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Rugel told him that this was the moment of equilibrium, the peak of the faster-than-light motion. "Perhaps a true limiting speed beyond which nothing will ever go," Vorongil said, touching the charts with a varnished claw. Rugel's scarred old mouth spread in a thin smile. "Maybe there's no such thing as a limiting speed.
"Why didn't you tell us you got a bad reaction, and ask to sign out for this shift?" he demanded. "Look, poor old Rugel's passed out again. He just won't admit he can't take it but one idiot on a watch is enough! Some people just feel as if the bottom's dropped out of the ship, and that's all there is to it." Bart hauled his head upright, fighting a surge of stinging nausea.
Come down and see the chart rooms or do you want to leave your kit in your cabin first?" "I don't have much," Bart said. Rugel's seamed lip widened. "That's the way travel light when you're on the drift," he confirmed. Rugel took him down to the drive rooms, and here for a moment, in wonder and awe, Bart almost forgot his disguise.
They had dismissed him, scornfully, stolen cookie in hand but maybe it would be a bigger cookie than they dreamed! The exhilaration lasted through the tour of the port, through the heavy surge of acceleration which brought them up, out and way from Council Planet. Bart, confined in Rugel's cabin, hardly felt like a prisoner, his mind busy with schemes.
In pure reflex he felt his own claws flick out; they clinched, closed, scuffled, and he felt his claws rake flesh; half incredulous, saw the thin red line of blood welling from Ringg's cheek. Then Rugel's arms were flung restrainingly around him, and the Second Officer was wrestling with a furious, struggling Ringg.
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.
Vorongil strode through the door, his banded cloak sweeping behind him, and took the control couch. "Ready from fueling room, sir." "Position," Vorongil snapped. Bart heard himself reading off a string of figures in Lhari. His voice sounded perfectly calm. "Communication." "Clear channels from Pylon Dispatch, sir." It was old Rugel's voice.
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