“Don’t hope for anything from me, Vykor. It isn’t me, you know. It’s the abstract of what I represent that means so much to you. And I don’t represent it any longer.”
He let go. It was true. Now he could admit it, he felt a security which was strange and very pleasant.
“And there it goes,” said Raige after a pause.
Under the drive of its colossal engines, turning it slowly to red, to yellow, green, up the spectrum toward departure point, Waystation was once more becoming a ship. Blue . . . violet, unbearable brilliant violet. . .
Then black, flecked here and there with star-gold. The ship was gone.