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This would be his only voyage; after this he'd be chained again, crawling from planet to planet of a single sun. And as warp-shift followed warp-shift, the Swiftwing retracing the path of her outward cruise star by star, Bart said farewell to them. One day, at last, he stood at the viewport, watching Procyon Alpha nearing.
"The Mentorian way is one way, but I've had a taste of being one of the masters of space. It's more than most men ever have, maybe it's more than I deserve. But I can't settle for anything less. Not even if it means losing you." He shut his eyes and stood, head bowed. When he looked up again, he was alone with the stars beyond the viewport, and the lounge was empty.
A speaker under the viewport throbbed with the sound of a human voice. "Auto-shuttle SC 539, attention. You are assigned landing slot seven-three-one, Port Chicago. I repeat, seven-three-one. Dial that destination. Do you read me?" Three times the message was repeated before Mryna concluded that it was meant for her.
Bart looked out the viewport at the swirl and burn of the colors there. Now that he could never speak of the colors, it seemed he had never been so wholly and wistfully aware of them. They symbolized the thing he could never put into words. So that everyone can have this. Not just the Lhari. Rugel watched the Mentorians go, scowling.
It seemed fairly simple to Bart; he tried it, and to his own surprise, won. Old Rugel touched a lever at the side of the room. With a tiny whishing sound, shutters opened, the light of Procyon Alpha flooded them and he looked out through a great viewport into bottomless space. Procyon Alpha, Beta and Gamma hung at full, rings gently tilted.
Strong could see Tom sitting beside the viewport, and across the distance that separated them, the Solar Guard officer could see the curly-haired cadet wave. He returned the greeting. Next was the black ship with the red markings that had aroused so much comment. Strong searched the viewports for a sight of Roger but could not see him.
Before answering, he looked out the viewport a last time. The clouds of cosmic dust swirled and foamed around the familiar jewels of his own sky. Blue, beloved Vega, burning in the heart of the Lyre home when would he go home? He had no home now. Yet his father had left him Vega Interplanet, as well as Eight Colors and a quest to the stars. The colors, the unknowable colors of space. And others.
On his head or the seat of his pants? Seems to me it won't make much difference." Tom laughed at the spectacle of Roger flailing the air helplessly, then suddenly stopped and grabbed Astro by the arm. "Wait, Astro," he called. "Look! There's someone in the ship!" "What?" cried Astro, dropping Roger and turning to the Polaris. The three cadets saw light gleaming from the control-deck viewport.
When he got back to the drive room, he saw through the viewport that the blur had vanished, the star-trails were clear, distinct again, their comet-tails shortening by the moment, their colors more distinct.
You wouldn't want her discovered and salvaged." "No," said Bors. He stood by a viewport as the Sylva drove away. The Isis ceased to be a shape and became the most minute of motes. Bors looked at his watch. "Not far enough yet," he said depressedly. "Everything will go." The yacht drove on. Fifteen twenty minutes at steadily increasing solar-system speed. "It's about due," said Bors.
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