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When he came to the account of the shift into warp-drive, he saw the faces of the press reporters, and realized that for them this was the story of the year or century: humans can endure star-drive! But he went on, not soft-pedaling Montano's attempted murder, his own choice, the trip to the Lhari world

Bart looked helplessly around at the men. Montano said, almost tenderly, "You couldn't side with the Lhari against men, could you? Could a son of Rupert Steele do that?" Bart shut his eyes, and something seemed to snap within him. His father had died for this. He might not understand Montano's reasons, but he had to believe that Montano had them.

But Bart had pressed the charge of his, and Montano slumped over without a cry. He looked so limp that Bart gasped. Was he dead? Hastily he fumbled the lax hand for a pulse. After a long, endless moment he saw Montano's chest twitch and knew the man was breathing. Well, Montano would be safe here in the bunker. Hastily, Bart looked at his timepiece.

Bart let the strip of plastic drop, staring in disbelief at Montano's cold, cruel face. "Kill them? Kill a whole shipload of them? That's murder!" "Not murder. War." "We're not at war with the Lhari! We have a treaty with them!"

Montano's face was perfectly calm. "No. We won't even try." He handed Bart a small strip of pale-yellow plastic. "Keep this out of sight of the Mentorians," he said. "The Lhari won't be able to see the color, of course. But when it turns orange, take cover." "What is it?" "Radiation-exposure film. It's exactly as sensitive to radiation as you are.

"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.

But then the Lhari would detect Montano's ship, and kill Montano and his men. Did he believe that? He had to believe it. It was the only way he could possibly justify what he was doing. And then his chance came, as so many chances do when one no longer wants them. The Second Officer met him at the beginning of one watch, saying worriedly, "Bartol, old Rugel's sick not fit to be on his feet.