t you knew." She drew
herself together in her chair, a miserable, shrunken, terrified little
figure, bravely trying to control her terror.

Then she held out her hands to Bart. "I'm--I'm ashamed," she whispered.
"When you've been so brave, I shouldn't be afraid to die."

"Meta, what's the matter? What are you afraid of?" It suddenly swept
over Bart what she meant and what she feared. "But don't you understand,
Meta?" he exclaimed, "Humans _can_ live through the warp-drive! No
drugs, no cold-sleep--Meta, I've done it dozens of times!"

_"But you're a Lhari!"_ It burst from her, uncontrollable. She stopped,
looked at him in consternation. He smiled, bitterly.

"No, Meta, they didn't do a thing to my internal organs, to my brain, to
the tissues of my body. Just a little plastic surgery on my hands, my
feet and my face. Meta, there's nothing to be afraid of--nothing," he
repeated.

She twisted her small hands together. "I'm--trying to--to believe that,"
she whispered, "but all my life I've known--"

The screaming whine in the ship gripped them with the strange, clawing
lassitude and discomfort. Bart, gasping under it, heard the girl moan,
saw her slump lax in her chair, half fainting. Her face was so deathly
white that he began seriously to be afraid she would die of her fear.
Fighting his own agonizing weakness, he pulled himself upright. He
reached the girl, dug his claws cruelly into her.

"Girl, get hold of yourself! Fight it! _Fight_ it! The more scared you
are, the worse it's going to be!"

She was rigid, trembling, in a trance of terror.

"You rotten little coward," he yelled at her, "snap out of it! Or are
all you Mentorians so gutless that you believe any half-baked folk tale
the Lhari pass off on you? You and your fine talk about earning the
star-drive! What would you do with it after you got it--if you die of
fear when you try?"

"Oh! You--!" She flung her head back, her eyes blazing with rage.
"Anything you can do, I can do, too!" He saw life flowing back into her
face, and the trembling now was with fury, not fear; she was fighting
the pain, the crawling itch in her nerve ends, the terrible sense of
draining disorganization.

Bart felt his hold on himself breaking. He whispered hoarsely, "That's
the girl--don't be scared if I--black out for a minute." He held on to
consciousness with his last courage, afraid if he fainted, the girl
would collapse again.

She reached for him, and Bart, starved for