The Colors of Space

Bart got up and washed his face, remembering that he had no luggage with

him, not so much as a toothbrush.

At the back of his mind, packed up in a corner, was the continuing worry

about his father, the horror at Briscoe's ghastly death, the fear of the

Lhari; but he slammed the lid firmly on them all. For the moment he was

safe. They might be looking for Bart Steele by now, but they weren't

looking for David Briscoe of Aldebaran. He might just as well relax and

enjoy the trip. He went down to the Observation Lounge.

It had been darkened, and one whole wall of the room was made of clear

quartzite. Bart drew a deep breath as the vast panorama of space opened

out before him.

They were receding from the sun at some thousands of miles a minute.

Swirling past the ship, gleaming in the reflected sunlight like iron

filings moving to the motion of a magnet, were the waves upon waves of

cosmic dust--tiny free electrons, ions, particles of gas; free of the

heavier atmosphere, themselves invisible, they formed in their billions

into bright clouds around the ship; pale, swirling veils of mist. And

through their dim shine, the brilliant flares of the fixed stars burned

clear and steady, so far away that even the hurling motion of the ship

could not change their positions.

One by one he picked out the constellations. Aldebaran swung on the

pendant chain of Taurus like a giant ruby. Orion strode across the sky,

a swirling nebula at his belt. Vega burned, cobalt blue, in the heart of

the Lyre.

Colors, colors! Inside the atmosphere of Earth's night, the stars had

been pale white sparks against black. Here, against the misty-pale

swirls of cosmic dust, they burned with color heaped on color; the

bloody burning crimson of Antares, the metallic gold of Capella, the

sullen pulsing of Betelgeuse. They burned, each with its own inward

flame and light, like handfuls of burning jewels flung by some giant

hand upon the swirling darkness. It was a sight Bart felt he could watch

forever and still be hungry to see; the never-changing, ever-changing

colors of space.

* * * * * Behind him in the darkness, after a long time, someone said softly,

"Imagine being a Lhari and not being able to see anything out there but

bright or brighter light."

A bell rang melodiously in the ship and the passengers in the lounge

began to stir and move toward the door, to stretch limbs cramped like

Bart's by tranced watching, to talk quickly of ordinary things.

"I suppose that bell means dinner," said a vaguely familiar voice at

Bart's elbow. "Synthetics, I suppose, but at least we can all get

acquainted."