The Colors of Space

He saw the girl again next day, when they checked in for blastoff. She

was seated at a small desk, triangular like so much of the Lhari

furniture, checking a register as they came out of the Decontam room,

making sure they downed their greenish solution of microorganisms.

"Papers, please?" She marked, and Bart noticed that she was using a red

pencil.

"Bartol," she said aloud. "Is that how you pronounce it?" She made small

scribbles in a sort of shorthand with the red pencil, then made other

marks with the black one in Lhari; he supposed the red marks were her

own private memoranda, unreadable by the Lhari.

"Next, please." She handed a cup of the greenish stuff to Ringg, behind

him. Bart went down toward the drive room, and to his own surprise,

found himself wishing the girl were a mathematician rather than a medic.

It would have been pleasant to watch her down there.

Old Rugel, on duty in the drive room, watched Bart strap himself in

before the computer. "Make sure you check all dials at null," he

reminded him, and Bart felt a last surge of panic.

This was his first cruise, except for practice runs at the Academy! Yet

his rating called him an experienced man on the Polaris run. He'd had

the Lhari training tape, which was supposed to condition his responses,

but would it? He tried to clench his fists, drove a claw into his palm,

winced, and commanded himself to stay calm and keep his mind on what he

was doing.

It calmed him to make the routine check of his dials.

"Strapdown check," said a Lhari with a yellowed crest and a rasping

voice. "New man, eh?" He gave Bart's straps perfunctory tugs at

shoulders and waist, tightened a buckle. "Karol son of Garin."

Bells rang in the ship, and Bart felt the odd, tonic touch of fear.

This was it.

Vorongil strode through the door, his banded cloak sweeping behind him,

and took the control couch.

"Ready from fueling room, sir."

"Position," Vorongil snapped.

Bart heard himself reading off a string of figures in Lhari. His voice

sounded perfectly calm.

"Communication."

"Clear channels from Pylon Dispatch, sir." It was old Rugel's voice.

"Well," Vorongil said, slowly and almost reflectively, "let's take her

up then."

He touched some controls. The humming grew. Then, swift, hard and

crushing, weight mashed Bart against his couch.

"Position!" Vorongil's voice sounded harsh, and Bart fought the crushing

weight of it. Even his eyeballs ached as he struggled to turn the tiny

eye muscles from dial to dial, and his voice was a dim croak: "Fourteen

seven sidereal twelve point one one four nine...."