ead, whitish
opalescent, washed with green. For a moment, while his eyes adjusted to
the light, he wondered how the Lhari saw it.

Beyond an expanse of black, glassy floor, he saw a low semicircular
table, behind which sat eight Lhari. All wore pale robes with high
collars that rose stiffly behind their domed heads; all were old, their
faces lined with many wrinkles, and seven of the eight were as bald as
the hull of the _Swiftwing_. Under their eyes he hesitated; then,
unexpectedly, pride stiffened his back.

They should have done a better job of brainwashing, if they expected him
to skulk in like a scared rabbit! He held his head high and moved across
the floor step by steady step, trying not to limp or display that he
felt tired or sore.

_You're human! Act proud of it!_

No one moved until he stood before the semicircle of ancients. Then the
youngest, the only one of the eight with some trace of feathery crest on
his high gray head, said "Captain Vorongil, you identify this person?"

"I do," Vorongil said, and Bart saw him seated before the high Council.
To Bart, the Lhari captain seemed a familiar, almost a friendly face.

"Well, Bart Steele, alias Bartol son of Berihun," said one old Lhari,
"what have you to say for yourself?"

Bart stood silent, not moving. What could he say that would not reveal
how desperately alone, how young and foolish and frightened he felt? All
his brave resolutions seemed to drain away before their old, gnomish
faces. Here he'd been thinking of himself as a brave spy, a gallant
fighter in humanity's cause and what not. Now he saw himself for what he
was; a reckless boy, meddling in affairs too big for him. He lowered his
eyes.

"We have read the transcript of your knowledge," said the old Lhari.
"There is little in it that we do not know. We are not, of course,
concerned with human conspiracies unless they endanger Lhari lives. The
Antares authorities will deal with the man Montano for an unauthorized
landing on Lharillis, in violation of Federation treaty."

He smiled, his gnome's face breaking into a million tiny cracks like a
piece of gray-glazed pottery. "Bartol, or whatever you call yourself,
you are a brave young man. I suppose you are afraid we will block your
memories, or your ability to speak of them?"

Bart nodded, gulping. Did the old Lhari read his mind?

"A year ago we might have done so. Captain Vorongil, you will be
interested to know that we have discussed thi