door, he hesitated. Was it, after all, the _right_
Eight Colors? But it was a family saying; hardly the sort of thing you'd
be apt to hear outside. He pushed the door and went in.

The room was filled with brighter light than the Procyon sun outdoors,
the edges of the furniture rimmed with neon in the Mentorian fashion. A
prim-looking girl sat behind a desk--or what should have been a desk,
except that it looked more like a mirror, with little sparkles of
lights, different colors, in regular rows along one edge. The mirror-top
itself was blue-violet and gave her skin and her violet eyes a bluish
tinge. She was smooth and lacquered and glittering and she raised her
eyebrows at Bart as if he were some strange form of life she hadn't seen
very often.

"I'd--er--like to see Raynor One," he said.

Her dainty pointed fingernail, varnished blue, stabbed at points of
light. "On what business?" she asked, not caring.

"It's a personal matter."

"Then I suggest you see him at his home."

"It can't wait that long."

The girl studied the glassy surface and punched at some more of the
little lights. "Name, please?"

"David Briscoe."

He had thought her perfect-painted face could not show any emotion
except disdain, but it did. She looked at him in open, blank
consternation. She said into the vision-screen, "He calls himself David
Briscoe. Yes, I know. Yes, sir, yes." She raised her face, and it was
controlled again, but not bored. "Raynor One will see you. Through that
door, and down to the end of the hall."

At the end of the hallway was another door. He stepped through into a
small cubicle, and the door slid shut like a closing trap. He whirled in
panic, then subsided in foolish relief as the cubicle began to rise--it
was just an automatic elevator.

It rose higher and higher, stopping with an abrupt jerk, and slid open
into a lighted room and office. A man sat behind a desk, watching Bart
step from the elevator. The man was very tall and very thin, and the
gray eyes, and the intensity of the lights, told Bart that he was a
Mentorian. _Raynor One?_

Under the steady, stern gray stare, Bart felt the slow, clutching suck
of fear again. Was this man a slave of the Lhari, who would turn him
over to them? Or someone he could trust? His own mother had been a
Mentorian.

"Who are you?" Raynor One's voice was harsh, and gave the impression of
being loud, though it was not.

"David Briscoe."

It was the wrong thing. Th