The Colors of Space

"When you feel able," the Mentorian said courteously, "the High Council

will see you."

Bart blinked. As if exploring a sore tooth with his tongue, his mind

sought for memories, but they all seemed clear, marshaled in line. The

details, clear and unblurred, of his voyage here. His humiliation and

resentment against the Lhari. They could have changed my thinking, my

attitudes. They could have made me admire or be loyal to the Lhari. They

didn't. I'm still me.

"I'm ready now." He got up, reeled and had to lean on the Mentorian; his

feet did not seem to touch the ground in quite the right way. After a

minute he could walk steadily, and followed the Mentorian along a

corridor. The Mentorian said into a small grille, "The Vegan Bartol,

alias Bart Steele," and after a moment a doorway opened.

Inside a room rose, high, domed, vaulted above his head, whitish

opalescent, washed with green. For a moment, while his eyes adjusted to

the light, he wondered how the Lhari saw it.

Beyond an expanse of black, glassy floor, he saw a low semicircular

table, behind which sat eight Lhari. All wore pale robes with high

collars that rose stiffly behind their domed heads; all were old, their

faces lined with many wrinkles, and seven of the eight were as bald as

the hull of the Swiftwing. Under their eyes he hesitated; then,

unexpectedly, pride stiffened his back.

They should have done a better job of brainwashing, if they expected him

to skulk in like a scared rabbit! He held his head high and moved across

the floor step by steady step, trying not to limp or display that he

felt tired or sore.

You're human! Act proud of it!

No one moved until he stood before the semicircle of ancients. Then the

youngest, the only one of the eight with some trace of feathery crest on

his high gray head, said "Captain Vorongil, you identify this person?"

"I do," Vorongil said, and Bart saw him seated before the high Council.

To Bart, the Lhari captain seemed a familiar, almost a friendly face.

"Well, Bart Steele, alias Bartol son of Berihun," said one old Lhari,

"what have you to say for yourself?"

Bart stood silent, not moving. What could he say that would not reveal

how desperately alone, how young and foolish and frightened he felt? All

his brave resolutions seemed to drain away before their old, gnomish

faces. Here he'd been thinking of himself as a brave spy, a gallant

fighter in humanity's cause and what not. Now he saw himself for what he

was; a reckless boy, meddling in affairs too big for him. He lowered his

eyes.