"I've done something better than stealing a secret by stealth. I've
proved that humans and Lhari can communicate, that they can trust each
other. It's only their looks that are strange. A kind, generous man is a
kind generous man, whether his name is Raynor Three or Vorongil."

_But who's going to know it?_

"I know it. And truth comes out, sooner or later. Somehow, a better
understanding between man and Lhari will come from this."

Secure in the knowledge, he turned over and went peacefully to sleep.

When he woke again, he felt better. The Mentorian girl, Meta, was
sitting quietly between the bunks, watching him. He started to turn
over, flinched at the pain in his arm.

"Yes," she said, "we're giving you one last transfusion. Plasma, this
time. It's Lhari, but if you know that much, you know it won't hurt
you." She came and inspected the needle in his wrist, and Bart caught
her hand with his free one. "Meta, does anyone else know?"

She looked down with a troubled smile. "I don't think so. I was off
watch, waiting for cold-sleep--we're just about to make the long
jump--when Vorongil came to my quarters. I was startled almost out of my
wits. He asked if I could keep a secret; then he told me about you. Oh,
Bart!" Her small soft hand closed convulsively on his, "I was so afraid!
I knew they wouldn't kill you, but I was afraid!"

_Yet they had killed David Briscoe_, Bart thought, and hunted down two
of his friends. It was the only thing he couldn't square with his
perception of the Lhari. It didn't fit. He could understand that they
had shot down the robotcab with Edmund Briscoe in it, in pure
self-defense; and that knowledge had taken off the edge of the horror.
But the death of young Briscoe and everyone he had talked to could not
be explained away.

"You seem very sure they wouldn't have killed me, Meta," he said,
carefully clasping his hand around hers.

"They wouldn't," she affirmed. "But they could--make you forget--"

A small chill went over Bart. He let go of her hand and lay staring
bleakly at the wall. He supposed that was his probable fate: remembering
the tragic tone of Raynor Three when he said _I won't remember you_, he
gritted his teeth, feeling his face twist convulsively. Meta, watching,
misunderstood.

"Arm hurting? I'll have that needle out of your vein in a few minutes
now."

When she had freed his arm and put away the apparatus, she came to his
side. "Bart, how did it happen? How did