The Colors of Space

The Lhari said to the Mentorian, in the Lhari language, "Keep him for

questioning but don't tell him why." Bart felt a cold chill icing his

spine. This was it.

The Mentorian said briefly, "We wish to check on the proper antibody

component for Aldebaran natives. There will be a delay of about thirty

minutes. Will you kindly wait in this room here?"

The room was comfortable, furnished with chairs and a vision-screen with

some colorful story moving on it, small bright figures in capes, curious

beasts racing across an unusual veldt; but Bart paced the floor

restlessly. There were two doors in the room. Through one of them, he

had been admitted; he could see, through the glass door, the silhouette

of the Mentorian outside. The other door was opaque, and marked in large

letters: DANGER HUMANS MUST NOT PASS WITHOUT SPECIAL LENSES TYPE X.

ORDINARY SPACE LENSES WILL NOT SUFFICE DANGER! LHARI OPENING!

ADJUST X LENSES BEFORE OPENING!

Bart read the sign again. Well, that was no way out, for sure! He had

heard that the Lhari sun was almost 500 times as bright as Earth's. The

Mentorians alone, among humans, could endure Lhari lights--he supposed

the warning was for ordinary spaceport workers.

A sudden, rather desperate plan occurred to Bart. He didn't know how

much light he could tolerate--he'd never been on Mentor--but he had

inherited some of his mother's tolerance for light. And blindness would

be better than being burned down with an energon-gun! He went hesitantly

toward the door, and pushed it open.

His eyes exploded into pain; automatically his hands went up to shield

them. Light, light--he had never known such cruelly glowing light. Even

through the lids there was pain and red afterimages; but after a moment,

opening them a slit, he found that he could see, and made out other

doors, glass ramps, pale Lhari figures coming and going. But for the

moment he was alone in the long corridor beyond which he could see the

glass ramps.

Nearby, a door opened into a small office with glass walls; on a peg,

one of the silky metallic cloaks worn by Mentorians doing spaceport work

was hanging. On an impulse, Bart caught it up and flung it around his

shoulders.

It felt cool and soft, and the hood shielded his eyes a little. The ramp

leading down to what he hoped was street level was terribly steep and

there were no steps. Bart eased himself over the top of the ramp and let

go. He whooshed down the slick surface on the flat of his back, feeling

the metal of the cloak heat with the friction, and came to a breathless

jarring stop at the bottom. Whew, what a slide! Three stories, at least!

But there was a door, and outside the door, maybe, safety.