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Updated: May 11, 2025
He ran back along the line of bunkers, his heart pounding with his racing feet. Two crewmen came along the line, young white-crested Lhari from the other watch. He gasped, "Where is the captain?" "Down that way what's wrong, Bartol?" But Bart was gone, his muscles aching with the unaccustomed effort inside gravity.
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.
Meta gasped and ran to unlock the door, stood back as the medic and the Second Officer came in, staggering under Ringg's weight. Carefully, they put him into a bunk. The medic straightened, shaking his crest. "Did you get that wrist taken care of, Bartol?" Meta stepped between Bart and the officer, reaching for a roll of bandage. "I'm working on it now, rieko mori," she said.
Not yet twenty-five years of age, established as minister of one of Boston's well known churches; a co-laborer of Bartol, Ballou, Everett, Emerson, Theodore Parker and Wendell Phillips, surely he is to be tried and tested as few men so young have ever been, here in the "Athens of America," the city of beautiful ideals and great men.
"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?"
He reached his own cabin and threw himself down in his bunk, torn in two. Ringg was his friend! Ringg liked him! And if he did what Montano wanted, Ringg would die. Ringg had followed him, and was standing in the cabin door, watching him in surprise. "Bartol, is something the matter? Is there anything I can do? Have you had more bad news?" Bart's torn nerves snapped.
"It only wants strapping up." But her fingers trembled as she wound the gauze, pulling each fold tight. "How's Ringg?" "Needs quiet," grunted the medic, "and a few sutures. Lucky you got him under cover when you did." Ringg said weakly from his bunk, "Bartol saved my life. I can think of plenty who'd have run for cover, instead of staying out in that stuff long enough to drag me inside.
As Dr. Bartol says: "These friendly good-mornings, these ownings of mutual ties, take on, in their mass, a character of the sublime. The young owe respect to their elders. There is a great deal of affection shown in our day, but the expression of reverence is not so common. Good manners are not simply 'a fortune' to a young person; they are more. They constitute the proof of a noble character."
C. A. Bartol, a disciple of Emerson, maintained that "the mistake is to make the everlasting things subjects of argument instead of sight."
The Swiftwing ships out tonight, Bartol for Antares and beyond. It will be a couple of years before your Eight Colors can be made over into an Interstellar line and as Raynor One has said to me several times, he'll have to handle all those details, for you're not of age yet. "I've been thinking. Now that we Lhari must share space with your people, you'll need experienced men for your ships.
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