? Shall we sit here? They sat on triangular chairs at a three-cornered table. Bart waited for Ring to order and ordered what he did. When it came, it was a sort of egg-and-fish casserole which Bart found extremely tasty, and he dug into it with pleasure. Allowing for the claws, lary-table manners were not so much different from human. And remember, their customs differ as much as ours do. If you do something differently, they'll just think you're from another planet with a different culture. Have you been here long? A day or so. I'm off the Swiftwing. Bart decided to hazard his luck. I was told there's a vacancy on the Swiftwing. Ring looked at him curiously. There is, he said, but I'd like to know how you found it out. Captain Varongal said that any one who talked about it would be sent to Cleeto for three cycles. But what happened to you? Miss your ship? No, I've just been laying off, travelling, sight-seeing, bumming around, Bart said. But I'm tired of it. Now I'd like to sign out again. Well, we could use another man. This is the long run we're making, out to Antares and then home. And if everybody has to work extra shifts, it's no fun. But if old Varongal knows that there's been talk in the port about Clanero jumping ship, or whatever happened to him, we'll all have to walk wide of his temper. Bart was beginning to relax a little. Ring apparently accepted him without scrutiny. At this close range, Ring did not seem a monster, but just a young fellow like himself, hearty, good and natured. In fact, not unlike Tommy. Bart chased the thought away as soon as it sneaked into his brain. One of those things, like Tommy? Then, rather grimly, he reminded himself, I'm one of those things. He said irritably, so how do I account for asking your captain for the place? Ring cocked his fluffy crest to one side. I know, he said, I told you. I'll say you're an old friend of mine. You don't know what Varongal's like when he gets mad. But what he doesn't know, he won't shout about. He shoved back the triangular chair. Who did tell you anyway? This was the first real hurdle, and Bart's brain raced desperately, but Ring was not listening for an answer. I suppose somebody gossiped, or one of those full Mentorians picked it up. Got your papers? What rating? Astrogate, a first class. Clanero was second, but you can't have everything, I suppose. Ring led the way through the arcades out across a guarded sector, passing half a dozen of the huge ships lying in their pits. Finally Ring stopped and pointed. This is the old hulk. Bart had travelled only in lorry passenger ships, which were new and fresh and sleek. This ship was enormous, ovoid like the egg of some space monster, the sides dented and discoloured, thin films of chemical discoloration lying over the glassy metallic hull. Bart followed Ring. This was real. It was happening. He was signing out for his first inter-seller cruise on one of the lorry ships, not a Mentorian assistant, half trusted, half tolerated, but one of the crew themselves. If I'm lucky, he reminded himself grimly. There was a lorry in the black banded officer's cloak at the doorway. He glanced at Ring's papers. Friend of mine, Ring said, and Bart preferred his folder. The lorry gave it a casual glance, handed it back. Old boldly on board? Ring asked. Where else? The officer laughed. You don't think he'd relax with cargo not loaded, do you? They seemed casual and normal, and Bart's confidence was growing. They had accepted him as one of themselves, but the great ordeal still lay before him, an interview with the lorry captain, and the idea had Bart's sweating scared. The corridors and decks seemed larger, wider, more spacious, but shabbier than on the clean, bright commercial passenger decks Bart had seen. Dark-lensed men were rolling bales of cargo along on wheeled dollies. The corridor seemed endless, more to hear the sound of his own voice, and reassure himself of his ability to speak and be understood, than because he cared. He asked Ring, What's your rating? Well, according to the log-books, I'm an expert class II metals fatigue, said Ring. That sounds very technical and interesting, but what it means is just that I go all over the ship inch by inch, and when I finish, start all over again at the other end. Most of what I do is just boss around the maintenance crews and snarl at them about spots of rust on the paint. They got into a small round elevator, and Ring punched buttons. It began to rise slowly and creakily toward the top. This, for instance, Ring said, I've been yelling for a new cable for six months." He turned. Take it easy, Bartle. Don't let Varongill scare you. He likes to hear the sound of his own voice, but we'd all walk out the lock without space-suits for him. The elevator slid to a stop. The sign and Larry letters said, Level of administration, officer's deck. Ring pushed at a door and said, Captain Varongill? I thought you were on leave, said a Larry voice, deeper and slower than most. What are you doing back here more than ten milliseconds before strap-in checks? Ring stepped back for Bart to go inside. The small cabin, with an elliptical bunk slung from the ceiling and a triangular table, was dwarfed by a tall, thin Larry, in a cloak with four of the black bands that seemed to denote rank among them. He had a deeply lined face with a lacework of tiny wrinkles around the slanted eyes. His crest was not the high, fluffy white of a young lady, but broken short near the scalp, grayish pink showing through. The little feathery ends yellowed with age. He growled. Come in, then. Don't stand there. I suppose Rings told you what a tyrant I am. What do you want, feather-top? Bart remembered being told that this was the Larry equivalent of Kid or Youngster. He fumbled in the capacious folds of his cloak for his papers. His voice sounded shrill, even to himself. Bartle, son of Berryhun, in respect for greeting Riaquemori. Honourable old board one, the Larry equivalent of Sir. Ring told me there is a vacancy among the Astrogators, and I want to sign out. Unmistakably Varongil's snort was laughter. So you've been talking, Ring? Ring retorted, better that I tell one man than that you have to hunt the planet over, or run the long hall with the drive-room watches short by one man. Well, well, you're right, Varongil growled. He glared at Bart. On the last planet one of our men disappeared. Jumped ship. The creases around his eyes deepened, troubled. Probably just gone on the drift, sight-seeing, but I wish he'd told me. As it is, I wonder if he's been hurt, killed, kidnapped. Ring said, Who dare? It would be reported. Bart knew with a cold chill that the missing Clanneryl had not simply gone on the drift. No Larry Port would ever see Clanneryl, second-class Astrogator again. Bartle, said the captain, riffling the forged papers, served on the Polaris run. Hmm. You are a good long way off your orbit, aren't you? Never been out that way myself. All right, I'll take you on. You can do system programming? Good. Rating in second Galaxy mathematics? He nodded, hauled out a thin sheet of wax-coated fabric, and his claws made rapid imprints on the surface. He passed it to Bart, pointed. Bart hesitated, and Varongil said impatiently, standard agreement, no hidden clauses, put your mark on it for the top. Bart realized it was something like a fingerprint they wanted. You'll pass anything but X-rays. He pressed the top of one claw into the wax. Varongil nodded, shoved it on a shelf without looking at it. So much for that, said Ring, laughing as they came out. The bold one was in a good temper. I'm going to the port and celebrate. Not that this dim place is very festive. You? I—I think I'll stay aboard. Well, if you change your mind, I'll be down there somewhere. Ring said, See you later, shipmate. He raised his closed fist in farewell and went. Bart stood in the corridor, feeling astounded and strange. He belonged here. He had a right to be on board the ship. He wasn't quite sure what to do next. A lorry, as short in fat as a lorry could possibly be and still be a lorry, came, or rather waddled, out of the captain's office. He saw Bartle and called, Are you the new first class? I'm Rugal, coordinator. Rugal had a huge, cleft, darkish scar across his lip, and there were two bands on his cloak. He was completely bald, and he puffed when he walked. Varongil asked me to show you a round. You'll share quarters with Ring, no sense shifting under the man. Come down and see the chat rooms, or do you want to leave your kid in your cabin first? I don't have much, Bart said. Rugal seemed lip-widened. That's the way. Travel light when you're on the drift, he confirmed. Rugal took him down to the drive-rooms, and here for a moment in wonder and awe, Bart almost forgot his disguise. The old lorry led him to the huge computer which filled one wall of the room, and Bart was smitten with the universality of mathematics. Here was something he knew he could handle. He could do this programming easily enough. But as he stood before the banks of complex yet beautifully familiar levers, the sheer exquisite complexity of it overcame him. To compute the movements of thousands of stars, all moving at different speeds in different directions in the vast swirling directionless chaos of the universe, and yet to be sure that every separate movement would come out to within a quarter of a mile. It was something that no finite brain, man or lorry, could ever accomplish, yet their limited brains had built these computers that could do it. Rugal watched him, laughing softly. Well, you'll have time enough down here. I like to have youngsters who are still in the middle of a love affair with their work. Come along and I'll show you your cabin. Rugal left him in a cabin of midships, small and cramped, but tidy, two of the oval bunks slung at opposite ends, a small table between them, and drawers filled with pamphlets and manures and maps. Fertively, ashamed of himself, he had driven by necessity. Bart searched Ring's belongings, wanting to get some idea of what possessions he ought to own. He looked around the shower and toilet facilities with extra care. This was something he couldn't slip up on and be considered even half-way normal. He was afraid Ring would come in and see him staring curiously at something as ordinary to a lorry as a cake of soap. He decided to go down to the port again and look around the shops. He was not afraid of being unable to handle his work. What he feared was something subtler, that the small items of everyday living, something as simple as a nail-file, would betray him. On his way he looked into the recreation lounge, filled with comfortable seats, vision screens, and what looked like simple pinball machines and mechanical games of skill. There were also stacks of tapereels and headsets for listening, not unlike those humans used. Bart felt fascinated and wanted to explore, but decided he could do that later. Somehow he took the wrong turn coming out of the recreation lounge and went through a door where the sudden dimming of lights told him he was in mentorian quarters. The sudden darkness made him stumble, thrust out his hands to keep from falling, and an unmistakably human voice said, ouch! I'm sorry, Bart said in Universal, without thinking. I admit the lights are dim, said the voice tartly, and Bart found himself looking down, as his eyes adjusted to the new light level, at a girl. She was small and slight, in a metallic blue cloak that swept out like wings, around her thin shoulders. The hood framed a small, kitten-like face. She was a mentorian, and she was human, and Bart's eyes rested with comfort on her face. She, on the other hand, was looking up with anxiety and an easy distrust. That's right, I'm a lorry, a non-human freak. I seem to have missed my way. What are you looking for, sir? The medical quarters are through here. I'm looking for the elevator down to the crew exits. Through here, she said, reopening the door through which he had come and shading her large, lovely, long, lashed eyes with its slender hand. You took the wrong turn. Are you new on board? I thought all ships were laid out exactly alike. I've only worked on passenger ships. I believe they are somewhat different," said the girl in Good Lorry. Well, that is your way, sir. He felt as if he had been snubbed and dismissed. What is your name? She stiffened as if about to salute. Meta of the house of Marnay III, sir. Bart realized he was doing something wholly out of character for a lorry, chatting casually with a mentorian. With a wistful glance at the pretty girl, he said a stiff thank you, and went down the ramp she had indicated. He felt horribly lonely. Being a freak wasn't going to be much fun. He saw the girl again next day when they checked in for blast-off. She was seated at a small desk, triangular like so much of the lorry furniture, checking a register as they came out of the decontam room, making sure they downed their greenish solution of microorganisms. Papers, please. She marked, and Bart noticed that she was using a red pencil. Bart-tall, she said aloud. Is that how you pronounce it? She made small scribbles in a sort of shorthand with a red pencil, then made other marks with a black one in lorry. He supposed the red marks were her own private memoranda, unreadable by the lorry. Next, please. She handed a cup of the greenish stuff to a ring behind him. Bart went down toward the drive-room, and to his own surprise, found himself wishing the girl were a mathematician rather than a medic. It would have been pleasant to watch her down there. Old Rugal, on duty in the drive-room, watched Bart strap himself in before the computer. Make sure you check all dials at null, he reminded him. And Bart felt a last surge of panic. This was his first cruise, except for practice runs at the academy. Yet his raiding called him an experienced man on the Polaris run. He'd had the lorry training tape, which was supposed to condition his responses, but would it? He tried to clench his fists, drove a claw into his palm, winced, and commanded himself to stay calm and keep his mind on what he was doing. It calmed him to make the routine check of his dials. Strap down check, said a lorry, with a yellowed crest and a rasping voice. New man, eh? He gave Bart's straps perfunctory tugs at shoulders and waist, tightened a buckle. Carol, son of Garin. Bells rang in the ship, and Bart felt the odd, tonic touch of fear. This was it. Warongil strode through the door, his banded cloak sweeping behind him, and took the control couch. Ready from fueling room, sir. Position, Warongil snapped. Bart heard himself reading off a string of figures in lorry. His voice sounded perfectly calm. Communication? Clear channels from pylon dispatch, sir. It was old Rugal's voice. Well, Warongil said, slowly and almost reflectively, let's take her up then. He touched some controls. The humming grew, then swift, hard, and crushing, weight mashed Bart against his couch. Position, Warongil's voice sounded harsh, and Bart fought the crushing weight of it. Even his eyeballs ached as he struggled to turn the tiny eye muscles from dial to dial, and his voice was a dim croak. Fourteen, seven, sidereal, twelve point one, one, four, nine. Hold it to point one, one, four, six, Warongil said calmly. Point one, one, four, six, Bart said, and his claws stabbed at dials. Suddenly, in spite of the cold weight of his chest, the pain, the struggle, he felt as if he were floating. He managed a long, luxurious breath. He could handle it. He knew what he was doing. He was an astrogator. Later, when Acceleration One had reached its apex, and the artificial gravity made the ship a place of comfort again, he went down to the dining hall with Ring, and met the crew of the Swift Wing. There were twelve officers and twelve crewmen of various ratings like himself and Ring. But there seemed to be little social division between them, as there would have been on a human ship. Officers and crew joked and argued without formality of any kind. None of them gave him a second look. Later in the recreation lounge, Ring challenged him to a game with one of the pinball machines. It seemed fairly simple to Bart. He tried it, and to his own surprise, won. The roogle touched a lever at the side of the room. With a tiny wishing sound, shutters opened. The light of Procyon Alpha flooded them, and he looked out through a great viewport into bottomless space. Procyon Alpha, Beta and Gamma, hung at full. Rings gently tilted. Beyond them, the stars burned, flaming through the shimmers of cosmic dust. The colors, the never-ending colors of space. And he stood here in a room full of monsters. He was one of the monsters. Which one of the planets was it we stopped on? Roogle asked. I can't tell him apart from this distance. Bart swallowed. He had almost said the blue one. He pointed, the big one there, with the rings almost edge on. I think they call it Alpha. It's their planet, said Roogle. I guess they can call it what they want to. How about another game? Resolutely, Bart turned his back on the bewitching colors and bent over the pinball machine. The first week in space was a nightmare of strain. He welcomed the hours on watch in the drive room. There alone, he was sure of what he was doing. Everywhere else in a ship, he was perpetually scared, perpetually on tiptoe, perpetually afraid of making some small and stupid mistake. Once he actually called Aldebaran a red star, but Roogle either did not hear the slip or thought he was repeating what one of the Mentorians, there were two aboard besides the girl, had said. The absence of color from speech and life was the hardest thing to get used to. Every star in the manual was listed by light frequency waves to be checked against a photometer for a specific reading. And it almost drove Bart mad to go through the ritual when the Mentorians were off duty and could not call off the color and the equivalent frequency type for him. Yet he did not dare skip a single step or someone might have guessed that he could see the difference between a yellow and a green star before checking them. The Academy ships had had the traditional human signal system of flashing red lights. Bart was stretched taut all the time, listening for the small code-like buzzers and ticks that warned him of filled tanks, leads in need of servicing, answers ready. Ring's Metal Fatigue's testing kit was a bewildering model of boxes, meters, rods, and earphones, each buzzing and clicking its characteristic warning. At first he felt stretched to capacity at every waking moment, his memory aching with a million details and lay awake nights thinking his mind would crack under the strain. Then Alpha faded to a dim bluish shimmer. Beta was eclipsed, Gamma was gone. Procyon dimmed to a failing spark. And suddenly Bart's memory accustomed itself to the load. The new habits were firmly in place and he found himself eating, sleeping, and working in a settled routine. He belonged to the Swift Wing now. Procyon was almost lost in the viewports when a sort of upswept tempo began to run through the ship and undercurrent of increased activity. Cargo was checked, inventoried, and strapped in. Ring was given four extra men to help him, made an extra tour of the ship and came back buzzing like a frantic cricket. Bart's computers told him they were forging toward this ideal location assigned for the first of the warp drive shifts, which would take them some 15 light years toward Aldebaran. On the final watch before the warp drive shift, the medical officer came around and relieved the mentorians from duty. Bart watched them go with a curious, cold, crawling apprehension. Even the mentorians, trusted by the lorry, even these were put into cold sleep. Fear grabbed his insides. No human had ever survived the shift into warp drive, the lorry said. Briscoe, his father, Rainor III, they thought they had proved that the lorry lied. If they were right, if it was a lorry trick to reinforce their stranglehold on the human worlds and keep the warp drive for themselves, then Bart had nothing to fear, but he was afraid. Why did the mentorians endure this? Never quite trusted, isolated among aliens. Rainor III had said, because I belong in space, because I'm never happy anywhere else. Bart looked out the viewport at the swirl and burn of the colors there. Now that he could never speak of the colors, it seemed he had never been so holy and wistfully aware of them. They symbolized the thing he could never put into words. So that everyone can have this, not just the lorry. Grugal watched the mentorians go, scowling. I wish Medik would find a way to keep them alive through warp, he said. My mentorian assistant could watch that frequency shift as we got near the bottom of the ark, and I'll bet she could see it. They can see the changes in intensity faster than I can plot them on the photometer. Bart felt goosebumps break out on his skin. Grugal spoke as if the certain death of humans, mentorians, was a fact. Didn't the lorry themselves know it was a farce, or was it? Barangil himself took the controls for the surge of acceleration two, which would take them past the light barrier. Bart, watching his instruments to exact position and time, saw the colors of each star shift strangely, moment by moment. The red stars seemed hard to see. The orange-yellow ones burned suddenly like flame. The green ones seemed golden. The blue ones almost green. Dimly he remembered the old story of a red shift in the lights of approaching stars, but here he saw it pure, a sight no human eyes had ever seen. A sight that no eyes had seen, human or otherwise, for the lorry could not see it. At the time, he said briefly to Barangil, 15 seconds. Grugal looked across from his couch. Bart felt that the old, scarred lorry could read his fear. Grugal said through a wheeze, no matter how old you get, Bartol, you're still scared when you make a warp shift, but relax, computers don't make mistakes. Catalyst, Barangil snapped. Ready? Shift. At first there was no change. Then Bart realized that the stars, through the viewport, had altered abruptly in size and shade and color. They were not sparks, but strange streaks like comets, crossing and recrossing long tails that grew, longer and longer, moment by moment. The dark night of space was filled with a criss-crossing blaze. They were moving faster than light. They saw the light left by the moving universe as each star hurled in its own invisible orbit, while they tore incredibly through it faster than light itself. Bart felt a curious, tingling discomfort, deep in his flesh, almost an itching, a stinging in his very bones. Lorry flesh is no different from ours. Space through the viewport was no longer space as he had come to know it, but a strange, eerie limbo. The star tracks lengthening, shifting color until they filled the whole viewport with shimmering gray, recrossing light. The unbelievable reaction of warp drive thrust them through space faster than the lights of the surrounding stars, faster than imagination could follow. The lights in the drive chamber began to dim or was he blacking out? The stinging in his flesh was a clawed pain. Briscoe lived through it. They say, the whirling star tracks fogged, coiled, turned colorless worms of light, went into a single vast blur. Dimly, Bart saw old Rugal slump forward, moaning softly. Saw the old Lorry pillow his bald head on his veined arms. Then darkness took him, and thinking it was death, Bart felt only numb, regretful failure. I've failed, we'll always fail. The Lorry were right all along. But we tried, by God, we tried. Bartall, a gentle hand, cat claws retracted, came down on his shoulder. Ring bent over him. Good-natured rebuke was in his voice. Why didn't you tell us you got a bad reaction and ask to sign out for this shift? He demanded. Look, poor old Rugal's passed out again. He just won't admit he can't take it, but one idiot on a watch is enough. Some people just feel as if the bottoms dropped out of the ship, and that's all there is to it. Bart hauled his head upright, fighting a surge of stinging nausea. His bones itched inside, and he was damnably uncomfortable, but he was alive. I'm fine. You look it, Ring said in derision. Think you can help me get Rugal to his cabin? Bart struggled to his feet, and found that when he was upright, he felt better. Wow, he muttered, then clamped his mouth shut. He was supposed to be an experienced man, a lorry hardened to space. He said woozily, how long was I out? The usual time, Ring said briskly. About three seconds, just while we hit peak warp drive. Feels longer, so they tell me sometimes. Times funny beyond light speed. The medic says it's purely psychological. I'm not so sure. I itch, blast it. He moved his shoulders in a squirming way, then bent over Rugal, who was moaning half insensible. Catch hold of his feet, Bart haul. Here, ease him out of his chair. No sense bothering the medics this time. Think you can manage to help me carry him down to the deck? Sure, Bart said, finding his feet and his voice. He felt better as they moved along the hallway. The limp, muttering form of the old lorry, insensible in their arms. They reached the officer's deck, got Rugal into his cabin and into his bunk, hauled off his cloak and boots. Ring stood shaking his head. And they say Captain Vorengil's so tough. Bart made a questioning noise. Why, just look, said Ring. He knows it would make poor old Rugal feel as if he wasn't good for much to order him into his bunk and make him take dope like a mentorion for every warp shift. So we had this to go through at every jump. He sounded cross and disgusted, but there was a rough, boyish gentleness as he hauled the blanket over the bald old lorry. He looked up almost shyly. Thanks for helping me with old Baldi. We usually try to get him out before Vorengil officially takes notice. Of course, he sort of keeps his back turned, Ring said. And they laughed together as they turned back to the drive room. Bart found himself thinking, Ring's a good kid before he pulled himself up in sudden shock. He had lived through warp drive. Then indeed, the lorry had been lying all along. The vicious lie that maintained their stranglehold monopoly of star travel. He was their enemy again, the spy within their gates, like Briscoe, to be hunted down and killed, but to bring the message loud and clear to everyone. The lorry lied, the stars can belong to us all. When he got back to the drive room, he saw through the viewport that the blur had vanished. The star trails were clear, distinct again. Their comet tails, shortening by the moment, their colors more distinct. The lorry were waiting, a few poised over their instruments. A few more standing at the quartz window, watching the star trails. Some squirming and scratching and grousing about space fleas, the characteristic itching reaction that seemed to be deep down inside the bones. Bart checked his panels, noted the time when they were due to snap back into normal space and went to stand by the viewport. The stars were reappearing, seeming to steady and blaze out in cloudy splendor through the bright dust. They burned in great streamers of flame, and for the moment he forgot his mission again, lost in the beauty of the fiery lights. He drew a deep, shaking gasp. It was worth it all to see this. He turned and saw a ring, silent at his shoulder. Me too, ring said, almost in a whisper. I think every man on board feels that way, a little, only he won't admit it. His slanted gray eyes looked quickly at Bart and away. I guess we're almost down to El Point. Better check the panel and report nulls so MEDIC can wake up the Mentorians. The swift wing moved on between the stars. Aldebaran loomed, then faded in the viewports. Another shift jumped them to a star whose human name Bart did not know. Shift followed shift. Spaceport followed spaceport. Sun followed sun. Men lived on most of these worlds and on each of them, a lorry spaceport rose, alien and arrogant. And on each world men looked at lorry with resentful eyes, cursing the race who kept the stars for their own. Cargo amassed in the holes of the swift wing, from worlds beyond all dreams of strangeness. Bart grew, not bored, but hardened to the incredible. For days at a time, no word of human speech crossed his mind. The blackout at peak of each warp shift persisted. Vorongil had given him permission to report off duty, but since the blackouts did not impair his efficiency, Bart had refused. Rugal told him that this was the moment of equilibrium, the peak of the faster-than-light motion. Perhaps a true limiting speed beyond which nothing will ever go, Vorongil said, touching the charts with a varnished claw. Rugal's scarred old mouth spread in a thin smile. Maybe there's no such thing as a limiting speed. Someday we'll reach true simultaneity. Enter warp and come out just where we want to be at the same time. Just a split-second interval. That will be real transmission. Ring scoffed. And suppose you get even better and come out of warp before you go into it. What then, honorable bald one? Rugal chuckled and did not answer. Bart turned away. It was not easy to keep on hating the lorry. There came a day when he came on watch to see drawn, worried faces. And when Ring came into the drive room, they threw their levers on automatic and crowded around him. The crests bobbing in question and dismay. Vorongil seemed to emit sparks as he barked at Ring. You found it? I found it. Inside the hull lining. Vorongil swore and Ring held up a hand in protest. I only locate Metal's fatigue, sir. I don't make it. No help for it then, Vorongil said. We'll have to put down for repairs. How much time do we have, Ring? I give it 30 hours, Ring said briefly, and Vorongil gave a long shrill whistle. Bartol, what's the closest listed spaceport? Bart died for handbooks, manuals, comparative tables of position, and started programming information. The crew drifted toward him, and by the time he finished feeding in the coded information, a row three deep of lorry surrounded him, including all the officers. Vorongil was right at his shoulder when Bart slipped on his earphones and started decoding the punched strips that fed out the answers from the computer. The nearest port is Kotman-4. It's almost exactly 30 hours away. I don't like to run it that close. Vorongil's face was bitten deep with lines. He turned to Ramilis, head of maintenance. Do we need spare parts or just general repairs? Just repair, sir. We have plenty of shielding metal. It's a long job to get through the hulls, but there's nothing we can't fix. Vorongil flexed his clawed hands nervously. Stretching and retracting them. Ring, you're the fatigue expert. I'll take your word for it. Can we make 30 hours? Ring looked pale and there was none of his usual boyish nonsense when he said, Captain, I swear I wouldn't risk Kotman. You know what crystallization likes, sir. We can't get through that hull lining to repair it in space if it does go before we land. We wouldn't have the chance of a hydrogen atom in a tank of halogens. Vorongil's slanted eyebrows made a single unbroken line. That's the word, then. Bartol, find us the closest star with a planet, spaceport or not. Bart's hands were shaking with sudden fear. He checked each digit of their present position, fed it into the computer, waited, finally wet his lips and plunged, taking the strip from a computer. This small star called Maristam, it's a, he bit his lip hard. He had almost said it green. Type Q, two planets with atmosphere within tolerable limits, not classified as inhabited. Who owns it? I don't have that information on the banks, sir. Vorongil beckoned the Mentorian assistant. So apart were Laurie and Mentorian on these ships that Bart did not even know his name. He said, look up a star called Maristam for us. The Mentorian hurried away, came back after a moment with the information that it belonged to the Second Galaxy Federation, but was listed as unexplored. Vorongil scowled. Well, we can claim necessity, he said. It's only eight hours away, and Kotman's 30. Bartol, plot us a warp drive shift that will land us in that system and on the inner of the two planets within nine hours. If it's a Type Q star, that means dim illumination and no spaceport mercury vapor installations, we'll need as much sunlight as we can get. It was the first time that Bart, unaided, had had the responsibility of plotting a warp drive shift. He checked the coordinates of the small green star three times before passing them along to Vorongil. Even so, when they went into acceleration too, he felt stinging fear. If I plotted wrong, we could shift into that crazy space and come out billions of miles away. But when the stars steadied and took on their own colors, the blaze of a small green sun was steady in the viewport. Maristam, Vorongil said, taking the controls himself. Let's hope the place is really uninhabited and that catalog's up to date lads. It wouldn't be any fun to burn up some harmless village or get shot at by barbarians. And we're sitting down with no control tower signals and no spaceport repair crews. So let's hope our luck holds out for a while yet. Bart, feeling the minute, unsteady trembling somewhere in the ship. Imagination, he told himself. You can't feel metal fatigue somewhere in the hull lining. Echoed the wish. He did not know that he had already had the best luck of his unique voyage or realized the fantastic luck that had brought him to the small green star, Maristam. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine 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 nine. The crews of repairmen were working down in the hull and the swift wing was a hell of clanging noise and shuddering heat. Maintenance was working overtime, but the rest of the crew, with nothing to do, stood around in the recreation rooms, tried to play games, cursed the heat and the dreary dimness through the viewports and twitched at the Boiler Factory racket from the holds. Toward the end of the third day the biologist reported air, water, and gravity well within tolerable limits and Captain Voron Gill issued permission for anyone who liked to go outside and have a look around. Bart had a sort of ship-induced claustrophobia. It was good to feel solid ground under his feet and the rays of a sun, even a green sun, on his back. Even more, it was good to get away from the constant presence of his shipmates. During his enforced idleness, their presence oppressed him unendurably. So many tall forms, gray skins, feathery crests. He was always alone. For a change, he felt that he'd like to be alone without Larry all around him. But as he moved away from the ship, Ring dropped out of the hatchway and hailed him. Where are you going? Just for a walk. Ring drew a deep breath of weariness. That sounds good. Mind if I come along? Bart did, but all he could say was, if you like. How about let's get some food from the Rations' clerk and do some exploring? The sun overhead was a clear greenish gold, the sky strewn with soft pale clouds that cast racing shadows on the soft grass underfoot, fragrant pinkish-yellow stuff strewn with bright vermilion puffballs. Bart wished he were alone to enjoy it. How are the repairs coming? Pretty well. But Carol got his hand half scorched off, poor fellow. Just luck the same thing didn't happen to me, Ring added. You know that Mentorian, the young one, the medics' assistant? I've seen her, her name's Meta, I think. Suddenly Bart wished the Mentorian girl were with him here. It would be nice to hear a human voice. Oh, is it a female? Mentorians all look alike to me, Ring said, while Bart controlled his face with an effort. But, that is it may, she saved me from having the same thing happen. I was just going to lean against a strip of sheet metal when she screamed at me. Do you think they can really see heat vibrations? She called it red-hot. They had reached a line of tall cliffs where a steep rockfall divided off the plain from the edge of the mountains. A few slender, drooping, gold-leaved trees bent graceful branches over a pool. Bart stood fascinated by the play of green sunlight on the emerald ripples, but Ring flung himself down full length on the soft grass and side comfortably. Feels good. Too comfortable to eat? They munched in companionable silence. Look, said Ring at last, pointing toward the cliffs. Holes in the rocks, caves. I'd like to explore them, wouldn't you? They look pretty gloomy to me, probably full of monsters. Ring padded the hilt of his Energon ray. This will handle anything short of an armor-plated sarian. Bart shuddered. As part of uniform, he too had been issued one of the Energon rays, but he had never used it and didn't intend to. Just the same, I'd rather stay out here in the sun. It's better than vitamin lamps, Ring admitted, even if it's not very bright. Bart wondered, suddenly and worriedly, about the effects of green sunburn on his chemically altered skin tone. Well, let's enjoy it while we can, Ring said, because it seems to be clouding over. I wouldn't be surprised if it rained. He yawned. I'm getting bored with this voyage, and yet I don't want it to end, because then I'll have to fight it out all over again with my family. My father owns a hotel, and he wants me in the family business, not 500 light years away. None of our family have ever been spacemen before, he explained, and they don't understand that living on one planet would drive me out of my mind. He sighed. How did you explain it to your people that you couldn't be happy in the mud, or are you a career man? I guess so. I never thought about doing anything else, Bart said slowly. Ring's story had touched him. He had never realized quite so fully how much alike the two races were, how human the lorry problems and dreams could seem. Why, of course, the lorry aren't all spacemen. They have hotel keepers and garbage men and dentists just as we do. Funny, you never think of them except in space. My mother died when I was very young, Bart said, choosing his words very carefully. My father owned a fleet of interplanetary ships. But you wondered the real thing, deep space, the stars, Ring said. How did he feel about that? He would have understood, Bart said, unable to keep emotion out of his voice, but he's dead now. He died not long ago. Ring's eyes were bright with sympathy. While you were off on the drift, bad luck, he said gently. He was silent, and when he spoke again, it was in a very different tone. But some of the older generation, I had a professor in training school, funny old chap, bald as the hull of the Swift Wing, taught us cosmic ray analysis, and what he didn't know about spiral nebulae could be engraved on my fifth toe claw, and he'd never been off the face of the planet, not even to one of the moons. He was the supervisor of my student lodge, and oh, was he a, the phrase ring used meant literally a soft piece of cake. His feet may have been buried in mud, but his head was off in the great nebula. We had some wild times, ring reminisced. We'd slip away to the city, strictly against the rules, it was an old style school, and draw lots for one of us to stay home and sign in for all 12. You see, he'd sit there reading, and when one of us came in, just shoved the wax at us with his nose in a text on cosmic dust, never looking up. So the one who stayed home would scroll in name on it, walk out the back door, come around, and sign in again. When there were 12 signed in, of course, the old chap would go up to bed, and late that night the one who stayed in would sneak down and let us in. Ring sat up suddenly, touching his cheek. Was that a drop of rain? And the sun's gone. I suppose we ought to start back, though I hate to leave those caves unexplored. Bart bent to gather up the debris of their meal. He flinched as something hard struck his arm. Ouch, what was that? Ring cried out in pain. It's hail! Sharp pieces of ice were suddenly pelting, raining down all around them, spattering the ground with a harsh, bouncing clatter. Ring yelled, come on, it's big enough to flatten you. It looked to Bart as if it were at least golf ball size, and seemed to be getting bigger by the moment. Lightning flashed around them in sudden glare. They ducked their heads and ran. Get in under the lee of the cliffs. We couldn't possibly make it back to the swift. Ring's voice broke off in a cry of pain. He slumped forward, pitched to his knees, then slid down and lay still. What's the matter? Bart, arm curved to protect his skull, bent over the fallen lorry. But Ring, his forehead bleeding, lay insensible. Bart felt sharp pain in his arm, felt the hail hard as thrown stones raining on his head. Ring was out cold. If they stayed in this, Bart thought despairingly, they'd both be dead. Crouching, trying to duck his head between his shoulders, Bart got his arms under Ring's armpits and half carried, half dragged him under the lee of the cliffs. He slipped and slid on the thickening layer of ice underfoot, lost his footing and came down, hard, one arm twisted between himself and the cliff. He cried out in pain uncontrollably and let Ring slip from his grasp. The lorry boy lay like the dead. Bart bent over him, breathing hard, trying to get his breath back. The hail was still pelting down, showing no signs of lessening. About five feet away, one of the dark gaps in the cliff showed wide and menacing, but at least Bart thought the hail couldn't come in there. He stooped and got hold of Ring again. A pain-like fire went through the wrist he had smashed against the rock. He set his teeth, wondering if it had broken. The effort made him see stars, but he managed somehow to hoist Ring up again and haul him through the pelting hail toward the yawning gap. It darkened around them and, blessedly, the battering, bruising hail could not reach them. Only an occasional light splinter of ice blew with the bitter wind into the mouth of the cave. Bart's laid Ring down on the floor under the shelter of the rock ceiling. He knelt beside him and spoke his name, but Ring just moaned. His forehead was covered with blood. Bart took one of the paper napkins from the lunch sack and carefully wiped some of it away. His stomach turned at the deep, ugly cut, which immediately started oozing fresh blood. He pressed the edges of the cut together with the napkin, wondering helplessly how much blood Ring could lose without danger, and if he had concussion. If he tried to go back to the ship and fetch the medic for Ring, he'd be struck by hail himself. From where he stood, it seemed that the hailstones were getting bigger by the minute. Ring moaned, but when Bart knelt beside him again, he did not answer. Bart could hear only the rushing of wind, the noise of the splattering hail, and a sound of water somewhere, or was that a rustle of scales, a dragging of strange feet. He looked through the darkness into the depths of the cave, his hand on his shock-beam. He was afraid to turn his back on it. This is nonsense, he told himself firmly. I'll just walk back there and see what there is. At his belt he had the small flash-lamp, excessively bright, that was, like the Energon Beam Shocker, a part of regulation equipment. He took it out, shining it on the back wall of the cave. Then drew a long breath of startlement, and for a moment forgot Ring and his own pain. For the back wall of the cave was an exquisite fall of crystal. Minerals glowed there, giant crystals, like jewels, crusted with strange, like-and-like growths and colors. There were pale blues and greens and, shimmering among them, a strangely colored crystalline mineral that he had never seen before. It was blue, no, Bart thought. That's just the light. It's more like red. No, it can't be like both of them at once, and it isn't really like either in this light. Ring moaned, and Bart, glancing round, saw that he was struggling to sit up. He ran back to him, dropping to his knees at Ring's side. It's all right, Ring. Lie still. We're under cover now. What happened, Ring said, blurly? Head hurts, all sparks, all pretty lights. Can't see you. He fumbled with loose, uncoordinated fingers at his head, and Bart grabbed at him before he poked a claw in his eye. Don't do that, Ring complained. Can't see. He must have a bad concussion then. That's a nasty cut. Gently he restrained the lorry boy's hands. Bart all, what happened? Bart explained. Ring tried to move, but fell limply back. Weren't you hurt? I thought I heard you cry out. A cut or two, but nothing serious, Bart said. I think the hail stopped. Lie still. I'd better go back to the ship and get help. Give me a hand and I can walk, Ring said, but when he tried to sit up he flinched, and Bart said, you'd better lie still. He knew that head injury should be kept very quiet. He was almost afraid to leave Ring, for fear the lorry boy would have another delirious fit and hurt himself, but there was no help for it. The hail had stopped and the piled heaps were already melting, but it was bitterly cold. Bart wrapped himself in the silvery cloak, glad of its warmth, and struggled back across the slushy, ice-strewn meadow that had been so pink and flowery in the sunshine. The swift wing, a monstrous dark egg looming in the twilight, seemed like home. Bart felt the heavenly warmth close around him with a sigh of pure relief, but the second officer, coming up the hatchway, stopped in consternation. You're covered with blood, the hail storm. I'm all right, Bart said, but Ring's been hurt. You'll need a stretcher, quickly he explained. I'll come with you and show you. You'll do no such thing, the officer said. You look as if you'd been caught out in a meteor shower feather top. We can find the place. You go and have those cuts attended to. And what's wrong with your wrist, broken? Bart heard, like an echo, the frightening words, don't break any bones, you won't pass an X-ray. It's all right, sir, when I get washed up. That's an order, snapped the officer. Do you think on this pestilential, unlucky planet we can afford any more bad luck? Metals fatigued, Carol burned so badly the medic thinks he may never use his hand again, and now you and Ring getting yourself laid up and out of action? The medic will help me with Ring, that Mentorian girl can look after you, get moving. He hurried away, and Bart, his head beginning to hurt, walked slowly up the ramp. His whole arm felt numb, and he supported it with his good hand. In the small infirmary, Carol lay groaning in a bunk, his arm bound in bandages, his head moving from side to side. The Mentorian girl Meta turned charging a hypo. She looked pale and drawn. She went to Carol, uncovering his other arm, and made the injection. Almost immediately the moaning stopped, and Carol lay still. Meta sighed and drew a hand over her brow, brushing away feathery wisps that escaped from the cap tied over her hair. Bartol, you're hurt? Not Burns, I hope. She looks just like a fluffy little kitten, Bart thought, incongruously. Fatigue was beginning to blur his reactions. Only a few cuts, he said, in universal, though Meta had spoken lorry. In his weariness and pain he was homesick for the sound of a familiar word. Ring and I were both caught in the hailstorm, he's badly hurt. Sit down here, Bart sat. Meta's hands were skillful and cool as she sponged the blood away from his forehead and sprayed it with some pleasantly cold mint-smelling antiseptic. Bart leaned back, tireder than he knew, half closing his eyes. That hail must have been enormous. We heard it through the hull. Whatever possessed you to go out into it? It wasn't hailing when we left, Bart said, wearily. The sun was as nice and green as it could be. He bit the words off, realizing he had made a slip, but the girl seemed not to hear, fastening a strip of plastic over a cut. She picked up his wrist. Bart flinched in spite of himself and Meta nodded. I was afraid of that, it may be broken. Better let me x-ray it. No, Bart said harshly. It's all right, I just twisted it. Nothing's broken, just strap it up. It's pretty badly swollen, the girl said, moving it gently. Does that hurt? I thought so. Bart said his teeth against a cry. It's all right, I tell you, just because it's black and blue. He heard her breath jolt out. Her fingers clenched painfully on his wounded wrist. She did not hear his cry this time. And the sun was nice and green, she whispered. What are you? Bart felt himself slip sideways. He felt for a moment that he would faint where he sat. Terrified, he looked up at Meta. Their eyes met and she said, hardly moving her pale lips. Your eyes, they're like mine. Your eyelashes, dark, not white. You're not a lorry. The pain in his wrist suddenly blurred everything else, but Meta suddenly realized she was gripping it. She gave a little gentle cry and cradled the abused wrist in her palm. No wonder you didn't want an x-rayed, she whispered. Biting her lip, she glanced, terrified at Carol, unconscious in the bunk. No, he can't hear us. I gave him a heavy shot of hymnen, poor fellow. Go ahead, Bart said bitterly, yell for your keepers. Her gray eyes blazed at him for a moment. Then, gently, she laid his wrist on the table, went to the infirmary door and locked it on the inside. She turned around, her face white. Even her lips had lost their color. Who are you? She whispered. Does it matter now? Shocked comprehension swept over her face. You don't think I'd tell them, she whispered. I heard talk in the proscien port of a spy that had managed to get through on a lorry ship. Her face twisted. You, you must know about the man on the multi-phase. You know they'll make sure I can't hide anything dangerous to the lorry at the end of our voyage. Meta, concerned for her, swept over him. What will they do to you when they find out that you knew and didn't tell? Her gray eyes were wide as a kitten's. Why, nothing. The lorry would never hurt anyone, would they? Brainwashed, he said his mouth grimly. I hope you never find out different. Why would they need to, she asked reasonably. They could just erase the memory. I never heard of a lorry actually hurting anyone. But something like this, she wavered, looking at him. You look so much like a lorry. How was it done? How could they do it? Poor fellow, you must be the loneliest man in the universe. Her voice was compassionate. Bart felt his throat tighten and had the awful feeling that he was going to cry. He reached with his good hand for hers, seeking the comfort of a human touch, but she flinched instinctively away. He was a monster to this pretty girl. It looks so real, she said helplessly. Yes, now I can see you have tiny moons at the base of the nail and the lorry don't. Her face worked. It's horrifying. How could you? There was a noise in the corridor, Mita gasped and ran to unlock the door, stood back as the medic and the second officer came in, staggering under Ring's weight. Carefully they put him into a bunk. The medic straightened, shaking his crest. Did you get that wrist taken care of Bartol? Mita stepped between Bart and the officer, reaching for a roll of bandage. I'm working on it now, Rieko Mori, she said. It only wants strapping up. But her fingers trembled as she wound the gauze, pulling each full tight. How's Ring? Needs quiet, grunted the medic, and a few sutures. Lucky you got him under cover when you did. Ring said weakly from his bunk, Bartol saved my life. I can think of plenty who'd run for cover instead of staying out in that stuff long enough to drag me inside. Thanks, shipmate. Mita's hand, with a swift, hard pressure, lingered on Bart's shoulder as she cut the bandage and fastened the end. I don't think that will bother you much now, she whispered fleetingly. I didn't dare say it was broken, or they'd insist on X-rays. If it hurts, I'll get you something later for the pain. If you keep it strapped up tight. It will do, Bart said aloud. The tight bandage made it feel a little better, but he felt sick and dizzy, and when the medic turned and saw him, the officer said brusquely, watch off for you, Bartol. I'll fix the sign-out sheet, but you go to your cabin and get yourself at least four hours of sleep. That's an order. Bart stumbled out of the cabin with relief. Safe in his own quarters, he flung himself down on his bunk, shaking all over. He'd come safely through one more nightmare, one more terror for the moment. Had he put Mita in danger too? Was there no end to this ceaseless fear? Not only for himself, but for others. The innocent bystanders who stumbled into plots they did not understand. You're doing this for the stars. It's bigger than your fear. It's bigger than you are, or any of the others. He was beginning to think it was a lot too big for him. End of chapter nine. Chapter 10 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. Recording by Leonie Rose. The Colors of Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Chapter 10. The green sun Maristam lay far behind them. Carols Burns had healed. Only a faint pattern on Ring's forehead showed where six stitches had closed the ugly wound in his skull. Bart's wrist, after a few days of nightmarish pain when he tried to pick up anything heavy, had healed. Two more warp drive shifts through space had taken the swift wing far, far out to the rim of the known galaxy. And now the great crimson coal of Antares burned in their viewports. Antares had 12 planets, the outermost of which, far away now at the furthest point in its orbit from the point of the swift wing's entry into the system, was a small captive sun. No larger than the planet Earth, it revolved every 90 years around its huge primary. Small as it was, it was blazingly blue-white brilliant and had a tiny planet of its own. After their stop on Antares 7, the largest of the inhabited planets in this system where the lorry spaceport was located, they would make a careful orbit around the great red primary and land on the tiny world let of the blue-white secondary before leaving the Antares system. As Bart watched Antares growing in the viewports, he felt a variety of emotions. On the one hand, he was relieved that as his voyage in secrecy neared its official destination, he had as yet not incurred unmasking. But he felt uncertain about his father's co-conspirators. Would they return him to human form and send him back to Vega, his part ended? Or would they unthinkably demand that he go on into the lorry galaxy? What would he do if they did? At one moment, he entertained fantasies of going on into the lorry worlds, returning victorious with the secret of their fueling location or of the star drive itself. At another, he could not wait to be free of it all. He longed for the society of his own people. It ached to think that this voyage between the stars must end so soon. They made planet fall at the largest lorry spaceport Bart had seen. As always, the second officer was the first to go through decontam and ashore, returning with exchanged mail and messages for the Swiftwings crew. He laughed when he gave Bartol a sealed packet. So you're not quite the orphan we've always thought. Bart took it, his heart suddenly pounding and walked away through the groups of officers and crew, eagerly debating how they would spend their port leave. He knew what it would be. It was on the letterhead of eight colors and it contained no message, only an address and a time. He slipped away unobserved to the Mentorian part of the ship to borrow a cloak from Mata. She did not ask why he wanted it and stopped him when he would have told her. I'd rather not know. She looked very small and very scared and Bart wished he could comfort her, but he knew she would shrink from him, repelled and horrified by his lorry's skin, hair, claws. Yet she reached for his hand, gripping it hard in her own dainty one. Bartol, be careful, she whispered, then stopped. Bartol, that's a lorry name. What's your real one? Bart, Bart Steele. Good luck, Bart. There were tears in her gray eyes. With the blue cloak folded around his face, hands tucked in the slits at the side, he felt almost like himself. And as the strange crimson twilight folded down across the streets, laden with spicy smells and little fragrant gusts of wind, he almost savored the sense of being a conspirator, of playing for high stakes in a network of intrigue between the stars. He was off on an adventure and meant to enjoy it. The address he had been given was a lavish estate, not far from the spaceport, across a little gleaming lake that shimmered red, indigo, violet in the crimson sunset, surrounded by a low wall of what looked like purple glass. Bart, moving slowly through the gate, felt that eyes were watching him and forced himself to walk with slow dignity. Up the path, up a low flight of black marble stairs, a door swung open and shut again, closing out the red sunset, letting him into a room that seemed dim after the months of lorry lights. There were three men in the room, but his eyes were drawn instantly to one, standing against an old-fashioned fireplace. He was very tall and quite thin, and his hair was snow-white, though he did not look old. Bart's first incongruous thought was, he'd make a better lorry than I would. His firm, commanding voice told Bart at once that this was the man in charge. You are Bartol, he extended his hand. Bart took it and found himself gripped in a judo hold. The other two men, leaping to place behind him, felt all over his body, not gently. No weapons, Montano. Look here. Save it, Montano said. If you are the right person, you'll understand. If not, you won't have much time to resent it. A very simple test, what color is that divan? Green, and those curtains? Darker green, with gold and red figures. The men released him and the white-haired man smiled. So you actually did it steel? I thought for sure the code message was a fake. He stepped back and looked Bart over from head to foot, whistling. Rain or three is a genius, claws and everything. What a deuce of a risk to take, though. You know my name, Bart said, but who are you? Suspicion came back into the dark eyes. Does that mentorian cloak mean you've lost your memories, too? No, said Bart, it's simpler than that. I'm not Rupert's deal. I'm his voice caught. I'm his son. The man looked startled and shocked. I suppose that means Rupert is dead, dead. It came a little before he expected it then. So you're Bart, he sighed. My name's Montano. This is Hedrick, and I suppose you recognize Rain or two. Bart blinked. It was the same face, but it was not grim like Rain or ones, nor expressive and kindly like that of Rain or three. This one just looked dangerous. But sit down, Montano said with a wave of his hand. Make yourself comfortable. Hedrick relieved Bart of his cloak. Rain or two put a cup of some steaming drink in his hand, passed him a tray of small hot fried things that tasted crisp and delicious. Bart relaxed, answering questions. How old? Only 17. And you came all alone on a lorry ship, working your way as astrogator? I must say you've got guts, kid. It was dangerously like the fantasy he had invented. But Montano interrupted at last. All right, this isn't a party and we haven't all night. I don't suppose Bart has either. Enough time wasted. Since you walked into this young steal, I take it you know what our plans are after this, Bart shook his head. No, Rain or three sent me to call off your plans because of my father. That sounds like three interrupted Rain or two. Entirely two squeamish. Montano said irritably. We couldn't have done anything without a man on the swift wing and you know it. We still can't. Bart, I suppose you know about Larillus? Not by that name. Your next stop, the planetoid of the captive sun. That little hunk of bear rock out there is the first spot the lorry visited in this galaxy, even before mentor. It's an inferno of light from that little blue-white sun, so of course they love it. It's just like home to them. When they found that the inner plans of Antares were inhabited, they built their spaceport here so they'd have a better chance at trade. Entano scowled fiercely. But they wanted that little world lit, so he went all over it to be sure there were no rare minerals there and finally leased it to them, a century at a time. They mined the place for some kind of powdered lubricant that's better than graphite. It's all done by robot machinery, no one's station there. Every time a lorry ship comes through this system, they stop there, even though there's nothing on Larillus except a landing field and some concrete bunkers filled with robot mining machinery. They'll stop there on the way out of this system and that's where you come in. We need you on board to put the radiation counter out of commission. You took a chart from a drawer, spread it out on a tabletop. The simplest way would be to cut these two wires. When the lorry land will be there waiting for them. On board the lorry ship, there must be full records, coordinates of their home world of where they go for their catalyst fuel, all that. Bart whistled, but won't the crew defend the ship? You can't fight Energon, ray guns. Montano's face was perfectly calm. No, we won't even try. He handed Bart a small strip of pale yellow plastic. Keep this out of sight of the Mentorians, he said. The lorry won't be able to see the color, of course, but when it turns orange, take cover. What is it? Radiation exposure film. It's exactly as sensitive to radiation as you are. When it starts to turn orange, it's picking up radiation. If you're aboard the ship, get into the drive chambers. They're lead lined, and you'll be safe. If you're out on the surface, you'll be all right inside one of the concrete bunkers. But get under cover before it turns red because by that time, every lorry of them will be stone cold dead. Bart let the strip of plastic drop, staring in disbelief at Montano's cold, cruel face. Kill them, kill a whole shipload of them. That's murder, not murder, war. We're not at war with the lorry. We have a treaty with them. The Federation has, because they don't dare do anything else, Montano said, his face ticking on the fanatics light. But some of us dare do something. Some of us aren't going to sit forever and let them strangle all humanity. Hold us down, let us die. It's war, Bart, war for economic survival. Do you suppose the lorry would hesitate to kill anyone if we did anything to hurt their monopoly of the stars? Or didn't they tell you about David Briscoe, how they hunted him down like an animal? But how do we know that was lorry policy and not just some fanatic, Bart asked suddenly. He thought of the death of the elder Briscoe and as always he shivered with the horror of it. But for the first time it came to him. Briscoe had provoked his own death. He had physically attacked the lorry, threatened them, goaded them to shoot him down in self-defense. I've been on shipboard with them for months. They're not wanton murderers. Rain or two made a derisive sound. Sounds like it might be three talking. Hedrick growled, why waste time talking? Listen young steel, you'll do as you're told or else. Who gave you the right to argue? Quiet, both of you. Montano came and laid his arm around Bart's shoulders persuasively. Bart, I know how you feel, but can't you trust me? You're Rupert Steel's son and you're here to carry on with your father left undone, aren't you? If you fail now, there may not be another chance for years. Maybe not in our lifetimes. Bart dropped his head in his hands. Kill a whole shipload of lorry, innocent traitors, bald, funny old roogle, stern verongle, ring. I don't know what to do. It was a cry of despair. Bart looked helplessly around at the men. Montano said almost tenderly, you couldn't side with a lorry against men, could you? Could a son of Rupert Steel do that? Bart shut his eyes and something seemed to snap within him. His father had died for this. He might not understand Montano's reasons, but he had to believe that Montano had them. All right, he said thickly, you can count on me. When he left Montano's house, he had the details of the plan, had memorized the location of the device he was sabotaging and accepted from Montano a pair of dark contact lenses. The lights hellish out there, Montano warned. I know you're half Mentorian, but they don't even take their Mentorians out there. They're proud of saying no human foot has ever touched Larillus. When he got back to the lorry spaceport, ring hailed him. Where have you been? I hunted the whole port for you. I wouldn't join the party till you came. What's the pal for? Bart brushed by him without speaking, disregarding ring's surprised stare and went up the ramp. He reached his own cabin and threw himself down in his bunk, torn in two. Ring was his friend, ring liked him, and if he did what Montano wanted, ring would die. Ring had followed him and was standing in the cabin door, watching him in surprise. Bart all, is something the matter? Is there anything I can do? Have you had more bad news? Bart's torn nerves snapped. He raised his head and yelled at ring. Yes, there is something. You can quit following me around and just let me alone for a change. Ring took a step backward. Then he said, very softly, suit yourself, Bartall. Sorry. And noiselessly, his white crest held high, he glided away. Bart's resolve hardened. Loneliness had done odd things to him. Thinking of ring, a lorry, one of the freaks who had killed his father as a friend. If they knew who he was, they would turn on him, hunt him down as they'd hunted Briscoe, as they'd hunted his father, as they'd hounded him from earth to Procyon. He put his scruples aside. He'd made up his mind. They could all die. What did he care? He was human and he was going to be loyal to his own kind. End of chapter 10. The Colors of Space by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Reading 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. CHAPTER XI. But although he thought he had settled all the conflict, he found that it returned when he was lying in his bunk, or when he stood in the dome and watched the stars, while they moved through the Antares system toward the captive sun and the tiny planet Laryllus. It's in my power to give this to all men. Should a few Laryllus stand in his way? He lay in his bunk brooding, thinking of death, staring at the yellow radiation badge. If you fail, it won't be in our lifetime. He'd have to go back to little things, to the little ships that hauled piddling cargo between little planets, while all the grandeur of the stars belonged to the Laryllus. And if he succeeded, Vega Interplanet could spread from star to star, a mighty memorial to Rupert Steele. One day, Verangill sent for him. Bartol, he said, and his voice was not unkind. You and Ring have always been good friends, so don't be angry about this. He's worried about you, says you spend all your spare time in your bunk, growling at him. Is there anything the matter, feather-top? He sounded so concerned, so the word struck Bart with hysterical humor, so fatherly, that Bart wanted insanely to laugh and to cry. Instead, he muttered, Ring should mind his own business. But it's not like that, Verangill said. Look, the Swift Wing is a world, young fellow, and a small one. If one being in that world is unhappy, it affects everyone. Bart had an absurd, painful impulse, to blurt out the incredible truth to Vorangill and try to get the old Lary to understand what he was doing. But fear held him silent. He was alone, one small human in a ship of Lary. Vorangill was frowning at him, and Bart mumbled, it's nothing, Rikomori. I suppose you're pining for home, Vorangill said kindly. Well, it won't be long now. The glare of the captive sun grew and grew in the ports, and Bart's dread mounted. He had, as yet, had no opportunity to put the radiation counter out of order. It was behind a panel in the drive-room, and try as he might, he could think of no way to get to it unobserved. Sometimes, in sleepless nights, it seemed that would be the best way. Just let it go. But then the Lary would detect Montano's ship and kill Montano and his men. Did he believe that? He had to believe it. It was the only way he could possibly justify what he was doing. And then his chance came, as so many chances do when one no longer wants them. The second officer met him at the beginning of one watch, saying worriedly, Bartol, old Rugell's sick, not fit to be on his feet. Do you think you could hold down his shift alone if I drop in and give you a hand from time to time? I think so, Bart said, carefully not overemphasizing it. The second officer, by routine, spent half of his time in the drive-room and half his time down below in maintenance. When he left, Bart knew he would have at least half an hour uninterrupted in the drive-room. He ripped open the panel, located the wires, and hesitated. He didn't quite dare to cut them outright. He jerked one wire loose, frayed the other with a sharp claw until it was almost in shreds, and would break with the first surge of current, pull two more connections loose so that they were not making full contact. He closed the panel and brushed dust over it, and when the second officer came back, Bart was at his own station. As Antares fell toward them in the viewport, he found himself worrying about Mentorians. They would be in cold sleep, presumably in a safe part of the ship, behind shielding, or Montana would have made provisions for them. Still, he wished there were a way to warn Meta. He was not on watch when they came into the planetary field of Larillus, but when he came on shift, he knew at once that the trouble had been located. The panel was pulled open, the exposed wires hanging, and ringed was facing old Rugell, shouting, listen, Baldi, I won't have you accusing me of going light on my work. I checked those panels eight days ago. Tell me who's going to be opening the panels in here anyhow. No, no, Rugell said patiently, I'm not accusing you of anything. Only being careless, young ring. You poke with those buzzing instruments and things, maybe once you tear loose some wires. Bart remembered he wasn't supposed to know what was going on. What's this all about? It was Rugell who answered. The radiation counter, the planetary one, not the one we use in space, is out of order. We don't even need it this landing. There's no radiation on Larilis. If it were the landing gear now, that would be serious. I'm just trying to tell Ring. He's trying to say I didn't check it. Ring was not to be calmed. It's my professional competence. Forget it, Bart said. If Rugell isn't sore about it, and if we don't need it for landing, why worry? He felt like Judas. Just take a look at my daybook, Ring insisted. I checked and marked it service fit. I tell you, somebody was blundering around, opening panels where they had no business, tore it out by accident, then was too much of a filthy sneak to report it and get it fixed. Bartall was on watch alone one night, said the second officer. But you wouldn't meddle with the panels, would you, Bartall? Bart said his teeth, steadying his breathing, as Ring turned hopefully to him. Bartall, did you, by mistake, maybe? Because if you did, it won't count against you a rating, but it means a black mark against mine. Bart hid his self-contempt in sudden, tense fury. No, I didn't. You're going to accuse everybody on the Swift Wing, all the way from me to Voron Gil, before you can admit a mistake, aren't you? If you want somebody to blame, look in a mirror. Listen, you, Ring's pent-up rage exploded. He seized Bart by the shoulder and Bart moved to throw him off, so that Ring's outthrust claws raked only his forearm. In pure reflex, he felt his own claws flick out. They clinched, closed, scuffled, and he felt his claws rake flesh. Half incredulous, he saw the thin red line of blood welling from Ring's cheek. Then, Rugell's arms were flung restrainingly around him, and the second officer was wrestling with a furious, struggling Ring. Bart looked at his red-tipped claws in ill-conceived horror, but it was lost on a general gasp of consternation, for Voron Gil had flung the drive-room door open, taking in the scene in one blistering glance. What's going on down here? For the first time, Bart understood Voron Gil's reputation as a tyrant. One glance at Ring's bleeding face, and Bart's ripped forearm, and he did not pause for breath for a good 15 minutes. By the time he finished, Bart felt he would rather Ring's claws had laid him bleeding to the bone than stand there in the naked contempt of the old lorry's freezing eyes. Half-fledged nestlings trying to do a man's work. So, someone forgot the panel, or damaged the panel by mistake? No, not another word, he commanded, as Ring's crest came proudly up. I don't care who did what. Any more of this, and the one who does it can try his claws on the captain of the Swift Wing. He looked ugly and dangerous. I thought better of you both. Get below, you squalling kittens. Let me not see your faces again before we land." As they went along the corridor, Ring turned to Bart apology and chagrin in his eyes. Look, I never meant to get the bald one down on us, he said, but Bart kept his face resolutely averted. It was easier this way, without pretense of friendship. The light from the small captive sun grew more intense. Bart had never known anything like it, and was glad to slip away and put the dark contact lenses into his eyes. They made his eyes appear all enormous, dilated pupil. Fearfully, he hoped no one would notice. His arms smarted, and he did not speak to Ring all through the long, slow deceleration. When the intercom ordered all crew members to the hatchway, Bart lingered a minute, pinning the yellow radiation badge in a fold of his cloak. A spasm of fear threatened to overwhelm him again, and nightmarish loneliness. He felt agonizingly homesick for his own familiar face. It seemed almost more than he could manage to step out into the corridor full of lorry. It won't be long now. The hatch opened. Even accustomed, as he was, to lorry lights, Bart squeezed his eyes shut at the blue-white brilliance that assaulted him now. Then, opening slitted lids cautiously, he found that he could see. A weirdly desolate scene stretched away before them. Bare, burning sand, strewn with curiously colored eyes, strewn with curiously colored rocks, lay piled in strange chaos. Then he realized there was an odd but perceptible geometry to their arrangement. They showed alternate crystal and opaque faces. Old Rugell noted his look of surprise. Never been here before? That's right. You've always worked on the Polaris Run. Well, those aren't true rocks, but living creatures of a sort. The crystals are alive. The opaque faces are lichens that have something like chlorophyll and can make their own food from air and sunlight. The rocks and lichens live in symbiosis. They have intelligence of a sort, but fortunately they don't mind us or our automatic mining machinery. Every time, though, we find some new lichen that's trying to set up a symbiotes cycle with the concrete of our bunkers. And every time, Ring said cheerfully, somebody, usually me, has to see about having them scraped down and repainted. Maybe someday I'll find a paint the lichens don't like the taste of. Going to explore with Ring, Rugell asked, and Ring, always ready to let bygones be bygones, grinned and said, sure, Bart could not face him. Voron Gil stopped and said, this your first time here, young Bartol? How would you like to visit the monument with me? You can see the machinery on the way back. Relieved at not having to go with Ring, he followed the captain, falling into step beside him. They moved in silence along the smooth stone path. The crystal creatures made this road, Voron Gil said at last. I think they read mines a little. There used to be a very messy, rocky desert here, and we used to have to scrabble and scratch our way to the monument. Then one day a ship, not mine, touched down and discovered that there was a beautiful, smooth road leading up to the monument, and the lichens never touched that stone, but you probably had all this in school. Excited, Bartol? No, no, sir, why? Eyes look a bit odd. But who could blame you for being excited? I never come here without remembering Razon and his crew on that long jump. The longest any lorry captain ever made. A blind leap in the dark, remember, Bartol? Through the dark, through the void, with his own crew cursing him for taking the chance. No one had ever crossed between galaxies, and remember they were using the ancient math. He paused, and Bart said through a catch of breath. Quite an achievement. His badge still looked reassuringly yellow. You young people have no sense of wonder, Voron Gil said. Not that I blame you. You can't realize what it was like in those days. Oh, we'd had star travel for centuries. We were beginning to stagnate. And now look at us. Oh, they derided Razon. Said that even if he did find anyone, any other race, they'd be monsters with whom we could never communicate. But here we have a whole new galaxy for peaceful trade. A new mathematics that takes all the hazard out of space travel. Our Mentorian friends and allies. He smiled. Don't tell the High Council on me, but I think they deserve a lot more credit than most lorry care to give them. Between ourselves, I think the next Panarch may see it that way. Voron Gil paused. Here's the monument. It lay between the crystal columns, tall of pale blue sandstone, with letters in deep shadow of such contrast that the lorry could read them. A high, sheer, imposing steel. Voron Gil read the word slowly, allowed in the musical lorry language. Here, with thanks to those who watched the great night, I, Razon, of Nedron, raise a stone of memory. Here we first do touch the new worlds. Let us never again fear to face the unknown, trusting that the mind of all knowledge still has many surprises in store for all the living. I think I admire courage more than anything else there is, Bartol. Who else could have dared it? Doesn't it make you proud to be a lorry? Bart had felt profoundly moved. Now he snapped back to awareness of who he was and what he was doing. So only the lorry had courage. Life has surprises, all right, Captain, he thought grimly. He glanced down at the bad strip of plastic on his arm. It began to tinge faint orange as he looked, and a chill of fear went over him. He had to get away somehow, get to cover. He looked round and saw his fear was almost driven from his mind. Captain, the rocks, they're moving. Voron Gil said unruffled. Why, so they are. They do, you know, they have intelligence of a sort, though I've never actually seen them move before. I know they shift places overnight. I wonder what's going on. They were edging back the path widening and changing. Oh, well, maybe they're going to do some more landscaping for us. I once knew a captain who swore they could read his mind. Bart saw the slow, inexorable deepening of his badge. He had to get away. He tensed, impatient, gripped by fists of panic. Somewhere on this world, Montano and his men were setting up their lethal radiations. Think of this, a lorry ship of our own to study, to know how it works, to see the catalyst and find out where it comes from, to read their records and star routes. Now we know we can use it without dying in the warp drive. Think of this, to be human again, yet to travel the stars with men of my own race. It's worth a few deaths. Even Vorongill, standing here, talking to him, he might say it. You talk to him as if he'd been your father. Oh, dad, dad, what would you do? His voice was steady, as he said. It's very good of you to show me all this, sir, but the other men will call me a slacker. Hadn't I better get to a work detail? Hmm, maybe so, feather-top, Vorongill said. Let me see. Well, down this way is the last row of bunkers. See the humps? You can check inside to see if they're full or empty, and save us the trouble of exploring if they're all empty. Have a look round inside, if you care to. The robot machinery's interesting. Bart tensed. He had wondered how he'd get hidden inside. But he asked, not locked? Locked? The old lorry short yellowed crest bobbed in surprise. Why? Whoever comes here but our ships? And what could we do with the stuff but take it back with us? Why locked? You've been on the drift too long, among those thieving humans. It's time you got back to live among decent folk again. Well, go along. The sting of the words stiffened Bart as he took leave. The color of the badge seemed deeper orange. When it's red, you're dead. It's true, the lorry don't steal. They don't even seem to understand dishonesty. But they lied, lied to us all. Knowing what we were like, maybe, that we'd steal their ships, their secrets, their lives. The deepening color of the badge seemed the one visible thing in a strange glaring world. He walked along the row of bunkers, realizing he need not check if they were full or empty. The lorry wouldn't live long enough to harvest their better-than-graphite lubricant. They'd be dead. The last bunker was empty. He looked at his orange badge and stepped inside. Heart pounding so loudly, he thought it was an external sound. It was an external sound. A step. Don't move one inch, said a voice in Universal, and Bart froze, trembling. He looked cautiously round. Montano stood there, space-suited, his head bare, dark contact lenses blurring his eyes. And in his hand a drawn blaster was held level, trained straight at Bart's heart. End of Chapter 11