The Trophy

"I'd love to," she said.

"In that case," he said, "I'll fly."

CHAPTER 7

Princess Margot Effer'wyck-LaKarn

Brim and Romanoff arrived at Sherrington's lakeside ramps just as dawn was tinting cotton-puff clouds over Hampton Water. The M-5 already had been drawn to the water's edge and was hovering aboard a gravity pad. Under a light coating of dew she was a velvet study in reflected mauve with rose overtones against the indigo nightward sky.

Here and there, little groups of technicians in dark blue Sherrington coveralls sat under the trees or dangled their feet from the seawall while the aroma of cvceese' from a dozen open vacuum bottles mixed with the fragrances of flowers, trees, and the rich, damp Woolston soil. It was a moment so bewitching that both the Carescrian and his lovely friend climbed wordlessly from their car and tiptoed to the top of the ramp. There they stood, silent, while they drank in the graceful collection of pastel ellipses before them in the morning serenity.

So far as Brim was concerned, Valerian's newest creation was simply the most gorgeous ship in the Universe. Just shy of eighty-five irals in length, she was slim as a needle, with a tiny, ultraraked flight bridge faired into a sharply pointed nose and two prominent, blisterlike housings high on either side of the hull, approximately ten irals abaft the side Hyperscreens. An enormous, faired-in blast tube exited just forward of the tail cone and gave mute testimony to the phenomenal power of the new creation from Sodeskaya, that featured Krasni-Peych's new PV/12 "Wizard" Drive. External surface radiators for crystal coolant passed down each flank and gave the ship a rather stylishly ornamented appearance.

Oversized Admiralty NL-4053-C gravity generators rode in long, tapered pods at each side of the hull.

They were connected just abaft the beam by streamlined "trousers" that clearly harked back to Valerian's M-4, but these, Brim noted with relief, had nothing to do with her Hyperspace Drive at all. The big 4053 gravs they did contain, however, promised astonishing acceleration below LightSpeed, and that was precisely where Mitchell racers spent critical cycles at the beginning and end of each race. Externally, she was a dark blue and carried the number "N218" on red, white, and blue racing stripes applied diagonally across the generator pods. A large "5" appeared on either side of the aft hull.

After staring for a long time, Brim suddenly noticed how cool the morning was and gently slipped his tunic over Romanoff's shoulders.

She jumped slightly at his touch, then smiled with her eyes. "Thank you," she said.

"It took me long enough," Brim replied. "I just sort of got caught up with the beauty of the whole thing."

"So did I, Wilf," she said gently, looking out at the lake and then up at the starship. "It's a moment I shall cherish," she said, glancing at her damp shoes. She looked at him full in the face for a moment. "I don't very often find such beauty in my life."

Brim was about to inquire about that when Valerian strode around the corner of the gravity pad with Borodov at his side, both grinning from ear to ear.

"Aha, Brim! Caught you gawking!" the designer exclaimed, grasping Brim's hand while Borodov received a bear hug from Romanoff. "How does this one look to you, my friend?" he asked.

Brim rubbed his chin and considered for a moment. "She looks right, somehow," he answered.

Dressed in his usual tweeds and Rhodorian boots, Valerian grinned and nodded. "If she looks right, then she probably is right," he said, "—at least that's how the story goes."

"Well, if the simulators are any indication," Brim asserted, "then she's quite a ship."

"She is... ah... ready to fly," Valerian said suggestively.

"You're not in any hurry, are you?" Brim asked with a grin.

Valerian adjusted his glasses with a chagrined expression. "I suppose I oughtn't to be," he answered.

Then he took a deep breath and grimaced. "Look here," he said, "I'm not going to feel right about the old M-four coming apart like that until I manage to put you aboard a good ship." He glanced up at the M-5.

"And I think I've got one there."

Brim laughed and winked at Romanoff. "I think he does, too," he said. "Tell you what. If you'll look after my coat for a while, I'll go somewhere and change into a battle suit. Then we'll all find out for sure."

For a moment, Romanoff glanced at Valerian and Borodov. "No offense to either of you gentlemen," she began, "but..." Then she turned to look Brim directly in the eye. "You're certain you want to fly today, Wilf?" she asked, taking his arm for a moment. "This time, there's no hurry."

"I'm certain," Brim replied, meeting her gaze with what he hoped was a confident look. "If you want to know the truth, I'm always a little anxious the first time I take any ship aloft, even one of his," he said, pointing with a thumb at Valerian. "But that's simply part of being a responsible Helmsman. It sort of comes with the territory. And besides," he added, "I'm not going all the way out into deep space this first ride. I won't do that until later."

Romanoff shrugged doubtfully. "If it's all right with you," she said after a moment, "then I guess it's all right with me, too."

"Nevertheless, Wilf," Borodov added with a playful grin, "I think you need to be aware that the real reason Mark wants this contraption flown immediately is that Anna won't pay for it until you confirm that it's all right." He wore a high-collared beige tunic trimmed in gold piping, baggy white trousers, and soft boots—Sodeskayan summer attire.

Valerian nodded in sham seriousness. "He's right, you know, Brim," he inserted, "—and I just happen to have a spare battle suit your size in the hangar over there. How's that for coincidence?"

"Stick around while I make that party happen," Brim said to Romanoff and strode off for the hangar.

Inside the typically cramped flight bridge, Brim satisfied himself with his initial checklists, then went through the procedures necessary to start one of the two Admiralty 4053s aboard. It involved seeing if the plasma boost was operative, then energetically alternating high-frequency energy spikes among three impulse points until he got a positive reading on the Bennet gauge. Finally, with both boosters set to maximum, he hit START and ENGAGE at the same time. The interrupter flashed twice, then the generator cut in with a shudder-and settled into a smooth rumble as it quickly reached its rated power.

The starboard generator followed suit less than two cycles later. After that, it was again time for internal gravity.

Fighting his stomach to a standstill, Brim grinned through the narrow Hyperscreens at Valerian and Romanoff while a group of sleepy mechanics and technicians cheered from the ramp. Then waving away the mooring beams, he called up a burst of power and headed out over the water. This time, he noted, the gravity brakes were set so that humans could operate them, not just engineers. He chuckled to himself—even Mark Valerian could change his ways a little. He taxied around for a bit, checking the various instruments and steering engine while he called for clearance from the tower. Then without too much in the way of preliminaries—she would either fly, or she wouldn't—he simply drove over to the far side of the lake, turned into the wind, and started his takeoff run.

With her generators set on fine pitch, the M-5 fairly leaped from the water and climbed away at high speed while Brim watched the Sherrington labs pass rapidly astern and out of sight. So far, the only criticism he had concerned his view through the forward Hyperscreens, which were very narrow, owing to Valerian's placement of the bridge so far forward on the hull.

Immediately, he took the little ship to five thousand irals or so and confirmed what the simulators on Atalanta had earlier estimated about landings. He tried a dummy one at altitude to establish a good approach speed and to make sure that when she settled, she did not flick on her back or do anything else objectionable. The M-5 stopped flying at precisely the predicted power setting, then paid off at about 130 c'lenyts per metacycle with very little tendency to roll either way. After that, he did a few steep turns to try out the controls.

Finally, having assured himself that everything really important was shipshape, he retraced his path back to the lake, called the tower for an overhead break, then made his descent while he watched trees on one side and Sherrington's hangars on the other gradually rise ahead in the narrow Hyperscreens—keeping half an eye on the altimeters. The M-5 was a slippery little starship, and she took time to decelerate.

In the next few clicks he rocketed across a small island, then cautiously eased back on the controls long after instinct told him to. In the simulators, he'd also learned that there was always a danger of flaring too high, then smashing through the gravity gradient and actually touching the surface. Moments later, he heard the gratifying rush of cascading water only irals beneath the keel. He smiled to himself. Back down in one piece—not bad for the first time.

As he taxied up the ramp and eased to a halt on the gravity pad, the M-5's little flight bridge filled with the sounds of cheering; outside, a considerable throng had joined the morning's brace of mechanics. And two of the loudest were Romanoff and Valerian, both of whom looked as if they were greatly comforted by his appearance back safely on the ground.

In the early afternoon—after busy Sherrington technicians had carried out a number of adjustments he'd noted during his brief morning flight—Brim again took the M-5 aloft. This time, however, he was escorted by a Type 225 carrying Valerian, Ursis, Borodov, and a number of system specialists from both Sherrington and Krasni-Peych. After a second set of maneuvers to prove the morning's control adjustments, he called for deep-space clearance and headed out toward the two-hundred-thousand-c'lenyt limit where Sherrington leased a sizable free zone from the Empire for Hyperspace testing.

"Well, Wilf Ansor," Borodov said from a display, his voice muffled in Brim's helmet, "you are ready to invoke the Wizard, eh?"

"Absolutely, Doctor," Brim answered with a chuckle. Beneath his feet, the gravity generators were thundering away at maximum and his LightSpeed meter read 0.97. "Any last instructions?" he asked.

"You should find no deviations from the simulators except for the temperature problem," Borodov said with a frown. "Unfortunately," he added, "we have not cured that."

"The temperature problems I can handle, Doctor," Brim chuckled, unconsciously tightening his mechanical seat restraints and thumbing the cabin gravity to max. "Keep your eye on me just in case this Wiz decides to head out for the next galaxy like the last one did."

"I shall," Borodov answered, "and good luck."

"Thanks," Brim said, then turned to the control panels. He'd already learned that the plasma choke would be highly sensitive due to the Wizard's prodigious demands for power. In itself, that was a minor problem. As plasma gated through the choke and into a feed tube, it was either consumed by the Drive crystal itself (which directly converted the raw energy into HyperThrust), or it was released to space itself by an automatic wastegate activated when gravitron pressure exceeded certain limits. The problem came in deftly controlling the amount of energy that eventually found its way to the crystal. Too little could easily cause catastrophic failure—most commonly in the form of a meltout at the blast tube. Too much, however, often resulted in a violent explosion, especially when fed to a cold crystal. Either result was guaranteed to be fatal in a ship the size of an M-5.

"Point six four at the Tesla coils," Brim sent, gating more of the ship's energy output to the primary plasma source. The tone of the straining gravity generators shifted slightly, but they held and the LightSpeed meter remained rock solid at 0.97.

"Point six four at the Teslas," Borodov echoed.

With great care, Brim eased the choke open to its first detent. Almost instantly, a whole section of his readouts changed from green to yellow as plasma pressure began to rise at the crystal a lot faster than the simulators had predicted. He opened the wastegate to balance the flow. At the right of his power panel, a D meter began to register available force at the crystal, also rising much more rapidly than he expected.

The Wizard was frisky today.

"That's a lot of pressure for a cold crystal," Borodov cautioned, his voice suddenly tense from the display.

"I know," Brim said through his teeth, "I've opened the wastegate, but the pressure's still building from the choke. And I can't get a smaller setting there." Flinching at the thought of an exploding Drive crystal only irals from his back, he opened the wastegate farther, and the pressure at the crystal immediately dropped—below minimums. He had to start all over again.

Slamming MASTER RESET at the Drive controls, he shook his head and sat back in the recliner while he gathered his remaining nerves. Krasni-Peych's new HyperSpeed Drive was proving to be more a demon than a wizard. "We'll need to change out that xaxtdamned plasma choke first thing," he grumped to Borodov.

"I have made note of it, Wilf," Borodov said patiently.

Glowering at the D meter—no longer registering anything—Brim eased the wastegate closed again. Back came the pressure, and this time, a number of indicators in the power section began to glow red as the pressure built. At that point, Brim decided to take command of the situation. If the power controls were not workable, he was reasonably certain that the Drive controls were. It was only a matter of getting the ship started on her Drive. After that, he could make his tests and then turn the damn thing off. This close to home, gravity generators were good enough to get him back to Sherrington's.

Grinding his teeth in apprehension, he jammed the wastegate all the way shut. Moments later, plasma pressure began to build like an oncoming meteor—and suddenly, the D meter was reading in the middle of its safe range. Only the ship's powerful thrust dampers stood in the way of the Drive's awesome thrust.

"She wants to fly!" he roared to Borodov.

"So I see," the old Bear said. "Probably that is your best bet—you have much finer controls for the Drive itself."

"That's what I had in mind, Doctor," Brim said. Clearing himself for local traffic, he made a final check of the time synchronizers—everyone had heard nightmares about those getting out of tune—switched on the mass stabilization system, then, opening the blast tube aperture, he gently eased pressure on the thrust dampers. A bright blue glow from aft filled the M-5's bridge and the display of Borodov went blank as normal radio waves were left far behind in the Wizard's wake.

Abruptly, the stars went wild ahead, wobbling and shimmering to an angry kaleidoscope that ended in a confusion of multicolored sparks, while on Brim's panel, the LightSpeed indicator began to climb like a rocket. Immediately, he keyed on the Hyperscreen translators, and his view forward cleared.

Nearby stars were mere streaks while those ahead in the distance grew in size even as he watched. A second glance at the LightSpeed meter showed it moving through 73M LightSpeed, even though the crystal's heat output was easily keeping pace with the little ship's phenomenal acceleration. Brim found himself once more in control, regulating output from the Tesla coil by use of the ship's speed regulators instead of the poorly adjusted plasma choke. In a shallow turn, he craned his head aft, watching the Wizard's distinctive turquoise Drive plume. Then he grinned to himself. This would give Kirsh Valentin something to think about!

Abruptly, his KA'PPA display sparked to life with an incoming message: WILF! CAN YOU READ

THIS?—BORODOV SENDS.

He grimaced. He'd been so absorbed that he'd forgotten all about the chase ship, which was clearly far behind by the distance indication on the KA'PPA screen. He returned, READ YOU LOUD AND

CLEAR. ALL SYSTEMS PERFORMING WELL EXCEPT DRIVE COOLING—BRIM SENDS.

GOOD TO KNOW WE DON'T REQUIRE SERVICES OF DR. FLYNN THIS

TIME—VALERIAN SENDS. P.S. HOW ABOUT SOME EASY MANEUVERS AND A RUN

FOR HOME? NO WAY ARE WE GOING TO CATCH UP!

DRIVE TEMP JUST BELOW MAXIMUMS. WILL DO A COUPLE OF EASY TURNS, THEN

HEAD FOR WOOLSTON. RACE YOU BACK TO THE LABS—BRIM SENDS.

YOU WIN!—VALERIAN SENDS.

After a few of the most rudimentary maneuvers, Brim found himself anxiously piloting with a wary eye evenly divided between traffic and a rising Drive temperature. The M-5 was turning out to be a steady, docile racing machine, while its lusty Krasni-Peych PV/12 clearly promised it would someday live up to its nickname of "Wizard"—once the Sodeskayans managed to overcome its considerable cooling problems.

Just before landfall, he encountered a swarm of media ships again taking turns coming dangerously near for close-up coverage of the Empire's new Mitchell racer. He had nearly aborted his landing sequence to avoid another accident when three Imperial destroyers appeared seemingly from nowhere and sternly warned the civilians off, taking up close escort through reentry and remaining in perfect formation until he started his descent for the lake. The R-class warships absolutely dwarfed Valerian's little M-5 and provided Brim with a startling lesson in perspective. Aboard the light cruiser I.F.S. Defiant, he'd considered the destroyers to be runts!

"Thanks for the help," Brim sent as he lined up on the lake. "Those media guys can be downright troublesome."

"Yeah," one of the ships answered. "We saw recordings of what happened the last time one of "em got interested in your flying."

"Good talking with you again, Brim," another of the ships sent. "That half-pint boat you've got there is a long sight smaller than old Truculent, but she looks like she might go a lot faster, too."

Brim grinned. "Who's that?" he asked, his voice sounding muffled inside his helmet.

"Gondor Runwell," the voice answered. "I served aboard I.F.S. Narcastle years ago—before the CIGAs sent her to the breakers. A lot of us would like to see you back with the Fleet, mister."

Brim took a deep breath—he couldn't remember the man at all. "Yeah, thanks," he agreed, "so would I sometimes." Shortly thereafter, no time remained for anything but concentration as he brought the little ship in for her second landing.

Long after a thorough debriefing and a much-needed shower, Brim joined Romanoff for a late afternoon stroll along the lakeshore. She had changed into a cool gingham shirt, ivory skirt, and soft, white moccasins. Small pleasure boats still plied the deep blue water, and a cooling breeze was redolent with the fragrance of the lake. Relaxed, Brim set off at an easy pace, but before long, Romanoff began to fall behind, her distinctive, prancing walk turning slowly into what appeared to be a limp. "Are you all right?" he asked, taking her arm.

"I'm fine, Wilf," Romanoff answered, continuing along as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "It's so beautiful by the lake this afternoon."

"It is beautiful," Brim agreed. "But... are you certain everything is all right with you?"

"Wilf," she said while small beads of perspiration appeared on her forehead, "this afternoon is one of the nicest I can remember in my life—seriously." Then she smiled. "Perhaps we might pause and enjoy the view."

Brim stopped while she leaned against a tree. The comely businesswoman was clearly unwilling to discuss whatever was causing her discomfort, and he was glad to respect her wishes.

It was enough that she was there, with him. "I take it you finally paid Valerian," he offered with a chuckle.

"Oh, Wilf," Romanoff laughed as she peered out over the lake, "Dr. Borodov was only joking about that." She blushed and turned to look at him. "Actually," she admitted, "I finished all my contract work yesterday afternoon—and your friend Valerian gets his remuneration on a very regular basis."

"I'm glad you decided to stay on," Brim said.

"So am I," she answered quietly. "It's been quite a day for me—and, I imagine, for you, too."

Brim nodded. "It has," he said. "The M-five's turned out to be a pretty special ship. I'd bet that we have yet to find out how special. Valerian's clearly put his soul into the design." He peered through the open doors of the hangar. "Something very basic in me says that she's not just another racer."

"What else is she, then?" Romanoff asked, frowning quizzically.

"I don't completely know," he said. "The beginning of something, perhaps." He shrugged helplessly.

"A beginning, Wilf?"

"Well," he answered after a few moments of thought, "like the beginning of a whole new line of starships.

I can't see them—but I think Mark Valerian can."

"And you flew the first one," Romanoff said dreamily. "That must make you feel pretty special." She smiled. "It makes me feel special just being here to watch you."

"You were special to me a long time before you came to Woolston," Brim said quietly.

She looked at him with a soft expression in her eyes. "Thanks," she said, "I'll remember that."

Afterward, they walked back along the lakefront, Brim taking care to make frequent rest stops while they talked. He had never met anyone like Anna Romanoff. Quiet, unassuming, and genuinely beautiful—mostly because it hadn't occurred to her that she was.

Streaks of sunset crimson still tinted Woolston's darkening lavender hills and glens when Brim arrived at Romanoff's guesthouse amid the incomprehensible chanting of a billion unseen night creatures. Nearby, Hampton Water glowed radiant azure while twilight swept the last vestiges of daylight from the horizon, and the air was heavy with spice from a nearby stand of conifers. The earliest stars had just begun to show overhead when snatches of music and laughter started from the direction of the party hangar, a few cycles' walk distant.

While Brim paused for a moment at the doorstep, contemplating the twisted path that had brought him to this particular midsummer night, the door gently opened and Romanoff stepped lightly to the porch.

"Waiting for someone, Mr. Brim?" she asked, looking into his face with a mysterious smile. In the shadows, she looked like a lovely dream. As in Tarrott, she had dressed in a low-cut white dress that revealed precisely enough of her upthrust breasts to be provocative and at the same time tasteful.

However, Wilf Brim was her escort tonight, not Wyvern Theobold. That meant he could stare at neither her gorgeous bust nor the shapely legs and spike-heeled shoes that a short skirt revealed. What he could—and did—stare at, however, was her glorious hair. She'd let it down from the accustomed loose braid, and it flowed past her shoulders in buoyant waves that framed her face as if she were part of a portrait by some classic master. The strict businesswoman Brim had once met in Atalanta's Grand Koundourities Hotel had undergone a total metamorphosis. He found himself without words.

She took his arm, continuing to look up at him. "You are very quiet this evening," she whispered as mysterious tendrils of perfume caressed his nostrils.

"Merely speechless," Brim muttered at length, starting along the path toward the hangar. "I knew you were beautiful the moment we met, but I... I had no idea..."

Romanoff squeezed his arm more firmly. "Thank you, Wilf," she said, closing her eyes for a moment. "I wanted to be beautiful tonight."

Brim felt a thrill in the fading light of the lakeside road. "You've got your wish, then," he said, "and so do I." He frowned. "When I saw you in Tarrott, I never dreamed I might someday be here... I mean... with you on my arm and..." He laughed and shook his head. "Wyvern J. Theobold is a hard act to follow."

"Oh is he? Well, for your information, Mr. Wilf Ansor Brim, he doesn't often tell me that I'm beautiful.

Nor does he pilot starships." She pressed his arm and giggled happily. "But if I had to settle for one or the other, I like to hear that I'm beautiful."

Sherrington's great hangar doors were pushed all the way open, and the M-5 had been rolled into the entrance and decorated with strands of winking holiday lights. Outside on the apron, surplus battle lanterns bobbed overhead in the gentle breeze and a number of gaily decorated tents served as refreshment stands. A string orchestra played from a stage just below the gravity pad while couples swayed to music that Brim barely understood. For the first time in his life, he honestly wished he knew how to dance.

He need not have troubled himself. He and Romanoff never had time for such distractions. From the moment of their arrival, they were introduced to everyone: lab technicians, General Managers, even the custodians. Brim had never met so many engineers, scientists, architects, designers, and draftspersons—all of whom had complex questions and comments on the ship or the flight. Throughout it all, Romanoff remained at his side, conversing intelligently when she needed to, smiling quietly when she didn't, quite content to selflessly bask in Brim's reflected glory. Well into the morning metacycles, when the party began to wane, he turned and spoke quietly in her ear. "My feet hurt," he whispered, "how about yours?"

"I can't tell," she confided with a grin, "they went completely numb a couple of metacycles ago."

Brim winced. "I'm awfully sorry," he said. "I had no idea the party would turn out like this."

"Neither did I," she answered, "but I wouldn't have missed a moment of being here with you."

"It's nice of you to say that," Brim asserted, relieved that standing in one place for several metacycles apparently had no ill effects on this beautiful woman. Their afternoon walk had made him very much aware that he would have to look after her comfort. "What I wanted, though, was an evening with you.

All we had tonight was an evening with everyone else."

She smiled. "I've still had a wonderful time of it, Wilf."

"It doesn't have to be over, yet," Brim said, flabbergasted by the boldness of his words. "I'll bet we could find somewhere to have a drink all by ourselves."

Her brown eyes sparkled for a moment, but she shook her head. "I'd love to do something like that," she said, checking her timepiece. "Only... well, I'm due out on SS Sudla in the morning, and I mean early morning. She lifts almost five metacycles from now. I couldn't handle any more meem and still get to the terminal by then."

"It's fate," Brim grumped, shaking his head with a wry grin. "I nearly had to kill myself to get this evening with you in the first place; then I squandered most of it on everyone else. The next time I get up my nerve to ask you out, you'll probably be booked up for years."

A sad little smile clouded Romanoff's face for a moment, then she shrugged. "You don't know me very well, Wilf Brim," she said. "The fact is that you didn't have to kill yourself for tonight at all. I'd have gladly gone out with you the day we met." She shook her head. "And the next time we're both in Avalon, if you're interested, you'll find that I'm pretty much available anytime. I guess I spend a lot of my time making a living. It tends to frighten most men away."

"Doesn't say much for the guys in Avalon these days," Brim declared, again surprising himself. "If I lived there, you'd be mostly busy trying to get rid of me."

At that moment, Anna Romanoff's fragile countenance took on a look of such singular beauty that Brim found himself stunned. "I shall cherish those words," she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

The short walk along the darkened lakefront to Romanoff's cottage seemed to be finished only moments after it was begun, even though Brim had stopped twice along the way ("to enjoy the lake"). Somehow, his emotions had gone into a turmoil that prevented him from further sensing the mysterious perfumes of the night or the waves lapping beside the road. He walked in silence, afraid to open his mouth, or take her hand. Anna Romanoff had taken on tremendous importance.

At the door, he desperately wanted to wrap her in his arms and... no, by Voot, he wanted a lot more than that—he wanted her in bed! But for the first time in his life, he was afraid. What if he'd misread her eyes? What if she recoiled from his touch? He couldn't help himself. Shutting his eyes, he touched her arm. "Anna," he said hesitantly, "c-could I have a goodnight... ah... h-hug?"

Suddenly—impossibly—she was in his embrace: warm and tiny with her arms around his neck. Now he wanted her lips in the worst sort of way, but she wouldn't turn her face to him. And she was shivering slightly, when it wasn't even cold.

They hung together for what seemed like an eternity. Then finally, gently, he released her.

As he moved away, she finally raised her face to him and—Lord of the Universe, how alluring she was!

Only now it was probably too late to try again. "Anna," he whispered. In spite of his fears, he took her hands, warm and soft in his. In that moment, he knew. She was also vulnerable. She was his! He felt his breathing deepen and his knees grow weak. He wanted her the way he'd wanted the class beauty at the Helmsmen's Academy. Not just for the sex—any woman could give sex. He wanted to make love with her because she was the best. The most beautiful. The most successful. He put his arms around her again, and this time, she yielded completely. Her breathing had become labored as well. "Anna," he repeated urgently, "will you?"

"I-I don't know, Wilf," she whispered after a long moment. "I'm not thinking very rationally."

Suddenly, he went cold sober, as if someone had poured water over him. He had bedded that class beauty as soon as he had gotten the chance, but only once. Now, because of that, he was going to walk away from Anna Romanoff, a creature at least an order of magnitude more desirable. He wanted a lot more than a quick romp with this fascinating woman. A lot more. Taking a deep breath, he grasped her hand. "I'd better go," he stammered. "I'll message you. All right?"

Romanoff looked relieved and disappointed at the same time. "All right, Wilf," she whispered, opening the door. "I'd love to hear from you."

"Goodnight, Anna."

"Goodnight, Wilf," she said, staring into his eyes for a moment as if she were trying to find something very important there. Then she stepped inside and closed the door.

Alone in his room, Brim got little sleep that night—or the next.

Rudolpho was the largest city on the mostly barren planet Horblein, fifth satellite of Gragoth in the Aakreid Sector. It was also capital of the Torond, a dominion of some sixteen occupied planets whirling within an extensive asteroid belt rich in crystalline Kapal, a critical substance in forging Drive crystals. For an important seat of government, however, the city had grown large much too quickly. It had somehow evaded the mellowing process that with cities, as with many foods, provides the difference between fare for the gourmand and fare for the gourmet. Its architecture was monotonously modern, its streets tediously arranged in a perfect grid, its terrain precisely landscaped, down to the placement of individual trees. Even people here lacked any unique personality, appearing to have borrowed from the citizens of Tarrott lock, stock, and uniforms. In the streets, every man, woman, and child wore some sort of uniform, including black-garbed, imitation Controllers called Grenzen. "Ugly lot," had been Moulding's only comment as they followed still another intelligence-officer-cum-chauffeur to a waiting limousine.

Brim couldn't have agreed more. He'd wondered how Margot managed to stand her life here. Then he'd remembered the smell of TimeWeed and shuddered.

Now, two nights before the race, Brim and Moulding attended the traditional prerace reception in a colossal hall of state constructed on the shore of artificial Lake Garza that served as both Rudolpho's terminal and LaKarn's elaborate new racing complex. The hall, as well as the complex, still displayed signs of damp cement and plaster from the recent construction.

Tonight, Brim was dressed in his own suit of evening clothes, the first he'd ever possessed. He'd purchased it used, of course. But that sort of clothing rarely changed style, and it was magnificently cut.

Its former owner had clearly been a man of both taste and wealth. More than anything, the suit reflected Brim's mending financial and social status, and he'd been eager to show it off to Anna Romanoff.

Unfortunately, she was still en route to the race after an extended business conference halfway across the galaxy and was not due to arrive in Rudolpho until the morning of the race itself.

All things being equal, Brim couldn't decide if Romanoff's absence on this particular night was better for him or not. From the tenor of their correspondence, he had clearly established a special relationship with her. But in only a few cycles, he would have a chance to speak personally with Margot, and he had no idea what that would do to his feelings. He'd been peering toward the head of the line where she stood with LaKarn, greeting dignitaries and principals of the race itself. She wore a short, orange-vermillion party dress with matching elbow-length gloves, and as usual, she was gorgeous. Statuesque and seductive as ever, she gave no sign of her addiction as she smiled, occasionally bending forward to better hear the banalities muttered by her awestruck guests, and generally acting as if she were delighted to greet everyone. Brim nodded to himself. He guessed she might be unique in that. Her Royal Highness, Margot, Princess of Effer'wyck really did like people and enjoyed entertaining them.

Then he bit his lip. The Margot he'd known before her addiction enjoyed people. With a cold feeling in his chest, he reminded himself that this beautiful woman was no longer his lover. He'd spent considerable time discussing her plight with Xerxes Flynn and learned that the potent Time Weed would effect drastic, unpredictable changes in her personality.

All the way through the long waiting line, Moulding—who tomorrow would pilot the second M-5—maintained a rapid-fire conversation about the coming race, clearly trying to bolster his partner's spirits as they approached the reception area. Brim truly appreciated his efforts, but with the advent of Anna Romanoff in his life, the effects of his changed relationship to Margot had been considerably blunted. Now, as Moulding preceded him, exchanging greetings with Rogan LaKarn, Brim peered forward and momentarily caught her eye. In one awful instant, their minds met and she conveyed a look of utter torment. The ghastly realization hit him like a body blow, and he understood—as might only a former lover—that she was suffering a kind of anguish he could barely imagine.

At long last, a sleek, black-uniformed protocol officer announced, "Wilf Ansor Brim, Carescrian and Principal Helmsman of the Imperial Starflight Society."

Rogan LaKarn clasped Brim's hand in a firm grip. He was dressed in the ebony uniform of a Grenzen Commodore with double-breasted tunic, black shirt and tie, jodhpurs, and shiny, knee-high riding boots.

"Ah, Brim, my good fellow," he said, almost as if he meant it, "welcome to Rudolpho. We are given to understand that you have delusions this year of winning the trophy."

"A few, perhaps," Brim said, glancing sidelong toward Mar-got who was laughing at something Moulding had just quipped. Then he returned LaKarn's phony smile with one of his own. "I suppose we'll have to run the race before we know whose delusions were appropriate, won't we?"

"True," LaKarn conceded, the smile remaining on his handsome face. "However, if the ISS continues to field space garbage like Valerian's poor old M-four, you may not live to find out." He looked at his fingernails. "This year, we understand that they will risk your neck to prove the Sodeskayan's untried Wizard Drive—with cooling problems, no less," he added as if he were savoring the words. "How generous of you, my Carescrian friend, especially after the treatment you received from your Imperial associates after the war."

Brim laughed grimly, mustering all the good nature left in him. "I can handle the Wizard," he said with a confident nod.

"Yes," LaKarn said, his countenance giving way to a momentary look of speculation, "one is certain that you hope you can handle it. However, last time you played with the Imperial snake, you were bitten quite badly." With that, he reverted to his former mood of disdain. "But we shall talk more of that, soon, Brim, believe me. For now—well, I am sure you are looking forward to a reunion with your former paramour."

He laughed callously. "I know she's anxious to see you." He took Margot's arm and leered at her. "You remember your old lover Wilf Brim, don't you, my dear?"

"You bastard," Brim gasped in anger, but Margot clutched his arm.

"Don't, Wilf," she warned, her eyes distant and glistening. "You can do nothing but make more trouble for me."

"She's right, you know, Brim," LaKarn sniggered. "But as I promised, old boy, we'll talk soon about the race—and a lot of other subjects as well. I'll be in touch." With that, he nodded to the protocol officer, and the next guest in line was announced.

Brim stood speechless before the woman who once had meant more to him than anything in the Universe. "I don't know what to say," he stammered.

"It's all right," she said, "neither do I."

"Y-you seem to be... ah..."

"Straight?" she finished for him. "Yes," she said, "for the moment."

"But—"

"There are no buts," she said. "Before this evening is over, I shall be the same as I was when you last saw me in Tarrott. The urges come at different times—none predictable, but all irresistible."

"M-margot." Brim began, but already a new guest had been introduced, and the next in line was waiting impatiently behind him. "Will I see you?" he asked desperately.

"Perhaps, Wilf," she said anxiously, "but I can promise nothing." Then, with a look of almost physical pain, she introduced him to the next dignitary in the line: an OverGalite'er of some sort. Brim never really caught his name.

Nor did he see Margot again that evening. Shortly after the last guests meandered through the receiving line, she disappeared for the remainder of the reception.

After opening ceremonies the next morning, Brim, Moulding, and Valerian, all dressed in blue Sherrington coveralls, found themselves balancing on a narrow work platform beneath the number two M-5 while they recalibrated an array of skewed accelerometers in the steering engine. As they worked, a small, wiry man walked up to the gravity pad looking like he owned it. Moulding turned and recognized him immediately. "Hello, it's Drummond from the embassy at Tarrott, if I recall correctly," he declared, peering over his gamma-Zemmerscope. "Aren't you a little far afield here in Rudolpho?"

Drummond laughed, as if his appearance were nothing out of the ordinary. "Oh, we embassy hands get around much more than one might think," he said, stepping over a bundle of glowing, multicolored cables.

He was dressed in a splendidly tailored business suit with no trace of embassy green. "Tell me, Gentlemen," he inquired, looking up at the work platform with an impish look in his eyes, "have either of you learned to pronounce 'Arry yet?"

Brim laughed. " 'Arry," he exclaimed.

"Right you are!" Drummond said, pointing a finger at the Carescrian.

Moulding groaned. "Somehow," he replied. "I have lingering doubts that even you pronounce it correctly most of the time, Mister Drummond."

"Gorblimey, Gov'ner," Drummond stage-whispered in overacted horror. " 'Ow could you even think such a thing?"

"Just a hunch," Moulding chuckled.

"And here I thought I was believable." Drummond laughed, just as Valerian extricated himself from the hatch with a fistful of glowing wires and a hand-held feedback indicator.

"General Drummond!" the designer exclaimed with a wide grin. "What brings you to our humble shed?"

Drummond laughed. "Mark, my friend, no shed even remotely associated with your starships could be described as humble." Then, abruptly, he sobered. "Actually, I have a message for these two troublemakers you've got working with you."

Moulding raised a blond eyebrow. "For us,... General?" he asked.

"Aye," Drummond replied, "mostly for your friend Brim, Commander," he said, "but you'll likely be involved one way or another." He glanced around the hangar, then looked Brim directly in the eye.

"Wilf," he began in an underbreath, "you'll this day be called to a very private meeting by your friend Rogan LaKarn and a few of his friends from the League. They're clearly planning to make you some sort of offer concerning the race." He grimaced. "We're interested in learning precisely what they want—although we think we know part of that—and what kind of deal they're offering. But most important of all, we want to know who's there to back up the deal."

Brim wondered what branch of the Admiralty Drummond really represented. "Very well, General," he said. "I'll learn everything I can: what they want, how much they'll pay, and who's in on the offer. Is that correct?"

"You've got it, Mister," the man said. Then he peered over his glasses thoughtfully. "I know that civilians, aren't obligated to help," he continued, "and I'm no prouder than anyone else about the treatment you got from our own dear Admiralty after the war, but..."

Brim held up a hand in protest. "That's all past, General," he said, "and no longer very important."

Drummond shook his head for a moment in silence. "Thanks, Brim," he said presently. "It's people like you who give me some hope the old Empire might yet survive, in spite of many inexcusable blunders."

Then, casting his eyes around as if he were about to divulge some critical state secret, he stepped closer to the gravity pad. " 'Ow do you two pronounce 'Arry, again?" he asked in a stage whisper.

" 'Arry," Brim repeated with a grin.

" 'Arry," Moulding sputtered.

"Good," Drummond pronounced soberly. "Can't be too careful these days." Then, with a grim little nod,

"When you're ready to talk, Brim, call the embassy and ask for me. They'll put you in touch." With that, he turned on his heel and started across the floor, stepping deftly through the clutter of cables and test equipment, as if he'd spent a lot of his life in shipyards. Just as he reached the door, he stopped and looked back toward the M-5. "Oh, Mark," he called. "One thing I almost forgot."

"What's that, General?" Valerian asked.

"After you've been with those two for a while, be sure you check your wallet and timepiece," he called.

Then, stepping through the door, he was gone.

Late that afternoon, Drummond's prediction came true. Brim was just climbing from the M-5 after a last practice flight prior to the next morning's race when Moulding handed him a small, white, unmarked envelope.

"Messenger delivered one to both of us while you were up," he said. "Thought you'd want to see it right away. Mine's an invitation to some ghastly sounding bash tonight, with a promise to pick me up at the embassy at Evening plus one."

Brim carefully zipped open his envelope and removed a delicate sheet of expensive-looking plastic stationery. Raising his eyebrows, he unrolled it and began to read: Wilf:

It has been much too long since you so charmingly tutored me in Avalonian. With your friend Anna Romanoff gratifyingly absent until tomorrow, we might get together for another special session this evening. I shall have a chauffeured car outside the Imperial shed at Evening plus one. Don't be late, dearest—the sooner we start, the more penetrating our studies will be.

Inge Groener

Brim scratched his head and laughed wryly. "What ever happened to good old-fashioned privacy?" he grumped.

"Privacy?"

Brim shook his head. "My invitation's not quite the same sort as yours, old man," he said. "Kind of personal. But it looks as if they're xaxt-bent on breaking us up for the evening."

"I wonder why," Moulding mused.

Brim pursed his lips. "Friend Toby," he said, "I have a hunch you're about to be entertained in a most extravagant manner." He chuckled. "You'll want to keep your eye on the old timepiece—wherever you might have disposed of your trousers—or you may just miss the whole race."

"Hmm," Moulding said with raised eyebrows. "If I've got to be involved in intrigue, this certainly sounds like the very best kind. But what about you?"

"Probably the only difference between the two of us is that I may know the name of the entertainer,"

Brim answered. He laughed and shook his head. "Crazy, this racing business," he said. "In any other circumstances, we'd be xaxtdamned fools to get ourselves tangled in something like this the night before we fly. But our friend Drummond—General Drummond, no less—has got us locked into making just that kind of mistake." He shook his head. "I hope he's also prepared to help if we need it."

Precisely at Evening plus one, an unmarked limousine skimmer pulled up at the main entrance to the Imperial shed. "You Brim?" a great, hulking chauffeur demanded through the window. He had light blond hair and the dull, close-set eyes of a bully.

"That's me," Brim answered evenly.

"Get in," the chauffeur ordered insolently.

Brim silently climbed into the back seat. "All right," he said as the man closed his window, "I'm ready."

Without another word, they set off at high speed, clearing the huge racing complex in a matter of cycles, then heading along a major highway toward the shimmering towers of central Rudolpho itself. Before they arrived, however, the skimmer veered through a warren of side streets, skidded into a wide driveway, and drew to an abrupt halt on the capacious front terrace of a huge estate. Brim got out and stood for a moment, staring at the great mansion and taking stock of his situation.

"Inside," the chauffeur suddenly growled from directly beside him. "This is a blaster in your ribs."

Brim flinched as something jabbed his side. It seemed prudent to believe the purported blaster was real.

He ground his teeth in irritation. How could he have been so xaxtdamned careless?

"Move," the Leaguer grunted, "and don't get any ideas about trouble, Carescrian. I'd love to blow you away."

Brim kept his silence and started across the terrace. He didn't believe the Leaguer had any intention of actually using the blaster. His job was to deliver a live Wilf Brim to some sort of meeting, and he had probably only drawn the weapon in muddleheaded arrogance.

Whatever his reasoning, Brim didn't like being on the business end of any (hypothetically) loaded weapon and made up his mind to do something about it forthwith. "Say, covieel fangovt," he snorted, the words challenging his captor's birthright in Vertrucht, "does thy mother still sell her scabbed body to Vacca drivers?"

"Brazen hab'thall," the chauffeur gasped in rage, grabbing Brim by his left arm and jabbing the blaster roughly into his right shoulder. "You will regret that."

More stupidity. Anger was just what Brim hoped for. Biding his time, he continued across the well-lighted terrace, coordinating his steps so they became precisely opposite to those of his captor.

Then, at the far end, he pretended to stumble. "Look out!" he whooped, joggling the Leaguer off balance as he was about to tread on his right foot.

"Huh?" came a startled exclamation.

"Too late!" Brim shouted. In the blink of an eye, he dropped beneath the blaster's field of fire, grabbed the Leaguer's forearm and heaved forward. At the same time he smashed backward with his right heel, caught the man just below his right kneecap, and threw him over his right hip.

Howling in bewilderment, the Leaguer spasmodically tossed his blaster into the air, then followed it to the pavement where he landed headfirst with a sickening, hollow thump. He lay still for only a moment, however, then astonishingly shook off his concussion and sprang up to recover the weapon.

Surprised at the man's prodigious endurance, Brim was still too swift. Bringing his own right foot solidly to ground, he snapped his head and kicked forward violently, catching the hulking guard square on the jaw and sending him backward to the pavement in a spray of bloody spittle and shards of teeth.

This time, there was no getting up.

Brim knelt for a moment, retrieved the blaster (a powerful Zspandu-50) from the pavement, then strode directly to the ornate entrance. He aimed with both hands and blew the inlaid doors from their hinges in a shower of glass and splinters. "All right, xaxtdamnit," he shouted fiercely into the ragged, frost-covered frame, "what in Voot's greasy beard is going on in there? I thought I was here to get laid!"

Within a few clicks, six surprised and heavily armed guards exploded through the entrance. Triggering the blaster at stun, Brim dropped the first two in their tracks; the other four expeditiously threw their weapons away and stood with their hands in the air.

"C'mon!" Brim roared at the empty doorway, "who's in charge here? Speak up. I don't have all thraggling night!"

"I-I am in charge," a voice called hesitantly from within. It sounded like LaKarn.

"You get your face out here right now, or I'll drive this limo back to the Imperial shed, and you can forget whatever it was you wanted. Understand?"

Moments later, LaKarn and Kirsh Valentin appeared at the doorway, both in full military dress. The latter stepped forward confidently. "Very well, Brim," he said. "Here we are. Shall we go inside now?

There are others who wish to speak to you."

"I should have known you had something to do with this," Brim grumped, striding up the short flight of stairs and tossing the blaster to a confounded guard, who almost dropped it. "Lead on, Valentin. I'm all ears."

Inside a darkly paneled, high-ceilinged room lined with antique bookcases and real books, two men and a woman waited at an ornate table. Brim recognized one of them immediately, Vice Admiral Hoth Orgoth, Commander of the League's newly formed Seventh Battle Squadron. His hard, narrow face had been much in the media lately, supporting the return from exile of Nergol Triannic. "Good Evening, Admiral Orgoth," he said. "I'd been told a League battleship was in the area."

"Good evening, Brim," the Admiral answered, a ghost of a smile on his face. He was dressed in dark-hued civilian clothes—severe, as befitted his high station, but a great deal less portentous than the uniform of a Vice Admiral. "You do believe in dramatic entrances, don't you?" he commented.

Brim nodded. "I had a bit of encouragement from your jackass of a chauffeur," he said.

"Somehow, I am not surprised," Orgoth said with a momentary glance of annoyance at LaKarn. "I assume he won't be a bother now?"

"Not for a while, Admiral," Brim assured him.

Orgoth nodded. "In that case, I shall make introductions. The gentleman on my right is OverGalite'er Gorton Ro'am, Minister of State Security for the League."

Ro'arn—heavy set with hair cut into a short brush—nodded, and then only slightly. It was probably all he could do, considering the great roll of fat he'd grown at the back of his neck. He was also dressed in the black uniform of a League Controller, but flaunted the black and red cordons of high League officialdom draped from his right shoulder. Brim returned the nod. He'd learned during the war that one Leaguer was pretty much like another.

"On my left," Orgoth continued, "is Hanna Notrom, Minister for Public Consensus." He indicated a tiny, middle-aged OverGalite'er, whom Brim suddenly recalled from the first Tarrott race when he encountered Valentin at the Leaguer shed. She had walked with a distinct limp, as if her right foot were injured in some way. Like Ro'am, she wore black and red cordons on her right shoulder.

Notrom smiled. "So," she said, "you are the famous Wilf Ansor Brim from Carescria. We have watched your career for a number of years now, with much interest."

Brim bowed. "At your service, Madam Notrom."

"You, of course, already know Kirsh Valentin and our kind host Rogan LaKarn," Orgoth continued.

Brim couldn't contain a wry grin. "We've met, Admiral," he said, "—a number of times."

"Won't you have a chair while we talk, Mr. Brim?" Notrom suggested, indicating a place beside her and opposite from Orgoth.

As he sat, Valentin and LaKarn took the remaining seats.

Notrom made a peaked roof with her long, bony fingers while their chairs scraped the elegant parquet floor. Then, when silence returned, she looked directly at Brim. "I shall come to the point quickly," she declared. "You have a race to fly tomorrow, in what appears to be an extremely dangerous ship. Is that correct?"

"I have a race to fly tomorrow," Brim agreed, "but I doubt if our M-fives are any more dangerous than the other racing starships here, your Gantheissers included."

"But dangerous, for all that," she persisted.

Brim nodded. "I suppose."

"And last year, you almost died in a cobbled-up ship that should never have left Sherrington's factory,"

Notrom continued, "—when you knew resonance flutter was a distinct possibility. We have a recording of your conversation with Valerian just before you took off." She frowned. "You are to be congratulated for such a deduction. Both Gantheisser and Gorn-Hoff engineers also came to that conclusion, but only after much calculation."

"Under normal circumstances, the flutter was controllable," Brim asserted, avoiding the whole subject of his "deduction."

"Granted," Notrom allowed, "but the real question has more to do with motivation than with anything else. What we really want to know is what motivates you to take such risks in the first place. They benefit a dominion that has historically treated all Carescrians with tremendous callousness. Your 'friends' rewarded your wartime heroism in a most unappreciative manner."

The words hit Brim like a meteor. He hadn't expected to hear anything like them. And worse yet, he had no answer. Except for the bilge about his M-5, she was absolutely correct. Historically, a word like callous couldn't even begin to describe the appalling treatment meted out by the Empire to its subjugated citizens of the Carescrian sector. And the scars that had formed over his own mental wounds were far from healed.

"Well, Mr. Brim?" Notrom prompted.

Brim shook his head as he desperately tried to come up with some meaningful retort, not just one of the empty slogans the media had blathered during the Great War. He looked around the table at Gorton Ro'arn, the very soul of relentless police brutality; Hanna Notrom, an insane liar known throughout an entire galaxy for her extreme bigotry; Hoth Orgoth, who was deceitfully building a fleet that subverted every extant peace treaty in the galaxy; Kirsh Valentin, cruel, brutal, and utterly without compassion; and finally the high-born Rogan LaKarn, spineless lickspittle to a whole nation of Leaguers—and the misbegotten cretin who had managed to destroy Margot Effer'wyck. He bit his lip as they peered at him expectantly: the very scum of a whole galactic civilization. He should have been able to blow them away with chapter and verse of patriotic dogma. Voot knew that it existed. But he couldn't; he knew the real inequities as well as anyone—and so did these people. That was why they'd brought him here! After what seemed at least a metacycle, he took a deep breath and answered simply, "I don't know what motivates me."

"A straightforward answer to a difficult question, Mr. Brim," Notrom said. "My congratulations again."

Brim kept his silence.

"It was also the answer we expected," Notrom went on. "You never were one for lies—official or ordinary. Otherwise, you could never have survived the Helmsmen's Academy." She crossed her hands on the table and leaned toward him earnestly, her probing gray eyes drilling into his very being. "What if we, the people at this table, could guarantee you not only a better life but the rewards you merit and the recognition you deserve? What if we could provide you the rank and privilege that your talents warrant?

Wilf Brim," she asked fervently, "would you really want to remain a no-account civilian taking all the risks while others who are more privileged glean the rewards of your labor?"

"Think of it, Wilf," Orgoth broke in. "Think of being a commissioned officer once more. Think of being a member of a fleet, an honored member, not merely tolerated because of your great talents!"

"Think security, Wilf," Notrom continued. "We do not drop our honored starsailors when the combat is over—as Greyffin's Empire dropped you. You have seen Tarrott. The uniforms are still there. Honored. Loved. Not vilified. You don't find our heroes in the galley of a starliner working as a Slops Mate or begging cvceese' from Gradygroat priests."

"Or running hazardous equipment like a beam axe, or enduring boors like Cravinn Townsend," Orgoth added.

"We can guarantee your dreams, Wilf Brim," Gorton Ro'arn said, finally breaking his silence, "—if you will accomplish only one act: become a citizen of the League immediately. Tonight." He snapped his fingers. "Here," he said as one of the guards entered the room carrying a Controller's cape. On its shoulders were the insignia of a Provost—the same rank as Valentin. "You will find that this uniform is a perfect fit. And in its pocket," he added while the guard fished out a thin, golden card, "is a Purser's account with Praefect's pay accrued from the moment of your ignoble discharge at Gimmas-Haefdon."

For a moment, his square, glowering countenance took on a look that might even pass for friendly.

"Clearly, Brim," he continued, "our new Gantheissers will outperform all other entries tomorrow, including Valerian's M-five. So your acceptance of our offer will have little effect upon the outcome of the race.

What do you say?"

Brim found himself dumbfounded. There was no denying that the Leaguers knew very well what strings to pull. One by one, they'd offered him most of the dreams of his lifetime. Wealth, privilege, a uniform—even some security for a change. But it wasn't the right wealth or the right privileges or the right uniform. Greyffin's old Empire might be far from perfect—Universe knew he saw the flaws clearly enough—but for better or for worse, it was his genesis, his home. And all the Controller's uniforms in the Universe couldn't make up for the worn Fleet cloak he'd had to surrender. He knew he'd pawn his very soul if that would get it back. He shook his head unconsciously. These Leaguers couldn't buy him because they didn't have the right kind of currency. Only the shoddy old Empire had that, and there was no substitute. He took a deep breath. "It's a generous offer, there is no denying that," he admitted at last, "but I'm afraid it's not for me."

All three principals looked at him in utter disbelief. "You are turning all this down?" Orgoth asked incredulously. "How can you do such a thing?"

"A moment, Admiral," Ro'arn said, his face flushed with ill-concealed anger. He looked at Brim and wrung his hands as if his thick fingers were encircling a neck. "What else can we offer, Carescrian?

Which of your needs did we overlook? With what we've already offered, we couldn't have missed much."

"I wish nothing more..." Brim began, but he was interrupted by Notrom.

"Somehow I thought you might make a basically wrong-headed decision like that, Brim," she said, her voice rising shrilly. "And yet you have seen the corruption from close range. You have seen the stupidity.

Brim, you have suffered because of it. In the name of the Universe, what is it about your degenerate Empire that is still acceptable?"

Brim shook his head. While she talked, the answer had came to him, simple, direct, and true. He paused for a moment to make sure of the words, then got slowly to his feet and gripped the edge of the table.

"Because, Hanna Notrom," he said, "no matter how bad and degenerate Greyffin IV's Empire seems to me—and I know it is bad—at its absolute worst, it is far superior to anything I see in your League."

Clearly holding on to the last shreds of his temper, Orgoth rose and met Brim's stare. "Do you have any idea what you are giving away?" he asked. "Do you think for a moment that your beloved Empire will survive when Nergol Triannic returns to his rightful throne?"

"Enough, Admiral," Ro'arn growled curtly. As he turned to Brim, his thick lips drew back into a cruel smirk. "Clearly," he said, "we have not yet sweetened the offer sufficiently." He laughed. "However," he went on, "our young friend and ally Rogan LaKarn has supplied one further inducement. Rogan," he ordered, "show Mr. Brim the special inducement you have for him."

"At your service, General," LaKarn said, striding to a wall switch and dimming the lights. Then, with no further comment, he set out across the floor toward what appeared to be a small stage at Brim's end of the room.

Brim turned to look at the doorway through which he had entered. It was now blocked by two burly guards—both armed with wicked-looking Schneldler blast pikes.

"Don't bother with the door yet," LaKarn called with a great smirk on his face. "We want you to pay close attention here." Then he giggled. "It may just prove to be the one factor that decides you in favor of my friends in the League. Because," he said, opening the curtain, "I'm willing to give this away."

Brim turned and gasped in utter horror. There, just inside the open doors, Her Serene Majesty, Princess Margot of the Effer'wyck Dominions and Baroness of the Torond lay nude on a huge pile of cushions, languidly smoking TimeWeed with her once-sparkling eyes empty and half-closed.

"Join the League, Brim, and she's yours whenever you want her," LaKarn said. He laughed. "We all know how much pleasure you've had together."

Losing the last vestiges of his control, Brim snarled like a wild animal and with a single leap, knocked LaKarn to the floor, manically wringing the man's throat and dashing his head violently against the hardwood tiles until with a mighty wrench, someone yanked him upright. Still beserk with anger, he turned on this new antagonist until he discovered that he was now trying to strangle... General Drummond. Abruptly, a mask covered his face and a cool vapor of some sort instantly calmed his blood rage while other hands gently but firmly pushed him into a chair. As sensibility returned, he glanced around the room. Drummond and eight burly men, all dressed in unmarked military fatigues, were bent over the inert form of Rogan LaKarn who lay crumpled on the floor, his head at an odd angle with blood oozing from his nose and mouth. Both door guards lay sprawled on the floor, either unconscious or dead.

Orgoth, Ro'arn, Notrom, and Valentin all sat scowling against the wall, bound and gagged. And Margot remained on the pillows, calmly smoking her Time Weed as if she were utterly alone.

"Brim, you all right?" Drummond asked, turning from LaKarn. "We've got to get ourselves out of here—right away! We've blanked all communications for about a half-c'lenyt—but they're starting to penetrate it already."

"I'm fine, General," Brim panted, starting for Margot's drugged form. "It's her we've got to get out of here, though."

"Sorry, Brim," Drummond said, holstering a big Wenning .985 autoblaster. "But the Princess stays here."

"No!" Brim demanded. "We can't. Universe—look what they're doing to her..."

Drummond got a sad look on his face. "Unfortunately," he said quietly, "they're not doing anything to her. She's doing it to herself. Nobody is required to start smoking Time Weed."

"B-but," Brim pleaded, pointing to Margot. "We can't just..."

"Son," Drummond said, taking Brim's arm in a grip that suddenly felt like a hullmetal band, "in my business, I see a lot of this. Sure, you love her, she was a magnificent woman once—still looks great, for that matter. But now she's also a smoker, and there's nothing you can do for her." He shook his head sadly for a moment. "Nobody ever said that life was going to be fair," he continued, "—only that it goes on. Now move, before we all end up in prison, and possibly charged with murder. If LaKarn lives, it won't be any fault of yours."

Biting his lip in helpless frustration, Brim followed the General at a dead run, past at least twelve tough-looking commandos-cum-civilians, out of the house, and into a waiting skimmer. Angry sirens were already wailing in the distance as they departed.

He found himself debriefed and back at the embassy long before evening watch ended, but sleep determinedly shunned his lonesome room. After a few cycles of aimless pacing, he pulled on a jacket and took a lift to the roof garden. Flashing his pass to a trio of guards (armed tonight with powerful Trenning NT-53A blast pikes), he wandered out under the stars and slumped into a rustic bench, vowing to resolve once and for all his tattered relationship with the naked blond woman LaKarn had offered. Not too long ago, she had been the very center of his hopes and dreams.

Only where to start? He'd been over the same thing in his head at least a million times before. Pursing his lips, he idly watched a giant starliner thunder out of the heavens, then line up on Lake Garza, her hull reflecting soft yellow radiance from the city below. Lights from a thousand scuttles glimmered along the big ship's massive flanks while enormous flashing beacons at the peak of her KA'PPA tower warned smaller ships away from her wake. He gazed at her huge, glowing form. In many ways, the big ship was a remarkably good presentment of Margot herself. Beautiful almost beyond reason, she had burst into his life with a radiant surge of emotion that carried both of them soaring above the turmoil of a devastating victory and much of the disastrous peace that followed it.

Unfortunately, the metaphor extended all too well into the present, for he could no more have checked her inexorable descent into tragedy than he could have stopped the liner from his perch on the embassy rooftop.

He laughed grimly at the thought, but only for a moment. Once, he'd actually believed in such miracles—she'd taught him how. Tonight, however—years older and a war wiser—he had come to the irrevocable conclusion that some things were beyond even the power of love itself.

He absently peered over the wall at the terraced gardens below. Did he still love her? In all honesty, he could no longer claim what he felt was love. During her years of virtual confinement in the Torond, profound changes had come over their relationship. First, there was Rodyard himself. The child's very existence finally brought to an end the few stolen moments he and Margot had once managed to share.

Clearly, neither realized how much those all-too-brief rendezvous meant at the time. They were nearly everything, now that he thought about it—the promise of excitement and passion that could make long intervals of loneliness almost bearable. And when those promises ceased, the relationship had inexorably begun to wither.

Early on, Brim had perceived the change in himself through his growing attachment to Anna Romanoff.

And after some reflection, he'd also come to the conclusion that Margot's addiction had probably began with the selfsame hopelessness—assuming, of course, that she had truly returned his love in the first place. In any case, the Time Weed had been a last straw. At some point following the Leaguer's debacle of a "meeting," he'd bid a sad farewell to the dream that was Princess Margot Effer'wyck.

He pulled the collars of the jacket tighter around his throat. A chill midnight wind was now blowing in off the lake, and his tired eyelids told him it was time he turned in. He meant to do the best job he possibly could in the coming race—too many people were counting on him to win.

Back in his room, he took Margot's ring and chain from around his neck, then dropped them into the bottom pocket of his duffle bag. He could neither look at them nor throw them away. They were all that remained of a beautiful woman he once held dearer than his own life. The blonde he'd seen smoking TimeWeed was clearly someone he didn't know—and had no desire to meet.

CHAPTER 8

Anna Romanoff

After his previous night's misadventures and wrenching emotion, race day itself was more or less an anticlimax to Brim—even discounting LaKarn's magnificent new lakeside complex with its sweeping grandstands, glittering multitudes, and warships from every known dominion. Going against tradition, LaKarn— very noticeable by his unexpected absence—had previously decreed that the prior year's victor would fly first. Consequently, competition for 52006 opened with the takeoff of Dampier's new DA.72, the release of one hundred thousand multicolored balloons, and at least (it seemed) as many loudspeakers braying "Oh Grand and Glorious," the Torond's brassy national anthem.

Primarily a remake of last year's successful entry, the graceful little Dampier put on a rousing performance at the impressive average speed of 82M LightSpeed under the first-rate Helmsmanship of H. G. Esslingen, Captain, StarFleet of the Torond, and made landfall amid wild cheering from the home grandstands.

For Brim, who was watching from the Imperial shed, the heat was especially encouraging. He was certain that the DA.72 would be one of only two real competitors. Even with heating problems, his M-5 could fly all day at almost eighty-six. That left only Valentin who might threaten genuine competition for the M-5. And, as he had so often said himself, the actual race alone would determine a winner. From intelligence briefings, he knew that once Gantheisser engineers learned how fast Valerian's new ship could fly, they were forced to radically uprate their new GA 209V before the ship had even completed its initial space trials. It appeared, however, that their efforts had been blessed with success—so far as conventional Drives were concerned. The new Gantheisser GA 209V-3 had an estimated top speed in the range of 85M to 87M LightSpeed.

Fortunately, from an Imperial standpoint, the hard-pressed Gantheisser engineers had achieved this impressive speed by taxing an old design considerably beyond its maximum limits. Sodeskayans at Krasni-Peych predicted that the now-fragile Leaguer Drive could easily fail, especially at high velocities, unless it was handled with extreme care. A clumsy hand on the controls would most assuredly prove disastrous. Nevertheless, because the GA 209V-3 was also entirely capable of race-winning velocities, Brim had to take the Leaguer entries quite seriously.

Thanks to Rogan LaKarn, whose condition at the time was still a complete mystery, the League's performance capabilities were soon revealed. Kirsh Valentin, runner-up in the previous year's race, took off next. And not surprisingly, the Torond's boosters in the home grandstands accompanied his departure with the same euphoric Pandemonium they'd bestowed on their own entries less than a metacycle previously.

Brim crossed his arms glumly, wondering how long it had taken for state security forces to free what remained of LaKarn and his masters from last night's debacle. With a great mental effort, he forced the awful picture of Margot Effer'wyck from his mind. In a lot of ways, he hoped he hadn't killed the zukeed who called himself her husband. He very much wanted the pleasure of choking him again someday.

Perhaps a number of times!

Abruptly, his grim reverie was interrupted by Ursis and Borodov. "Good morrow, Wilf Ansor," the older Bear said gently. He had dressed for the races in an elegant gray pinstriped suit with wing collars and a black bow tie. "We had thought to leave you in peace because of the recent difficulties you have encountered," he started, "but it seemed wiser to inform you that your friend Valentin has encountered mischance on his second lap."

"What happened?" Brim asked as he watched the number two Gantheisser taxi out onto the water. "It looks like they're sending Inge Groener up for an alternate heat."

Dressed in the Sodeskayan Home Guard uniform of a full Colonel, Ursis peered out over the water through a set of tiny translating binoculars. "That appears to be correct," he affirmed. "Evidently, Valentin overstressed his Drive. Probably he was unnerved by last night's activities. We estimate he manhandled the controls, with predictable results."

Brim felt a dull current of anxiety replace his previous excitement. Was the word out? Had he actually killed LaKarn? Was he not a fugitive from a murder charge? "How did you find out about last night?" he asked.

"In spite of an unfortunate treaty," Ursis explained quietly, "many Sodeskayan intelligence organizations still operate as a unit with their Admiralty counterparts."

"Those units of the Admiralty that we can still trust," Borodov added darkly.

"Be that as it may, Wilf Ansor," Ursis continued, "your secret is safe with us. In fact, we complained concerning your safety when Drummond discussed his plans with us yesterday. What he does not know is that we also deployed a detachment of special forces—from our own embassy—to back his operation. You were much safer than you knew, my furless colleague," he chuckled, "even when you did such a splendid job on their chauffeur."

"Thank you, friends," Brim said with real feeling. "Do you have any word on LaKarn, himself?"

"We have," Borodov answered. "You and he are both fortunate after last evening's folly," he growled quietly, "although it is not clear that he will ever regain his former state of good health." The Bear looked penetratingly into Brim's eyes. "Healing machines can accomplish wonders, as you well know, Wilf Ansor." he said. "But they cannot work miracles. And you left the Baron much closer to death than even you could have imagined."

Brim shook his head slowly. "Thanks, Doctor," he said after a little while. "That's been a considerable worry."

"All snow melts when necessary, Wilf Ansor," Ursis said. "Considerations among true friends tend to even out over the space of a lifetime."

During the next metacycle, Groener—clearly handling her tricky controls with special concern—managed to finish the course at an average speed of 83.88M LightSpeed. And that finished the race, so far as Brim was concerned. Unless one of the smaller societies came up with an extremely fast machine, the race was nearly his. All he had to do was fly with the same care as had Groener, and the Imperial Starflight Society would gain possession of the Mitchell Trophy!

Toward evening with the night's revelry already underway in the city's lavish nightspots and LaKarn's huge grandstands populated only by handfuls of true racing enthusiasts, Brim completed his pretakeoff checklist at the tail end of a field of last year's also-rans. None had looked particularly threatening; all performed in much the same manner. Now, as he taxied out over Lake Garza toward the start pylons, he didn't particularly care if everyone abandoned the grandstands. Anna Romanoff's storm-tardy liner had finally arrived that afternoon, and she was watching.

The racecourse defined by LaKarn's SAT (Starflight Association of the Torond) was conventionally triangular in shape and defined by three solitary, type-G stars: Montroyal, Hellig-Olav, and MetaGama.

Entry to the circuits portion of the race was close by Montroyal, nearest of the three to Horblein at 375 light-year's distance. From there, a long straightaway of 330.72 light-years stretched to Hellig-Olav, where a sharp turn introduced the shortest leg of 113.48 light-years. Following this, a gentle curve around MetaGama and a second long straightaway of 254.24 light-years returned the course to its entry point. Ten laps plus the round-trip to the start/finish line at Horblein defined a complete race.

Brim got off to an excellent start from the pylons, carried out a climbing turn, and thundered over the grandstands with the K-P generators crooning in his ears. Soon afterward, he passed within visual sight of the flickering 614-G marker satellite, then transitioned from generators to Drive as if he were flying a machine proven over years of successful operation. On his way to the circuits, however, he found it difficult lining up on Montroyal because of the narrow forward Hyperscreens, so he cut to an extreme inside track and took the curve in a vertical bank, close to the star's fiery surface where his field of vision was better in spite of the glare. And except for opening his trajectory somewhat to avoid fouling a timing station midway along the first straightaway, he remained on the inside track, no matter how much more dangerous it was to fly. Turning smoothly around Hellig-Olav, he came out on a perfect line down the course, then bunted past MetaGama and poured on full energy toward the starting point again. When he completed the lap, his computed speed came out to be 90M LightSpeed, an unofficial record!

And his second lap was faster still at 90.27M LightSpeed. With two hairpin turns to negotiate, it was clear that his speed in a straight line must be approaching 100M LightSpeed!

In the middle of the third lap, however, unanticipated trouble struck somewhere aft with a bell-like clang.

It was immediately followed by violent shudders that rattled the spaceframe. Multiple indicators turned red at the same time, opening a data dialogue on his Drive-status panel that indicated the crystal housing had unsealed.

Did the bastard Voot never sleep?

Biting his lip, he skewed the ship sideways for a momentary look at his wake. Sure enough, a gleaming ribbon of free electrons marked his path like a thin trail of smoke. He reduced power straight off, and the vibrations disappeared, for the most part. Curiously, his indicated speed seemed unaffected.

Again he skidded the ship sideways and miraculously the free-electron trail had virtually disappeared. It made sense. In combat, he'd had shot-up crystal chambers seal themselves—the hellish reaction inside tended to weld small fissures closed by it own heat. Good luck? Perhaps, he thought as he completed lap four. Unfortunately, nothing, especially good luck, came free. He could indeed continue the race, but at the risk of a complete power loss, with little or no warning. At best, that would leave him careening helplessly off into space at nearly 100M LightSpeed. It might also sent him smashing into one of the pylon stars before anyone could come to his rescue. And no hull in the known Universe could withstand direct collision with a star.

He seriously considered aborting the race during the next laps, but the little M-5 seemed to be running better with each circuit. His average speed had already risen to nearly 90.76M LightSpeed. How could he quit now?

In his days before the Fleet, he'd flown great, lumbering Carescrian ore barges every day. Most of them had been so badly worn out and poorly maintained that they made his partially crippled M-5 seem as safe as an IGL starliner. He shrugged. It was all a matter of being careful—that was everything. Besides, he could at least count on a few click's warning before all the systems failed at once.

Couldn't he... ?

Laps eight, nine, and ten passed at the incredible speeds of 92.5M LightSpeed, 93.8M LightSpeed, and 94.1M LightSpeed, respectively. As Brim headed toward Montroyal for the last time, he knew he had flown a good race. In a few cycles, he would not only win the Mitchell Trophy, he was also going to set a record of truly historic proportions.

However, as he skimmed the star and set course for the start/finish pylons at Rudolpho, his Wizard momentarily cut out—completely. It picked up directly, but the brief episode gave him a definite fright.

From that point, he flew with his heart in his mouth, keeping his thrust damper nearly wide open—and nearly made it all the way back. Horblein's star, Gragoth, nearly filled his forward Hyperscreens when the Drive began stammering again—this time badly. After only a few moments, he knew for certain that the ship would soon run out of energy. Angrily smashing his fist on the console beside him, he cut power to the crystal.

Not that he'd given up yet by any means, but even with the best blessing Lady Fortune could now provide, things were going to be close. Immediately, the Hyperscreens ceased to translate, and a whirling Universe of run-down photons blazed through the clear crystals in the wild kaleidoscopes of color.

Grinding his teeth, he disregarded the dizzying phenomenon and concentrated on his readouts. He'd been in tight situations before and so, as long as he didn't panic, odds were that he'd survive. With the Drive off, he could at least count on some energy for the gravity generators and steering engine. Enough to get him down in relative safety. The trick now would be trying to stay in the race. He'd already built a considerable lead over the other ships. If he didn't lose too much time in his actual landing, he might yet manage to win the trophy—or at least place.

Now, however, he had to remain patient while the Driveless ship bled off HyperVelocity and coasted down through the great Universal constant of LightSpeed. Biting his lip, he watched the readouts. Timing was everything, now. The LS meter was nearly down to unity. There!

Immediately, vision in the forward Hyperscreens cleared and he activated both gravity generators.

Ahead, Horblein's curve had already flattened into a horizon, and a voice began calling into his helmet receivers: "Imperial M-five, Rudolpho tower. Please report. Imperial M-five, Rudolpho Tower. Please report."

"Rudolpho tower, this is Imperial M-five," he answered, peering through his Hyperscreens. "Please hold for position report." Off in the distance, nearly lost against the blue of the planet itself, a ruby pinpoint winked in an odd rhythm. He drew a small tube from the starboard console and aimed its open end at the light. Immediately, a text readout on the closed end displayed: LAYER 32 LIGHTWARD HEMISPHERE K-VAIL 1278 BUOY, LEVEL 19.

"Rudolpho Tower, Imperial M-five Alpha is within layer thirty-two, lightward of K-Vail one two seven eight..., flight level nineteen."

"Imperial M-five Alpha, we have you now. Are you declaring an emergency?"

"Rudolpho Tower, Imperial M-five will notify you when and if an emergency is declared. Request immediate clearance racecourse start/finish."

"I-imperial M-five, Rudolpho Tower clears immediate racecourse start/finish. Wind zero two two at one five."

"Imperial M-five. Thank you." After that, there was little time for anything but judgment and reflexes.

Within a few cycles, the lights of Rudolpho were in sight over the nose. Unfortunately, his unplanned approach to the planet denied him the straight-in landing he might have chosen had he been powered and under control all the way. First, he would have to pass over the start/finish pylons going the wrong way, then make a sharp turn to reverse his bearings and finish the course in the proper direction.

Again, however, the relatively small size of the M-5's Hyperscreens forced him to fly much lower than he normally would have in other circumstances. He had no margin of safety as he skimmed along just below the tips of the huge, glimmering pylons, following the long beams of his landing lights. In a flash he was past and practically bending the ship around in a vertical bank to reverse his direction, delicately playing the controls while Valerian's spaceframe creaked and groaned from the vicious gravity torquing. He had only managed to come through half his arc when the generators stumbled, struggled raggedly onward for the blink of an eye, then tripped off completely. The tiny cabin went utterly silent—and dark.

Moments later, his M-5 smashed onto the surface of the water in a thundering cascade of inky water, throwing Brim painfully against his emergency seat restraints. Again... and again... and again the ship skipped and cartwheeled across the dark surface of the lake before it came to rest, bobbing low in the water nearly half a c'lenyt from the pylons—and any chance of even placing in the race.

While a hovering rescue vessel took up station above him, Brim suffered every agony of self-condemnation and disgust. Would the Krasni-Peych engineers ever believe he hadn't overstressed the Drive? How could they conclude otherwise with the terrific speeds he had been making? And what would Nik Ursis and Dr. Borodov think of him? He knew how accurate K-P's calculations always were—and he knew for a certainty that if there had been a fault, it must have been his. Poor Anna Romanoff—she had traveled across half a Universe to see him make an utter fool of himself.

So near yet so thraggling far!

He was slumped miserably in the cockpit, shaking his head and dreading the probe he knew would follow when an Imperial motor launch drew up alongside in a glare of powerful floodlights. Ursis and Valerian were among the wildly gesticulating crew, waving at him excitedly, full of enthusiasm and smiles.

And they were cheering. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Pushing open the hatch, he stuck his head out and sourly demanded to know what all the hullabaloo was about.

"About?" Ursis asked with a huge grin on his face. "Since when is winning the Mitchell Trophy not a propitious time for raising hullabaloos?"

"Yeah," Valerian whooped. "Why the long face, Brim? At ninety-one M LightSpeed you beat Groener by more than seven M's. That's not good enough for you or something?" With that, he popped the cork from a magnum that promptly erupted in a stream of bubbling meem and unerringly arced its way to the top of Brim's head.

"Voots's greasy beard!" the disheartened Carescrian groused, ducking inside the hatch again, where he was immediately showered by a second stream of bubbling meem from a similar bottle expertly aimed by Ursis. Moments later, at least three yellow-clad ground-crew handlers began pouring more meem in from atop the fuselage. Then a hirsute paw thrust a fresh bottle through the deluge, foaming from its top.

"Drink, my furless friend!" Ursis boomed. "It is not often one wins anything by such a grand margin.

'Glare ice and crag wolves cause stars to shine brilliantly in ice caves,' as everyone knows!"

"Ice caves my bloody ass! " Brim shouted, angrily waving away the bottle as waves of foaming meem ran everywhere in the little flight bridge. "I thraggling lost this one. Didn't you see me pass the xaxtdamned pylons going the wrong way? I never even got to finish!"

Suddenly, Ursis stopped cheering and put a restraining hand on Valerian's chest. "Wait, my friends!" he roared. The spraying meem stopped instantly. "Wilf," the huge Sodeskayan said, narrowing his eyes, "you do believe you lost the race, don't you?"

"Xaxtdamned right," Brim spluttered, mopping his face with the great red handkerchief he kept in his battle suit pocket. "The drive unsealed in the middle of the circuits, then gave out completely on the way back. That's why I made landfall from that direction—not because I planned it that way. I was trying to get turned around when the generators failed, too. I haven't even crossed the finish line yet!"

"Wilfuska," Ursis cried out with a pained look on his face. "No wonder you look so unhappy. Poor furless human. No wonder you made such a... spectacular... landfall!"

"I don't need your pity," Brim grumped, settling back miserably into a puddle of cold meem that had collected on his seat.

"You can say that again, friend," Valerian said with a lopsided grin.

Brim looked up and scowled. "Don't you make fun of me, too, Mark," he protested. "I feel bad enough about the whole thing all by myself."

"But that's just it," Valerian protested. "You don't need anyone's pity because you, friend, are still turned around."

Brim blinked and shook his head. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Look for yourself," Ursis said, pointing out from the launch. His huge grin had suddenly returned. "You are still turned around—as you were when you flew through the pylons."

Brim stuck his head through the hatch again and peered off toward the pylons. The race complex did seem to be on the wrong side of the lake! He frowned for a moment, then climbed out of the hatch and stood with the ground handlers, balancing atop the M-5's main fuselage. This time, he studied the shoreline and... Voot's beard! If Rudolpho was on that side of the lake then... For an instant, he faltered, and was immediately shored up by the handlers. Shaking his head and squaring his shoulders, he took one more look around the lake, then looked down into the launch. "Nik," he said after considerable hesitation.

"Yes?"

"You still got that bottle of bubbling meem with you?"

"It has never been touched, Wilfuska."

Brim grinned. "In that case," he said, shaking off the two handlers "I'll be right there.... whee! " With that, he leaped off the M-5 and plunged to the surface, rear end first in a terrific splash of lake water that utterly soaked everyone still in the launch. "Now," he shouted, bobbing to the surface and pulling himself over the gunwale. "Let me at the thraggling meem!"

Later, back at the shed, while riotous crowds of Imperials poured a second deluge of meem all over him and the M-5's flight bridge (as well as themselves), Brim had the distinct pleasure of knowing he'd caused two consecutive nights of profound discord in Rudolpho— and the second one wasn't even a secret!

Not long afterward, Moulding took off and cooly annexed second place at a stewardly pace of more than 88M LightSpeed.

The following morning, Brim stood on a dais beneath the winner's flagpole, dressed in a Fleet-blue jumpsuit and listening to an Imperial flag snapping overhead in a stiff breeze off Lake Garza. He had little stomach for ceremonial adulation; his own moment of triumph had come and rapidly gone the previous evening after he skipped his powerless M-5 to a most startling victory followed by celebrations that lasted the rest of the night. All he wanted now was a little peace and quiet, preferably in the sole company of Anna Romanoff.

He glanced at Toby Moulding, standing in full uniform on a slightly lower dais beneath the second-place flagpole, and grinned. Always the aristocrat, his tall, handsome partner looked the part of a champion, smiling grandly at the media personalities that swarmed like locusts around the base of the flagpoles.

Thank the Universe, Brim thought. At least one Imperial ought to look like a winner.

At his right, Greener braced under the Leaguer flag flying from the shortest pole. Wearing a Controller's uniform devoid of any but the most basic insignia, she looked neither right nor left—nor did she smile.

For Leaguers, anything except first place equated with absolute defeat.

He endured on the dais for nearly half a metacycle before the media had enough. Then he was glad to steal off and sit on a lakefront bench for nearly a metacycle while Romanoff threw crumbs to a noisy flock of waterfowl. It was the high point of his day. Especially when the breeze occasionally provided him with an enhanced view of her shapely legs.

All too soon, however, an embassy officer ferreted them out. After that, it was a perpetual sequence of parties and receptions until he and Romanoff embarked on separate starliners to opposite ends of the Empire. Shaking his head in irony, he was forced to admit that Hanna Notrom had inadvertently made an important point for herself: he was paying an awful price for winning the Mitchell Trophy!

Bedecked with patriotic ornamentation befitting a significant national victory celebration, the cavernous War Memorial Hall in Avalon was literally jammed by Imperial aristocracy—many of whom had never bothered with the Imperial Starflight Society until Wilf Brim brought home its first Mitchell Trophy. Once disdained for his lowly origins, today the Carescrian was an honored associate among some of the Empire's wealthiest and most powerful individuals. He sat dressed in formal evening wear at a special engineering table, directly across the dance floor from Prince Onrad and the Table of Principals. On his left, as his personal guest, was the remarkable Anna Romanoff in a daringly low cut apricot party dress, her huge brown eyes soberly observing the whole affair as if it were some exotic wildlife exhibition.

Others at the engineering table included Nik Ursis, Dr. Borodov, Mark Valerian and his wife Cherie, plus a number of scientific luminaries vital not only to the ISS but to the Imperial government itself.

Long after an elegant banquet, the seemingly interminable awards ceremony was at last winding down with a final congratulatory address by Onrad himself. Earlier, Brim had been startled by receiving one or two minor awards himself that had caused Romanoff's eyes to glow with reflected pride. Now he was looking forward to the end of the long celebration—perhaps even escaping the crowd for a few private metacycles with his lovely companion. Universe knew he'd waited patiently for that opportunity.

Even at the tail end of the long awards ceremony, lusty applause and cheering greeted the conclusion of Onrad's address. Brim joined in tardily, hoping no one would notice he'd been daydreaming, but Romanoff had clearly caught him. Her eyes were dancing with laughter and her mouth had taken on the mysterious little smile she sometimes wore that both veiled and revealed so much of her complex personality. He was about to suggest that they steal off for the nearest exit when the room suddenly quieted again, and when he turned toward the speaker's table, the Prince was holding his hand up for silence. At the same time, General Zapt appeared behind the podium with a Fleet cloak over his arm.

Romanoff met Brim's glance and her eyebrows raised in question.

The Carescrian could only shrug impatiently and roll his eyes. "I have no idea," he whispered, "but enough is enough. Anna, I think we're victims of some horrible conspiracy...." Then with a helpless shrug, he settled back in his chair, arms crossed in a defiant attitude.

"Before I dismiss this celebration," Onrad declared with much gravity, "one final award remains. A special award, personally designated by my father, Greyffin IV. And though it is not even mentioned in your programs, to my way of thinking, it is perhaps the most important of all."

He paused dramatically while a rustle of excited whispers swept the room. Clearly, the Prince had caught most of his audience completely off guard.

"This particular award," he continued presently, "is not tendered so much for racecourse activities as for other services to the Empire—although acquisition of the Mitchell has certainly been part of our consideration." He paused again, this time frowning. "Moreover, in many ways it can not be considered an award at all. Rather, I think, it is the righting of a wrong, or the correction of a particularly unfortunate blunder."

When Onrad paused this time, the rustle of conversation became much more pronounced. "Finally," he continued presently, "this award will also have an important secondary effect, because it will serve notice to CIGAs everywhere that we do intend to permanently secure the Mitchell Trophy, despite the fact that in winning, we now represent an irritant to their beloved League rather than the paean to peace that we were when all we could do was lose!" During the laughter that followed, he pursed his lips angrily. "We can expect them to place every possible obstacle in our path," he warned at length, "but we will prevail!

After the applause that followed, Onrad nodded at General Zapt to bring the Fleet cape, which bore the insignia of a Lieutenant Commander, then continued with his booming, rhetoric. At the same time, two protocol officers took position at either side of the podium, one holding a pair of regulation white dress gloves on a peaked Fleet officer's cap, the other carrying a small box fashioned from a dark wood.

"Therefore," the Prince boomed, "I summon private citizen Wilf Ansor Brim to the podium once more."

In the silence of the huge hall, his deep voice was like a rumble of thunder.

Brim stiffened—he'd half heard it too. "Was that, Wilf Ansor Brim?" he asked under his breath.

"That's what I heard," Romanoff replied, a little smile beginning to form on her lips.

"You don't suppose there might be a couple of Wilf Brims here?" he asked hopefully.

"I think he means you," Romanoff declared, her smile suddenly expanding to a full-fledged grin. "I don't recall seeing more than one Wilf Brim on any of the membership lists."

An orchestra had already struck up the rousing "Summit Noble" when Brim reluctantly got to his feet, cast a momentary glance of mock horror toward Romanoff, then set off across the dance floor.

Spontaneously, the huge audience broke into ragged applause, which became a rolling wave of thunder long before he reached the podium.

When the wild acclaim finally subsided, Onrad stepped to the front of the podium and held the Fleet cloak before him as if he were a valet instead of a Crown Prince. "Wilf Ansor Brim," he proclaimed, "by direct mandate of His Majesty Greyffin IV, Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens, I hereby conscript you into the Imperial Fleet with direct promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Commander." As the hall erupted once more into thunderous applause, the Prince motioned with his head. "Wilf," he shouted above the noise, "I'll be proud if I can place this on your shoulders myself."

Stunned, Brim could only nod and turn his back. He felt the weight of a Fleet cloak after nearly five years. Almost instinctively, he turned to the protocol officer on his left, placed the peaked uniform cap on his head (a perfect fit), and struggled into the white gloves. Then he came to attention, turned on his heel to face Onrad, and saluted. "Lieutenant Commander Wilf Brim, reporting for duty as ordered, Your Majesty," he said, desperately fighting emotions that threatened to crack his voice like a schoolboy's.

"Welcome home, Commander," Onrad replied in a voice that carried throughout the great hall. He was clearly struggling with his own emotions while he returned Brim's salute.

Once more, the throng erupted in thunderous applause and cheering, but this time, Brim turned and saluted them. At a distance, Anna Romanoff appeared to have buried her nose in a handkerchief—but then, so did both Ursis and Borodov.

Considerably later, Onrad held up both hands for silence, but a lot of time passed until the applause once more faded. "I shan't keep any of you too much longer," he proclaimed at length, "but there are two more presentations to be made before this evening is complete." He motioned to the other protocol officer who stepped forward and opened the wooden box he held. "First," he announced, reaching into the box to retrieve a medal, "there is the matter of a missing Order of the Imperial Comet—which I personally pinned on Commander Brim's uniform at Gimmas-Haefdon some years ago." He frowned with mock gravity as he fastened the small pin to Brim's cape. "Next time you lose one of these," he grumped so only Brim could hear, "you'll have to pay for the new one yourself."

"Thank you, Y-your Majesty," Brim stammered.

"Finally," Onrad declared, again to the general audience, "an Emperor's Cross." He reached once again into the wooden box and withdrew an eight-pointed starburst in silver and dark blue enamel with a single word engraved in its center: VALOR. It was attached to an ivory sash embroidered in gold with the words, GREYFFIN IV, GRAND GALACTIC EMPEROR, PRINCE OF THE REGGIO STAR CLUSTER, AND RIGHTFUL PROTECTOR OF THE HEAVENS. Opening the sash, he placed it around Brim's neck. "When you have a chance," he whispered, "notice the serial number. We managed to locate your original decoration." Then he smiled. "But don't ever pawn it again; General Zapt will have you killed. It took most of his staff a week to track it down." Then he grinned. "All right, Commander,"

he said. "I think I've kept you and Anna Romanoff from each other long enough. Report to the Admiralty personnel office during the next day or so and get your admin work straightened out. And when you're ready, it's back to your old job with the ISS."

"Aye, your Majesty," Brim replied, saluting smartly. Then, turning on his heel, he retraced his steps to the engineering table—amid still another round of deafening applause. Strangely, Brim never could remember the concluding moments of the program. After one look into Anna Romanoff's eyes, all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

On their way through the vast foyer, Brim and Romanoff found themselves mobbed by a glittering array of well wishers who then urged them to attend more private parties, in addition to the numerous written invitations each had received in advance. Smiling and shaking hands with throngs of eternally prattling celebrity worshipers, it took them nearly three-quarters of a metacycle to reach the luxurious little skimmer Romanoff kept in Avalon for her personal use. It was covered with light snow. Brim had opened the driver's door for her, but she put her hand gently on his arm. "You drive tonight, Wilf," she said, her large brown eyes soft in the glow from the street lights. "It's been a long evening."

"Of course," he replied, following her around the nose of the car to hold the passenger door instead. As she slid inside, her skirt crept a considerable distance above her knees. He tried to appear as if he hadn't noticed, but he was woefully late.

"Like them?" she asked with a provocative little smile, peering critically at herself for a moment before she smoothed the wayward dress back down to her knees.

Brim took a deep breath. "You have beautiful legs," he said, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. "I apologize for gaping the way I did."

"Well, I certainly hoped you'd notice," she said, looking him frankly in the eye. Then, with an impudent look, she pulled the door shut.

Brim made his way around to the driver's door with his heart beating considerably faster than it had been moments before. She'd never carried on that way before! But then, he considered while he brushed snow from the windshield, neither had he. In recent months, this delicately beautiful woman, all tough and fragile at the same time, had become almost an obsession with him. She was never far from his mind.

Lately, he'd stopped deluding himself; he was genuinely in love—probably for the very first time in his life.

From the beginning, Margot had never realistically been more than a hopeless dream. And his brief, fiery affair with Claudia Valemont was the epitome of wartime romance: all passion and little else. In those days, no one really expected to survive more than a few days at most. He'd blundered into both relationships the way he waged war: totally—and damn the consequences.

Anna Romanoff, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. She was real. And although he didn't think he stood much of a chance with her, he did expect to live for a few more years.

Unfortunately, he reflected, a more or less "normal" relationship was new to him. And because of it, those once-disregarded consequences had become absolutely daunting in significance. What if he'd misconstrued her intentions just now? If he made a pass at the wrong time, a woman like that could rid herself of him with a mere snap of her fingers—and then where would he be? In an utter agony of indecision, he opened the door and took his place behind the controls. "Well, Anna," he asked, staring through the windshield because he hadn't the nerve to face her, "where will it be tonight? We've got more invitations than we can shake a stick at—as usual."

Her answer, when it came, was unexpectedly tinged with a sense of melancholy. "I don't really know, Wilf," she said after a long moment of consideration. "Every one of them seems like a mandate—especially for a brand-new Lieutenant Commander."

Brim glanced at her wistfully. "If it were up to me," he said, "I'd just as soon stay here in the parking lot with you." He shook his head. "We've logged a lot of time together this past year, you and I—but I'll bet we haven't been alone for more than a half-metacycle."

She nodded, watching through the snow-powdered window while a few stragglers glided toward the exits, their running lights blurred by the softly falling snow. "I wonder if they all live frantically like that,"

she mused absently, then turned to study him. "Did you really mean you'd rather sit in a parking lot with me than go to those parties?" she asked presently.

Brim nodded. "Yes," he replied, "I did."

"Even though it's now politically important for you to attend as many of them as you can, Commander!"

"Somehow," Brim admitted, "it's been a long time since anything has been so important as being with you, Anna."

For long, silent moments, Romanoff studied his face in the darkness. Then, she seemed to reach some conclusion. "Wilf," she said with no further preface. "I've wanted you ever since that night at Sherrington's—just before I lost my stupid nerve and wouldn't let you kiss me. And I think you wanted me, too. But since then, I haven't been able to make you interested again, at all. Not even when I let my skirt slide halfway up my thigh tonight." Abruptly, she slid deeper in her seat and raised her hips. "Well,"

she said, this rime drawing the skirt all the way to her waist, "—if this doesn't do it, I guess I'll have to give up." She wore nothing underneath, and in the darkness of the parking lot, her dark tangle of pubic hair stood out in frantic relief to the smooth whiteness of her thighs. The tawny welt of a scar ran the length of her left hip.

Brim felt his breath catch painfully in his throat. "S-sweet thraggling Universe, Anna," he whispered hoarsely as he took her in his arms, "how could I have been such a fool?"

"I was the fool," she said, making a little gasp as his cold hand gently probed between her thighs, "—but I was afraid of losing you and..."

Before she could finish, he covered her trembling mouth with his own in a wet rush of tongues and teeth that left both of them gasping while he struggled to kick his trousers off. Then, impossibly, he found himself sliding onto her seat at the same time she climbed into his lap, her eloquent brown eyes peering into his very being—as they had nearly a year ago at Lys.

"You'll soon enough find that you aren't the first," she whispered with a pensive little smile, "—but for what it's worth, I've never loved anyone before you, either."

Brim was about to open his mouth, but she placed a finger gently across his lips. "Later," she whispered.

"Now, nothing matters except this..." With that, she reached behind her to guide him, then lowered herself until he was enveloped by a Universe of wet, swollen flesh. "Do it, Wilf," she gasped urgently. "Do it now!"

She remained in his lap long after their urgent sighs had hushed, making love with her lips and tongue while she straddled his thighs. Ultimately, she took a deep breath, placed her hands on the shoulders of his Fleet cape, and peered intently into his eyes. "Wilf Brim," she said with a troubled look, "I'm afraid that I have become very deeply in love with you lately, and I'm not quite sure how to handle it."

Brim frowned for a moment, then peered into her face. "You mean that?" he asked incredulously. "You're in love with me?

She laughed quietly and looked down at her disheveled clothing. "You don't think I let just anybody see me like this, do you?" she asked, unhooking a badly stained skirt to hike it higher on her hips. "Especially the scar. It's part of that limp I never admit to."

"It's a beautiful scar," he whispered, "and whatever else it does, it gives you a wonderfully sexy walk."

Then he shook his head and sighed. "You see, Anna," he said, fondling the firm, pointed breasts that spilled from the top of her strapless dress, "I've been in love with you, too. I've known it for quite a while, now."

" You?" she gasped, "—in love with me?"

"Is that so unreasonable?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, frowning as if she were having difficulty with her thoughts. "Until this very moment, I certainly thought it was." She raised the palms of her hands. "What could I possibly offer a genuine war hero— and Principal Helmsman for the ISS. Why, you're known all over the galaxy. People even say you once had a big thing going with Princess Margot Effer'wyck herself. And I'm only a working stiff with a limp, remember? A wealthy one now, perhaps, but a gimpy working stiff, nonetheless." For a moment, the happiness in her face clouded. "Work's about all I ever do anymore.

That's why I simply gave up tonight and decided that maybe you'd at least make love once before you went back to your Fleet and forgot about me."

Brim shook his head incredulously. "Forget about you?" he whispered. "Anna, we've both been wrong, then, because I've felt pretty much the same way about you. I was afraid you could never care for me because you are so successful and influential."

"Maybe I am now, Wilf Brim, but when I started out, I was poor as a street beggar. This limp of mine: when I was a child, I couldn't walk at all. There was nothing wrong with my hip that a healing machine couldn't fix, but at the time there were no credits for that kind of advanced treatment. So my mother hired a local street quack to carve on me. And he didn't do a bad job, considering. I can walk—pretty well, too, considering that you thought my limp was sexy. So when I finally did have the credits to get myself fixed properly, I had neither the time nor the inclination—I'd learned to live with it. Wilf, dearest, I've had to fight for everything I have. I'm a nobody."

"You're damned special to me, Anna Romanoff," Brim exclaimed. "Why, since I met you, I've been afraid that you wouldn't have anything to do with me at all. If you think Margot Effer'wyck is daunting, how about me comparing myself with someone like Wyvern J. Theobold? I mean, Lixor's a whole hell of a lot more impressive than Carescria."

Romanoff took a deep breath and glanced down to watch his hands still gently stroking her breasts.

"Probably I shouldn't admit it," she said, "but the impressive Mr. Theobold from Lixor has never gotten very much farther than what you are doing right now. He's sexy, but I don't love him."

"Poor bastard," Brim said devoutly. "He's missed a great lay."

"I, on the other hand, have not," she giggled with a happy grin. "And those talented hands of yours have put me in the mood for more, Wilf Brim." She kissed him softly on the mouth. "If we really are in love with one another, then there will be a thousand tomorrows when we can rationally work out our relationship. But tonight—this morning, rather—I am much more immediately interested in good old-fashioned sex." Pulling her bodice over her breasts, she raised her hips and, leaning her shoulder on the door, drew up her knee. "Now, lover," she said, "if you would slide yourself back to the driver's seat and pull on your trousers, I know a place where we can continue this wonderfully iniquitous recreation with me lying comfortably on my back, in a bed, instead of pummeling my head on the roof of this skimmer. How does that sound to you?"

Brim only laughed as he slid behind the controls. "Is that answer enough, my beautiful lady?" he asked, indicating his lap. "I'd go anywhere to be iniquitous with you."

"In that case, we'd better hurry," she declared with a happy grin, "because if it's true that War Memorial Hall here is used nearly every day of the week, then I for one am going to be very embarrassed when the parking lot begins to fill in the morning while we're still iniquitizing, so to speak. It's been a long time since anybody's filled me the way you can, Wilf Brim, and I haven't even begun to get enough."

Lieutenant Commander Wilf Ansor Brim, I.F., pulled his Fleet cloak closer around his neck and treaded thoughtfully up the slush-covered marble staircase that fronted Avalon's imposing Admiralty Building. His most recent visit nearly five years earlier had been one of intense personal anguish: a final debriefing after they'd revoked his commission. Now as he glanced at the massive granite building above him, all the old torment seemed to fade into an insignificant past. He was back in uniform and eager to resume the only career that had ever mattered to him: the Fleet.

At the topmost landing, he stopped. From outward appearances, nothing about the old place seemed to have changed that much. Behind him in Locorno Square, traffic still careened wildly around the lofty statue of Admiral Condor Bemus, assaulting his ears with the sounds of a city energetically directing commerce throughout half a galaxy. Overhead, dirty gray clouds still shared the city sky with wheeling squadrons of noisy pidwings. The flocks themselves, he considered, might have become a trifle smaller, but individually, the birds were as filthy as ever. The steps bore mute witness.

Mounting the last staircase, he braced himself for changes he knew he would encounter behind the great metal doors. It was a changed world he was about to reenter. Five years ago, the CIGA was only beginning to flex its muscle within a host organization that was still principally composed of warriors—men and women who could prevail against the best the League could field. Now, that situation was almost totally reversed. CIGA advocates had become a major force in nearly every Admiralty program, planned or extant—and they mercilessly rooted out every "throwback" who attempted to resist their efforts to secure peace by disabling the Imperial Fleet.

When he was precisely four paces from the center entrance, two of the four windblown guards snapped to attention while the others yanked open the doors. Brim strode through the entrance without breaking stride. Only old Admiralty hands knew how to do that; invariably, every one else stopped. Laughing at himself, he wished Romanoff were there to share the little victory with him.

Inside, the Great Foyer and Memorial Court were as little changed as the facade, even to the slight tinge of mustiness Brim had always half blamed on his imagination. Familiar murals heroically characterized the same historic victories as always, and the vast oval floor was still crowded by legions of strutting military politicians. At one time, Brim had believed that most of them were actually on their way to something important (indeed, during the war years, some few might really have been). Now, he couldn't help laughing under his breath. The place looked embarrassingly like the self-conscious terminal in Tarrott!

Brim's objective, the Central Directorate for Personnel, had moved from what he remembered as an insignificant suite in a sub-basement into a whole wing of the eighth floor. He shrugged as he pushed his way through the crowded corridors, searching for the Records Division to authenticate his updated portfolio. He supposed that Personnel's expansion accurately reflected the Admiralty's new directions: they were now in the business of caring for people rather than projecting an Empire's military muscle.

Probably, he reflected, it was a wise direction to follow. The CIGAs had seen to it that a huge portion of that muscle already had been sent to the shipbreakers.

Standing on tiptoe, he finally spied the Records office and pushed his way through the milling throng toward it, arriving only three-quarters of a metacycle later than he'd planned. After this, he waited in line for nearly a metacycle more until he finally reached a counter manned by two bored civilian clerks who moved so slowly that he seriously wondered if they might be closet TimeWeed addicts on some particularly vicious bender. He had just begun to patiently explain his purpose when a full Captain rudely elbowed him aside and literally dragged a youngish-looking Sublieutenant to the counter.

"Dear boy," the captain said to the clerk, "this particularly talented young person is to be assigned to my personal staff immediately. Do you understand? I shall wait...."

The man's voice had a somehow familiar ring to Brim who, by now, was so irritated he could chew hullmetal. Grinding his teeth angrily, he grudgingly admitted that returning to the Fleet did have its drawbacks. Had something like this happened to him as a civilian, he'd have decked the Captain in the blink of an eye. Now, once more part of a rigidly controlled military hierarchy, he swallowed his pride and waited silently with the rest.

"Captain Amherst," the clerk said presently, with a look of honest apprehension on his face. "Ah, sir, ah, y-your personal staff is already over by three persons."

Brim's ears pricked up. Amherst! That was where he'd heard the voice before! His eyes narrowed while he craned his neck to see the Captain's face, and... he was not mistaken. It was indeed Puvis Amherst, the haughty young Lieutenant whose utter callousness and cowardice had made Brim's life utterly miserable while they served together on I.F.S. Truculent. Amherst was also son of retired Lord Rear Admiral Quincy Yarell Amherst, which—so far as Brim was concerned—went a long way toward explaining how such a poor excuse for an officer had risen to the exalted rank of captain.

"Well don't tell me about the problem," Amherst snapped irritably to the clerk, "— fix it!" Then he turned to smile affectionately at the young Sublieutenant "You will love it here in the Shipbreaking Directorate, Lieutenant. We are such a close-knit family."

The beautiful young blond man blushed. "Oh, of course, Captain," he said.

Brim drummed his fingers on the wall. Amherst! The miserable zukeed was clearly heavier and balder than he'd been aboard old Truculent, but he was still recognizable for all that. His cheeks and chin sagged like those of a man who no longer bothered to keep his body fit, and his skin had become office-building sallow. But clearly the Amherst personality had survived intact. Even here in the Records Office he managed to rub everyone the wrong way. Basically, Puvis Amherst was totally indifferent to anyone's needs save his own. And even worse, he clearly believed that he had every right to be that way! True to form, he quickly managed to draw both clerks into the fray. And not long afterward, the two lines he had breached began to extend all the way into another corridor. Through it all, however, the man conducted an animated conversation with his effete young friend as if nothing at all were amiss.

Brim wrested his thoughts from the mayhem he would have liked to inflict and concentrated on a list of specifications for Valerian's new M-6. Better to keep one's mouth shut than to lose a commission, he thought sourly—especially less than two days after that commission had been handed back from the far side of oblivion. Leaning a shoulder against the office wall, he had begun peering into a holograph of the M-6's proposed Helmsman's console when someone roughly jostled his arm.

"It appears that you actually have wheedled your way back into uniform," Amherst muttered, shaking his arm. "I'd heard Onrad might do something to make that happen."

Brim looked up from the holograph and nodded. "You heard right," he said, "—day before yesterday at the War Memorial Hall."

"Of course," Amherst said, shaking his head disapprovingly, "the ISS celebration. Well, you'd better enjoy the limelight while you can, Carescrian. If the CIGA has anything to say about matters of government—which it does, believe me—you'll soon find your silly racing funds cut to nothing." He raised his eyebrows. "The very idea of spending capital for something like that makes my blood boil."

Brim shrugged noncommittally, wondering what Amherst would do with the funds if they were his to allocate. He never put the question into words, however. There was little sense in provoking an argument when what he really wanted was to flatten the man's nose.

After a few moments of embarrassing silence, Amherst gave a sidelong glance at the Sublieutenant, then sneered at Brim. "You don't have much more to say than you used to aboard Truculent, do you?"

"I haven't heard anything worth talking about yet, Amherst," Brim returned quietly.

" Captain Amherst, to you, Carescrian," the man sneered, "—and never forget it!"

Taking the Sublieutenant's arm, he nodded toward Brim. "It's obsolete refuse like this that spoils today's Admiralty," he explained. "As fast as we force them out, some fool like Onrad brings them back again.

Very frustrating."

The young officer took a single glance at Brim's glowering countenance and immediately began to study a display of empty forms at the counter.

"You'd better find this worth talking about, Brim," Amherst continued presently, glaring at the Carescrian as if he had just committed some particularly detestable outrage. "Imperial entries in races like the Mitchell will soon be things of the past. There are better, more politically desirable uses to which such funds can be put. And," he added pointedly, "now is no time to compete with the League and win."

In spite of himself, Brim felt his eyebrows rise. "What do you mean by that, Amherst?" he demanded.

" Captain Amherst!"

"Captain Amherst..."

"That's better, Brim. You never have accepted your rightful place, have you?"

Brim ground his teeth again. "No," he agreed. "I have not —Captain."

By now, the two clerks seemed to have their emergency under control, and indeed, the other line had begun to move again while the clerk in Brim's line appeared to be finishing things up rapidly.

"Eventually you'll catch on, Brim," Amherst sneered breezily. "Otherwise, we'll quickly get rid of you again. And, to answer your question, the first thing you'd better learn is that we no longer compete with the League. At all. That goes for you, in a personal sense, as well as the obscenity you refer to as the ISS." This time, he glared in overt anger. "Instead of making vain glorious attempts to belittle our colleagues from the League—as you recently did in Rudolpho—your efforts should be directed toward promoting peace and cooperation."

"Like what?" Brim asked.

"Like helping to reduce a bloated Imperial Fleet," he said, "—a Fleet that is clearly no longer necessary to the safety of the realm." He put his hands on his hips and looked at Brim as if he were addressing a particularly stupid child. "Can't you understand that the Fleet, by its very existence, acts as a tremendous obstacle to our work?"

Just then, the clerk finished. "Captain Amherst," he called from behind the counter, "we're finished. Soon as you authenticate this, the Sublieutenant will be reassigned and your roster will be corrected."

Amherst turned his back on Brim as if he had simply ceased to exist. "There now," he said to the young officer, patting him on the shoulder, "you shall have no more concerns about serving aboard one of those absolutely dreadful military starships."

"Oh, thank you, Captain," the Sublieutenant uttered with a look of admiration on his face. "I simply couldn't have survived ..."

Smirking jovially, Amherst made his authentication, then, without a single word of thanks, turned and strode from the office, his newly attached Sublieutenant struggling along in his wake. At the door, he stopped and turned once again toward Brim. "We shall watch you closely, Carescrian," he said, glowering. "Others have attempted to subvert the CIGA and have suffered for it." He grinned for a moment. "In some ways," he said, "I should enjoy that. It would give me great pleasure to personally remove you and all you stand for from the path of peace." Then, he was gone.

Presently, the clerk looked over his glasses at Brim and shook his head. "No offense meant, Commander," he said, "but are you sure you want to go to all this trouble? If Puvis Amherst hates you the way I think he does, then you are on your way out—right now!"

Brim glowered and checked his new documents in the displays. "Don't count on it, mister," he said, authenticating the records one by one. "As we say in the race business, 'it's not over till it's over.'" Then he looked the man directly in the eye. "And this race hasn't even started yet."

After treating himself to an all-too-short interlude with Anna Romanoff—during which both he and the alluring businesswoman began to sort out what promised to be a relationship characterized, if nothing else, by frequent separations—Brim returned to Atalanta, resuming his ongoing employment at the Fleet base and preparing for the next trophy race. Throughout the remainder of the year, he and Moulding both sacrificed countless weeks of their own time in travel to Sodeskaya and Rhodor, assisting in development of the M-6 and its control systems.

The rewards, however, were well worth their levy. Long before race week, Sherrington's two new creations had proven themselves as perhaps the most naturally flyable starships ever. Painted dark cobalt with diagonal blue, white, and red racing stripes applied to the main hull immediately abaft the feed tubes, M-6s were everything the M-5s had started out to be, plus much, much more.

At ninety-six irals overall, each was slightly longer than its predecessors and followed Valerian's predilection for multiple hulls. Two Admiralty NL-4053-D gravity generators were mounted in teardrop outriggers joined to the needle-slim main hull by Valerian's characteristic "trousers." An uprated Wizard Drive (designated PV/16) rode the keel, cooled by external surface radiators nearly twice the area of those on the M-5. Forward, a redesigned power system reduced the twin blisters covering its critically shaped feed tubes and produced nearly an eighth more energy in the same chamber volume. Its familiar-looking flight bridge was located just aft of the bow behind dramatically raked (and enlarged) Hyperscreen arrays, but inside, even the controls were different, incorporating innovative concepts from the Admiralty's Living-Factors Design Section that made the new ships an absolute delight to fly.

They were, of course, incredibly fast. But just as important, they were reliable as well. Even during early phases of the test program, each of the little starships performed with rock-solid dependability—the result of a conservative approach to refinement of the M-5's best characteristics instead of attempting a second quantum leap in technology.

As it turned out, however, the ships were ready only in the barest nick of time. During the same period, both Gantheisser and Dampier had wasted little time preparing their own advanced-technology racing craft, no doubt basing their designs on performance parameters obtained from the same sort of espionage that supplied Sherrington designers with their benchmark criteria.

This time, however, the competitors were operating from an extreme disadvantage. Whereas Valerian's M-6's ran on highly derated Drive systems—result of hopeless cooling problems on the little racers—designers from the League and the Torond had once more boosted conventional, single-lobe Drive technology far past reasonable limits. And while both manufacturers had produced ships that would be at least competitive with the Sherrington entries, their propulsion systems were also fragile in the extreme. It was widely rumored that half the new Gantheisser Drives hammered themselves into junk after only cycles of operation at speed, and top-secret documents from the Admiralty indicated that Praefect Motta Balbo had been killed during a takeoff that ended with a sudden dive into Lake Garza. It was assumed that an energy leak may have entered the flight bridge, and so extra insulation had been installed in the two remaining DA.72/c's. But like the League's new GA 209V-5s, they were largely untried.

Anna Romanoff was a fine-looking woman, with or without benefit of clothes. The previous evening, she had once more proven both to Brim: first wearing a breathtaking white evening gown during the traditional reception hosted by Prince Onrad (at which both LaKarns were conspicuously absent), later clad only in perfume at the fashionable town house she maintained near the center of Avalon's historic Beardmore district.

Again today—little more than a metacycle before the ceremonies opening the Mitchell Trophy Race in Avalon—nearly every passing head turned in admiration as she strolled on Brim's arm through charming formal gardens toward the HyperDrome at Alcott-on-Mersin. She was dressed for the occasion in a stylish costume antique of the sheerest white crepe, consisting of a low-bosomed gown with a very high waistline—little more than a bust confiner. Its bodice at the widest point was only minimally deep and her narrow skirt draped all the way to the ground. Fitted over the very short bodice, she wore a double-breasted jacket of delicate white lace. A flat, wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with delicate windflowers was tied about her cheeks with long apple green ribbons, and she wore dainty white lace gloves. Thin, low slippers, also of apple green, completed the outfit. Early that morning, Brim had been absolutely dazzled watching her dress. The conservative businesswoman he'd first encountered three years earlier in Atalanta had again vanished from the face of the Universe—at least for the duration of the races.

Historic Alcott Gardens themselves had been in continuous use since before the dawn of interstellar flight.

Located on a high bluff overlooking Irwin's Bay on Lake Mersin, the grounds covered a quarter of a square c'lenyt and were dotted by filigreed pavilions, grandiose floral displays, and cascading fountains, all joined by an intricate network of paved footpaths. On this particular morning, the formal grandeur was greatly enhanced by soft puffs of fair-weather clouds that dwarfed the great starliners thundering out among them from Grand Imperial Terminal, only thirty c'lenyts distant.

Out on the lake, twenty-five capital ships from fifteen-odd dominions hovered as if waiting for a signal to commence warring again. Unfortunately, to Brim's way of thinking, sixteen of them owed allegiance to the League.

Avalon's Imperial HyperDrome was almost as old as starflight itself. Built on a spacious arc of lakefront, it formed a vast stage for the colossal natural arena formed by the bluffs separating the gardens and the lake. Two huge grandstands—set well back from the water and climate-controlled when necessary—divided the extensive apron area into three distinct sectors housing all ten galactic domains that had qualified for this year's contest. Sheds for the Imperial Starship Society, the Nergol Triannic Starflight Society, the Starflight Association of the Torond, and the A'zurnian Starflight Institute—winners of the four previous years' races—were located in the center section. Entries from the less successful domains of Vukote, Beta Jagow, Prendergast, Wooglin, Fluvanna, and Taras occupied the remainder.

Brim seated Romanoff in the Krasni-Peych box with Ursis and Borodov, who were acting as temporary escorts to Moulding's voluptuous redhead. Then he hurried off through the noisy, colorful throng for a lift to the Imperial shed with Valerian in a Sherrington limousine.

Following the traditional parade (in which Brim was paired with Kirsh Valentin!) and interminable speeches by toothsome Imperial officials, the race at last got underway. Earlier, Prince Onrad had decreed that this year, the order of competition would be reversed. Therefore, the contest began when an orchestra struck up the Tarian national anthem, "All Hail the Crinig Tree!" At the same time, blood green flags raced to the top of three flagpoles located on the winner's dais in the center of the HyperDrome. Taras, a first-time contender, fielded two odd-looking starships that earlier had showed some promise in practice heats. During the next metacycle and a half, however, they left no doubt in anyone's minds that someone else would carry home the Mitchell Trophy this year.

The entry from Fluvanna—there was only one—fared considerably better, but came nowhere close to the minimum qualifying speeds achieved by many of the other domains. Both racers from the ten-star cluster of Wooglin finished with respectable times, as did those from Beta Jagow and Prendergast; but the day ended on a note of tragedy when a starship from Vukote disintegrated in three terrific explosions before it had achieved more than a c'lenyt of altitude. After protracted conferences between Imperial safety officials and practically the whole Vucotian staff, the latter withdrew from competition and the day ended nearly two metacycles later than anyone had expected.

While most of Avalon immersed itself in parties of one kind or another that night, Brim and Romanoff set off promptly to her town house where they retired almost immediately with vows from both sides that on the eve of such an important event, Brim should sleep all the way through the night, with no interruptions.

They broke their vow only once—by urgent and mutual agreement.

Competition resumed the next morning with an outstanding exhibition of sportsmanship when the Beta Jagow Starship society loaned a rare ingot of Relox-31 to desperate Fluvannian technicians. The latter quickly applied most of it to a leaking power chamber in the needlelike Pagona pc.7 they had entered, and shortly thereafter outstripped their benefactors by two places in the final standings. Afterward, Wooglin's entries bettered both by nearly 7.5M LightSpeed. Early in the afternoon, however, two sleek R'autor M6C-32s piloted by A'zurnians effortlessly swept all previous competitors from the race, boosting the high average speed to nearly 94M LightSpeed, while sending a shock wave through most of the racing community. Brim grimaced when he heard the news. Any possibility of an easy victory had just evaporated, not only for himself but for his adversaries from the League and Torond who would fly next.

As Fleet intelligence had speculated, Rogan LaKarn's uprated DA.72/c's flew with Drive crystals extravagantly overstressed by new power plants installed at the last moment by frantic Dampier engineers. Both Helmsmen gallantly completed the race in their treacherous machines, but the first was seriously burned when the new insulation failed to keep stray energy from the flight bridge, and the second ran at no more than three-quarters power settings after a wildly erratic takeoff. When they were finished, the Torond had managed only a poor second to A'zurn's little R'autors, and as late afternoon waned into the coolness of early evening, only the League stood between Brim and another Mitchell Trophy.

The setting Triad of Asterious had turned Avalon's nightward horizon into layers of deep mauve and pink as three black League banners shot to the top of the center flagpoles. Valentin raced first, and almost from the beginning his brutish Gantheisser 209 V-5 was dogged by trouble. While he was still on the gravity pool, the enormous DB 601ARJ power plant refused to fully energize, and his embarrassed colleagues were forced to plead for an official time-out while squads of technicians sorted out the problem under dozens of bobbing hover-floods. Then, after little more than two laps aloft, both plasma tubes delaminated at the feed end, burning dead spots in the crystal and forcing him from the race.

Without sufficient power to make landfall, he had to abandon the badly scorched ship in orbit and return—ignominiously—aboard an Imperial destroyer.

Only cycles after the first reports of Valentin's difficulties swept through the shed area, Brim and Moulding sat on the edge of the Imperial gravity pool, watching through night glasses while a hovering traction machine drew Groener's snow white Gantheisser to the gravity pool, now brilliantly lighted by lofty Karlsson lamps. Soon afterward, two white Majestat-Baron limousine skimmers emerged from a side wing of the shed and sped across the apron, tracing specially installed follower cables. The first deposited Groener at the League's gravity pool where she alighted just below the hovering Gantheisser's boarding ladder among an orderly group of technicians. Even a battle suit couldn't hide her spectacular curves. The second big skimmer drew to a halt directly behind Groener's to disgorge OverGalite'er Gorton Ro'arn and four tough-looking Controllers wearing special Racotzi Police badges on their hats.

Groener had a grim look on her face as she glanced sullenly at Ro'arn, and when he raised his hand to attract her attention, she turned away as if she could no longer tolerate the sight of his face. She paused at the boarding ladder for a moment, then ultimately shook her head, issued a few terse commands to the ground crew, and mounted to the hatch with no further communication to anyone.

"A very unhappy-looking lady out there," Toby Moulding commented, handing Brim the night glasses.

Both Imperials were already dressed in battle suits and ready to fly.

Brim adjusted the gain and focused in on the Gantheisser's Hyperscreens. "You can say that again," he replied, peering intently through the darkness. Unfortunately, from his angle of view, most of Groener's face was hidden by her instrument panel.

Moments later, the big DB 601ARJ energized in a sparkling globule of heat energy that spilled from the sides of the gravity pool in waves of distorted light. This was followed almost immediately by the thunder of a gravity generator.

"She couldn't be bothering with her checklist!" Moulding observed, raising his voice over the rumble of the Gantheisser's second big generator.

"No," Brim agreed, handing back Moulding's night glasses. "She certainly couldn't—there isn't enough time..." At that moment, the brutish starship lurched off its gravity pool and lumbered toward the central access ramp before a surprised Imperial orchestra could belatedly strike up the League's national anthem.

Moulding peered through the night glasses again. "I think she's in some kind of trouble."

"Yeah," Brim agreed with a feeling of absolute helplessness. "And as usual, there's not a xaxtdamned thing anybody can do about it." He watched Groener taxi out over the water and swing her bow toward the starting gates. "If only we cared about individuals as much as we do about cultures," he said, "maybe we wouldn't get into the kind of troubles that end up in wars."

"What?" Moulding asked.

Brim laughed grimly as Groener took the starter's flag and thundered down the takeoff vector, trailing three lofty cascades of spray that shone in the radiance of the bobbing vector markers. "Only a stray thought, Toby," he said, "about not being able to help people because they bring trouble on themselves."

He shook his head sadly. "Probably," he said, watching the little starship merge with the evening stars, "it doesn't matter anymore."

Less than a metacycle later, Groener's Gantheisser disintegrated in a terrific explosion. Brim learned of it on his way to the gravity pool. At first, he couldn't believe it. But as his van pulled to a stop, he knew that the League's greed was to blame for the loss of such a good pilot. Above him, the floodlit M-6 loomed gracefully in the bluish green glow of stationary generators. "They'll pay for this, Inge...." Then he pulled himself together. He had a race to win.

CHAPTER 9

Dityasburg

Settling himself in the single Helmsman's seat, Brim opened his helmet and slid the port Hyperscreen aside. A lamp winked from the side of the instrument panel while traces of fresh night breeze swirled into the flight bridge, mixing with odors of hot metal, ozone, and fresh sealant that seemed to permeate every racing machine he'd ever known.

Outside, the last glow of twilight had gone from the nightward horizon, but Karlsson lamps maintained the glare of high noon on the apron. Only essential technicians and a few special guests like Bosporus Gallsworthy and His Majesty Prince Onrad (wearing white coveralls!) remained in the area. It would soon become a very noisy place indeed, as well as dangerous. Brim slid a gloved hand to the COMM panel, bringing its little Universe of winking lights to life with a touch of a finger, then he scanned through crackling channels of electronic blather, setting up links to the tower, the flight controller, the race coordinators, and—by KA'PPA COMM—to a half dozen Imperial starships patrolling the racecourse.

The latter had been quietly placed along the racecourse at Onrad's insistence after Brim's encounter with the media yacht.

In quick succession, he touched the console in three locations. Position lamps glowed at the tips of the two gravity pontoons—green to starboard, red to port, following some ancient tradition long vanished into the mists of history. Then a strobe exploded from below as the ventral clearance light came to life.

Finally, whirling beams from an overhead beacon turned the Hyperscreen frames alternating shades of amber, then blue, in time to the gentle whine of a gravitronic phase shifter mounted in his right-hand console.

Glancing momentarily toward Ursis seated below at a console on the rim of the gravity pad, he touched an amber glow on the damper quadrant at his left hand. Six indicators changed from yellow to green and static crackled briefly in his helmet while a flow of plasma enabled the six critical logic circuits of the power system. He scanned the center console again. Colors flowed in orderly codes across the readouts.

"Gravs to the power mains, Nik," he announced.

"Connected," Ursis replied. Once again, he was magnificently outfitted in the uniform of a Home Guard Colonel.

Nodding to himself, Brim simultaneously touched glimmering blue circles at either side of the console. A heartbeat later, twin thumps beneath the deck seconded a cascade of information on the power panel.

"Looks good," he reported. "Three nine five T-units."

"Three nine five," Ursis announced with a chuckle. "That ought to keep you out of trouble for a while."

"Check," Brim laughed, setting the gravity brakes. He glanced out the Hyperscreens and waved to Moulding who had seated himself atop Ursis's console, drumming his heels idly against the back cover.

"Brakes set. Everybody off the pontoons?"

"Pontoons are clear," Ursis said after a pause. "Both Toby and I have checked them with our own eyes."

"Energizing starboard," Brim said, selecting starboard and reaching for the bright sapphire circle marked start. At his touch, the circle changed to red, then strobed in tempo with the interrupter on the starboard outrigger as its gravity generator spun up with a metallic whine. Guided by instinct born of a thousand-odd practice sessions, Brim moved the plasma boost to on and the feed selector to both.

Straightaway, fifty-four hundred standard thrust units thundered into boisterous reality, while ice blue tongues of free ions shot back fifty irals from the open wastegates. The atmosphere glowed with eerie luminescence before the big generator settled to a smooth rumble and green lights on the grav panel indicated steady-state operation. Less than three cycles afterward, the port generator added its deep-throated voice to the rolling thunder while tremendous magnitudes of energy surged through the complex power network, totally under control and perfectly suited to the system's requirements.

Brim was now in the mood to fly. He'd always loved the sound of big spaceborne gravs, even when he was too young to know what they were. With a silly grin on his face, he checked his readouts, reveling in the mighty duet of power on either side of the bridge. "I've got a good start, Nik," he reported.

"So you do," Ursis growled as he peered into his consoles. He was now wearing a huge pair of sound dampers over his furry ears, and Moulding had shut his helmet. Everyone remaining in the area seemed to have retreated to a safe distance except for Onrad and Gallsworthy; they had also donned ear protection and were grinning up at Brim like excited children.

In the corner of his eye, Brim saw three Imperial flags shoot to the tops of the flagpoles—it was time to go racing. He checked for Romanoff's gold earrings (that she'd given him for good luck) and touched the landing light switches. Instantly, three brilliant beams of light materialized from beneath the fuselage—clearly visible, even in the glare of the Karlsson lamps. "I'll be back in about a metacycle," he called to Ursis. "I'm going out to fetch us a trophy."

"Seems like a sensible thing to do," Ursis answered, peering up from his console. "We won't start the victory party without you."

Brim queasily switched to internal gravity, choked back his gorge, then flashed a thumbs-up through the Hyperscreens while he turned the COMM unit to ground control. "Alcott Ground," he announced,

"Imperial M-six Alpha requests taxi to drive area."

"Imperial M-six Alpha, Alcott Ground clears for taxi to arming zone one."

"M-six Alpha," Brim acknowledged, waving at the ground crew to cast off his mooring beams. When all six optical cleats were safely retracted into the hull, he delicately maneuvered the M-6 off its gravity pool and firmly applied the brakes. They worked. Next, he taxied across to the Drive-arming area where he eased his ship onto the nearest of three lenslike N-ray emitters and drew the thrust damper back to idle.

Immediately, he was surrounded by a squad of Bears in bright green Krasni-Peych radiation-proof battle suits with huge protective mittens and metallic palm insets.

Brim placed his hands against the Hyperscreens where they could be seen. This signaled the crew that they could now work without fear of "cockpit error" while they accomplished their hazardous task.

Immediately, the Sodeskayans set to work, nipping in and out of the glaring landing lights as they swarmed around the ship's belly. Carefully avoiding the deadly gravitron exhaust plumes, they had all five access panels open within moments, and soon the Drive panel begin to glimmer into life, with new color patterns bursting into cascades of information as each new module was energized in its turn. While they worked, he studied the distant grandstands, thinking of the delicate woman there who was just as surely seeking a glimpse of him at the same time. He watched Imperial flags dancing on the HyperDrome flagpoles. When he and Moulding had finished their night's work, the Imperial banner would still wave from the tallest of the three—and very probably the next-tallest as well. Valerian's M-6s were clearly in a class by themselves. Everyone who saw them, even the Leaguers, agreed that they were easily the most graceful starships ever constructed. Now, he was about to demonstrate to the galaxy that they were every bit as functional as they were beautiful, and perhaps a little more.

He smiled to himself. Essentially a hopeless romantic, he recognized the moment as one of great drama and beauty—not because of the fame and power that would come to him for winning, but for the very love of this particular starship, and the majesty of the stars themselves.

Suddenly, the Bears were again grouped under the bow of the starship, and Vaskrozni Kubinka the Crew Chief had removed a mitten to hold his thumb aloft. Brim glanced at the five green Drive hatch indicators—all locked—and then the clock. The crew had set another record. Grinning from ear to ear, he returned the gesture, and made a quick scan of his panels while the Bears returned to the radiation shelter at a run.

"Alcott Ground," he said, "M-six Alpha requests taxi to gate."

"M-six Alpha, Alcott Ground clears taxi to gate area one five left, wind two one zero at one six."

"M-six Alpha," Brim acknowledged again. With a final glance toward the grandstands, he moved the thrust damper forward, called up enough power to move the M-6 onto a launch ramp, and taxied out over the water, setting course for the takeoff vector.

As he neared the starting gate, he changed communications channels and called the tower: "Imperial M-six Alpha to Alcott Tower at pylon area," he announced. "Request gate clearance."

"Alcott Tower to M-six Alpha. Cleared to enter gate one five left. Takeoff vector zero seven five on green light, wind two one two at one eight."

"M-six Alpha entering gate one five left, wind two one two at one eight, takeoff on green."

"Alcott Tower."

Brim swung the M-6's bow sharply to starboard and taxied into position just short of the start pylons, presently strobing red from each apex. Beyond, two rows of bobbing yellow vector buoys converged into the distance. For a moment, he sat quietly in the darkness, savoring the fragrance of the lake and gathering himself for the flight, while data from his readouts flowed smoothly across his consoles. Then, deliberately, he slid the Hyperscreen closed; it sealed with a distinct hiss as the bridge pressurized. He made a last systems check: flight controls—normal; lift modifiers—on TAKEOFF; flight readouts—normal and set; anticollision and position lights—on; cabin gravity—firm; shoulder restraints—tight; Hyperscreens—SEALED and LOCKED. Everything was ready.

Locking the steering engine at VERTICAL ONLY, he activated the gravity brakes, then signaled the Starter back at the grandstands by opening his thrust dampers. As his powerful generators built up to takeoff output, a cloud of spray and ice particles began to surge skyward behind the ship, and the bridge filled with a growing thunder. Presently, the pylon lights changed from red to amber. At this, Brim fairly stood on the gravity brakes and brought the dampers all the way to their stops. Even in his battle suit, the penetrating howl of the generators—operating now with no restriction whatsoever—became almost intolerable. The little ship plunged and bucked as it battled back the torrent of raw energy, and Brim found himself struggling with the controls to keep her nose pointed between the rows of vector buoys.

Only moments before it seemed that he would surely lose control, the lights changed to green and he popped the brakes. Instantly, both pylons disappeared sternward in a cascade of spray as the M-6 sprang forward, hurtling itself along the vector with a chilling liquid suddenness. Brim managed to steer a passable approximation of a straight line only by virtue of sheer agility, plus all the native flying skill he possessed. In the corner of his vision, he checked the power panel—still at a steady three ninety-five T-units—while his eyes scanned up and down, inside and out with one coordinated glance. Airspeed 115 c'lenyts. She was getting ready to fly, her mass rapidly transferring to the thundering gravs while his hands wielded the controls by instinct born of love and experience. With no need for instruments, he sensed the ship getting lighter on her footprint until at about 145 she smoothly changed to a creature of the sky.

There was a final moment when the blurred glow of the vector buoys below suddenly quit, ending his dependence on the ground, then he and the ship were in their element, climbing out along the beams of their own landing lights toward the ultimate freedom of the stars.

During its subsequent flight, the superb little ship behaved with utter docility. A perfect combination of hull, propulsion, and control, she snapped through lap after lap at tremendous velocities with stunning regularity, for not only a first-place victory but a new Universal speed record of 94.59M LightSpeed, as well.

Inge Groener's funeral in space was only symbolic; the explosion that took her life also reduced her body, and most of the big Gantheisser she was driving, to subatomic particles that would spend the remainder of eternity traveling outward from the final locus of their existence.

Most of the close-knit racing fraternity attended aboard Angor Renat, one of two super-Rengas-class battleships dispatched to escort the League's Mitchell racing team. Brim and Romanoff found themselves amid an unlikely gathering of royalty, the famous, the infamous (depending upon one's political affiliations), and even a few unknowns—although the latter composed a small, privileged minority. In the warship's enormous wardroom, Prince Onrad stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Kabul Anak as OverGalite'er Gorton Ro'arn watched in silence beside General Harry Drummond. Even Ursis and Moulding endured the company of Kirsh Valentin, who remained in stony silence throughout the interminable speeches that preceded the up-galaxy launch of a torpedo filled with Groener's belongings.

To say it was a friendly meeting was to beg the point—but in death, the beautiful Leaguer did bring many of the galaxy's bitterest enemies together for a brief moment that had little to do with politics. When the missile's glow at last faded away among the blazing stars, Brim felt reasonably certain that the ceremony would have pleased her considerably.

After celebrations of the Empire's second Mitchell victory wound to a close, Romanoff was soon abroad on another extended business trip and Brim began to prepare for the following year's defense of the Mitchell Trophy—which was now referred to by members of the ISS as "the hat rack." They were at last tied evenly with the League, two races all. One more victory by either contender would retire the trophy permanently.

Brim had hardly gotten back into the swing of his job in Atalanta when he received an unusual message from Regula Collingswood through the Fleet base's secure communications channels. It was personally delivered to his small office one early evening by COMCOMM herself, a short, pug Captain dressed in an immaculate Fleet uniform with—it was rumored—more seniority than Greyffin IV himself. "Figured I'd better bring this around in person, Commander," she said with a frown. "When I decoded the text, I couldn't help reading it—so I'll be enough of a meddler to wish you and your friend Moulding the best treatment Dame Fortune can provide. You're both going to need it."

"Er... thank you, Captain," Brim said with a frown of confusion, "I think..."

"You'll understand when you've read it," the Captain said as she turned and started down the hall.

"Probably you shouldn't thank me, either," she added as she rounded the corner, "—at least before you've read it. I suspect I've just delivered a whole Universe of trouble."

Concerned by the officer's words, Brim placed his right index finger on the plastic envelope's seal.

Instantly, it opened in a puff of smoke. Then, with a growing sense of foreboding, he withdrew a single message sheet and unfolded it:

UN2378523ZXCN

[TOP-SECRET EYES-ONLY PERSONAL COMCOMM]

FM: ADMIRALTYCOMCOMM@AVALON

TO: COMCOMM@HAELIC:FLEET:COMM

<>

DELIVER TO:

BRIM@HAELIC:FLEET:FLIGHTOPS

MOULDING@HAELIC:FLEET:FLIGHTOPS:

INFO:

GALLSWORTHY@HAELIC:FLEET:FLIGHTOPS

WILF, TOBY:

1. PRINCE ONRAD HIMSELF DIRECTS ME TO SEND THIS WARNING.

2. PUVIS AMHERST AND HIS CIGAS HAVE TODAY (MY TIME) FAILED IN ATTEMPT TO

REVOKE YOUR COMMISSIONS ALONG WITH OTHER OFFICERS (INCLUDING

GENERAL HARRY DRUMMOND) ASSOCIATED WITH THE ISS; GREYFFIN IV

PERSONALLY RESCINDED THESE ORDERS.

3. APPARENT CIGA MOTIVE: TERMINATE DEVELOPMENT OF SHERRINGTON M-6

FOLLOW ON. ALL FLEET FUNDS EARMARKED FOR ISS USE DISCONTINUED AS OF

YESTERDAY. SODESKAYAN INTELLIGENCE CONFIRMS CIGA IS UNDER DIRECT

CONTROL OF LEAGUE (METHOD: BLACKMAIL—MANY IMPERIAL FORTUNES MADE

DURING WAR BY PASSING SECRETS TO THE LEAGUE.)

4. YOU BOTH SHOULD EXPECT REASSIGNMENT ORDERS TOMORROW (YOUR TIME).

CIGA WANTS ISS TEAM BROKEN UP PERMANENTLY. YOUR FIRST DESTINATION: AVALON; AFTERWARD, UNIVERSE KNOWS WHERE.

5. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT DISPUTE THESE NEW ORDERS. ONRAD WILL INTERCEDE

BEFORE YOU MUST DEPART AVALON.

6. MAY STARS LIGHT ALL THY PATHS.

REGULA COLLINGSWOOD

[END TOP-SECRET EYES-ONLY PERSONAL COMCOMM]

ADMIRALTYCOMCOMM SENDS

UN2378523ZXCN

He read the note twice more, then touched his thumb to the top right-hand corner of the form and the message evaporated into thin air as if it had never existed. Precisely two clicks later, so did the envelope—at almost the same instant Toby Moulding appeared in the doorway.

"I say," he started, "those chaps play a rough game, don't they?" Always the aristocrat, he wore high, black riding boots, ivory trousers, and a soft, blue coat with a white scarf tied loosely at his throat.

Brim nodded grimly. "The only rougher game is played by Leaguers."

Moulding shrugged. "From what Regula sent, I gather there isn't much difference."

"In a lot of ways, I'd rather deal with the Leaguers," Brim growled. "They're predictable. You can't tell what traitors are going to do from one moment to the next."

"Right ho," Moulding agreed, pacing back and forth in the tiny space in front of the Carescrian's workstation.

Brim shook his head angrily. "What really gets to me, though, isn't so much people like Amherst turning traitors—every civilization has a component of people like that. It's the rest of the Empire that wipes me out. How in the name of Voot can they fall for pro-League stuff so soon after they nearly lost a war to the same people? Why is it that all of a sudden they trust the Leaguers more than the Blue Capes who were only yesterday saving their silly asses from destruction? Can they forget so quickly?"

Moulding put a hand on Brim's arm. "I think you've got that answer in your own experience," he said.

"I assume you mean what happened to me after the war," Brim said with a frown.

"Not a very pleasant subject," Moulding conceded, "but it does fit, doesn't it? I don't think that people forgot so much as they changed the way they remembered. The war was so terrible to them that anything that could stop it—give them a respite, no matter how short-term—seemed beneficial. Even though common logic said that eventually they would have to pay for it with more of the same."

"But, Toby," Brim protested, "neither of us supports the bastards, and we were in the thick of things. In fact, from what I've seen, the CIGAs main support comes pretty much from people who weren't involved at all—except when the cities themselves were attacked. What in Voot's name do they know about war, anyway? Most of them haven't even seen a Leaguer."

"Ignorance is the word I suspect you are looking for," Moulding reminded him, "—and those largely ignorant people are a majority of the population, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Brim agreed. "I suppose there weren't that many of us out there actually fighting the Leaguers."

"Tells you something, doesn't it?" Moulding answered suggestively.

Their orders—arriving promptly in midafternoon, as predicted—gave them only two days to arrange their affairs for a permanent change of station. Brim had little in the way of belongings. After packing a few belongings and storing his gravcycle in a shed behind Nesterio's Racotzian Cabaret, he messaged Anna Romanoff about the new turn of events and was essentially ready for travel. Moulding, on the other hand, boarded the biweekly mail packet to Avalon with less than a metacycle to spare. Arranging for half a lifetime's possessions would have been difficult had he been given a month or more.

Brim and Moulding arrived in Avalon only a few metacycles after the first communiques announcing that Nergol Triannic had returned to Tarrott and resumed the reins of government, wearing a Controller's uniform. At a single blow, he had abrogated the Treaty of Garak and set up the Congress of Intragalactic Accord as his de facto persona among the other dominions of the galaxy, although embassies and consulates would continue to serve in their historic capacities as "official" League interfaces. Triannic's move was the talk of the city, where it was widely predicted—among people Puvis Amherst had referred to as "obsolete refuse"—that the domains of Fluvanna and Beta Jagow were now living on borrowed time.

The two Blue Capes had no sooner checked into Visiting Officers' Quarters near Avalon's Grand Imperial Terminal than they were ordered directly to the Admiralty, ostensibly for new documents from the Central Directorate for Personnel. At that office, however, they were then directed to the Assignments Office where—after a wait of nearly three metacycles—a senior clerk handed them "Permanent Change of Station" orders.

Outside in the hall, Brim winced as he read his set of flimsy plastic sheets. Instantly, he had become Assistant Stores Officer in a deactivated complex on cold Gimmas-Haefdon, a once-strategic Fleet base that had been largely forgotten in the wake of the Admiralty's present policy of decline. He looked over at Moulding and shook his head. "I'm certainly counting on Onrad to kill these orders," he said.

"What exotic location did you draw?" Moulding asked, looking up from his own set of plastics.

"Gimmas," Brim answered. "I understand it's gotten so cold on that planet now that even Sodeskayan Bears refuse to serve there anymore."

Moulding shook his head. "If it's any comfort, old chap," he said, handing Brim his orders, "at least you won't have to worry about poison fluggo darts in the back."

Brim ground his teeth as he read. "Chargé d'Affaires in Hobro!" he exclaimed. "What else did you do that I don't know about? Were you fooling around with the Empress or something?"

"Not that I know of," Moulding answered with a grim chuckle. "She is a bit on the chubby side for me, after all."

As he spoke, the clerk rushed out of the Assignments Office waving a sheath of plastic sheets.

"Commander Brim," he called peevishly. "Commander Brim!" He now wore a large CIGA badge on the lapel of his pastel jumpsuit—it had not been there a few moments previously.

Brim nodded. "Over here," he said.

"You didn't give me time to finish, Commander," the man said. He made the words an accusation. "I have a personal summons for you from Commodore Amherst."

"Amherst's a Commodore now?" Brim chuckled, glancing at Moulding. "All right," he agreed, "I'll see him. Where is he?"

"You mean you don't know he's moved to the new CIGA suite?" the clerk asked with raised eyebrows.

"Where have you been, man?"

"Out of town," Brim snapped. "Now tell me where he is—and be quick about it!"

"Well!" the clerk sniffed in a resentful tone of voice. He pursed his lips. "The CIGA Office is now just off the Great Foyer."

Brim turned to Moulding. "This may take a little time, Toby," he said. "How about if I meet you back at the VOQ? I'll ring you soon as I get back."

"Sounds like a plan, friend," Moulding said. "I wouldn't miss being the first to hear what's up in the CIGA."

"Anything else, boy?" Brim asked the clerk.

"Not from me, Commander," the man simpered. "But your time is definitely coming. Count on it." He turned on his heel and strutted back into the office without another word.

"Somehow," Moulding said ruefully, "I think we've lost control of our Fleet."

"Whatever gave you an idea like that?" Brim asked sarcastically. With that, they started along the hall toward the Great Foyer.

Brim cooled his heels nearly two full metacycles in the ornate CIGA sitting room. Much of that time, he suspected Amherst was alone in his office—if indeed the zukeed hadn't stepped outside for a long stroll.

While he waited, he attempted to occupy his mind by scanning CIGA publications on expensive-looking displays the organization had placed throughout the large room, but found he had little stomach for literature that advocated further destruction of the Imperial Fleet. The ones that really raised his temperature, though, were travel presentations for the League. Smiling Controllers in the midst of singing children were just a little too much for his stomach.

At length, a squat, brutish woman with a noticeable moustache swaggered into view. She was clad in a flowered dress that added at least a hundredweight to her already massive frame. "Commander Brim?" she demanded, as if it were an accusation.

"That's probably me," Brim said evenly. Except for the woman herself, he was alone in the waiting room.

"This way," she said, jerking her thumb as if she were directing a prisoner. She looked for all the world like a Controller he'd once seen.

Brim waited until she had opened the office door, then strode directly into Amherst's lavishly decorated room before she could formally announce him.

Dressed in a magnificently tailored Imperial Fleet uniform, the Commodore was seated behind a huge, ornate desk. Matching guest chairs were conspicuously lined up along the wall beside the desk, although carpeting directly in front still bore the imprint of their feet. "You Carescrians never did have any sense of manners," he whined, dismissing the woman with a curt motion of his hand.

Retrieving one of the chairs, Brim thumped it down facing away from the desk, straddled its ornate back, and settled into the seat backward. "All right, Amherst," he said, "make it quick."

" Commodore Amherst, you mean."

"Listen, zukeed," Brim growled, "so far as I'm concerned, you don't even deserve the title of citizen. In public, maybe I'll call you Commodore because the Service Manual calls for it, but in private, you get nothing but traitor from me. Understand?"

Amherst turned white with anger. "If our feebleminded Emperor didn't protect your every move, I should have your head for that, Brim. But I will yet remove you from the Fleet. Wait and see."

"Perhaps you will," Brim allowed. "I hear you've managed to pull the ISS's racing funds for next year."

"I certainly have done that, thank the Universe," Amherst declared proudly, "—as well as send you back to Gimmas-Haefdon." He laughed boastfully. "I warned you what would happen if you won the Mitchell again. Now is not the time to anger our friends from the League. Why, it's only recently that we have managed to reduce our Fleet sufficiently that they are beginning to trust us. And then you idiots come along with your racers and beat them." He shook his head angrily. "Brim, I know your kind. You're a war lover, that's what you are."

Brim shook his head. "No, Amherst," he said. "You've got me mixed up with your friends in the League. I personally hate war, probably even more than you do. Nobody—except maybe Triannic's ludicrous Controllers— really wants me to go off and fight to the death. We both hope for a peaceful galaxy.

Where we differ is how we should go about achieving it. You seem to be willing to sell out and achieve peace by submission; I believe that peace can only be achieved by winning it."

"That is precisely why the Fleet must be purged of your kind," Amherst growled. "Otherwise, the senseless killing will go on forever."

"Luckily, you can't send everybody to Gimmas-Haefdon," Brim said with a little grin. "A lot of us won't give in to your kind, Amherst—ever. I've seen you in action, personally. Remember? And I know your secret. Submission—surrender—is acceptable because you can't face the price of an honorable peace."

"I choose not to pay that price for mere honor," Amherst snapped with a red-mottled face, "—nor will I ask the helpless women and children of this Empire to pay it either. Certainly not to satisfy bloodthirsty animals like you, Carescrian!"

Brim laughed sardonically. "You talk about price, fool?" he said. "Do you have any idea what the Leaguers will exact from those women and children as the price of your submission? Their freedom, that's what! And the likes of you will pay with your very lives."

Amherst's florid countenance grew even redder. "My life?" he demanded angrily. "How dare you impugn the League in such a manner? The Controllers will reward me, because I am a proven ally—a CIGA officer."

"They'll reward you, all right," Brim snarled, "—with a blaster to the head. You'll see soon enough how they operate when your 'peaceful' Nergol Triannic goes after Fluvanna or Beta Jagow. Leaguers want total control of anything they take over—I've seen how they behave, firsthand. Contemptible traitors like you are the first ones they shoot."

"No!" Amherst ranted angrily, "I will not permit such fabrication in this office! Shut up. Shut up!"

"You can't silence the truth," Brim continued grimly. "Leaguers are absolutely pragmatic in everything they do. Remember when they pulled the wings off those A'zurnian prisoners years ago? They didn't act out of cruelty when they managed that little atrocity. Not at all. Flighted people are simply easier to control if they have no wings. What makes you think they'll treat you any better?"

"I won't listen to any more of this!" Amherst screamed. "No more. Do you hear? The League trusts me. They would never harm me. I am their friend!"

"Friend?" Brim chortled remorselessly. "Controllers have no friends—at least none who are not themselves Controllers. And fools like yourself won't be predictable enough for them, so they'll simply get rid of you. Mark my words, Amherst, you're a dead man if you get your wish."

"No!" Amnerst gasped. "No! Nergol Triannic wants only peace! He will not attack Fluvanna. You have no sense, Brim. Y-you are the fool!"

Brim shook his head and smiled sadly. "Perhaps you're right, Amherst," he acknowledged.

"Under the laws of the Empire, every man has the right to make a fool of himself as he sees fit."

Watching the CIGA leader's face turn even redder, he knew that he'd exposed the truth. Puvis Amherst dreaded combat so utterly that it obscured even the peril of death. And if that sort of mechanism impelled Puvis Amherst, then similar fears moved his followers.

Brim smiled and shook his head. It was that sort of weakness—the fear of battle itself—that gave him any hope for the future of the Empire, or himself. He relaxed. It was what he'd come for.

"Well, Amherst," he said presently, "I haven't got all day. If you've anything else you want to talk about, get busy." He looked at his timepiece. "I've better things to do than sit around and prattle with cheap Leaguer stooges like you."

At this, Amherst's red face faded to white. "You... you... contemptible lowlife scum. How dare you."

"I dare a lot," Brim replied lightly. "It's part of my job."

Amherst's eyes narrowed in violent anger while his fingers struggled to twist their opposites from his hands. "I shall have you killed for your lack of respect," he whispered in a low, choked voice.

"Probably a good idea," Brim said carelessly. "Clearly, you don't have the guts to do it yourself."

"Y-you... are... a... d-dead... man," Amherst stuttered, clearly at the end of control.

"You may want to think about that for a while," Brim said, rising from his chair and placing it carefully back against the wall. "I'll be a xaxtdamned troublesome corpse for both you and your CIGA clowns. Murder is still illegal in this Empire, even for a CIGA—and people will know just who to investigate."

"I could never be convicted," Amherst snarled in a prideful voice. "I have power that you cannot even dream of."

Brim nodded. "You probably do at that," he agreed, "—and pinning a murder charge on someone with your connections very well might not work. Especially since the courts would have to play fair, which you wouldn't." He grinned. "But there are at least two other reasons you'll never come after me."

"And what might they be?" Amherst demanded, dripping with sarcasm.

"Names come to mind," Brim said with a grim smile. "Ursis and Borodov. Bears. They don't have to play fair, either. And if anything happens to me, you'll be the first one they go after. Tell me, Amherst, have you ever seen a man die by being disemboweled—like a Sodeskayan crag wolf?

Nik Ursis claims it's very noisy and takes a long time."

Amherst's countenance suddenly lost its rage. "Disemboweled?" he asked in a diminished voice.

"Disemboweled," Brim assured him. "If anyone lays a hand on me, sooner or later you'll become real expert in the matter. Count on it."

"Carescrian mongrel," Amherst hissed.

Brim shrugged in dismissal and gathered his orders under his arm. "Better a mongrel than a dupe," he said scornfully on his way to the door. "Goodbye, Amherst," he said, stepping to the reception room. "Next time, don't call me, I'll call you. Understand?"

"I'll get you, Brim," Amherst hissed through his teeth, "if it's the last thing I do."

"Perhaps," Brim said with a sardonic grin, "—and perhaps not. But keep this in mind if you decide to try, my CIGA colleague: one way or another, it probably will be the last thing you do."

Not long after Brim and Moulding ensconced themselves at the VOQ's austere bar, a royal courier strode into the room, checked the microdisplay on his wrist, and made directly for them.

"Gentlemen," he said dryly, "His Majesty, Prince Onrad, recommended I try the bar first." In a crimson uniform with gleaming knee-high leather riding boots, the ramrod-straight envoy looked like royal prerogative personified. He delved for a moment in a luxurious, crimson-leather briefcase, then produced two sets of Fleet orders in their characteristic blue and gold cover-sheets, made a little bow, and departed without another word. The distinctive uniform's appearance at the bar had attracted no attention whatsoever. Brim guessed that here in Avalon, royal couriers were well known at every military watering place, especially when Onrad was in residence.

True to Collingswood's promise, the new orders countermanded their previous changes of station.

But—surprising to Brim—he and Moulding found themselves temporarily attached to the Dityasburg Institute on the Sodeskayan planet of Zhiv'ot as "researchers."

Moulding grinned. "Where did you think we might be sent?" he asked. "I can't imagine Avalon's going to be much of a home to the ISS for a while."

"I guess I hadn't given it much thought," Brim said with a grin. "But the Dityasburg Institute, of all places? Somehow Zhiv'ot didn't make it on my guess list at all."

"I don't suppose it is all that much warmer than Gimmas-Haefdon, is it?" Moulding commented with a grin. "Bears seem to prefer nippy climates."

"In any case, you won't have to worry about... what kind of darts were those, again?" Brim asked.

"Poison fluggo darts," Moulding prompted, rolling his eyes. "At least in Hobro I was in no danger of freezing to death."

"True," Brim agreed, ordering another round of the VOQ's ancient Logish Meem, "and I'll be surprised if we spend too much time in the G.F.S.S. anyway. Onrad's got more on his mind than winning next year's Mitchell Trophy."

Moulding grinned. "You know," he said, "I've had the same frightening thought. Do you suppose we're learning to second-guess the old boy?"

"We'd better," Brim laughed, "—for our own good. I'd say His Highness will probably be part of our lives for a long time to come."

"I'll drink to that," Moulding said, raising his goblet.

They both did.

Brim might have settled in quickly at the galaxy-famous Dityasburg Institute. He was instantly fascinated by its voluminous library facilities and radiation-proofed vacuum laboratories—many large enough to house actual starships with operating Drives. As it was, however, he and Moulding had less than a week to sample the sprawling campus before His Majesty, Prince Onrad, arrived aboard the veteran Imperial battlecruiser Princess Sherraine. The big starship thundered high over the campus on final into the nearby Dityasburg port facilities, shaking the massive campus buildings to their very foundations. Throughout the remainder of the day, and far into the night, the handsome old warship was joined by a veritable fleet of military and civilian starships from light cruisers to executive transports, while on campus a special dormitory filled quickly with Onrad's guests and their security forces.

The following morning, an extraordinary ISS meeting convened behind heavily guarded doors in one of the Institute's cold, damp lecture halls. It brought together some of the highest-ranking industrial leaders of the Empire, all sitting on harsh, wooden chairs defaced by years of bored students from all over the galaxy.

Brim, Moulding, and Ursis arrived shortly before Regula Collingswood led Prince Onrad and General Harry Drummond through the wide wooden doors. They were followed by a boisterous contingent of Sherrington engineers from Lys. Not long afterward, P. Dvigat Krasni IV, Senior Director of Krasni-Peych, arrived from Gromcow with Chief Comptroller M. Yekhat Poshline, Grand Duke Anastas Aleyi Borodov, and a number of senior propulsion engineers. Within the metacycle, Veronica Pike lead a second Sherrington contingent into the lecture hall, freshly arrived from the administrative and production shops outside Bromwich. A grinning Anna Romanoff walked beside her.

"Anna!" Brim exclaimed as the petite financier bobbed through the massive wooden doorway in a green corduroy dress and white lace scarf.

Eyes sparkling happily, she unabashedly ran the length of the large room, threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him until he thought he would be smothered. "Oh, Wilf," she whispered, her cheek hinting of delicate perfume. "I've been so terribly worried about you...."

Brim tried ineffectually to dismiss the firm breasts pressing into his chest. "I thought you were consulting at Sherrington's this month," he said. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"Haven't been here long enough," she explained breathlessly. "We came here straight from the port. And I had only fifteen cycles to pack a bag back at Bromwich—fifteen cycles, Wilf! Not only that: I had to come—by Imperial orders, no less." She got an awesome look when she said that.

"I've never had an Imperial order in my life! Why, I hardly have anything to wear."

"If I have a say in the matter," Brim whispered, "you won't need anything to wear—certainly not while you're with me."

Romanoff giggled under her breath. "Somehow, Wilf Brim," she whispered, "I hoped you'd say something like that. It's been a while." Then bussing him quickly on the cheek, she followed Pike down the aisle.

"Come sit with me, old chap," Moulding said with a grin. "I realize I'm not quite so attractive as little Miss Romanoff, but I've been told I have a most attractive left earlobe. You can study that if by chance you find yourself bored."

Brim punched him in the arm as they made their way toward a seat at the rear of the hall. The time for Helmsmen would come later.

Prince Onrad—sipping from a steaming cup of cvceese' and dressed in a heathery brown herringbone blazer, military jodhpurs, and high riding boots—began the meeting at precisely Morning:2:0; the last delegates finally took their seats approximately fifteen cycles later.

"As an appropriate prologue," Onrad began, "I offer this ancient Sodeskayan fable many of you will already have heard—about two energetic walkers who got thoroughly lost one day in the maze of country roads outside Gromcow. Close to despair, they at last encountered a local peasant and asked how they could best return to their hotel on the inner ring. After much pondering, the local observed, 'If I were you, sirs, I wouldn't start from here.'"

The big room remained silent for a moment, then everyone broke into wholehearted laughter. It was quickly overpowered by pulsing thunder from what could only be a very powerful starship rushing by overhead. Onrad paused until the noise died away, peering around the audience with a pleased look on his face. Presently, he replaced his eyeglasses and consulted his notes. "Our situation today," he continued, "vis-à-vis next year's race for the Mitchell Trophy, is much like that of the Bearish walkers—like it or not, we must start from where we are, and our friends from the Congress of Intragalactic Accord have made that a difficult place indeed."

In the next metacycle, he proceeded to relate the details of how the League-supported CIGA had managed to plunder every government fund earmarked to support the ISS. Afterward, an aide-de-camp in the full scarlet uniform of a Palace Guardsman delivered an intelligence report—courtesy of the Sodeskayan Ministry of Information—concerning Gantheisser's new GA262-A3 that the League intended to field in Avalon. Clearly, League engineers had achieved a breakthrough of sorts and developed their own extended-technology Drive to counter K-P's new Wizard. And, according to its specifications, this 262 could best Sherrington's M-6.

"If everything goes according to their plans," Onrad summed up toward the end of the Morning watch, "Nergol Triannic's Leaguers will not only permanently retire the Trophy to Tarrott next summer, they will also discredit the Empire itself—at a time when the loyalty of allied dominions may prove critical to our very survival." He paused for a moment to take a folded message handed to him by one of the huge Sodeskayan guards, then continued without breaking his verbal stride. "We Imperials have no choice but to permanently win possession of our 'hat rack,'" he continued. "Even as we speak, the old Leaguer warlords—Triannic's most powerful supporters—are gearing up to resume their war of aggression at the earliest opportunity.

Fluvanna and Beta Jagow are ripe for the taking. And there isn't one of you who doesn't understand that power among dominions is reckoned in terms of allies and raw materials."

While heads nodded agreement throughout the room, Onrad replaced the eyeglasses on his nose and glanced quickly at the message. His eyebrows rose for a moment in surprise before he smiled slightly and returned his gaze to the audience. "You already know what I am coming to," he continued, "but I feel constrained to put it into words nonetheless: the Empire—your Empire—badly needs new, faster Sherrington racers for next year's race, with even more powerful Drives from Krasni-Peych. And because we have no more government funds, we must procure those ships at no cost to the ISS! Gentlemen," he said, stepping from behind the lectern, "when I return, the meeting will be yours."

As Onrad strode along the exit aisle, Brim peered around the room in rapt fascination. Veronica Pike was suddenly deep in simultaneous conversations with Valerian and Romanoff. Nearby, Dvigat Krasni and M. Yekhat Poshline were conferring in low growls and shaking their heads.

Grave looking Bearish and human engineers broke into smaller groups, motioning and nodding to each other with great excitement. Quickly, Pike seemed to reach some sort of judgment. Nodding to Romanoff, she made her way to a seat behind Krasni, where she began a serious converse with the two Sodeskayans. They deliberated apart until Valerian and a Krasni engineer whom Brim knew only as Rimsey rose from a group of engineers and joined them. With that, the room's noisy discourse suddenly faded to an expectant silence.

At last, Onrad returned to the podium. "Well, my friends," he said, "as I promised, the meeting is now yours."

Krasni and Pike turned to each other; then the Sodeskayan industrialist rose slowly to his feet. He wore a sport coat of deep blue yaggloz wool, a roll-neck sweater, heavy gray trousers, and soft Sodeskayan boots. "Your Highness," he began in perfect unaccented Avalonian, "no one in this room questions the importance of winning next year's Mitchell Trophy Race. We have duly conferred, as you requested, and in the brief time span available have agreed that a modified M-six can be built that will both house and cool a new Wizard Drive. Unfortunately, it will not be one of the new reflecting models we have under test, but a Wizard nevertheless—of significantly increased power output." He glanced for a moment at Romanoff, then nodded. "The cost of such a racing machine—roughly four hundred fifty-three thousand credits—is acceptable if shared between the two firms," he announced.

A very pleased-looking Onrad was about to reply when the Sodeskayan quickly continued. "There is more, however, begging Your Majesty's indulgence," he asserted, only a milliclick before he could be accused of interrupting.

"All right, please continue," Onrad said with a quizzical frown.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Krasni said. "As I indicated a moment ago, we all understand the need for a new racer, and we can build it, sharing the four hundred fifty-three thousand credits between ourselves. However, it is our studied opinion that with Nergol Triannic returned to his throne in Tarrott, we—our Empire—now has an even more pressing need of improved warships.

The League's fleet has been growing steadily since the Treaty of Garak, while ours has shrunken to a state of weakness unheard of in recent times." He glanced at Pike for a moment, then returned his gaze to the Prince. "Your Highness, the situation has so deteriorated—at least in the eyes of Sodeskayan intelligence organizations—that it is virtually irreparable in terms of conventional starships. The League presently holds an overall two-to-one advantage in nearly every category."

"I am aware of all of this," Onrad interrupted with an impatient edge in his voice. "That is why it is so critical that we win the Mitchell Trophy. We will soon need all the allies we can muster."

Krasni nodded patiently. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said with a little bow, "but there is more. And it is now time for my colleague Veronica Pike to continue in my place..." With that, he took his seat while Pike rose warily to face the Prince, whose countenance was rapidly turning from impatience to annoyance.

Wearing a bright crimson jacket over her white blouse and slacks, Pike continued with hardly a pause for breath, "Your Majesty," she began, "what we propose is to develop a completely new warship, powered by full-sized, fully reflecting Wizard Drives and based on a vastly enlarged M-six. We believe that such a ship would represent such a significant leap in technology that a much smaller number of them might temporarily establish a sort of parity with the League when they decide to renew the war. After their first attacks, our friends in the CIGA will be quickly silenced, and with the new starships holding the line, perhaps we shall be able to rebuild our Fleet before everything is lost." She nodded her head as if she were considering her own words. "If I remember correctly, Your Highness," she added, "it was very thin ranks of overworked ships that allowed us to rebuild our Fleet during the previous conflict."

Onrad nodded. "Your point is well made, Veronica," he said. "We do need a new class of warships. I take it you can't build both?"

"Essentially, that is correct, Your Majesty," Pike replied. "Since the war, times have been difficult for industries specializing in Fleet support. Even giants like Krasni-Peych have been severely pinched. Four hundred fifty-three thousand credits is far more than either of us can spend. Both of us have already been forced to secretly liquidate assets for operating capital." She shook her head as she spoke. "And it doesn't take much of a businessman—or businesswoman," she said, grinning at Anna Romanoff, "—to understand what desperate moves those are."

At the podium, Onrad shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't know—about either of you."

As the Prince spoke, Brim heard the rear door open and a number of persons shuffle into back seats, but—fascinated by the unfolding drama before him—he neglected to turn around.

"Companies usually don't make all that much commotion about difficult times," Pike replied.

"One attempts to appear solid and confident to prospective customers," she added, glancing at Krasni with a grin.

The Sodeskayan touched the tip of his forefinger to his thumb. "Is true," he chuckled. "But in spite of hard times, Veronica and I can, together, raise that sort of capital. It will fund two racers—or the development of one warship, which can then be replicated under normal Fleet procurement processes. And in procurement matters, Your Highness still exerts as much influence as the CIGAs. It is for you, then, to decide which ship it will be."

"No!" an accented voice suddenly interrupted from the rear of the classroom. "We shall have both."

Brim whirled around. He recognized that accent. "Zoltori Jaiswal," he gasped at the small, muscular man standing solidly in the middle of the aisle, magnificently dressed in a great ebony cloak and velvet hat.

"You know him?" Moulding asked in a whisper.

"Met him once," Brim whispered, breaking into a surprised grin when he caught sight of Pam Hale standing in the background. Clad in a charcoal dress accented by red tartan scarves, she looked as if she had actually shed years since he'd last seen her waiting for Jaiswal to give her a lift in his limousine skimmer. Clearly, it had been an extended lift.

"I assume, Mr. Jaiswal, that you personally are prepared to ante up the necessary four hundred fifty-three thousand credits?" Onrad asked.

Jaiswal smiled. "Not alone, Your Majesty," he said. "I shall share the honor with an old friend and business acquaintance: the Carescrian magnate, Baxter Calhoun—at one time, Lieutenant Commander Baxter Calhoun, IF. You will no doubt remember that he served most honorably with Ms. Collingswood aboard I.F.S. Defiant during the war."

Brim's head spun. Baxter Calhoun again!

"The two of you will put up the credits for new M-sixes then?" Onrad demanded in astonishment.

"That is correct, Your Highness," Jaiswal answered, standing straight as a ramrod. "I transferred my half of the credits by KA'PPA moments after I arrived this afternoon. Calhoun's share was in place yesterday. He is much more wealthy than I."

For the first time that Brim could remember, His Highness, Prince Onrad looked positively stunned. "I-I don't know what to say," he stammered.