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Updated: June 17, 2025
Somehow, a better understanding between man and Lhari will come from this." Secure in the knowledge, he turned over and went peacefully to sleep. When he woke again, he felt better. The Mentorian girl, Meta, was sitting quietly between the bunks, watching him. He started to turn over, flinched at the pain in his arm. "Yes," she said, "we're giving you one last transfusion. Plasma, this time.
It was a week before the Lhari ship went into warp-drive, and all that time Bart stayed in his cabin, not daring to go to the observation Lounge or dining hall. By the time they had been in space a week, he was so bored with his own company that even the Mentorian medic was a welcome sight when he came in to prepare him for cold-sleep.
"All right," he said, thickly, "you can count on me." When he left Montano's house, he had the details of the plan, had memorized the location of the device he was to sabotage, and accepted, from Montano, a pair of dark contact lenses. "The light's hellish out there," Montano warned. "I know you're half Mentorian, but they don't even take their Mentorians out there.
The room was comfortable, furnished with chairs and a vision-screen with some colorful story moving on it, small bright figures in capes, curious beasts racing across an unusual veldt; but Bart paced the floor restlessly. There were two doors in the room. Through one of them, he had been admitted; he could see, through the glass door, the silhouette of the Mentorian outside.
Would the Mentorian ask why he was carrying two wallets? Inside the other one, he still had his Academy ID card which identified him as Bart Steele, and if the Mentorian looked through them to check, and found out he was carrying two sets of identity papers.... But the Mentorian merely dumped all his pocket paraphernalia, without looking at it, into a sack. "Just step through here."
Was this man a slave of the Lhari, who would turn him over to them? Or someone he could trust? His own mother had been a Mentorian. "Who are you?" Raynor One's voice was harsh, and gave the impression of being loud, though it was not. "David Briscoe." It was the wrong thing. The Mentorian's mouth was taut, forbidding. "Try again. I happen to know that David Briscoe is dead."
"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.
Your mother never said much about your Mentorian family tree, I suppose? She was a Raynor." He smiled at Bart, a little ruefully. "I won't claim a kinsman's privileges until you decide how much to trust me." Raynor Three settled back. "It's a long story and I only know part of it," he began. "Our family, the Raynors, have traded with the Lhari for more generations than I can count.
He flung the Mentorian cloak down on the table. "This got me out of trouble the hard way," he said. "I never wore one before and I never intend to again. I want to find Rupert Steele because he's my father!" "Your father. And just how are you going to prove that exceptionally interesting statement?" Without warning, Bart lost his temper. "I don't care whether I prove it or not!
"Could we trrrouble you to sssshow us your paperrrssss?" "Certainly." Nonchalantly, the fat man dug them out and handed them over. Bart saw his father's name printed across the top. The Lhari gestured to a Mentorian interpreter: "What colorrr isss thisss man's hairrr?" The Mentorian said in the Lhari language, "His hair is gray."
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