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Updated: June 16, 2025
Tommy wanted to know everything, and both Raynors wanted to know every detail of Bart's year among the Lhari, while Meta and Ringg were both curious about how it had begun. Bart tried to forget that the next day might bring trouble, even imprisonment. The Lhari Council had told him to talk as much as he liked about his voyage, and this might be his only chance.
They're proud of saying no human foot has ever touched Lharillis." When he got back to the Lhari spaceport, Ringg hailed him. "Where have you been? I hunted the whole port for you! I wouldn't join the party till you came. What's a pal for?" Bart brushed by him without speaking, disregarding Ringg's surprised stare, and went up the ramp.
"If Rugel isn't sore about it, and if we don't need it for landing, why worry?" He felt like Judas. "Just take a look at my daybook," Ringg insisted, "I checked and marked it service fit! I tell you, somebody was blundering around, opening panels where they had no business, tore it out by accident, then was too much of a filthy sneak to report it and get it fixed!"
They reached the officer's deck, got Rugel into his cabin and into his bunk, hauled off his cloak and boots. Ringg stood shaking his head. "And they say Captain Vorongil's so tough!" Bart made a questioning noise. "Why, just look," said Ringg.
"Bartol," she said aloud. "Is that how you pronounce it?" She made small scribbles in a sort of shorthand with the red pencil, then made other marks with the black one in Lhari; he supposed the red marks were her own private memoranda, unreadable by the Lhari. "Next, please." She handed a cup of the greenish stuff to Ringg, behind him.
"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.
He was the supervisor of my student lodge, and oh, was he a " The phrase Ringg used meant, literally, a soft piece of cake. "His feet may have been buried in mud, but his head was off in the Great Nebula. We had some wild times," Ringg reminisced. "We'd slip away to the city strictly against rules, it was an old-style school and draw lots for one of us to stay home and sign in for all twelve.
She looked at Bart in his Lhari clothing, at Meta in her Mentorian robe and cloak, at Ringg, and her unruffled dignity did not turn a hair. "May I help you?" she inquired, still not caring. "I want to see Raynor One." "On what business, please?" "Tell him," said Bart, with immense satisfaction, "that his boss is here Bart Steele and wants to see him right away."
They have hotel keepers and garbage men and dentists just as we do. Funny, you never think of them except in space. "My mother died when I was very young," Bart said, choosing his words very carefully. "My father owned a fleet of interplanetary ships." "But you wanted the real thing, deep space, the stars," Ringg said. "How did he feel about that?"
More to hear the sound of his own voice, and reassure himself of his ability to speak and be understood, than because he cared, he asked Ringg, "What's your rating?" "Well, according to the logbooks, I'm an Expert Class Two, Metals-Fatigue," said Ringg. "That sounds very technical and interesting.
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