The Colors of Space

"But you're a Lhari!" It burst from her, uncontrollable. She stopped,

looked at him in consternation. He smiled, bitterly.

"No, Meta, they didn't do a thing to my internal organs, to my brain, to

the tissues of my body. Just a little plastic surgery on my hands, my

feet and my face. Meta, there's nothing to be afraid of--nothing," he

repeated.

She twisted her small hands together. "I'm--trying to--to believe that,"

she whispered, "but all my life I've known--"

The screaming whine in the ship gripped them with the strange, clawing

lassitude and discomfort. Bart, gasping under it, heard the girl moan,

saw her slump lax in her chair, half fainting. Her face was so deathly

white that he began seriously to be afraid she would die of her fear.

Fighting his own agonizing weakness, he pulled himself upright. He

reached the girl, dug his claws cruelly into her.

"Girl, get hold of yourself! Fight it! Fight it! The more scared you

are, the worse it's going to be!"

She was rigid, trembling, in a trance of terror.

"You rotten little coward," he yelled at her, "snap out of it! Or are

all you Mentorians so gutless that you believe any half-baked folk tale

the Lhari pass off on you? You and your fine talk about earning the

star-drive! What would you do with it after you got it--if you die of

fear when you try?"

"Oh! You--!" She flung her head back, her eyes blazing with rage.

"Anything you can do, I can do, too!" He saw life flowing back into her

face, and the trembling now was with fury, not fear; she was fighting

the pain, the crawling itch in her nerve ends, the terrible sense of

draining disorganization.

Bart felt his hold on himself breaking. He whispered hoarsely, "That's

the girl--don't be scared if I--black out for a minute." He held on to

consciousness with his last courage, afraid if he fainted, the girl

would collapse again.

She reached for him, and Bart, starved for some human touch, drew her

into his arms. They clung together, and he felt her wet face against his

own, the softness of her trembling hands. She was still crying a little.

Then the blackness closed on him, as if endless, and the gray blur of

warp-drive peak blotted his brain into nothingness.

He came out of it to feel her cheek soft against his, her head

trustfully on his shoulder. He said huskily, "All right, Meta?"

"I'm fine," she murmured, shakily. He tightened his hands a little,

realizing that for the first time in months he had physically forgotten

his Lhari disguise, that Meta had given him this priceless reassurance

that he was human. But, as if suddenly aware of it again, she looked up

at him and drew hesitantly away.