For a moment, pulled off balance in the fat stranger's hug, Bart
remained perfectly still, while the man repeated in that loud, jovial
voice, "How you've grown!" He let him go, stepping away a pace or two,
and whispered urgently, "Say something. And take that stupid look off
your face."
As he stepped back, Bart saw his eyes. In the chubby, good-natured red
face, the stranger's eyes were half-mad with fear.
In a split second, Bart remembered the two Lhari and their talk of a
fugitive. In that moment, Bart Steele grew up.
He stepped toward the man and took him quickly by the shoulders.
"Dad, you sure surprised me," he said, trying to keep his voice from
shaking. "Been such a long time, I'd--half forgotten what you looked
like. Have a good trip?"
"About like always." The fat man was breathing hard, but his voice
sounded firm and cheerful. "Can't compare with a trip on the old
_Asterion_ though." The _Asterion_ was the flagship of Vega Interplanet,
Rupert Steele's own ship. "How's everything?"
Beads of sweat were standing out on the man's ruddy forehead, and his
grip on Bart's wrist was so hard it hurt. Bart, grasping at random for
something to say, gabbled, "Too bad you couldn't get to my graduation. I
made th-third in a class of four hundred--"
The Lhari had surrounded them and were closing in.
The fat man took a deep breath or two, said, "Just a minute, Son," and
turned around. "You want something?"
The tallest of the Lhari--the old one, whom Bart had seen on the
escalator--looked long and hard at him. When they spoke Universal, their
voices were sibilant, but not nearly so inhuman.
"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_." He used
the Universal word; there were, of course, no words for colors in the
Lhari speech.
"The man we sssseek has hair of _red_," said the Lhari. "And he isss
tall, not fat."
"The boy is tall and with _red_ hair," the Mentorian volunteered, and
the old Lhari made a gesture of disdain.
"This boy is twenty years younger than the man whose description came to
us. Why did they not give us a picture or at least a name?" He turned to
the other Lhari and said in their own shrill speech, "I suspected this
man because he was alone. And I had seen this boy on the upper mezzanine
and spoken with him. We watched him, knowing sooner or later the father
would seek him. Ask him." He gestured and the Mentorian said, "Who is
this man, you?"
Bart gulped. For the first time he noted the energon-ray shockers at the
belts of the four Lhari. He'd heard about those. They could stun--or
they could kill, and quite horribly. He said, "This is my father. You
want my cards, too?" He hauled out his identity papers. "My name's Bart
Steele."
The Lhari, with a gesture of disgust, handed them back. "Go, then,
father and son," he said, not unkindly.
"Let's get going, Son," said the little bald man. His hand shook on
Bart's, and Bart thought, _If we're lucky, we can get out of the port
before he faints dead away._ He said "I'll get a copter," and then,
feeling sorry for the stranger, gave him his arm to lean on. He didn't
know whether he was worried or scared. _Where was his father?_ Why did
this man have his dad's papers? Was his father hiding inside the Lhari
ship? He wanted to run, to burst away from the imposter, but the guy was
shaking so hard Bart couldn't just leave him standing there. If the
Lhari got him, he was a dead duck.
A copter swooped down, the pilot signaling. The little man said
hoarsely, "No. Robotcab."
Bart waved the copter away, getting a dirty look from the pilot, and
punched a button at the stand for one of the unmanned robotcabs. It
swung down, hovered motionless. Bart boosted the fat man in. Inside, the
man collapsed on the seat, leaning back, puffing, his hand pressed hard
to his chest.
"Punch a combo for Denver," he said hoarsely.
Bart obeyed, automatically. Then he turned on the man.
"It's your game, mister! Now tell me what's going on? _Where's my
father?_"
The man's eyes were half-shut. He said, gasping, "Don't ask me any
questions for a minute." He thumbed a tablet into his mouth, and
presently his breathing quieted.
"We're safe--for the minute. Those Lhari would have cut us down."
"You, maybe. I haven't done anything. Look, you," Bart said in sudden
rage, "you owe me some explanations. For all I know, you're a criminal
and the Lhari have every right to chase you! Why have you got my
father's papers? Did you steal them to get away from the Lhari? _Where's
my father?_"
"It's your father they were looking for, you young fool," said the man,
gasping hard. "Lucky they had only a description and not a name--but
they've probably got that by now, uncoded. We've only confused them for
a little while. But if you hadn't played along, they'd have had you
watched, and when they get hold of the name Steele--they will, sooner or
later, the people in the Procyon system--"
_"Where is my father?"_
"I hope I don't know," the fat man said. "If he's still where I left
him, he's dead. My name is Briscoe. Edmund Briscoe. Your father saved my
life years ago, never mind how. The less you know, the safer you'll be
for a while. His major worry just now is about you. He was afraid, if he
didn't turn up here, you'd take the first ship back to Vega. So he gave
me his papers and sent me to warn you--"
Bart shook his head. "It all sounds phony as can be. How do I know
whether to believe you or not?" His hand hovered over the robotcab
controls. "We're going straight to the police. If you're okay, they
won't turn you over to the Lhari. If you're not--"
"You young fool," said the fat man, with feeble violence, "there's no
_time_ for all that! Ask me questions--I can prove I know your father!"
"What was my mother's name?"
"Oh, God," Briscoe said, "I never saw her. I knew your father long
before you were born. Until he told me, I never knew he'd married or
had a son. I'd never have known you, except that you're the living
image--" He shook his head helplessly, and his breathing sounded hoarse.
"Bart, I'm a sick man, I'm going to die. I want to do what I came here
to do, because your father saved my life once when I was young and
healthy, and gave me twenty good years before I got old and fat and
sick. Win or lose, I won't live to see you hunted down like a dog, like
my own son--"
"Don't talk like that," Bart said, a creepy feeling coming over him. "If
you're sick, let me take you to a doctor."
Briscoe did not even hear. "Wait, there is something else. Your father
said, 'Tell Bart I've gone looking for the Eighth Color. Bart will know
what I mean.'"
"That's crazy. I don't know--"
He broke off, for the memory had come, full-blown:
_He was very young: five, six, seven. His mother, tall and slender and
very fair, was bending over a blueprint, pointing with a delicate finger
at something, straightening, saying in her light musical voice:_
_"The fuel catalyst--it's a strange color, a color you never saw
anywhere. Can you_ think _of a color that isn't red, orange, yellow,
green, blue, violet, indigo or some combination of them? It isn't any of
the colors of the spectrum at all. The fuel is a real eighth color."_
_And his father had used the phrase, almost adopted it. "When we know
what the eighth color is, we'll have the secret of the star-drive,
too!"_
Briscoe saw his face change, nodded weakly. "I see it means something to
you. Now will you do as I tell you? Within a couple of hours, they'll be
combing the planet for you, but by that time the ship I came in on will
have taken off again. They only stop a short time here, for mail,
passengers--no cargo. They may get under way again before all messages
are cleared and decoded." He stopped and breathed hard. "The Earth
authorities might protect you, but you would never be able to board a
Lhari ship again--and that would mean staying on Earth for the rest of
your life. You've got to get away before they start comparing notes.
Here." His hand went into his pockets. "For your hair. It's a dye--a
spray."
He pressed a button on the bulb in his hand; Bart gasped, feeling cold
wetness on his head. His own hand came away stained black.
"Keep still." Briscoe said irritably. "You'll need it at the Procyon end
of the run. Here." He stuck some papers into Bart's hand, then punched
some buttons on the robotcab's control. It wheeled and swerved so
rapidly that Bart fell against the fat man's shoulder.
"Are you crazy? What are you going to do?"
Briscoe looked straight into Bart's eyes. In his hoarse, sick voice, he
said, "Bart, don't worry about me. It's all over for me, whatever
happens. Just remember this. What your father is doing is _worth_ doing,
and if you start stalling, arguing, demanding explanations, you can foul
up a hundred people--and kill about half of them."
He closed Bart's fingers roughly over the papers. The robotcab hovered
over the spaceport. "Now listen to me, very carefully. When I stop the
cab, down below, jump out. Don't stop to say good-bye, or ask questions,
or anything else. Just get out, walk straight through the passenger door
and straight up the ramp of the ship. Show them that ticket, and get on.
Whatever happens, don't let anything stop you. Bart!" Briscoe shook his
shoulder. "Promise! Whatever happens, you'll _get on that ship_!"
Bart swallowed, feeling as if he'd been shoved into a silly
cops-and-robbers game. But Briscoe's urgency had convinced him. "Where
am I going?"
"All I have is a name--Raynor Three," Briscoe said, "and the message
about the Eighth Color. That's all I know." His mouth twisted again in
that painful gasp.
The cab swooped down. Bart found his voice. "But what then? Is Dad
there? Will I know--"
"I don't know any more than I've told you," Briscoe said. Abruptly the
robotcab came to a halt, swaying a little. Briscoe jerked the door open,
gave Bart a push, and Bart found himself stumbling out on the ramp
beside the spaceport building. He caught his balance, looked around, and
realized that the robotcab was already climbing the sky again.
Immediately before him, neon letters spelled TO PASSENGER ENTRANCE
ONLY. Bart stumbled forward. The Lhari by the gate thrust out a
disinterested claw. Bart held up what Briscoe had shoved into his hand,
only now seeing that it was a thin wallet, a set of identity papers and a
strip of pink tickets.
"Procyon Alpha. Corridor B, straight through." The Lhari gestured, and
Bart went through the narrow passageway, came out at the other end, and
found himself at the very base of a curving stair that led up and up
toward a door in the side of the huge Lhari ship. Bart hesitated. In
another minute he'd be on his way to a strange sun and a strange world,
on what might well be the wild-goose chase of all time.
Passengers were crowding the steps behind him. Someone shouted suddenly,
"Look at that!" and someone else yelled, "Is that guy crazy?"
Bart looked up. A robotcab was swooping over the spaceport in wild,
crazy circles, dipping down, suddenly making a dart like an enraged wasp
at a little nest of Lhari. They ducked and scattered; the robotcab
swerved away, hovered, swooped back. This time it struck one of the
Lhari grazingly with landing gear and knocked him sprawling. Bart stood
with his mouth open, as if paralyzed.
_Briscoe! What was he doing?_
The fallen Lhari lay without moving. The robotcab moved in again, as if
for the kill, buzzing viciously overhead.
Then a beam of light arced from one of the drawn energon-ray tubes. The
robotcab glowed briefly red, then seemed to sag, sink together; then
puddled, a slag heap of molten metal, on the glassy floor of the port. A
little moan of horror came from the crowd, and Bart felt a sudden,
wrenching sickness. It had been like a game, a silly game of cops and
robbers, and suddenly it was as serious as melted death lying there on
the spaceport. _Briscoe!_
Someone shoved him and said, "Come on, quit gawking, kid. They won't
hold the ship all day just because some nut finds a new way to commit
suicide."
Bart, his legs numb, walked up the ramp. Briscoe had died to give him
this chance. Now it was up to him to make it worth having.