e Mentorian's mouth was taut, forbidding. "Try
again. I happen to know that David Briscoe is dead."

"I have a message for Raynor Three."

The cold gray stare never altered. "On what business?"

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