On a sudden inspiration, Bart said, "I'll tell you that if you can tell
me what the Eighth Color is."
There was a glint in the grim eyes now, though the even, stern voice did
not soften. "I never knew myself. I didn't name it Eight Colors. Maybe
it's the original owner you want."
On a sudden hope, Bart asked, "Was he, by any chance, named Rupert
Steele?"
Raynor One made a suspicious movement. "I can't imagine why you think
so," he said guardedly. "Especially if you've just come in from Earth.
It was never very widely known. He only changed the name to Eight Colors
a few weeks ago. And it's for sure that your ship didn't get any
messages while the Lhari were in warp-drive. You mention entirely too
many names, but I notice you aren't giving out any further information."
"I'm looking for a man called Rupert Steele."
"I thought you were looking for Raynor Three," said Raynor One, staring
at the Mentorian cloak. "I can think of a lot of people who might want
to know how I react to certain names, and find out if I know the wrong
people, if they are the wrong people. What makes you think I'd admit it
if I did?"
Now, Bart thought, they had reached a deadlock. Somebody had to trust
somebody. This could go on all night--parry and riposte, question and
evasive answer, each of them throwing back the other's questions in a
verbal fencing-match. Raynor One wasn't giving away any information.
And, considering what was probably at stake, Bart didn't blame him much.
He flung the Mentorian cloak down on the table.
"This got me out of trouble--the hard way," he said. "I never wore one
before and I never intend to again. I want to find Rupert Steele because
he's my father!"
"Your father. And just how are you going to prove that exceptionally
interesting statement?"
Without warning, Bart lost his temper.
"I don't care whether I prove it or not! _You_ try proving something for
a change, why don't you? If you know Rupert Steele, I don't have to
prove who I am--just take a good look at me! Or so Briscoe told me--a
man who called himself Briscoe, anyway. He gave me papers to travel
under that name! I didn't ask for them, he shoved them into my hand.
_That_ Briscoe is dead." Bart struck his fist hard on the desk, bending
over Raynor One angrily.
"He sent me to find a man named Raynor Three. But the only one I really
care about finding is my father. Now you know as much as I do, how about
giving _me_ some information for a change?"
He ran out of breath and stood glaring down at Raynor One, fists
clenched. Raynor One got up and said, quick, savage and quiet, "Did
anyone see you come here?"
"Only the girl downstairs."
"How did you get through the Lhari? In that?" He moved his head at the
Mentorian cloak.
Bart explained briefly, and Raynor One shook his head.
"You were lucky," he said, "you could have been blinded. You must have
inherited flash-accommodation from the Mentorian side--Rupert Steele
didn't have it. I'll tell you this much," he added, sitting down again.
"In a manner of speaking, you're my boss. Eight Colors--it used to be
Alpha Transshipping--is what they call a middleman outfit. The
interplanet cargo lines transport from planet to planet within a
system--that's free competition--and the Lhari ships transport from star
to star--that's a monopoly all over the galaxy. The middleman outfits
arrange for orderly and businesslike liaison between the two. Rupert
Steele bought into this company, a long time ago, but he left it for me
to manage, until recently."
Raynor punched a button, said to the image of the glossy girl at the
desk, "Violet, get Three for me. You may have to send a message to the
_Multiphase_."
He swung round to Bart again. "You want a lot of explanations? Well,
you'll have to get 'em from somebody else. I don't know what this is all
about. I don't _want_ to know: I have to do business with the Lhari. The
less I know, the less I'm apt to say to the wrong people. But I promised
Three that if you turned up, or if anyone came and asked for the Eighth
Color, I'd send you to him. That's all."
He motioned Bart ungraciously to a seat, and shut his mouth firmly, as
if he had already said too much. Bart sat. After a while he heard the
elevator again; the panel slid open and Raynor Three came into the room.
It had to be Raynor Three; there was no one else he could have been. He
was as like Raynor One as Tweedledum to Tweedledee: tall, stern, ascetic
and grim. He wore the full uniform of a Mentorian on Lhari ships: the
white smock of a medic, the metallic blue cloak, the low silvery
sandals.
He said, "What's doing, One? Violet--" and then he caught sight of Bart.
His eyes narrowed and he drew a quick breath, his face twisting up into
apprehension and shock.
"It must be Steele's boy," he said, and immediately Bart saw the
difference between the--were they brothers? For Raynor One's face,
controlled and stern, had not altered all during their interview, but
Raynor Three's smile was wry and kindly at once, and his voice was low
and gentle. "He's the image of Rupert. Did he come in on his own name?
How'd he manage it?"
"No. He had David Briscoe's papers."
"So the old man got through," said Raynor Three, with a low whistle.
"But that's not safe. Quick, give them to me, Bart."
"The Lhari have them."
Raynor One walked to the window and said in his deadpan voice, "It's
useless. But get the kid out of here before they come looking for me.
Look."
He pointed. Below them, the streets were alive with uniformed Lhari and
Mentorians. Bart felt sick.
"If they had the same efficiency with red tape that we humans have, he'd
never have made it this far."
Raynor Three actually smiled. "But you can count on them for that much
inefficiency," he said, and his eyes twinkled for a moment at Bart.
"That's how it was so easy to work the old double-shuffle trick on them.
They had Steele's description but not his name, so Briscoe took Steele's
papers and managed to slip through. Once they landed on Earth, they had
the Steele _names_, but by the time that cleared, you were outbound with
another set of papers. It may have confused them, because they knew
_David_ Briscoe was dead--and there was just a chance you were an
innocent bystander who could raise a real row if they pulled you in. Did
old Briscoe get away?"
"No," Bart said, harshly, "he's dead."
Raynor Three's mobile face held shocked sadness. "Two brave men," he
said softly, "Edmund Briscoe the father, David Briscoe the son. Remember
the name, Bart, because I won't remember it."
"Why not?"
Raynor Three gave him a gold-glinting, enigmatic glance. "I'm a
Mentorian, remember? I'm good at not remembering things. Just be glad I
remember Rupert Steele. If you'd been a few days later, I wouldn't have
remembered him, though I promised to wait for you."