"Shall I go, rieko mori?"
"No, stay. You'll find it out some way or other, you might as well get it right the first time. But first of all—are you all right, Meta?"
Vorongil looked mildly startled. "It wasn't exactly a lie. Nine out of ten Lhari captains believe it with all their heart—that humans die in warp-drive. I wasn't sure myself until I heard the debates in Council City, last year."
"But why?"
Vorongil sighed. His eyes rested disconcertingly on Bart. "I presume you know human history," he said, "better than I do. The Lhari have never had a war, in all written history. Quite frankly3, you terrified us. It was decided4, on the highest summit levels, that we wouldn't give humans too many chances to find out things we preferred to keep to ourselves. The first few ships to carry Mentorians had carried them without cold-sleep, but people forget easily. The truth is buried in the records of those early voyages.
"As the Mentorians grew more important to us, we began to regret the policy, but by that time the Mentorians themselves believed it so firmly that when we tried the experiment of carrying them through the shift into warp-drive, they died of fear—pure suggestion. I tried it with you, Meta, because I knew Bart's presence would reassure5 you. The others were given an inert6 sedative7 they believed to be the cold-sleep drug. How are you feeling, Bart?"
"Fine—but wondering what's going to happen."
"You won't be hurt," Vorongil said, quickly. Then: "You don't believe me, do you?"
"I don't, sir. David Briscoe did what I did, and he's dead. So are three other men."
"Men do strange things from fear—men and Lhari. Your people, as I said before, have a strange history. It scares us. Can you guarantee that some, at least, of your people wouldn't try to come and take the star-drive by force? We left a man on Lharillis who thought nothing of killing8 twenty-four of us. I suppose the captain of the Multiphase, knowing he had gravely violated Lhari laws, knowing that Briscoe's report might touch off an intergalactic war between men and Lhari—well, I suppose he felt that half a dozen deaths were better than half a million. I'm not defending him. Just explaining, maybe, why he did what he did."
Bart lowered his eyes. He had no answer to that.
"No, you won't be killed. But that's all I can guarantee. My personal feelings have nothing to do with it. You'll have to go to Council Planet with us, and you'll have to be psych-checked there. That is Lhari law—and by treaty with your Federation9, it is human law, too. If you know anything dangerous to us, we have a legal right to eliminate those memories before you can be released."
Meta smiled at him, encouragingly, but Bart shivered. That was almost worse than the thought of death.
And the fear grew more oppressive as the ship forged onward10 toward the home world of the Lhari. And it did not lessen11 when, after they touched down, he was taken from the ship under guard.
He had only a glimpse, through dark glasses, of the terrible brilliance12 of the Lhari sun dazzling on crystal towers, before he was hustled13 into a closed surface car. It whisked him away to a building he did not see from the outside; he was taken up by private elevator to a suite14 of rooms which might—for all he could tell—have been a suite in a luxury hotel or a lunatic asylum15. The walls were translucent16, the furniture oddly colored, and so carefully padded that even a homicidal or suicidal person could not have hurt himself or anyone else on it or with it.
Food reached him often enough so that he never got hungry, but not often enough to keep him from being bored between meals, or from brooding. Two enormous Lhari came in to look at him every hour or so, but either they were deaf and dumb, did not understand his dialect of Lhari, or were under orders not to speak to him. It was the most frustrating18 time of his entire voyage.
One day it ended. A Lhari and a Mentorian came for him and took him down elevators and up stairs, and into a quiet, neutral room where four Lhari were gathered. They sat him in a comfortable chair, and the Mentorian interpreter said gently, with apology:
"Bart Steele, I have been asked to say to you that you will not be physically19 harmed in any way. This will be much simpler, and will have much less injurious effect on your mind if you cooperate with us. At the same time, I have been asked to remind you that resistance is absolutely useless, and if you attempt it, you will only be treated with force rather than with courtesy."
Bart sat facing them, shaking with humiliation20. The thought of resistance flashed through his mind. Maybe he should make them fight for what they got! At least they'd see that all humans weren't like the Mentorians, to sit quietly and let themselves be brainwashed without a word of protest.
He started to spring up, and the hands of his guards tightened21, swift and strong, even before his muscles had fully17 tightened. Bart's head dropped. Cold common sense doused22 over his brave thoughts. He was uncountable millions of light-years from his own people. He was absolutely alone. Bravery would mean nothing; submission23 would mean nothing. Would he be more of a man, somehow, if he let his mind be wrecked24?
"All right," he muttered, "I won't fight."
"You show your good sense," the Mentorian said quietly. "Give me your left arm, please—or, if you are left-handed, your right. As you prefer."
Deftly25, almost painlessly, a needle slid into his arm. Giving in. A dizzying welter of thoughts spun26 suddenly in his mind. Briscoe. Raynor One and Raynor Three. The net between the stars. Ringg, Vorongil, Meta, his father....
Consciousness slid away.
Years later—he never knew whether it was memory or imagination—it seemed to him that he could reach into that patch of gray and dreamless time and fish out questions and answers whole, the faces of Lhari swelling27 up suddenly in his eyes and shrinking back into interstellar distance, the sting-smell of drugs, the sound of unexpected voices, odd reflex pains, cobwebs of patchy memories that fitted nowhere else into his life so that he supposed they must go here.
He only knew that there was a time he did not remember and then a time when he began to think there was such a thing as memory, and then a time when he floated without a body, and then another time when the path of every separate nerve in his body seemed to be outlined, a shimmering28 web in the gray murk. There was a mirror and a face. There were blotchy29 worms of light like the star-trails of peaking warp-drive through the viewport, colors shifting and receding30, a green star, the red eye of Antares.
Then the peak-point faded, his mind began to decelerate and angle slowly down and down into the field of awareness31, and he became fuzzily aware that he was lying full length on a sort of couch. He shook his head groggily32. It hurt. He sat up. That hurt, too. A hand closed gently around his elbow and he felt the cold edge of a cup against his sore mouth.
The liquid felt cool on his tongue, evaporating almost before he could swallow; the fumes34 seemed to mount inside the root of his nose, expanding tremendously inside his head and brain. Abruptly35 his head was clear, the last traces of gray fuzz gone.
"When you feel able," the Mentorian said courteously36, "the High Council will see you."
Bart blinked. As if exploring a sore tooth with his tongue, his mind sought for memories, but they all seemed clear, marshaled in line. The details, clear and unblurred, of his voyage here. His humiliation and resentment37 against the Lhari. They could have changed my thinking, my attitudes. They could have made me admire or be loyal to the Lhari. They didn't. I'm still me.
"I'm ready now." He got up, reeled and had to lean on the Mentorian; his feet did not seem to touch the ground in quite the right way. After a minute he could walk steadily38, and followed the Mentorian along a corridor. The Mentorian said into a small grille, "The Vegan Bartol, alias39 Bart Steele," and after a moment a doorway40 opened.
Inside a room rose, high, domed41, vaulted42 above his head, whitish opalescent43, 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 hull44 of the Swiftwing. Under their eyes he hesitated; then, unexpectedly, pride stiffened45 his back.
They should have done a better job of brainwashing, if they expected him to skulk46 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 crest47 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 desperately48 alone, how young and foolish and frightened he felt? All his brave resolutions seemed to drain away before their old, gnomish49 faces. Here he'd been thinking of himself as a brave spy, a gallant50 fighter in humanity's cause and what not. Now he saw himself for what he was; a reckless boy, meddling51 in affairs too big for him. He lowered his eyes.
"We have read the transcript52 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 conspiracies53 unless they endanger Lhari lives. The Antares authorities will deal with the man Montano for an unauthorized landing on Lharillis, in violation54 of Federation treaty."
He smiled, his gnome's face breaking into a million tiny cracks like a piece of gray-glazed pottery55. "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?"
"A year ago we might have done so. Captain Vorongil, you will be interested to know that we have discussed this in Council, and your recommendations have been taken. The secret that humans can endure star-drive has outlived its usefulness. For good or ill, it is secret no longer. We cannot possibly eliminate all the old records, or the enterprising people who hunt them out.
"The captain who had David Briscoe killed, under the mistaken notion that this would excuse his own negligence57 in letting Briscoe stow away on his ship, is undergoing psychotherapy and may eventually recover.
"As for the rest—Bart Steele, you know nothing that is a danger to us. You do not know the coordinates58 of our world, or even in which galaxy59 it is located. You do not know where we secure the catalyst60 your people seek. In fact, you know nothing that is not soon to become common knowledge. In view of that, we have decided not to interfere61 with your memories."
"Talk as much as you like," added another of the ancients, "and may your memories of this voyage help in understanding between the Lhari and other human races. Good fortune to you." And he was smiling.
"There is another side to this," said a third, more sternly and gravely. "You have broken a treaty between Lhari and man. We have dealt with you as the laws required; now your own people must do so. You must return with the Swiftwing to the planet where the violation originated—" he consulted a memorandum—"Procyon Alpha. There you and the man Raynor Three will face charges of unlawful conspiracy62 to board a Lhari ship, in violation of Intergalactic Trade treaties. Captain Vorongil, will you be responsible for him?"
So I've lost, Bart thought drearily63. I didn't even learn anything important enough for them to suppress. There was a strange wounded pride in this; after all his trouble, he was being treated like a little boy who has used a great deal of enterprise and intelligence to rob a cookie cupboard, and for his pains is sent home with the stolen cookie in his hand.
Vorongil touched his arm. "Come, Bartol," he said gently, "I'm taking you back to the Swiftwing. I don't have to treat you like a prisoner, do I?"
Numbly64, Bart gave what the old Lhari asked, his word of honor not to attempt escape (Escape? Where to?) or to attempt to enter the drive chamber65 of the Swiftwing while they were still among the Lhari worlds.
As they left the council hall, Bart, in a gesture of despair, covered his face with his hands. As he brought them down, he found himself staring at them, transfixed.
The fingers looked longer and thinner than he remembered them, but they were his own hands again. The nails seemed faintly thick and ridged, and there was still a faint grayish tinge66 through the pale flesh color, but they were human hands. Unmistakably. He felt of his nose and ears, with fumbling67 fingers; raised his hand and touched the very short, crisp hair growing on his newly shaven skull68.
"You fool," said Vorongil to the Mentorian, in disgust, "why didn't you tell him what the medics had done for him? Easy, Bartol!" The old Lhari's arm tightened around his shoulder. "I thought they'd told you. Somebody come here and give the youngster a hand."
Later, in the small cabin (it had been Rugel's) which was to be his prison during the return voyage of the Swiftwing, he had a chance to study his familiar-strange face. He had thought that only a short time—an hour or so—had elapsed between the time he was drugged and the time they took him before the Council. Later, from what he learned about the dispatch schedules of the Swiftwing, he realized that he had been kept under sedation for nearly three weeks, while his face and hands healed.
As Raynor Three had warned, the change was not altogether reversible. Studying his face in the mirror, he could still see a hint of something thin, strange, alien in the set of his features; the nose and chin somewhat too pointed69, elfin, to be human. His hands would always be too long, too narrow, too supple70. For the rest, he looked grim, older. He could never go back to what he had been before he became a Lhari; it had left its mark on him forever.
Before the Swiftwing lifted, outbound, Vorongil came to his cabin. "You've seen very little of our world," he said diffidently. "I have permission for you to visit the city before we leave Council Spaceport."
"You think you can trust me?" Bart asked bitterly.
Vorongil said gravely, without humor, "The question does not arise. You do not know the coordinates of this world, and have no way of finding them. Within those limitations, you are an honored guest here, and if it would give you any pleasure, you are welcome to see as much of Council Planet as time permits."
It seemed, through Vorongil's kindness, that the old Lhari sensed his bitter defeat. Nothing was to be gained by sulking in his cabin, a prisoner. He had an opportunity which no human, except the Mentorians, had ever had; which perhaps no human would ever have again. He might as well take advantage of it.
Ringg and Meta both seemed startled at his new appearance, but Meta instantly held out her hands, clasping his quickly and warmly. "Bart! I wondered what your real face looked like. But I think I'd have known you anyhow."
Ringg surveyed him wonderingly, shaking his head. "Say something," he implored71, "so I'll know you're Bartol."
Bart held out his arm, less gray by the day as the drug wore out of his system. The thin line of the scar was still on it. He raised his forefinger72 lightly to the fine line on Ringg's cheek. "I couldn't return that now. So let's not get into any more fights."
Ringg laughed and gave him a rough, affectionate shove. "You're Bartol, all right!"
Even his sense of defeat vanished in wonder as they came out into the great spaceport. He saw, now, that the Lhari spaceports in human worlds were built to create, for the spacemen so far from their native worlds, some feeling of home. But everything here was so vast as to stagger the imagination. There were miles and miles of the great ships, lying strewn like pebbles73 on this monster beachhead into space, bearing the strangeness of a million far-flung stars. He gaped74 like a child.
Above them, the burning brilliance of a star gave strange glow and color to the crystal pylons75. What color was the star? He turned to Meta, irritated at his inability to be sure.
"Meta, what color is this sun? I've been all around the spectrum76, and it's not red, blue, green, orange, violet—" He broke off, realizing what he had said and what he had seen. "An eighth color," he finished, anticlimatically.
"You and your talk of colors," Ringg grumbled77, "I wish I knew what you Mentorians see! It's like trying to imagine seeing a smell or hearing light!"
Meta laughed. "As far as I know, no one's named it. Sometimes we Mentorians call it catalyst color. I think only Mentorians can see it as separate color."
"So what?" Ringg said impatiently, "What are we going to do, chatter78 about light waves or see the city?"
Bart acquiesced79, trying to sound eager, but a wild excitement was gusting80 up in him. He dutifully pretended fascination81 with the towers, the many-leveled roads, the giant dams and pylons, but his thoughts were racing82.
The eighth color! There can't be too many suns of this color, or they'd have named it and known it! And telescopes can find it.
Could success be salvaged83, then, at the very edge of failure? Maybe he need not go empty-handed, empty-eyed, from the Lhari worlds! They had dismissed him, scornfully, stolen cookie in hand—but maybe it would be a bigger cookie than they dreamed!
The exhilaration lasted through the tour of the port, through the heavy surge of acceleration84 which brought them up, out and way from Council Planet. Bart, confined in Rugel's cabin, hardly felt like a prisoner, his mind busy with schemes.
I'll study star-maps, and spectroscope reports....
It lasted almost two days of shiptime, and they were readying for Acceleration Two, before he came, figuratively, down to earth. To pick one star out of trillions—and not even in his own galaxy? It would take a lifetime and he didn't even know which of the four or five spiral nebulae in the skies of the human worlds was the Lhari Galaxy. A lifetime? A hundred lifetimes wouldn't do it!
He might have known. If there had been one chance in the odd billion of his making any such discovery, the Lhari would never have given Vorongil permission for the intruder to visit the planet at all. He would have been returned to the Swiftwing as he had been taken from it, by closed car, and imprisoned85, maybe even drugged, until he was safely back in the human worlds again.
He was under parole not to enter the drive chamber (and sure he would be stopped if he attempted it anyhow), but when Acceleration One was completed, he went to the viewport in the Recreation Lounge, and nobody threw him out. He stood long, looking at the unfamiliar86 galaxy of the Lhari stars; the unknown, forever unknowable constellations87 with their strange shapes. Stars green, gold, topaz, burning blue, sullen88 red, and the great strangely colored receding sun of the Lhari people, known to them by the melodious89 name of the Ke Lhiro—which meant, simply, The Sun: it was their first home.
Where had he seen that color? In that stolen glimpse of the Lhari ship landing, long ago? Of all the colors of space, this one he would never know.
He turned away from the unsolvable riddle90 of the strange constellations; and went to his cabin, to dream of the green star Meristem where he had first plotted known coordinates for a previously91 unknown world, and to wander in baffling nightmares where he fed jagged, star-colored pieces of hail into the ship's computer and watched them come out as tiny paperdoll spaceships with the letterhead of Eight Colors printed neatly92 across their sides.
After the warp-drive shift, Vorongil came to his cabin, this time crisp and businesslike.
"We're back in your galaxy," he said, "among the stars you know. We have no passenger space on the Swiftwing; we had to ship out without replacing Rugel, which means we're short two men. I've no authority to ask this of you, but—would you like your old job back for the rest of the voyage?"
Bart glanced at his human hands.
Vorongil shrugged93. "We've carried Mentorians as full-ranking Astrogators. There don't happen to be any on the Swiftwing. But there's no law about it."
Bart looked the old Lhari in the eye. "I won't accept Mentorian terms, Vorongil."
"I wouldn't ask it. You worked your way outward on this run, and the High Council didn't see fit to erase94 those memories or inhibit95 them. Why should I? Do you want it or not?"
Did he want it? Until this moment Bart had not identified the worst of his pain and defeat—to travel as a passenger, a supercargo, when he had once been part of the Swiftwing. Literally96 he ached to be back with it again. "I do, rieko mori."
"Very well," Vorongil rapped, "see that you turn out next watch!" He spun round and walked out. His tone was no longer gently indulgent, but sharp and distant. Bart, at first surprised, suddenly understood.
Not now a prisoner, a passenger, a guest on the Swiftwing. He was part of the crew again—and Vorongil was his captain.
The Lhari crew were oddly constrained97 at first. But Ringg was the same as always, and before long they were almost on the old terms. With every watch, it seemed, he was building a bridge between man and Lhari. They accepted him.
But for what? Something might come, in the far future, of his acceptance, but he wouldn't get the benefit of it. This would be his only voyage; after this he'd be chained again, crawling from planet to planet of a single sun. And as warp-shift followed warp-shift, the Swiftwing retracing98 the path of her outward cruise star by star, Bart said farewell to them.
One day, at last, he stood at the viewport, watching Procyon Alpha nearing. A year ago, frightened, terribly alone, still unsteady on his new Lhari muscles and terrified by the monsters that were his shipmates, he had watched these planets spinning away. Poor old Rugel, poor old Baldy!
Behind him, Meta came into the lounge.
"Bart—"
He turned to face her. "It won't be much longer, Meta. Tomorrow I'll find out what the Federation is going to do to me. Conspiracy unlawfully to board—and all the rest of it. Even if I don't go to a prison planet, I'll spend the rest of my life chained down to Vega."
"It doesn't have to be that way."
"What other choice is there?" he demanded.
"You're half Mentorian," she said, raising her eager face. "Oh, Bart, you love it so, you know you can't bear to give it up. Stay with us—please stay!"
Before answering, he looked out the viewport a last time. The clouds of cosmic dust swirled99 and foamed100 around the familiar jewels of his own sky. Blue, beloved Vega, burning in the heart of the Lyre—home—when would he go home? He had no home now. Yet his father had left him Vega Interplanet, as well as Eight Colors and a quest to the stars.
He searched for the topaz of Sol, where he had learned astrogation; Procyon, where he had become a Lhari; the ruby101 of Aldebaran (hail and farewell, David Briscoe!); the bloodstone of Antares, where he had learned fear and the shape of integrity. The colors, the unknowable colors of space. And others. Nameless stars where he and his Lhari shipmates had worked and played. And stars he had never seen and would never see, all the endless worlds beyond worlds and stars beyond stars....
He took a last, longing102 look at the colors of space, then turned his back on them, deliberately103 giving them up. He could not pay the price the Mentorians paid.
"No, Meta," he said huskily. "The Mentorian way is one way, but—I've had a taste of being one of the masters of space. It's more than most men ever have, maybe it's more than I deserve. But I can't settle for anything less. Not even if it means losing you."
He shut his eyes and stood, head bowed. When he looked up again, he was alone with the stars beyond the viewport, and the lounge was empty.
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1
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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humiliation
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tightened
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doused
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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wrecked
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deftly
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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swelling
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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groggily
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| adv.酒醉地；东倒西歪地 | |
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33
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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34
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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35
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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36
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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37
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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38
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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39
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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40
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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41
domed
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| adj. 圆屋顶的, 半球形的, 拱曲的 动词dome的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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42
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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43
opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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44
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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45
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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46
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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47
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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48
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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49
gnomish
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| adj.似侏儒的，好戏弄的 | |
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50
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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51
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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52
transcript
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| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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53
conspiracies
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| n.阴谋，密谋( conspiracy的名词复数 ) | |
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54
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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55
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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56
gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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57
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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58
coordinates
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| n.相配之衣物；坐标( coordinate的名词复数 )；（颜色协调的）配套服装；[复数]女套服；同等重要的人（或物）v.使协调，使调和( coordinate的第三人称单数 )；协调；协同；成为同等 | |
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galaxy
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| n.星系；银河系；一群(杰出或著名的人物) | |
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60
catalyst
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| n.催化剂，造成变化的人或事 | |
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61
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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62
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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63
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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numbly
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| adv.失去知觉，麻木 | |
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65
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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67
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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71
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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73
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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74
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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pylons
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| n.（架高压输电线的）电缆塔( pylon的名词复数 )；挂架 | |
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76
spectrum
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| n.谱，光谱，频谱；范围，幅度，系列 | |
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77
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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78
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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79
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
gusting
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| （风）猛刮（gust的现在分词形式） | |
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81
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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82
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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83
salvaged
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| （从火灾、海难等中）抢救（某物）( salvage的过去式和过去分词 )； 回收利用（某物） | |
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84
acceleration
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| n.加速，加速度 | |
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85
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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87
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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88
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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89
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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90
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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91
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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92
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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93
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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94
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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95
inhibit
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| vt.阻止，妨碍，抑制 | |
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96
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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97
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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98
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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99
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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101
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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102
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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103
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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