The Colors of Space

Under the steady, stern gray stare, Bart felt the slow, clutching suck

of fear again. Was this man a slave of the Lhari, who would turn him

over to them? Or someone he could trust? His own mother had been a

Mentorian.

"Who are you?" Raynor One's voice was harsh, and gave the impression of

being loud, though it was not.

"David Briscoe."

It was the wrong thing. The Mentorian's mouth was taut, forbidding. "Try

again. I happen to know that David Briscoe is dead."

"I have a message for Raynor Three."

The cold gray stare never altered. "On what business?"

On a sudden inspiration, Bart said, "I'll tell you that if you can tell

me what the Eighth Color is."

There was a glint in the grim eyes now, though the even, stern voice did

not soften. "I never knew myself. I didn't name it Eight Colors. Maybe

it's the original owner you want."

On a sudden hope, Bart asked, "Was he, by any chance, named Rupert

Steele?"

Raynor One made a suspicious movement. "I can't imagine why you think

so," he said guardedly. "Especially if you've just come in from Earth.

It was never very widely known. He only changed the name to Eight Colors

a few weeks ago. And it's for sure that your ship didn't get any

messages while the Lhari were in warp-drive. You mention entirely too

many names, but I notice you aren't giving out any further information."

"I'm looking for a man called Rupert Steele."

"I thought you were looking for Raynor Three," said Raynor One, staring

at the Mentorian cloak. "I can think of a lot of people who might want

to know how I react to certain names, and find out if I know the wrong

people, if they are the wrong people. What makes you think I'd admit it

if I did?"

Now, Bart thought, they had reached a deadlock. Somebody had to trust

somebody. This could go on all night--parry and riposte, question and

evasive answer, each of them throwing back the other's questions in a

verbal fencing-match. Raynor One wasn't giving away any information.

And, considering what was probably at stake, Bart didn't blame him much.

He flung the Mentorian cloak down on the table.

"This got me out of trouble--the hard way," he said. "I never wore one

before and I never intend to again. I want to find Rupert Steele because

he's my father!"

"Your father. And just how are you going to prove that exceptionally

interesting statement?"