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 Lhari. 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 Lhari training tape. Listen to it

as often as you can, then destroy it--completely--before you leave

here. The Swiftwing 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, 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 Lhari. 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 the 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 wry grin. "Ouch! Careful with

those claws. The Lhari 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, Bartol. Forged, he supposed.

Or was there, somewhere, a real Bartol?

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.




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