The Dark Beyond the Stars : A Novel by Frank M. Robinson Page A

shook the glowing embers into a small vacuum catch-all in front of him. He stood up and held out his hand and I grasped it. The palm was thick and muscular, the fingers long, the back hairless. His grip was strong enough to make me wince. The smoke drifted away and I could see his face clearly, though I was careful not to stare, preferring to sneak an occasional glance. The hair on his head was black and straight, just starting to gray above the temples. He had a thin black moustache, neatly trimmed, that accentuated his high cheekbones. His eyes were dark, partly hidden by heavy black brows. Later, I was to remember those dark eyes better than anything else. He had very little body hair. His skin was a golden brown from sun lamps, fine-pored and faintly damp to the touch. His face was narrow, the nose sharp, the mouth thin,his expression intelligent and searching. He also looked like he frowned more often than he smiled. I guessed he was about forty years old.
    When he stood up, I didn’t get the impression of a big man so much as a powerfully built one—larger than me but smaller than Crow. His skin was parchment thin and his muscles were tight and well defined; you could see their interplay whenever he moved. He looked immensely strong, but the impression of strength went beyond muscle. He was used to having his way, to being obeyed, and I was smart enough to recognize that as a superior kind of strength. He wore black shorts and halter but there were no captain’s insignia stenciled on his shoulders. He didn’t need any.
    I never got over that first impression. I started to shiver then, my skin developing tiny bumps.
    “Anything wrong, Sparrow?”
    The murmuring in the control room died away and I knew that everybody was watching us, listening to every word we said. I felt very small.
    “No, sir,” I lied, “nothing at all.” My voice squeaked and gave me away but there was no helping that. He smiled again, whether in recognition of my shyness or in an attempt to calm my sudden fears, I wasn’t sure.
    “I’m glad you’re up and around, Sparrow. Your division was worried about you. So was I.”
    He convinced me without really trying, the concern and the friendship obvious in his face, and I was deeply flattered. He had deliberately lent me stature in front of the others. I mumbled an almost inaudible “Thank you, sir.”
    It was difficult to continue meeting his eyes, and my own wandered once again to the control panel. I was fascinated by the projection of the galaxy in the plotting globe, noted the various writing styli clinging to the panel top,then fastened on a small cube of transparent plastic. It contained tiny white and blue flowers whose roots were embedded in a thin layer of sand and pebbles, all of it preserved for eternity within the solid cube. It was beautiful and strange but oddly out of place on the panel. The Captain leaned back comfortably in the sling. “Tell me about Seti IV and your accident. I have Ophelia’s report but I’d like to hear yours.”
    His tone invited confidence: He was a fellow crew member asking about my adventures on that now distant planet. I told him how beautiful Seti IV had looked that day, about my accident and how I had been convinced that I was going to die. He seemed immersed in my story, his eyes never leaving my face. I realized with amazement that nobody else on the bridge mattered to him right then quite so much as I did.
    “You don’t remember anything before the landing on Seti IV?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Nothing about your life on board?Nothing about your friends, maybe a love partner?”
    I looked at the deck and mumbled, “I’ve tried my best to remember, sir.”
    He shrugged. “It’ll come back. You’re not the only crewman who’s suffered from amnesia.”
    I thought later that his casual reassurance was the only false note in the entire conversation.
    ****
    He pushed out of the sling and glided over to the ports, motioning me to follow. I