The Colors of Space

"Well, according to the logbooks, I'm an Expert Class Two,

Metals-Fatigue," said Ringg. "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 Ringg punched buttons; it began

to rise, slowly and creakily, toward the top. "This, for instance,"

Ringg said. "I've been yelling for a new cable for six months." He

turned. "Take it easy, Bartol; don't let Vorongil scare you. He likes to

hear the sound of his own voice, but we'd all walk out the lock without

spacesuits for him."

The elevator slid to a stop. The sign in Lhari letters said Level of

Administration--Officers' Deck. Ringg pushed at a door and said,

"Captain Vorongil?"

"I thought you were on leave," said a Lhari voice, deeper and slower

than most. "What are you doing, back here more than ten milliseconds

before strap-in checks?"

Ringg 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 Lhari, 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 Lhari, 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 Ringg's

told you what a tyrant I am? What do you want, feathertop?"

Bart remembered being told that this was the Lhari equivalent of "Kid"

or "Youngster." He fumbled in the capacious folds of his cloak for his

papers. His voice sounded shrill, even to himself.

"Bartol son of Berihun in respectful greeting, rieko mori."

("Honorable old-bald-one," the Lhari equivalent of "sir.") "Ringg told

me there is a vacancy among the Astrogators, and I want to sign out."

Unmistakably, Vorongil's snort was laughter.

"So you've been talking, Ringg?"

Ringg retorted, "Better that I tell one man than that you have to hunt

the planet over--or run the long haul with the drive-room watches short

by one man."