The Trophy

Jaiswal made a little bow. "A simple thank you will be most welcome, Your Majesty," he said simply. "In spite of a few erroneous rumors to the contrary, both Calhoun and I deeply believe that any true Imperial would rather sell his last shirt than admit the Empire could not afford to defend her reputation." He shook his head angrily. "We are not worms to be trampled under the heels of the CIGAs, but true Imperials with a heart for any battle!"

Spontaneously, the room erupted in applause while Onrad rushed up the aisle to clasp the dark little man's hand.

Brim clapped until his hands ached—and long afterward. In the background, Pam Hale was standing with a proud smile, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Less than half a year following the historic Dityasburg Conference, Brim and Moulding—once more permanently stationed at the sprawling Fleet base in Atalanta—traveled to Lys, where they immediately began "flights" in M-6B simulators. The new ship, itself, appeared little changed from its M-6 origins, being lengthened slightly to accommodate both a more powerful Wizard/2

Drive and the radiating surfaces to cool it. Both Helmsmen found the graceful racing machines were serendipitously even better than their predecessors with a lighter, more accurate feel at the controls. And, of course, they were much faster. According to the Sodeskayans' best intelligence, speeds in excess of 100M LightSpeed would be needed to win the race, and Valerian had aimed his sights past this mark. Krasni-Peych engineers accordingly managed to wring 21 percent more thrust from their reworked Wizard of 52007 without appreciably increasing its mass.

For Brim, however, much greater excitement resided in a secured laboratory toward the center of Sherrington's design house where a one-twentieth-size model of I.F.S. Starfury, Fleet number K 5054, had been placed under a large crystal case. Although she was the name ship for Onrad's "new class of warships," the Prince had never been consulted on what she would be called. When informed of the company's selection, he laughingly commented that it was "just the sort of bloody silly name they would choose." Regardless, Starfury was a handsome warship of extremely clean exterior configuration designed for enhanced highspeed atmospheric maneuvering. She was trihulled in the Valerian tradition: a main fuselage complemented on either side by "pontoon" units mounted slightly below the centerline. Housing three Admiralty A876 gravity generators each, these connected amidships through characteristic Sherrington "trousers." A raked, low-set bridge/deckhouse protruded some third of the way back from her sharply tapered bow, and except for blisters housing her main battery, this constituted the only slipstream disturbance anywhere.

Inside, control systems had been exhaustively updated according to radical new discoveries in ergonomic science. This was especially true in the bridge area, where traditional offices of Commanding Officer (Captain) and Principal Helmsman had been combined at the same console—a move Brim thoroughly applauded.

At HyperLight velocities, the thirty-four-thousand milston starship would be powered by four Krasni-Peych Wizard-C Reflecting HyperDrive units mounted directly on either side of the main-hull keel, each half again as powerful—in nonreflecting mode—as the experimental Wizard Drive that had wrecked Ivan Ivanov. The potent quartet would draw enormous energy from a network fed by eight massive Krasni-Peych K23971 plasma generators.

She would carry twelve specially designed, rapid-firing 406-mmi disrupters—the same awesome weapons mounted as main armament by Imperial battleships—in six unique turrets that were placed to furnish total global protection but permit maximum concentration of firepower forward in attack mode. An additional pair of K23971 plasma generators in the main power network would provide sufficient energy to salvo the main battery every twenty clicks.

Best of all, Starfury was already a'building in the main Sherrington yards at Bromwich on Rhodor.

Clearly, the new ship had been subject of much secret, long-range planning by Sherrington, because her keel was laid no more than a month following Dityasburg. And unlike I.F.S. Defiant, Starfury was under construction in a private yard. Because of this, Brim expected that she might be finished earlier than generally anticipated, and experience fewer of the problems associated with name-class ships.

Brim flew the M-6B on her maiden flight and proved without a doubt that the little ship would live up to Valerian's promises—as well as his own expectations. Unfortunately, because of chronic funding problems, she was available for testing a great deal closer to the actual race date than either the M-5 or the M-6. Therefore, the Carescrian found himself spending most of his waking metacycles in space, wringing out the new ship in every possible flight regime.

And because of it, he was taken quite by surprise by the course of political events that began to transpire soon after Triannic returned himself to power.

With autumn largely passed in the boreal hemisphere, most of Woolston was under gloomy cloud cover the morning news began to trickle in. Hampton Water had been swept by driving rain since long before dawn, forcing Brim to delay for a break in the showers before taking his morning jog by the lakefront. Endless ranks of breakers drove relentlessly across the dirty gray water while he sprinted around a million puddles with fresh wind stinging his cheeks. Ahead, where ramps from the laboratory hangars crossed Lakefront Trail, a tall figure wrapped in a tightly fastened Fleet cloak waited in the intersection. It was Moulding—and even with his great collars raised, Brim could see that he clearly had something of tremendous import on his mind. He held up his hand as Brim approached.

"Sorry to interrupt your run, old chap," he called out, "but I've got some rather unpleasant news."

"What's wrong?" Brim demanded with a frown, cold wind chilling his sweaty running togs like some baneful warning. "Has something happened to Anna?"

"No," Moulding began, shaking his head. "Another part of your life this time." He pursed his lips.

"It seems that our old friend Triannic has finally begun his dirty work in earnest. We've just gotten word through the media that a fleet of Leaguer warships and transports made landfall this morning—Darkness:3:0, our time, I think—in Rudolpho. The bloody bastards met only token resistance there, as you might imagine, and immediately deposed LaKarn's mother."

"Who'd they set up in her place?" Brim probed with a sick feeling in his stomach, "Not Rogan, I hope!"

"It seems that's the story," Moulding said with a grimace. "He's Grand Duke, now. I decided perhaps you might rather get the story here, rather than inside." He frowned. "I suppose I'm butting too far into your life—perhaps you'll forgive me just this once. I know that you and Anna Romanoff have a pretty wonderful thing going, but at one time..."

Brim nodded bitterly. "Poor Margot," he whispered, more to the cold wind than to his friend.

"She gave everything to prevent this. And now she's become part of the enemy."

"More like a prisoner, in my book," Moulding observed.

Brim snorted grimly. "Yeah," he sighed. "When you get right down to it, I suppose she is." He shook his head and stared down at the gray, windswept puddles.

"Anything I can do?" Moulding inquired.

"No," Brim said, managing a smile. "I think I'll run a little more. But thanks for the offer—and the information. It was damned thoughtful of you."

Moulding nodded and started back toward the laboratory. The rain had started again while they talked, and the temperature seemed to be dropping by the cycle.

Brim didn't return for another two metacycles. But when he did, he'd managed to achieve a sort of peace with himself. And a real appreciation for what Anna Romanoff had done for his life.

Two weeks before the Mitchell, Avalon became one great, frantic party. High summer and fair weather had temporarily banished the pall that had settled over the galaxy after Triannic's nearly bloodless coup in the Torond. Brim especially sensed a turn of spirits—since Anna Romanoff had been in residence more or less steadily for the past month and a half. Sleepily relinquishing a warm, still occupied bed in her town house, he had only just stepped to the curb to wait for an early crew car when he heard footfalls close behind him. Whirling instinctively, he found himself facing two hefty figures dressed all in black and wearing face masks. Two more moved into position at his back, cutting him off from the street—and it was clear from the beginning that none of them was much interested in his health, at least his good health.

Only audacity and reflexes saved him. He straightaway kicked his closest assailant in the face, smashing the man sideways into his partner and providing himself a momentary opening through which he leaped onto the damp cobblestones, whirling to face them in a fighting crouch. "All right, you bastards," he growled angrily, "come and get me."

At that very moment, a skimmer turned the corner and started up the street, its headlights burning away the early-dawn gloom. Brim heard the vehicle suddenly accelerate while three of his assailants broke into a run. But one—smaller and much slimmer than the others—only froze for a moment as if considering what to do, then pulled a nasty looking dart gun from inside his jacket.

Brim dove headlong for the weapon, just as the man aimed it in his direction, but even a Helmsman's reflexes and superb training couldn't beat a trigger ringer. In mid-leap, he heard the weapon fire and felt a stunning pain explode in his neck at almost the same moment as the skimmer slid to a halt. Moments before his face hit the pavement, a huge figure rushed past him in the direction his assailant had fled. And while his vision faded to blackness, the gruff voice of Borodov roared in his ear, "Wilf! For the love of Voot—speak to me!" Then, there was nothing....

He regained consciousness with a splitting headache in the Sodeskayan embassy. He knew immediately where he was; Bear beds were big. Besides, Ursis and Borodov were both towering over him in full Sodeskayan regalia while Anna Romanoff sat cross-legged at his side in her bathrobe, holding his hand. Opposite, two more Bears stood with very serious countenances. One wore the uniform of a Sodeskayan Guardsman; the other, dressed in a formal business suit, placed a cool, six-fingered hand on Brim's forehead. "How do you feel, Commander?" he asked in that profound demeanor the Universe reserves solely for physicians.

Brim managed what he hoped was a confident wink to Romanoff, then peered up at the Bear. "I have the grandfather of all headaches, Doctor," he replied with a little grin. "But aside from that, nothing else feels wrong."

"A bad headache, you say?"

"I shall need a new head if it doesn't go away," Brim replied.

The Sodeskayan grinned. "Aha," he said, raising his furry eyebrows. "Then we shall make you a true Sodeskayan, eh?" He looked over at the three opposite him. "Friends," he said, "would this human not make a handsome Bear?"

"Handsome indeed!" Borodov declared. "But Anna, how would you feel about such a thing? A Bear's head on Wilf Brim?"

"If that will make him well, it will be fine," Romanoff declared firmly, drawing her bathrobe closer around her neck.

Brim felt her squeeze his hand. "When can I get up, Doctor?" he asked.

The Bear thought for a moment. "Does this mean you wish to forgo a head transplant?" he asked.

"Well," Brim replied, "I suppose my headache isn't that bad. But it is passing kind of you to offer."

"In that case, Commander," the doctor said with a smile, "you can get out of bed whenever you feel comfortable doing so." He pursed his lips and began to pack some small instruments into a metal carrier. "The dart did little physical damage," he continued, "but it contained a very powerful poison. Had it not been for the fortuitous arrival of Doctors Borodov and Ursis, you would likely now be in a morgue. My colleague from Gromcow immediately recognized the odor of Gamma-Zondal, venom of Sodeskayan crag wolves. He therefore rushed you here to the embassy where I, as luck would have it, possessed the antidote. A normal Avalonian hospital would never have diagnosed your condition in time—which I believe your assailants realized. You are a fortunate man indeed. But then, your friends here have been busy during your period of unconsciousness. They have some interesting words for you while I rejoin my wife for a tour of your beautiful capital."

"Doctor, how can I ever thank you?" Brim called out as the Sodeskayan physician turned and strode through the door, but Ursis gently placed a hand on his lips.

"When you win the race, Wilf," he said with a wink, "you can buy us all a drink at the victory celebration and we'll be even. Is it... how do you say... a deal?"

Brim shook his head in defeat—it was hard to argue with Bears, especially in their own embassy.

"A done deal, Nik," he acquiesced, squeezing Romanoff's hand again. Then abruptly, he frowned.

"What else did you learn?" he asked.

Ursis frowned back. "Well, for one thing," he declared, "I don't think they originally intended to use the dart gun. It's my guess that they planned to kill you by hand, so to speak, as if your death occurred accidentally during a chance robbery instead of a planned murder."

"They were Leaguers, of course," Borodov added, "very probably members of the Agnord Legion, an organization that specializes in assassinations." He adjusted his eyeglasses. "You were fortunate, my friend," he said. "Our skimmer arrived at a most serendipitous moment. Such persons do not often fail in their sordid missions."

Brim shuddered. He'd heard of the Agnords. "Did they all get away?" he asked.

Ursis pursed his lips. "Three escaped without a trace," Ursis said. "We saw them run for it before we could even brake the skimmer to a halt. Flight is part of their training, you know. But I chased the one who stayed behind to shoot you. I do not personally believe he was an Agnord. He seemed to be more interested in the killing itself."

"I take it he got away, too," Brim said.

"Not completely," Ursis growled. "The filthy zukeed jumped into the Grand Achtite Canal, where he had a boat waiting. But I personally marked his face with my claws—came off with a bit of skin and blood, too." He chuckled grimly. "He'll be recognizable for a while."

"Perhaps," Borodov observed, "General Drummond and his men will discover who he was for us."

"Perhaps he will, Doctor," Ursis grumbled. "But I plan to keep my own vigil, also. I have a feeling that I shall chance upon that particular Leaguer without any help from General Drummond."

Later that evening, after an enforced period of relaxation, Brim and Anna Romanoff were chauffeured to her town house in a huge Sodeskayan Rill limousine skimmer by three armed Sodeskayan Guardsmen. And from that time on, the street was never without at least two skimmers somewhere close to either side of Romanoff's doorway, occupied with both humans and Bears.

CHAPTER 10

The Champion

On a stormy evening two nights before the actual competition began, Prince Onrad hosted his prerace divertissement at Cyndor Castle, the most elegant of the royal family's three "country"

palaces in the outskirts of Avalon. Brim once more found himself beside Moulding in the reception line, dressed in a formal uniform the elegance of which would have been far beyond the imagination of an impoverished cadet in the Helmsmen's Academy. Shaking his head in amazement, he considered for the ten millionth time how amazingly fortunate he'd been over the years—by anyone's assessment!

The reception itself took place amid perfumes and spice-laden smoke in Cyndor's famous Court of Portals: a lofty, mirrored hall of vaulted ceilings and crystal doorways that opened onto opulent formal gardens, tonight drenched by the chill, steady rain of a passing front. At each corner of the room, string orchestras drenched in the amber light of ten thousand authentic candles blended their harmonies with tongues from all over the galaxy. Now and then, Brim caught sight of Anna Romanoff—dressed in pale lavender—mingling with prospective clients of every living persuasion: humans, Bears, A'zurnians, even less-common creatures like the gentle, feathered Antiirs or three-eyed Orpians who only recently had achieved starflight.

He smiled to himself. Anna Romanoff. What a dramatic change this witty, talented woman had made in his life: giving endlessly, yet demanding nothing, and appreciative of everything—and anything—he did. She'd even ridden with him during a number of wild Atalantan afternoons on his gravcycle, laughing and hugging him with obvious delight as they sped along the twisting little roadways of the island. For the first time in his existence, he felt complete: loved—with no strings attached nor limits set. She was perhaps the most elegant, genteel being he had ever encountered, yet she seemed forever thrilled by the little things he managed to do, even in bed, where her capacity for innovation appeared to be totally limitless.

"I say, Wilf," Moulding warned during a short break in the line, "you have noticed the LaKarns making their way toward us, haven't you? They say he's had some sort of accident. He certainly looks it."

Brim jerked himself back from his musings and glanced to his left, where he immediately locked glances with Margot's sleepy blue eyes. Beside her, Rogan was a withered vestige of his once-formidable self, a ghost whose black uniform hung loosely on a shockingly atrophied frame.

On the moment, he knew absolutely that he had damaged the man's spine during his frenzy of rage—a type of internal motor wound that required years of treatment by the most advanced healing machines. "Thanks, Toby," he said in a subdued voice. "I guess I had been daydreaming."

Moulding laughed innocently; he'd never been told the full story of Brim's "meeting" with the Leaguers. "Right ho, I don't blame you in the slightest!" he chuckled, taking the opportunity to straighten his black bow tie. "Your friend Anna is quite the luscious dish tonight, isn't she? I'm afraid I've been just as guilty of gawking as everyone else."

Brim grinned in spite of himself—how she loved her low-cut gowns! Tonight's was even more revealing than usual. "Luscious doesn't half describe her, my friend," he said, only scant clicks before the new Starflight Attache from Villibit-3 arrived in a florescent orange gown with both her husbands in tow. After that, the interminable series of handshakes commenced anew, until...

"Grand Duke Rogan LaKarn, Absolute Ruler of the Torond and Grand Duchess Margot Effer'wyck-LaKarn," the protocol officer announced in a clear voice.

Abruptly, Margot's chilly hand was in Brim's, and he bent to kiss the perfectly manicured, tapered fingers he had once known as well as his own. "Margot," he said, gazing into blue eyes that again tonight seemed to bear the sorrows of an entire Universe. She was dressed in another apricot gown that perfectly set off her dazzling strawberry blond hair and flawless complexion. "Are you... all right?" he asked instinctively. She nodded and made a little smile. "A trifle cold," she said, indicating a flash of lightning that temporarily lit the hall like disrupter fire, "—and you?" she asked.

Brim felt a momentary twinge of anguish as he glimpsed the ruin of her husband at closer range.

"Aside from a little rain," Brim answered pensively, "life has been good, Margot."

The Princess nodded and glanced meaningfully out onto the floor where Romanoff was standing with Ursis, staring back with an impassive countenance. "I can see it has, Wilf," she said quietly,

"That woman loves you fiercely." She shook her head sadly. "When I finally admitted to myself that I must eventually lose, I prayed it might be to someone like her." A tear welled the corner of her eye; she blinked it back. "She hates me—needlessly, of course. I have... other... loves now. But once..." She suddenly turned her face as another flash of lightning lit the hall.

"Enough," the palsied LaKarn grunted beside her. "I can no longer tolerate the sight of this Carescrian assassin. Will you move on, whore, or do you plan to spread your legs for him here in the reception line?" With a clawlike hand, he clumsily slipped Margot's bodice from her right breast. "Here," he crowed, "I shall even help, I've always wanted to watch you two at it."

Brim had never seen her nipple shriveled and colorless as it was now. He heard himself gasp in dismay.

Margot shut her eyes and replaced the bodice with a deft movement of her hand while her face turned a sickly white and her whole carriage appeared to droop. She stood that way for a long moment, blinking back tears of utter humiliation. Then, with a sigh of resignation, she straightened her shoulders and assumed a more customary countenance. "Goodbye, Wilf," she said presently through tight, bloodless lips, "I wish both you and Anna the best of the Universe."

Then, without another word, she turned to offer her hand to Moulding while LaKarn doddered along at her side.

During those brief moments, Brim came to realize he had been living under a delusion. He had definitely not left behind all emotion for Margot Effer'wyck; the wave of anguish that swept his psyche as he stared helplessly at her lovely back disabused him of that forever. Years of loneliness had erased most of the erotic passion he once felt for the magnificent Princess, but nothing had dimmed his concern. He desperately wanted to help in some way—any way—but trapped in the reception line as he was, he could do nothing! Immediately, a new couple replaced the LaKarns, gushing imbecilically about "space racers" and what it felt to be "out there among the stars." In his utter shock, he heard no more than ten words they babbled. If he reacted correctly to them, and to at least the next ten dignitaries that followed, it was clearly done on "autohelm," for he remembered no more of the evening until the royal couple departed—an event that transpired no more than a few cycles after they completed the reception line. At the door, they were surrounded by a whole squad of Controllers from the League—not native Grenzen from the Torond. Clearly, Triannic was keeping his puppet rulers under close supervision, indeed.

By the time the stream of newcomers at last began to wane, Brim had once again relaxed sufficiently to peer around the room and frown. "We've met just about all the important Leaguers who came for the race," he said to Moulding, "but I haven't seen hide nor hair of Valentin. Is he here, do you suppose?"

Moulding rubbed his chin for a moment. "I say," he started, "I know I've caught a glimpse of him tonight—he couldn't possibly miss an event like this without drawing a bloody lot of attention to himself. But you're certainly right. He hasn't come near the line." He frowned. "I wonder..."

"So do I," Brim said grimly, still scanning the guests.

"There" Moulding said, nodding his head, "—in that group of Controllers near the turquoise alcove. Isn't that our bloody friend leaning against the door?"

Brim turned slowly, trying not to appear obvious. "I don't know," he said. "It's pretty dim there in the alcove. But..." Lightning flared, momentarily illuminating the slim figure of Kirsh Valentin against the streaming door. "Yes. That's him." He narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps I ought to extend some sort of personal greetings, now that our 'special duty' on the reception line seems to be at an end."

"Do you think that's wise?" Moulding inquired with a worried look on his face. "It would look rather bad if you started something, you know. Could even give them the race by default—especially if you did in their Principal Helmsman."

Brim nodded sullenly. "Yeah," he said, "I know. But the bastards wouldn't have much of a leg to stand on themselves if Valentin looks like I think he does." He pursed his lips. "Perhaps I'll go pay my respects."

"Right ho," Moulding said, starting the other way. "And I shall go collect Ursis and Borodov—just in case his Leaguer companions decide to be uncooperative."

Brim dodged his way across the crowded room in rapid order; however, Valentin's vigilant "friends" had closed ranks before he was even halfway there. "Excuse me, gentlemen," the Carescrian said, attempting to push his way between two of the high-booted toughs in dress blacks, "but I'd like to speak to my friend Kirsh there."

It was like trying to move a solid rock wall. Nothing budged at all, and the faces of the Controllers remained impassive, as if they understood no Avalonian.

Brim repeated the words in Vertrucht, securing an identical reaction for his linguistic pains: nothing. He was about to apply a sudden elbow to one of the Leaguer's kidneys when, abruptly, a squadron of twelve large Imperial "guests" in civilian evening clothes nonchalantly drifted by to encircle Valentin's Leaguer convoy—and there was no mistaking their intent.

Shortly thereafter, Drummond appeared at Brim's side, dressed in magnificent soup-and-fish that must have cost the price of a small starship. He calmly eyed one of the Leaguers, then placed his hands on his hips. "Move aside, whoreson filth," he demanded quietly in lowest gutter Vertrucht, "—I defecate on they father's slopsyard grave."

Blind rage blazed suddenly in the proud Leaguer's eyes. Reflexively, he reached for the little General only a moment before both his forearms were broken by short, deadly chops from Imperials who had moved in silently on either side. It was over so quickly no one behind them on the reception floor could have possibly seen, but Brim distinctly heard bones crack—and it was clear that the remainder of Valentin's guards had too. The wounded Leaguer's face turned a pasty gray and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as the pain began to register. Instantly, he was supported by his burly Imperial assailants, who slowly turned him, 'round so his startled colleagues could share the view.

"All right, you filth," Drummond whispered, "every mother's son of you saw this bastard attack me. Now clear out quietly and take him with you before I clap everyone in the brig. Understand?"

They understood.

"Except Valentin," he added. "We'll send him around later."

Wide-eyed with fear, the Leaguers quietly made for the door, each escorted by a massive human and followed by a Bear. Only cycles later, a frightened-looking Valentin stood alone within the remaining coterie of Imperials, his cheek stubbornly turned toward the door. Outside in the formal gardens, the storm raged at its height, with rain pounding at the glass and trees bent nearly double. This close to the door, the muffled rumble of thunder could be heard clearly above the noise of the party.

"Wilf, Nik," Drummond called quietly. "I think you two should have the honor of inspecting this innocent Leaguer's face."

Brim stepped beside his old antagonist. "Turn around, Kirsh," he ordered coldly. "You know what I'm looking for. If you had nothing to do with my ordeal the other morning, then you go home free—with my apologies. Otherwise..."

"O-otherwise... what?" Valentin demanded, the whites of his eyes beginning to show again.

"Turn around," Brim repeated after a nimble of thunder that sounded like a distant barrage of disrupters. "We'll talk after I see the opposite side of your face."

Valentine cleared his throat nervously. "I don't have to," he sniffled. "If you so much as touch me, I shall complain to the Racing Committee that you..."

"Turn, Valentin," Brim persisted. "Nobody's threatening you—yet."

"B-bastard Carescrian," Valentin swore, his lips drawn tight against clenched teeth.

"Turn!" Brim's command was punctuated by a close-in lightning strike followed by its sharp report.

Valentin seemed to shrink into his black uniform, then—with a scowl of purest hate—he slowly revealed the opposite side of his face. Four welts of new, pink flesh extended well into his hairline from his jaw. The leftmost ran through an extensively remade ear.

Brim nodded. "Well, hab'thall," he said. "I'll bet that hurt, didn't it?"

Valentin only scowled defiantly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he snapped over windblown rain that drummed in sheets against the heavy crystal.

"Oh, I think you know." Brim snarled. "Nik, maybe you ought to see if these welts match your claws."

Ursis's eyes narrowed. "Yes," he agreed in a deep, angry voice, "perhaps I shall even reopen them to eliminate any possibility of mistakes." He smiled grimly, his fang gems gleaming in the candlelight. "Hearing you bleat again, Leaguer, would give me great pleasure."

"Flaring a hole in your stinking hide would give me great pleasure," Valentin hissed, drawing a sleek blaster from inside his tunic. Brim recognized it as one of the new Maranellos, ultrapowerful, rechargeable hand blasters that could burn holes in hullmetal plate. They were manufactured in Tarrott—and this one was equipped with a slender, crystalline silencer.

Ursis only laughed. "You wouldn't dare use that here, Valentin," he scoffed. "It may be silenced, but its flash would open all sorts of inquiries that neither you nor your filthy League can afford."

Valentin grimaced and slid the little blaster back into his tunic with a sullen look in his eyes.

"Hand that thing over before someone gets hurt, Valentin," Drummond growled. "Otherwise..."

Before he could finish his sentence, the Controller whirled and grabbed the handles of the crystal door. Unhappily—for him—his captors were much faster, blocking the heavy panel with their feet.

But as the two Imperials instinctively jumped to prevent his escape, they also provided a moment's opening to the next exit. Using the door itself as a springboard, Valentin catapulted himself past the two surprised guards and into the noisy crowd, with Brim, Ursis, and the rest of his would-be captors in hot pursuit—everyone moving at no more than a brisk walk, as if nothing out of the ordinary were taking place.

Valentine reached the ornate glass portal only moments before Brim, but the time was sufficient for his purposes. He was through the doorway and onto the rainswept balcony in plenty of time to scramble down an ornate column, then splash into the shadows of the formal gardens beyond with Brim and Drummond close behind.

"Stop, Valentin!" Brim shouted, nearly blinded by the teeming sheets of rain.

Halfway across the garden, the Leaguer slowed to fire a shot over his shoulder. It kicked up a welter of spray and debris through the puddles. Twice again, Valentin stopped to fire, missing both times. But Brim felt the second bolt of cold energy frost his face as he dove for cover.

After he fired his third shot, Valentin veered across a clear space, heading past a sort of maintenance shack, momentarily visible in flashes of lightning behind a stand of windbent crest oaks.

At the same moment, however, Drummond entered the picture, laying down bursts from a rapid-firing blast pike in the dirt around the fleeing Leaguer. "Halt, you bastard!" he yelled as he splashed along the path at full speed.

Whatever other plans the Leaguer might have had at that juncture, he changed them when the ground beneath him erupted in an absolute welter of sharp explosions. Immediately, he jinked left, zigzagged through the whirling debris, and dove headfirst through the open door of the shack.

Running hard behind, Brim straightaway saw a blaster flash three times from the shack's window.

He dove to the ground behind a flower display, blood trickling from his cheek where a flying crockery chip had hit.

"Amazing what a few bursts from the old Trenning here can do," Drummond laughed, splashing down beside Brim and patting a great blast pike he held in his hands.

"Sure changed old Valentin's mind about running any farther," Brim answered over a deafening burst of thunder. "Now, all we've got to do is get him out of there." He raised himself carefully and peered over the flower bed. "Valentin!" he shouted above the tumult of the storm, watching the dark figures of security agents move in to surround the shed. "You're trapped, and you xaxtdamned well know it. Throw that blaster out now and you'll need face only me."

For long moments, he could only hear the pounding of the rain. "Well, Valentin?" he demanded Shots from the hut ripped through the teeming flower bed. At almost the same instant, another heavy blast pike began to whump out return fire from somewhere back along the path.

"Cut that firing!" Drummond shouted.

The pike stopped abruptly.

"I'm going in after him," Brim said.

"You sure you want to take that no-good hab'thall on yourself, Wilf?" Drummond asked.

The Carescrian felt himself smile. "I've been sure for years, General," he answered. Peering through a space in the flower garden, he studied Valentin's position. Since the Leaguer knew he had little hope of escape, the real trick would be taking him alive. Controllers often took their own lives when facing certain capture or humiliation. Brim had seen a lot of this during the war.

"I'll need some covering fire around the window," he said.

Just then, another volley of shots spewed from the shed, toppling a statue and blasting a bench into a billion splinters.

"Wonder if you oughtn't wait a little while," Drummond suggested above the downpour. "That Maranello's got to be running low on energy soon."

"Not soon enough for me." Brim responded, ducking behind the log as still another volley sent a spray of mud and debris into the air. Suddenly, a shrill tone sounded from the shattered window.

Drummond raised an eyebrow. "Was that what I think it was?" he asked with a grin.

Brim chuckled. "Sure sounded like a power warning to me," he answered.

"If it is," Drummond said, staring.through the rain at the stone shed, "your friend Valentin has about five shots left. With all their power, Maranellos won't take cartridges—they've got to be recharged."

Brim nodded agreement. "Time to get him, then," he said, peering through the downpour.

"Now wait a moment, young fella," Drummond cautioned. "He does have at least five shots left, you know."

"I think I can handle those," Brim said as a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. "Just give me enough covering fire so I can make it to the door." His words were punctuated by a pealing roll of thunder.

Drummond considered this for a moment, then shrugged in concession. "What about taking one of these blast pikes with you, then," he whispered. "Might come in handy until brother Valentin gets rid of those last five shots."

Brim grinned. "You do have a point, there, General," he said as the rain picked up.

"Sondstrom," Drummond barked through the coursing sheets of rain. "Let's have that extra pike."

"Aye, General," the commando called from a stand of trees. Moments later, she darted across the open path like a wraith—with two Trennings, one of which she silently handed to Brim.

He took the big weapon, switched it to self-test, and watched for the green ready indication. It lighted almost instantly.

"You're sure you want to go through with this?" Drummond asked.

"I'm sure, General," Brim said, gripping the big weapon at either end. "And I'm also ready," he added, "when you are, sir."

"High covering fire on the window at my signal," Drummond whispered to Sondstrom. "Pass it on and raise your hand."

"Aye, General," the commando said, and crawled to the soldier next to her. Within moments, nine hands were aloft in the driving rain.

"Good luck, Brim," Drummond said.

"Thanks, General," Brim said. "I'll probably need all I can get."

Drummond waved his hand twice and instantly the air was filled with a stunning barrage from ten powerful blast pikes.

Brim fairly exploded across the flower bed, bending low under the blinding hail of covering shots and sprinting toward the shack. Outside the door, he crouched for a moment to catch his breath; then, tensing, he smashed the flimsy door latch assembly with the butt of the Trenning and stepped back while two more shots burst through the door in a cloud of wood splinters. "All right, Valentin," Brim called out, "that's enough. Toss that blaster where I can see it and come out with your hands up—otherwise, I'm coming in for you."

Silence.

Brim nodded his head. He really hadn't expected Valentin to cooperate. Standing the Trenning against the streaming wall, he slipped out of his coat and draped it over the barrel. Then, holding the big weapon by its butt, he poked the decoy into the middle of the doorway.

Two more shots howled out of the dark shed; the second—though noticeably weaker—shredding his coat into flying shards. A moment later, the shrill sound of an alarm came from the hut.

Valentin's blaster was finally exhausted.

"That's it, Valentin," Brim growled, "I'm coming in."

After a long silence, he stepped into the doorway and tossed the blast pike into the grass behind him. "All right, you bastard," he growled, "we're even now. Come out here and fight like a man."

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the shed, revealing Valentin crouched in a corner with a savage look in his eyes, teeth bared as if he were a cornered animal. Half-blinded by the lightning, Brim discovered his own mistake a moment later when the Leaguer erupted from the doorway like a shot, swinging his inert blaster as if it were a club. While a fearful peal of thunder crashed above them, Brim dodged under the attack, then grabbed Valentin's sleeve and yanked down hard, bending the Leaguer over double and smashing him in the face with his knee.

The blaster went flying into the darkness as Valentin staggered backward into the shack again, with Brim following carefully in his footsteps. But the Leaguer was far from stopped. Backing all the way to the far wall, he pushed off from the rough stones and before Brim could prepare a defense, leaped forward and landed a forward thrust-kick in Brim's groin.

Brim saw the blow coming and chopped downward on Valentin's shin with the outer edge of his right forearm, but could only fractionally limit the blow. The Leaguer's boot slammed into his testicles with terrific force.

In agony, Brim folded at the waist at the same time a brutal punch exploded in his face. He staggered back, trying to catch his breath while multicolored novas exploded in his eyes.

Instinctively, he dropped to a crouch; his right knee sagged to the ground in torment. Then, gathering himself in a frantic burst of energy, he stopped another punch by grabbing Valentin's wrist and pushing it over his head, then landing a short but powerful punch, just below the ribs.

The surprised Leaguer bellowed something in Vertrucht, jumped back with a look of agonized disbelief, then yanked his arm free and sprang forward, aiming a double-hand chop against Brim's sides that threatened to shatter his ribs.

Brim met the savage attack by instinct alone, stepping forward and driving both arms downward inside Valentin's, effectively cutting short the attack before viciously landing his own double punch to both sides of Valentin's lower ribs.

Coughing painfully, Valentin pivoted and immediately counterattacked with a murderous roundhouse punch to Brim's left temple that launched him backward through the door and onto the ground in an explosion of agony and smothering rain.

Instantly, Valentin was astride Brim's chest. Powerful hands slipped deep down the sides of his shirt collar, then sharp, bony edges of wrists and forearms closed relentlessly against Brim's carotid arteries, applying deadly, agonizing pressure. "Now... you... Imperial... bastard," he hissed, his voice barely audible with effort, "... you... will... die."

Close to insensibility, Brim battled for consciousness. Valentin's face glared malevolently at him while his fingers tightened around Brim's throat. As he gasped for breath, the Leaguer smiled.

Brim knew he must break the lock in the next few moments or he would be killed. Desperately, he arched his body and shoved Valentin's hips away from his chest. Growling and panting like an animal, Valentin fought desperately to maintain his position, clawing the Carescrian's flesh, but Brim was better conditioned, and the choke hold weakened significantly. When Brim could shove no farther, he rolled suddenly to the left, grabbed the man's right cuff, and hauled hard across his body, breaking the death lock and rolling the surprised Leaguer off him completely. Before Valentin could recover, Brim grabbed his throat, shoved him backward to the ground, and stomped on his face.

With blood streaming from his nose, Valentin groaned in agony and rolled to his stomach. Slowly, he began to push himself erect, but Brim staggered in from the side, raised his knee for leverage, and delivered a tremendous upward kick to the midsection. His blow lifted the Leaguer more than an iral off the floor before he collapsed in a puddle of his own vomit and lay still, moaning in a low voice.

Moments later, both Drummond and Ursis arrived at the door, both armed with blast pikes.

"Wilf," they cried in unison, "are you all right?"

Brim stood over the motionless Valentin, nearly sick to the stomach with pain himself. "Except for a possibly ruined love life, I'm all right," he growled after a long rumble of thunder, "—and unfortunately, so is this Leaguer zukeed."

Valentin retched as he writhed on the stones.

"On your feet, coward," Brim ordered, rubbing his throat. "You're not half so hurt as you ought to be. You'll fly tomorrow—which is a lot better than what you and your bully boys had in store for me the other day."

Valentin only groaned.

"We'll get him back to his people," Drummond said, motioning quietly to men standing outside in the teeming rain. Then he made a little smile. "I think perhaps this evening's activities will send off a pretty significant message for Triannic, too—that CIGAs aren't the only Imperials they'll have to deal with." He shrugged. "Who knows, it might just have bought the whole Empire a little breathing room."

"At the price of two formal uniforms," Ursis observed. "Just look at the two of you!"

Drummond winced, glancing at himself in dismay, then at Brim. "We've done a job, all right," he said, shaking his head.

Brim agreed bleakly. Both knees were out of his trousers, and his coat had been blasted to ribbons. "Yeah," he agreed. "It's going to be tough going back into the reception like this."

Drummond chuckled. "The party is getting a tad out of hand, isn't it?"

"Nothing worse than a boring party," Ursis observed, standing back while two of Drummond's commandos half carried, half walked the bent and whimpering Valentin outside. "Wilf," the Bear added with mock sagacity, "you'd better take permanent possession of that trophy tomorrow; otherwise, someone's liable to be injured at these soirees."

Brim chuckled grimly. "I'll do my damndest, Nik," he promised, gladly stepping into the storm again. The odor of vomit had become a palpable entity inside. Suddenly he spied two figures walking rapidly toward him through the driving rain—and the short one was limping perceptibly.

"Anna!" he shouted, just as their way was abruptly blocked by three burly commandos materializing out of the shadows.

"Wilf!" Romanoff shouted over the noise of the storm. "Is that you? Are you all right?"

Suddenly, one of the commandos yelped and grabbed his shin. Romanoff dodged past him in an instant, limping along at a surprising clip, with two of the soldiers in hot pursuit.

Brim took off toward her like a shot, shouting. "Wait! She's all right! Don't!" He grabbed the little businesswoman by the waist and whirled around to shield her a scant instant before the two angry men slammed into his back with the force of a runaway starship. Down they all went in a bruising, gasping tangle of wet arms and legs, Brim supporting the weight of both men on his elbows and knees in a desperate attempt to keep the three of them from crushing Romanoff. "Anna," he whispered to a panting tangle of wet hair beside his cheek, "are you hurt?"

After a moment of silence, he heard a giggle in his ear. "I'm fine, Wilf," she said breathlessly. "But isn't three at a time sort of kinky for you—especially out here in the palace garden?"

"I say!" Moulding bellowed from somewhere overhead, "you two—off them, now. That's the fellows. Carefully, now..."

His voice was joined by that of Drummond. "At ease, men! Everything's all right!"

Abruptly, the load on Brim's back lifted, and far gentler hands began to pull at him. He shook them off while he knelt and eased Romanoff to her feet. "You sure you're not hurt?" he asked.

She nodded, futilely straightening the soaked and clinging remains of her dress, that now revealed a lot more than they concealed. "It was you I worried about," she said. "I got out on the balcony just in time to watch you chase Valentin into the garden—and when I saw the blaster flashes, I ran for Toby." She shook her head. "Rough party you brought me to tonight, Wilf Brim. Just look at your new uniform—and my dress!"

Brim grunted; her dusky nipples showed through the wet fabric as if she had nothing on.

"Probably I ought to take you home before things really get nasty," he urged. "What do you say we call it a night?"

Romanoff melted into the arm he placed gently around her shoulder. "I'd like that," she said quietly. Then she shook her head. "Mother always warned me to stay away from starsailors—and I wouldn't listen."

"Let's hear it for disobedience," Brim whispered, lifting her to his arms and starting along the path toward her skimmer. Tomorrow promised to be a long day.

Brim and Moulding were aloft by late morning and spent most of the day testing their M-6B's for all they were worth. As customary, the race course was triangular in shape, defined by three solitary, type-G stars: Delta-Gahnn, Onita, and Laneer, none with satellites. Course entry was close by Delta-Gahnn, nearest of the three to Avalon at 430 light-years' distance. From there, a long straightaway of 269.2 light-years stretched to Onita, where a sharp turn led to the shortest leg of 149.8 light-years. Following this, a mild angle around Laneer and a second long straightaway of 243.20 light-years returned the course to its entry point.

Starliners from every known dominion traced along the course at HyperSpeed, carrying spectators who paid considerable sums for a chance to see the racers whiz past at close range. But even two hundred-odd spectator ships, with thirty-one military patrol vessels, counted for little more than dust motes when considered within the context of the actual distances involved.

Approaching his first circuit with the Wizard rumbling comfortably at his back, Brim felt the narrow red damper beam warm his hand, then gently urged it farther toward open, keeping the hot spot centered in his palm. Setting a course around Delta-Gahnn at high speed, he edged into the race lane and headed out over the first long leg for distant Onita—only a pinpoint in the forward Hyperscreens but growing rapidly as he picked up speed. Scant cycles later, he took that angle as closely as possible (with the crystal temperature nearing redline), then practically bunted the short leg to Laneer and entered the second long straightaway back to Delta-Gahnn and the race-circuit entrance. IMPERIAL M-SIX B ALPHA TO HYPERDROME, he KA'PPAed. REQUEST TIMING, THIS RUN.

His display directly manifested a message: HYPERDROME TO IMPERIAL M-SIX B ALPHA,TIMING IS AFFIRMATIVE.

M-SIX B ALPHA Brim KA'PPAed. While he bent the little ship around the distant emerald star, a small display began to blink above the left Hyperscreen—first orange as he tweaked the damper toward OPEN again, then green as he passed through the timing beam and started along the circuit.

Charging into an approach tangent at about a quarter million c'lenyts distance, he trailed the gravity brakes a little, juggled the damper closed for the interval of a heartbeat, then rolled a half-turn and hit the steering engine hard to port. Instantly, the tail hung out, twitching while he tested gravity flow into the star. When he sensed the ship was precisely aligned, he willed the damper open and rode around the curve, tensing himself for the one perfect instant when he was lined up on the next lap, while the artificial cabin gravity struggled to shield him from colossal centrifugal forces that could mash his frail body to a reddish blob in his recliner. Scanning between his instruments and the Hyperscreens, he tensed, searching for his first glimpse of Laneer moving out from occlusion behind the small blue orb that was Onita.... Now! He eased the damper forward and smoothly unwound the steering, feeling the M-6B spring forward into the straightaway as if it were something alive. Behind him, the new Wizard/2 thundered deafeningly through a bulkhead, its prodigious growl nearly unbearable even in his battle suit.

After this, he simply continued in a flattened curve some two hundred thousand c'lenyts out from snowy white Laneer, then blasted off down the second straightaway while the crystal-head temperature again worked its way toward redline. Cycles later, with Delta-Gahnn a large emerald ball some 450,000 c'lenyts off to port, he skidded the M-6B into another extravagant highspeed curve until the green timing light returned to yellow and the average velocity meter read—his eyes widened with surprise—average speed, 98.21M LightSpeed: a new galactic record!

When he finally hauled back on the damper beam, the Wizard/2 spun down with a sound that approached a sigh of relief. Brim nodded to himself. His Leaguer competition would need one xaxt of a ship to win this year! Steering a gentle curve back to Avalon, he wondered if the Gantheisser engineers had been able to come up with it.

Less than a metacycle later, as he taxied in to the shed area, he lifted the visor of his helmet and slid open the windward Hyperscreen. Cool spray and fragrant lake air instantly filled the bridge, refreshing his face and soothing the gas-dried membranes of his eyes and nose. A storm front during the afternoon appeared to have rejuvenated the whole Universe. All the great bluffs around Avalon's ancient HyperDrome were now awash in delicate mauves and pinks while an early-evening sky glowed in palest peach, dabbed here and there by scudding lavender remnants of the storm. Across the choppy water, a sizable crowd had gathered near the ramp, jumping and waving as he approached. Clearly, news concerning his last circuit had spread rapidly through the racing community. He could hear cheering when he turned upwind and headed for the ramp. In spite of himself, he grinned with genuine exhilaration. He had a galactic speed record in his pocket, and even though it wasn't official, he had an undeniable sense of confidence that he, along with Valerian's magnificent M-6B, could handle anything the Leaguers might field.

Brim steered his sleek little starship up the seaweed-encrusted ramp, then drew to a hovering stop over on Sherrington's portable gravity pad as technicians wearing huge reflective mittens raced to secure the optical moorings. He fought back waves of nausea as he switched to planetary gravity, then powered off a final set of systems and opened the hatch, climbing out onto the ship's light blue hullmetal amid wild cheering and whistles. Moments later, two technicians carefully placed a boarding ladder near his feet, and he climbed down to what seemed like a thousand hands, all either waiting to be shaken or to clap him on the back. Significantly, no one seemed the least interested in the large bruises under both eyes; race drivers had a rough reputation. It was a long time before he could work his way through the crowd of well wishers to where Romanoff stood in white sweater and slacks atop the seawall, her lovely face wearing the same mysterious smile she'd had for him the first night they'd made love. Then he found himself smothered in warm, wet kisses that were—in their own way—better than any speed record he could imagine.

Later, at supper in the shed refectory, Brim and Romanoff had just taken their seats with Nik Ursis, Mark Valerian, and Praznik Krasni, when K-P's senior propulsion fellow, Alexyi Ivanovich Pogreb, strode into the dining room wearing scorched K-P coveralls and a deep Bearish frown.

Looking neither right nor left, he marched directly to the Senior Director. "Praznik Dvigat," he began in a concerned voice. "I believe ve have serious troubles. I thought it vould be best if I notified everyone at same time."

Dressed in a loose Sodeskayan tunic with brass buttons, baggy trousers, and soft boots, Krasni stood and matched Dvigat's frown. "The new Wizard, Alexyi Ivanovich?" he asked. "We have troubles with the Wizard Two?"

"Is true, Praznik Dvigat," Pogreb asserted, broodingly raising his eyes to the heavens. "I myself inspected plasma tubes on Commander Brim's M-6B."

"And you found?" Krasni prompted.

"Crystal particles, vould you believe?" the Bear reported. "Lining both tubes, Praznik Dvigat. Ve still have not overcome our heating problems, Devil take it." He turned to Brim. "No offense, Commander," he said, "but during last highspeed run, the crystals actually began to disintegrate, depositing—rather sublimating by reverse feedback—collections of atoms from the Drive crystals themselves. The process may well have been slowly going on for days."

Krasni remained silent for a moment, then sipped his meem and looked contemplatively into the goblet. "I assume, Alexyi Ivanovich," he said, "that Commander Brim's Drive is ruined."

Pogreb nodded. "Same for Commander Mouldink's. Both have sustained much crystal erosions at tube junction and will have to be changed out before either ship is safe to fly."

Valerian shut his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "That practically means taking both ships apart," he said flatly.

"Would that circumstances were that easy," Krasni groaned. "Unfortunately, those are the only Wizard Two crystals in existence. We can't change them out."

"What?" Ursis yelled. "You only grew two of them?"

"No, Nikolai Yanuarievich," Krasni explained. "We actually grew five of them when we started the program. Two were destroyed in system testing at the Gromcow labs, two were installed in the M-6B's, and..."

"And the spare?" Valerian interrupted tensely.

Krasni shook his head. "The spare, friend Valerian, was accidentally destroyed as it was moved in the shed yesterday. A force line parted on the portable lift, and before the driver could recover, it had been cracked in half."

Brim slumped in his seat. "Just thraggling wonderful," he groaned. "Now what?"

"Unless you have some other ideas." Krasni replied, "I'm afraid we're simply out of the race."

"Not necessarily, Praznik Dvigat," Pogreb said. "Perhaps there are more crystals for the M-6B's than we think."

"If there are, I know nothing about them," Krasni snapped with annoyance.

"Is true we have no Wizard Two crystals, sir," Pogreb said. "But is also a fact that three Wizard-C prototype crystals are in the propulsion laboratory on nearby Melia, the science planet—complete with control systems. They were delivered on the same ship that brought the M-6B's from Lys."

"Wizard-C's, Pogreb?" Krasni demanded. "Those are reflecting Drives, remember?"

"Aye, sir," Pogreb agreed, "—and almost a perfect fit for an M-6B, even with the reflector in place. A little machining here and there—most at the starboard mounting flange, and..."

"Pogreb!" Krasni interrupted, "those prototypes have only been run a few times. What makes you think that they'd stand up in a race?"

"Begging the General Manager's pardon." Pogreb replied, "but they have only been run a few times in reflecting mode. In standard mode, each has run full-out for nearly three metacycles—and with a power output within two percent of the Wizard Two." He grinned. "Not only that, Praznik Dvigat," Pogreb added, "—they should be somewhat easier to cool!"

Krasni turned to Brim. "Would you be willing to fly something like that?" he asked.

Brim glanced over at Romanoff. "I've got to do it," he whispered.

"I know that, Wilf," she replied.

"I'm game, Dr. Krasni," Brim said presently. "Do you think you can have the switch done in time?"

Krasni paused, looking off into some other dimension for a moment. Then he passed the question on to Pogreb. "Can we?" he asked.

"Is already starting the process, Praznik Dvigat," Pogreb said, nodding his head. "Crystals should arrive from Melia within a metacycle."

"I rather imagined that would be the case, Alexyi Ivanovich," Krasni said with a little smile.

"Ah, but is badly needink help from you, Mark Valerian," Pogreb added.

"You've got it," Valerian said, rising from the table and struggling into his tweed coat.

Brim pushed his chair back with intentions of following, but Valerian and Pogreb were already on their way. "Finish your supper, Wilf," Valerian called over his shoulder. "You've been at it all afternoon. I'll call as soon as there's something you can do."

Brim sank back in his chair. "I think it's going to be a long night," he mused, bleakly, dallying with the contents of his plate.

"Not for you, Wilf Ansor," Ursis asserted.

"How come?" Brim demanded with a raised eyebrow.

"Because, my furless friend," the Bear replied, "if they do fix the Wizard in time for the race, it is your job to fly—and be sufficiently rested to fly well. If, on the other hand, the Wizard is inoperable, then your help won't matter anyway." He winked at Romanoff. "Additionally," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "your fellow humans all appear to enjoy the sight of Miss Romanoff.

Perhaps the productivity of the Sherrington team will be higher without such a beautiful female to stare at, eh?"

Romanoff blushed, but it was clear she was delighted by the compliment. Generally, unless one was being pursued actively by an angry Bear (almost always a fatal situation) it was difficult to be provoked by one.

After supper, the three hurried down to the Imperial shed area where every available technician and engineer had been called out to work on the M-6B's. In the repair yard outside, an orderly contingent of Bears had so far unpacked two gleaming Drive crystals with strange silver housings from wooden crates marked "KPOCHbl-II3TY." They were now connecting banks of test equipment to one of them through what looked like a c'lenyt of glowing cables. Inside the shed itself, Sherrington engineers and technicians were at work on Brim's machine, busily removing sections of the racer's skin; others had already lifted the massive crystal cover from its Drive chamber.

"How's it look?" Brim asked when Valerian had come to rest for a moment nearby.

The designer pursed his lips and frowned. "I think it's going to be close, Wilf," he admitted. "But then, we Sherrington people won't be the ones who actually pull off the necessary miracle—this is mostly a Krasni-Peych show. All I can do is help when I'm needed and keep out of the way when I'm not." He frowned for a moment, looking over Brim's shoulder. "I say, there, Jaech," he yelled at a young engineer standing atop the Drive compartment with a glowing coil over his shoulder,

"let me help you with that assembly!" Then he grinned again at Brim. "Come back in the morning, Wilf," he said as he started across the floor. "We'll know a lot more at that time."

Before he started up the ladder, he turned, his face broken by a little grin. "And don't forget to bring your flying togs!" he added.

The following morning, Brim awoke long before dawn and dressed in his fatigues without waking Romanoff. The latest report from the HyperDrome indicated that both technical teams had worked straight through the night and were nearly ready to test their handiwork. Results of those first tests would be a good indication of how he might spend his afternoon, watching or flying.

As his driver turned toward the Imperial shed, Brim could see that the whole area was bathed in the harsh glare of Karlsson lamps burning at their highest intensity. Clearly, work had gone on all night, and the very fact that nobody had given up yet was a highly encouraging sign so far as he was concerned. Inside the shed, Moulding's M-6B was reduced to a skeleton amidships while his own could be seen huddling atop a gravity pad in one of the Drive-arming circles. At a distance, it appeared to be mostly in one piece—at least compared to its sister ship.

"You want the shed or the Drive circle, Commander?" the driver asked.

"Better make it the Drive circle," Brim replied, "I might as well get the news firsthand." Less than five cycles later, he flashed his badge at a manned security gate and strode onto the giant lenslike system of N-ray emitters. Above him, the M-6B loomed on its gravity pad, gleaming dark blue in the bright artificial light and literally covered by technicians. Hundreds of cables glowing in a rainbow of hues led from openings in her hull to an armada of vans laden with diagnostic equipment.

Twelve additional cables, each thicker than a man's arm, ran to massive connectors abaft the ship's trousers. Brim recognized these as superconducting power transmission lines, now glowing dull red from the enormous energy required to electrosaturate the new Drive crystal before it was powered the first time. Unprepared crystals often shattered at the first application of Drive energy, and this particular prototype was clearly getting special but time-consuming care. Brim shook his head—the M-6B would never be ready to fly before late afternoon at the earliest. If for some reason this year's heats were quickly concluded, the Empire could lose the trophy by default.

Shortly thereafter, as he stared out at the frantic work going on around the starship, he saw Valerian and Pogreb—both dressed in the same clothes they had worn the previous evening at supper—step out of the blockhouse and hurry to one of the larger consoles that was mounted on a heavy flatbed skimmer. He scurried across the lens in short order. "How do things look?" he asked anxiously.

Both engineers jumped. "Oh—Wilf," Valerian exclaimed with a frown, "we were just about to call you."

"And?" Brim asked.

"Well," Pogreb began.

Brim tensed. "Well," he prompted.

Valerian grimaced. "We just finished connecting the new control systems, Wilf," he reported.

"With a little luck, we'll have her all buttoned up in little more than a metacycle," he said.

"And—praise the Universe for small miracles—we might even finish Moulding's in time, too."

This time, it was Brim who grimaced. "There's an implied but here somewhere," he said with the beginnings of real concern forming in his mind. "I wonder why haven't I heard either of you use the word fly?"

"The electrosaturation process," Pogreb explained, "is takink nearly ten more metacycles before it finishes."

Brim understood the issue immediately. "And since by that time, the racing program will be well underway," he said with a frown, "there'll be no opportunity for flight tests. Right?"

Valerian nodded. "That's about it. Wilf," he said. "If either you or Moulding is going to race, you'll have to fly an experimental starship that has just been hurriedly bolted together, along with a newly saturated, prototype Drive crystal—and then immediately run it flat out. How does that sound to you?"

"Wonderful," Brim grumped, shaking his head and rolling his eyes skyward, "just thraggling wonderful."

"Will you do it?" Valerian asked.

"Will I do what?"

"Fly it."

"Of course I'll fly it," Brim said. "One of these days, Mark, you've got to go to Carescria and check out the ore barges I used to fly." He shook his head. "We'd have been overjoyed there just to get halfway reliable crystals. Then we could spend more time wondering if the hulls would stay together." He looked Valerian in the eye. "Lots of times, they didn't."

Valerian mumbled something unintelligible, then shook his head. "Do you suppose Moulding will fly, too?" he asked.

Brim smiled. "Probably you'll want to ask him yourself," he said. "But I'll bet he's just as suicidal as I am—especially when it comes to this race."

"For Voot's sake, just don't push your thrust damper into the reflector zone." Valerian warned,

"...whatever you do. That might definitely qualify as suicidal from what I've heard. The system's never been tested at all in this spaceframe."

"I'll watch it," Brim promised grimly. "I've got a race to win."

"That," Valerian said, "is what worries me the most...."

Exactly ten metacycles later, Brim was suited up and ready to go; his M-6B had somehow been cobbled together again with its new reflecting Drive. But the only change he could see on the flight bridge was a new thrust-damper assembly, equipped with a row of indicators on a small panel marked reflecting. All were dark except a glowing, jewellike lamp above the words SCAN

ON. The damper itself had an elongated throw, but the clearly hurried application of metalized tape prevented damper beams from advancing farther than halfway forward.

Outside, Bears were now decoupling the last electrosaturation cables from the Drive chamber.

With Moulding's ship still largely unassembled on a neighboring Drive-arming lens, they were only just in time. As usual, the heats had been ordered in the reverse of last year's finishing sequence, and the last A'zurnian entry had just landed in towering cascades of spray between the glaring marker buoys.

Only the Imperial heats now remained to be run....

Because the League had failed to complete the previous contest with either racer, this year they had been among the very first to compete. Both of their angular new Gantheisser GA 262-A3s ran the course with astonishingly high velocities: 99.S6M LightSpeed turned in by Kirsh Valentin (who had shown up that morning with a clearly painful limp) and 95.82M LightSpeed by Groener's replacement, one Provost Wogan Arn. The blinding speeds had certainly placed a damper over the remaining activities of the day—as well as answering any lingering questions about Gantheisser engineers and their ability to come up with a starship that could compete with an M-6B.

Highest speed for the two Dampier entries from Tarrott had been a disappointing 96.79M LightSpeed. Clearly, puppet states were permitted to compete with their League masters only up to a point. And that did not include winning!

Now, with the second little A'zurnian R'autor taxiing back to the sheds (after turning in a credible speed of 97.45M LightSpeed), Brim opened his face plate and leaned out of the open Hyperscreen while he watched Krasni-Peych engineers seal the last access covers. Word of Imperial difficulties had spread rapidly. Behind the barriers, a huge crowd was now gathered in the glare of the Karlsson lamps, watching to see if Krasni-Peych and Sherrington could bring off their overnight miracle. Many were taking pictures—just in case. There was even a contingent of Leaguers with two bulky orange and yellow cameras, overdoing things, as usual. Even at a distance, he could see the cameras were equipped with awkward electronic lens systems that Brim usually associated with long-distance image recording.

"Is ready as we can make her," Pogreb called from the edge of the gravity pad. He was now wearing a clean set of coveralls, but the worried look on his face persisted.

Brim grinned—the Bear would be a terrible ere'el player. Everyone would know what kind of assets he'd been dealt just from watching his face. "You figure she'll fly, then?" he asked.

Pogreb rolled his eyes heavenward, holding up a tutorial index finger. "Best way to keep one's word not is not to give it," he called with a smile. "Is promising only that she is ready as we can make her."

"That's good enough for me," Brim said undauntedly.

"Not for me," Pogreb said. "But I add these words, brave Wilf Ansor: were there room for this Bear to accompany you on your flight, I should go with a minimum of hesitation."

"For that, my Sodeskayan friend, I owe you many large drinks when I get back," Brim replied with a grin.

"Is going to be fine victory celebration," Pogreb said, ambling off toward the other M-6B.

"Perhaps ve may even get Commander Moulding in the air, too—then beeg dronk for everybodys!"

Moments later, Ursis's voice crackled in his headset. "Last chance to back down, my furless friend," he warned. "If we're going to compete this year, we've got to tow you to the gravity pool immediately. Then, voof—off you go."

"I'm ready, Nik," Brim said quietly, looking down at the Bear, who was dressed in Krasni-Peych coveralls and standing near a stout optical bollard mounted at the front of the gravity pad. His headphones were connected to the M-6B by its last set of external cables.

Ursis looked up and waved, then signaled to the driver of a traction engine, who backed carefully to within a few irals of the bollard and switched on a heavy mooring beam. It blazed up for a moment when the driver shifted into forward to tension the load, then settled into a steady green.

Outside the gates, onlookers were already dispersing, most toward the Imperial gravity pool to get a last shot of the M-6B as ground crews propped it for the race. Everyone, that is, except the party of Leaguers who were hotfooting it in the opposite direction toward a big Majestat-Baron idling just beyond the crowd-control ropes. As soon as they were aboard, the arrogant limousine wobbled to a temporary follower cable (one of many installed for this year's race by CIGA behest); then it took off like a starship for a media parking apron where Brim could see the ugly fins of a Gorn-Hoff 810.C reconnaissance ship painted in civilian colors.

Brim frowned as his own gravity pad moved smoothly toward the Starter's pool. The zukeed Leaguers were certainly sure of themselves this year, hurrying off with the latest race images even before it was all over. Probably, he conjectured, the recordings were destined for late-workday delivery to one of the many dominions Triannic had his eye on. That way, they'd physically beat the other media services by nearly half a day—and, depending on local rotational speeds, perhaps gain as much as a Standard day in actual viewer coverage. He laughed grimly. If he had anything to do with it, the hasty bastards were in for an unpleasant surprise, indeed....

Presently, Ursis's voice growled in his headset again; the Bear was now riding at the rear of the tractor, still connected by voice wires to the M-6B. "You can relax for a few moments, Wilf Ansor," he said. "It seems the Leaguers have requested a break while they inspect the racecourse—just to make certain that everything is legal when you race."

Brim frowned. "What in xaxt is that all about?" he asked.

Ursis shrugged his huge shoulders. "Aside from the grandfather of all insults to the Empire, the whole thing remains a mystery to me," he replied. "It seems to have been imposed by a committee of CIGAs over protests by nearly everyone else." He shook his head. "They are certainly galactic-class experts at raising a stir."

Brim relaxed in his seat as the tractor pulled him toward the Imperial gravity pool. Through the open port Hyperscreen, he caught a look at a Majestat-Baron drawing up beside the civilian Gorn-Hoff. It looked like the same limousine the Leaguer media people had been riding. He drew a small pair of night glasses from his emergency case and focused them on the limousine. He'd been right! Here came the big orange and yellow cameras: weird-looking devices without question. He peered in fascination while a pair of white-suited civilian technicians opened the hatch on a sizable pod mounted just abaft the Gorn-Hoff's forward cooling radiators, and—as he watched—lowered one of the orange cameras inside. Brim smacked his fist on the instrument panel. He'd been wrong—the zukeeds had actually brought a special inspection ship, and the crew had simply been killing time with its recording system! When the hatch was again closed, he could see that it was shaped with a custom blister to accommodate their awkward lens system. They'd planned the xaxtdamned inspection all the time! He shook his head in anger as the second camera was carried out of sight around the nose. What could the Leaguers possibly hope to gain by this?

Just then, his tractor stopped at the gravity pad, and he had no more time for Leaguers or their psychological games. Putting his night glasses away, he watched carefully as tractor beams from the gravity pool flashed to the ship's mooring points and gently drew his M-6B from the pad onto the pool—a ticklish operation at best. It took fifteen cycles of tension, shouts, occasional profanity (in a surprising number of tongues), and more than a little muscle (mostly Sodeskayan) before the graceful little ship was hovering in a proper position, gently testing her new moorings in light wind sprung up from the lake. Brim had just finished verifying her attitude when he caught the big Gorn-Hoff thundering along the lake on her takeoff run. "What do we know about that ship?" he asked into his microphone.

"Big Leaguer cheeses," Ursis replied from the pool console after a rapid-fire consultation with a number of technicians standing nearby on the wall. "It carries officials who will conduct the 'inspection,'" he grumbled. "When we see that Gorn-Hoff return, it will be time for you to fly."

In fact, it took the Leaguer "officials" nearly a metacycle to complete their probe—and even then the race didn't resume. CIGA representatives had rubbed the collective ISS nose in their shutdown by halting the race completely until the Leaguer ship had made landfall and was parked. Brim watched the Gorn-Hoff touch down and taxi to the strand, grinding his teeth with impatience. As it moved up a ramp and under the Karlsson lamps, he frowned. Somehow, the ship didn't look the same; something subtle had changed, but he couldn't tell precisely what. Even the two strange "camera" pods were still in place on its flanks. He pulled out his night glasses and studied the Leaguer ship as it turned to face him and came to rest on a gravity pool. The pods... That was it!

Their hatches no longer had the characteristic "camera" blisters in place; they were completely smooth from tip to tail.

"Five cycles," Ursis warned suddenly. "The Leaguers have at last declared the course acceptable."

"Thraggling decent of them," Brim growled, starting the prerun-up checkout. With that, he put the Leaguers from his mind. Finally, he had a race to run! After he switched to internal gravity, he devoted his whole concentration to preparing the little ship for her most important—and unequivocally final—flight. There was always the chance that the Drive would blow before she even completed the heat—if, of course, she didn't fall apart at HypoSpeed first. But barring disastrous circumstances of this sort, she would most probably end her days either in Avalon's Science Museum (if she won) or piled ignominiously on a scrap heap (if she didn't).

During the next cycles, Brim set up the COMM panels, activated position lamps and beacons, then connected both generators to the power main—at a full 510 T-units on the panel. After this, he set his gravity brakes and started the gravs; each fired almost immediately without so much as a stutter. "I'm ready to race, Nik," he reported. "How does she seem from where you sit?"

Below, wearing huge ear protectors, Ursis rubbed his chin and rose from his console to peer carefully at the ship. "Doesn't appear to be anything large falling off," he declared.

"Oh, wun-der-ful," Brim laughed. "Nik, I simply can't tell you the confidence that gives me."

"Think nothing of it, Wilfuska," the Bear said with a huge grin. "The fact is that I see nothing small falling off, either." He consulted his consoles. "She looks fine, my friend. May Lady Fortune speed you on your way."

"See you after I nail down the old hat rack," Brim said. With that, he called Ground Control and taxied out to the Drive-arming area. In a matter of cycles, Vaskrozni Kubinka's team had prepared the Wizard/3, and he was once more in touch with the tower.

"Alcott Ground," he said, "Imperial M-six B Alpha request taxi to gate."

"Imperial M-six B Alpha Alcott Ground clears taxi to gate area one five left, wind two one zero at one six." Somehow the litany never changed.

"Imperial M-six B Alpha," Brim acknowledged again. He checked for Romanoff's earrings—which would never go to a museum as long as Wilf Brim was alive—then powered the M-6B around to a launch ramp and headed to the takeoff vector, savoring the last delicious whiffs of fresh lake air he might ever take.

"Imperial M-six B Alpha to Alcott Tower at pylon area," he announced. "Request gate clearance."

"Alcott Tower to Imperial M-six Alpha. You are cleared to enter gate three one right. Takeoff vector zero seven five on green light, wind zero one nine at one nine."

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

"Alcott Tower."

Brim taxied into position between the start pylons, staring at the two bobbing rows of yellow vector buoys that stretched into the distance—and his future. Taking a final breath of fresh air, he deliberately snapped shut his helmet, closed and locked the side Hyperscreens, and made a last systems check: Sight controls, lift modifiers, flight readouts, lights, cabin gravity, shoulder restraints. Setting his jaw, he locked the steering engine and activated the gravity brakes, then opened his thrust dampers. Again, the thundering gravity generators built up a surging cloud of spray and ice particles behind the ship. Presently, the pylons changed from red to amber while Brim battled the controls and kept the ship's nose pointed between the rows of vector buoys. After what seemed to be half a lifetime, the lights changed to green and he released the brakes, with the pylons themselves disappearing aft in a great rush of spray. Moments later, the vector buoys passed below and astern as he cranked the M-6B into a nearly vertical climb on his way out of the atmosphere.

At about half LightSpeed, he began his Drive Checklist: intercoolers at minus thirty-one hundred, time synchronizers counting in perfect congruence with the ship's clock, mass compensators running at speed, blast tubes—he touched a red panel near the Drive readouts, then paused while whining motors cracked the iris—open, overdrivers ready, HyperBoost drivers on, and reserve energy at 451,000. Everything seemed ready to go, but until he actually gated operating-level power to the big crystal, his personal future beyond the next five or so cycles was anybody's guess.

At 0.95 LightSpeed, forward vision through the still-inert Hyperscreens degenerated into a streaked, reddish muddle that worsened at 0.96 and became altogether unintelligible as the gravity generators exceeded their force curves. Heart in his mouth, Brim connected the Drive crystal to power, then pushed the plasma primer twice, keyed in start for a few clicks, and—without daring to breathe—hit energize.

With a throaty rumble that shook his little M-6B from stem to stern, the new crystal bellowed to life like some ancient god waking angry from an agelong slumber. The Hyperscreens synchronized less than a click afterward, and the whole Universe took on the look of a light-streaked tunnel through which he was passing with steadily increasing velocity. Aft, a familiar sapphire Drive plume stretched toward the receding pinpoint of light that had been Avalon a few clicks previously. Once more, he was coursing through deep space with the honor of a whole empire riding beside him, this time in a largely untried ship that would have to fly faster than it had ever flown before.

Covering the distance between Avalon and the race circuit at better than 104.29M LightSpeed, he completed the first lap at a very credible average speed of 98.81 LightSpeed, but even though it was the fastest lap he'd ever flown before, it wasn't enough to win the race. The next lap slid astern at 99.5M LightSpeed. Much better, and, it didn't look as if the new crystal was about to reduce him to cosmic dust, either—though he was still a long way from moving his damper all the way to the tape.

He charged into lap four at nearly 100M LightSpeed and arrived at Onita in a little under two cycles, then skidded into the sharp curve with such tremendous velocity that he found his vision distorted—it almost seemed some sort of object had been climbing toward his ship from the blue star looming overhead. The bunt over Laneer took significantly less than a cycle, and he returned around greenish Delta-Gahnn 1.2 cycles later for an average speed just under his 102M goal.

Starting lap five, he sent even more energy to the crystal and thundered down on Onita at 102.8M

LightSpeed indicated. Skidding into the sharp turn again, he peered ahead through the Hyperscreens trying for a more optimum line to Laneer when... this time he was not mistaken.

Something was approaching from starboard, as if it had been waiting for him. And it was clearly traveling at very high speed. Space junk? The thing was still too distant to make out more than a vague shape. Nevertheless, there was no excuse for its presence anywhere near the course; the lanes were swept every few cycles by squadrons of fast launches. He resolved to complain to the race committee as soon as he landed. Then he wrenched attention back to flying, bunted around Laneer, and sped off for Delta-Gahnn: this time his average velocity of only 99.1M LightSpeed illustrated how much concentration counted in a race.

As he blasted into lap six, he poured on the energy, determined to make up lost time. Completing the first leg in under two cycles, he threw himself into the sharp turn, only to find the "space junk" suddenly positioned off his starboard bow. It was close enough now that it looked like... one of the camera pods on the Gorn-Hoff! He could clearly see the blister on its cover.

Then it came to him!

This was no mere camera pod! It was actively searching for his particular M-6B: a diabolically intelligent HyperMine—the favored instrument of would-be assassins who were too cowardly to confront their victims face to face. Preset to cruise at speeds only slightly faster than their targets, the infamous devices traded range for speed, too quick to elude. They were also too small for most patrol ships to detect. Clearly, this one had already locked on to his M-6B and was moving in for the kill.

The bastard Leaguers had done their job well, too! As he came out of the curve and headed for Laneer, the little missile still had considerable mass to consume and his M-6 was already traveling at the top edge of its velocity envelope. "Inspection," indeed. What a fool he'd been. He watched in fascination while the device approached. He had nowhere to hide, nor any way to estimate at what distance its proximity fuse would set it off. But it was already so close he knew he'd never complete the sixty-odd clicks of the turn before... The reflecting Drive! That could stop the xaxtdamed mine.

He glanced down at the damper assembly, almost afraid to look. If it were hooked up—and working—he could outrun anything in the known Universe, including a HyperMine. But there was no sure way to tell if the Bears had even bothered to connect the reflector controls, in spite of the scan indicator, whatever that was. Of course if they had—and he switched it on—it might also blow him in to subatomic particles. However, since the HyperMine was going to finish him off in the next few moments, it really didn't seem like so much of a risk. Taking a deep breath, he peeled off the strip of metallic tape, glanced quickly through the Hyperscreens, and eased the damper beam forward.

As the tiny beam passed SCAN, the OUTER REVERSE indicator suddenly lit and the ship lurched slightly. Simultaneously, the REFLECTING indicator came on too, followed by blinking illumination of the EXTRA lamp. The Drive's velvet growl deepened. Brim glanced out of the Hyperscreens just in time to see the HyperMine begin to lose ground, then attempt to correct with a speed increase. In a moment, it had begun to narrow the distance again, its tiny Drive plume blazing brighter than before.

He nudged the damper again... with the same results! This time, however, the missile made up distance with a greatly diminished relative velocity, its Drive plume blazing out now like a tiny star. Again he nudged the damper. This time, the HyperMine slowly began to fall behind until he had to skid the ship to track it, still less than two thousand irals distant.

At this point, he had it. Skidding the ship once more, he took a bearing on the diminishing missile, then straightened course, aimed the Drive's exhaust blindly, and slid the damper forward to its detent. The M-6B shot forward with an acceleration that caught Brim totally by surprise. At the same instant, he found himself engulfed in a tremendous fireball—blasted forward again as if slapped by some colossal hand. Moments later, he had left the roiling flare far behind in a burst of phenomenal acceleration. But now Laneer was dead ahead—and expanding in the Hyperscreens like an oncoming meteor! Instinctively pulling back on the thrust damper, he listened to Valerian's tough little spaceframe creak and squeal over the shrill warning of the DRIVE OVERHEAT alarm.

Swerving in desperation, he rolled the ship on its back and skimmed inverted through the star's chromosphere, close enough to the boiling photosphere below that he could make out individual granulation cells, each more than twice the diameter of Avalon herself. Then—miraculously—he was once again flying through open space, the Wizard howling behind him like all the evil spirits of the Universe. Only now the ship was trailing both a seemingly endless Drive plume and a lengthy prominence of flamelike structures—gasses, Brim guessed numbly, disturbed by the Wizard's high-energy exhaust.

An instant later, he blinked in surprise. He'd come out on the far side of the star! He was still in the race—and alive, of all things! Reining in the ravening Wizard before it carried him clear out of the Universe—or melted from its own hellfires—he aimed the ship on a straightaway to Delta-Gahnn, then skidded around the entrance turn, and finished the lap at an average speed of more than 121.31M LightSpeed!

At that instant, his KA'PPA screen came alive: ALCOTT TOWER TO IMPERIAL M-SIX-B ALPHA. ALCOTT TOWER TO IMPERIAL M-SIX-B alpha. DO YOU READ ME? The characters were broken and indistinct on the little display. Brim guessed that the explosion had damaged his HyperLight COMM system—perhaps melted its external antenna array.

I READ YOU, ALCOTT TOWER, he KA'PPAed back as he rushed headlong past Onita on his seventh lap. AM SAFE AND UNDER CONTROL. WILL EXPLAIN EXPLOSION LATER. A moment afterward, he shot out of the curve and battled his way past the glittering cloud of radiation that marked his latest escape from the League. Then he was past Laneer and sprinting once more for Delta-Gahnn. He finished that lap at better than 103.S6M LightSpeed—and the eighth and the ninth as well.

It was on his tenth and final lap that Brim spotted the second space mine. He'd assumed there would be one for some time now; if the Leaguers had troubled themselves concerning him, it only made sense that they'd have similar plans for his partner. The device was still distant and only beginning the great climbing spiral that would bring it to Moulding's M-6B on his sixth lap, but he could already make out its distinctive spindle shape, interrupted by a camera blister. Now, however, by the chance survival of his own ship, the diabolical weapon would wait for an Imperial warship to take it back to Avalon where it might be used for evidence, should the ISS decide to prefer charges. Be that as it may, the Leaguer's maliciousness would soon be irrelevant—especially since he would clearly finish the race at least 1.24M LightSpeed faster than Valentin, with no second chances available.

Twenty cycles later, he brought the M-6B streaking in low over the glare of Avalon City, sped through the night sky along Lake Mersin (trailing a sonic shock wave that, according to irate city officials, leveled thirty c'lenyts of ornamental trees), and thundered inverted between the pylons at better than forty-five hundred c'lenyts per metacycle—winning the Mitchell Trophy once and for all by a margin of better than 2.24M LightSpeed. Then, banking around the grandstands in a slow curve, he brought the little Sherrington racer down flawlessly.

Moulding did not fly in the race—there was no need for such a risk. The Mitchell Trophy had already become a true Imperial hat rack.

Early the next morning, Brim gently untangled himself from Anna Romanoff and stole quietly to the salon, where he watched to see how the public media had interpreted General Drummond's brief explanation of the night's events:

...Turning to the latest Mitchell Trophy news: popular race figure and Carescrian, Lt. Commander Wilf Brim, I.F., broke all existing speed records at the HyperDrome last night to permanently secure the Mitchell Trophy here in Avalon at an average speed of 101.8M LightSpeed. His Sherrington M-6 B racer, however, was extensively charred during a near disaster in the final heat.

According to HyperDrome spokesperson, General Harry Drummond, Brim's spirited Helmsmanship averted a freak tragedy when he avoided what is generally believed to be an ancient space mine, relic of the forty-second-century War for the Glaring Eye. ISS officials removed the record breaking M-6 B to a repair facility immediately after brief victory ceremonies, while Imperial Fleet vessels conducted a thorough search of the area to insure no more of the dangerous artifacts were encountered.

The ship itself is presently undergoing restoration prior to its installation in Avalon's Science Museum, where it will be on display during the metacycles of...

Brim shook his head in bemusement. Since the end of the war, he'd been everything from down-and-out civilian to "popular race figure," and a Lieutenant Commander. He'd even found love, in the literal sense of the word. The experiences had turned him into a very different man than the one he was when he'd entered the Fleet as a raw Sublieutenant some fourteen years previously. For one thing, he walked a lot more confidently these days. Shrugging happily, he watched Romanoff pad through the archway dressed in a lacy negligee, her long brown hair bobbing in glorious tangles about her shoulders.

She put her arm around him possessively, then leaned over to deposit a kiss to the tip of his nose.

"Seems a shame we're letting the Leaguer bastards off scot-free," she grumped, staring sleepily at the display. "They ought to get what they really deserve."

"I think they already have." Brim chuckled, pulling her into his lap. "Drummond had the right idea last night, you know. They came for the Trophy and left empty-handed."

Romanoff nodded. "I understand, Wilf," she conceded. "But they did try to blow you away, you know—and it just makes me furious to see them get off so easily."

"I can't think of much else we could do for punishment," Brim answered with a shrug. "They really did want that old hat rack of ours." He gently unfastened the ties of her negligee.

"Probably there wouldn't be a great deal of use in having them disqualified, either—especially since we've won what we wanted. Unless," he added with a wide-eyed frown, "we fancied having the whole race voided."

Romanoff smiled and laid her head back on his shoulder. "I hate politics," she said, wriggling completely out of the sheer lingerie. "If this were a business situation, I'd simply ruin the bastards—put 'em out of business for good."

"In my line of work," Brim said, "We call that war."

"Yeah," Romanoff agreed grimly, "and it looks like they've already declared war on you, lover."

"They did that a long time ago, Anna," he said with a dour laugh. "I'm actually getting used to it."

The businesswoman shook her head and sighed. "Wilf." she said abruptly, her breathing suddenly labored. "I'm not at all getting used to what you're doing down there, and..."

"You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that," she declared urgently. "It's just that, well, S.S. Dowd Enterprise leaves in the middle of the afternoon, and if you have the same thing on your mind that I have on mine, then we ought to get busy right away. I won't see you for most of a month."

Early that evening under a lowering sky, Brim stood alone on the nearly deserted apron of the HyperDrome, watching two last pallets of Fleet-owned test equipment disappear into a white government van. Behind him—where only last night thousands cheered while he received his victor's laurel—wind rattled through deserted sheds and grandstands, whistling sharply at the three colossal flagpoles and sending their empty halyards clanging against the bare metal columns. A rogue gust tossed a gaggle of empty cvceese' cups hollowly across the pavement while on Lake Mersin, lumbering gray rollers advanced in whitecapped succession like endless ranks of soldiers in dismal uniforms. He turned up the heat in his Fleet cape—spring could turn cold quickly on Avalon.

Out some distance from the far shore, a brooding Gorn-Hoff cruiser was arrogantly churning downwind toward the takeoff vector, its roiling footprint shouldering aside the big rollers in lofty, windblown clouds of spume. The Torond's new black and red banner streamed forward from its KA'PPA tower. Brim followed the cruiser's progress with a dour frown and decidedly mixed emotions. Margot Effer'wyck-LaKarn rode aboard that sleek warship, trapped as much by addiction to the loathsome drug TimeWeed as by the ship's powerful disrupters themselves. He rubbed his chin as the Gorn-Hoff put her helm down and momentarily fell off broadside to the weather before coming all the way around with her rakish bows hard into the mounting gale. His passion for the magnificent blond may well have perished, but he had far from purged himself of the potent emotional bonds that remained.

For a moment, the big cruiser seemed to hesitate, as if gathering itself for the prodigious journey across half a galaxy, then settled slightly by the stern as a mighty plume of vapor suddenly shot aft and skyward. Presently, the deep thunder from her powerful gravity generators blasted the air and rumbled in echo from the great bluffs surrounding the HyperDrome.

Brim ground his teeth in a rush of pure, uncontrollable emotion: yes, he did love Anna Romanoff—with a warmth and devotion that still surprised him. She was the sole reality amid the cynicism and conflict of a most unpleasant Universe. Nevertheless, he also understood that within the very depths of his soul a second bond held strong—his feelings for Margot Effer'wyck. The apparent dichotomy was not something that tormented him; both realities simply existed, and he found he could live with them. He had to...."

As the Gorn-Hoff began to move forward and gather speed, he took a deep breath and steadied himself against an irresistible assault of pure melancholy. War clouds were gathering all over the galaxy, and this time, Margot was on the other side. He might well never see her face again. Then he shook his head. In comparison to the forces that were presently building in the Universe, his own feelings were of small consequence indeed. With the Torond in Triannic's hands, half the Empire's supply of Drive crystal seeds was gone—while the other half in Fluvanna was anything but secure.

Faster and faster the cruiser accelerated, throwing lofty cascades of spray to either side and shaking the air with the rumbling tumult of her laboring generators. At considerable distance down the lake, the cascades abruptly ceased and Brim could see light appear beneath her hull as she smartly rotated skyward and began to climb. For the next few moments, she appeared to hang motionless in the air, ascending almost imperceptibly until at an altitude of about a thousand irals she banked sharply to port and soared into the clouds. The rolling thunder of her passage echoed from the bluff for nearly a cycle before it lost itself in the cold, lonely wind....

Epilogue

Brim found the KA'PPA message on his desk one afternoon just after he brought a heavy cruiser safely to landfall with only half her gravs functional—all on the same side. The blue and gold envelope marked PERSONAL-EYES ONLY attracted him, so he tore it open even before he called up his normal messages. ...

PERSONNEL ACTION MEMORANDUM

IMPERIAL FLEET

IFPC42746T-12C GROUP 198BA 189/55008

2398XCV-99-D0349CDC/573248 PERSONAL COPY

UNCLASSIFIED

FROM:

BU FLEET PERSONNEL;

ADMIRALTY, AVALON

TO:

W. A. BRIM, LT. CMDR, I.F.

ATALANTA, HADOR-HAELIC

SUBJECT: DUTY ASSIGNMENT

(1) YOU ARE DETACHED PRESENT DUTY AS OF 189/55008.

(2) PROCEED MOST EXPEDITIOUS TRANSPORT SHERRINGTON YARDS, BROMWICH, RHODOR, REPORT I.F.S. STARFURY (K 5054) AS COMMANDING OFFICER.

(3) SUBMIT TRAVEL EXPENSE VOUCHERS DIRECT ADMIRALTY C/O H. DRUMMOND, REAR ADMIRAL, I.F.

FOR THE EMPEROR:

ZORN E. BALGEE, CAPTAIN, I.F.

Captain of the Starfury!

At first, he thought the yellow plastic sheet must be some kind of joke, but there was really nothing humorous or even clever in the wording. It looked like every other Personnel hardcopy he'd ever seen. Read like them, too—totally impersonal and worded for easy interpretation by the most backward of simians.

Was it real? He fretted about it until mid-evening, then marched into the message center and fired off a KA'PPA to the Bureau of Fleet Personnel in Avalon:

FROM:

W. A. BRIM, LT. CMDR, I.F.

ATALANTA, HADOR-HAELIC

TO:

BU FLEET PERSONNEL;

ADMIRALTY, AVALON

SUBJECT: DUTY ASSIGNMENT

REQUEST RETRANSMIT DUTY ASSIGNMENT

ORDERS

IFPC42746T-12C GROUP 198BA 189/55008

2398XCV-99-D0349CDC/573248. BELIEVE

PERSONAL COPY

ARRIVED GARBLED OR INCOMPLETE.

WILF ANSOR BRIM, LT. CMDR, I.F.

Less than a metacycle later, he picked up a second blue and gold envelope. With trembling fingers, he lipped it open and withdrew another yellow scrap of plastic: PERSONNEL ACTION MEMORANDUM

IMPERIAL FLEET

IFPC42746T-12C GROUP 198BA 189/55008

2398XCV-99-D0349CDC/573248 PERSONAL COPY 2

UNCLASSIFIED

FROM:

BU FLEET PERSONNEL;

ADMIRALTY, AVALON

TO:

W. A. BRIM, LT. CMDR, I.F.

ATALANTA, HADOR-HAELIC

SUBJECT: DUTY ASSIGNMENT

(1) YOU ARE DETACHED PRESENT DUTY AS OF 189/55008.

(2) PROCEED MOST EXPEDITIOUS TRANSPORT SHERRINGTON YARDS, BROMWICH, RHODOR. REPORT I.F.S. STARFURY (K 5054) AS COMMANDING OFFICER.

(3) SUBMIT TRAVEL EXPENSE VOUCHERS DIRECT ADMIRALTY C/O H. DRUMMOND, REAR ADMIRAL, I.F.

FOR THE EMPEROR:

ZORN E. BALGEE, CAPTAIN, I.F.

The news traveled rapidly. Next morning, his message queue was inundated with messages of congratulations, including an ecstatic one from Anna Romanoff, still a day out from Atalanta aboard S.S. Gertjens Enterprise. He also heard from Nik Ursis and Dr. Borodov, from Regula Collingswood and Erat Plutron, from Baxter Calhoun, from Lieutenant Commander Glendora Wellington, from Aram of Nahshon, and from an old shipmate named Utrillo Barbousse—though the latter message came through a little used communications channel with no address of origin attached.

Later that day, Romanoff rushed into his office direct from Atalanta's sprawling civilian terminal.

Dressed in pink coveralls and high heeled boots, she carried two fragile goblets and a large bottle of sparkling Logish Meem. So far as Brim was concerned, she was the greatest sight in the known Universe—even without meem.

"So congratulations are in order, eh?" she asked, handing him the bottle and setting the goblets carefully on the desk. "Regula KA'PPAed me as soon as she heard about it. Now, I want to hear firsthand."

Brim felt his face redden. "No big deal, Anna," he said bashfully, struggling to quietly uncork the old-fashioned bottle under a large red handkerchief. "New ship—new job. That's all." Moments later, the stopper came free with a hardy pop.

Romanoff brushed back a lock of her hair and perched on the corner of his desk. "I did read correctly about a position as the commanding officer, didn't I?" she asked with a knowing grin.

Brim nodded, carefully filling each goblet so the foaming meem wouldn't run all over his desk.

"I guess I wasn't surprised," she said, "—you were the only possible choice for Sherrington's new Starfury."

"Me?" Brim asked.

"Universe!" Romanoff groaned, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. "Even I know all about that.

Not only do you have more experience with Starfury prototypes than anybody else in the Fleet, but you have also earned yourself something of a reputation as a Helmsman in the last few years." Then she frowned. "Besides that, Wilf Brim," she said with a serious look in her eyes,

"Onrad's said on a number of occasions that you've come a long way in the last few years. You're ready for a shot at command."

"I wonder," he said, sipping his meem spontaneously, "am I really?"

She peered at him thoughtfully. "I suppose that depends," she said, looking him directly in the eye.

"Is Starfury what you want?"

Brim stared down at his goblet for a moment. "As a ship?"

"As a Skipper," she said.

"I think I've wanted to be her skipper so badly, I couldn't admit it to myself for fear somebody else got it...."

For a moment she got a faraway look in her eye. "You have come a long way," she whispered,

"—even in the few years I've known you, lover."

"What was that?" Brim asked.

"Nothing," she said with a little smile. "Sometimes, love makes me mumble. That's all." She poured more bubbly into their goblets.

Brim grinned as the fine old meem started to his head. "How in xaxt did you get this stuff into this office building?"

Romanoff grinned. "Oh, that wasn't much trouble," she said. "I called old Bosporus Gallsworthy from the front desk and simply told him what I was going to do."

"I'll bet he had a few choice comments about that." Brim commented with a grin.

"Not really," Romanoff said. "Since you don't work for him anymore, he claimed there wasn't much he could do."

"You mean that's all there was to it?" Brim asked.

"Except that we should get rid of it as quickly as possible. Otherwise, he'd be down to help."

Brim's eyes widened. "Gallsworthy's coming here now?"

"No." Romanoff said with a grin. "I told him we could handle it ourselves."

"In that case," Brim chuckled, "fill this goblet again. We've got a lot of meem to put away."

All too soon, Romanoff was on her way, leaving a tantalizing scent of perfume in her wake with the promise of a special celebration the moment he got back to his apartment. Afterward, Brim sipped slowly at a hot mug of cvceese' and stared at the scrap of yellow plastic that was still tucked into a corner of his desk. He did want Starfury. After years of challenge and excitement on the race circuit, his job as Diagnostic Helmsman seemed routine now—although he quickly reminded himself how glad he had once been to secure it.

He browsed a few volumes of technical data concerning the new ship, then called it a day. Before switching off his workstation, however, he downloaded several crew psychology volumes from the base library. In his new job, he would be responsible for a lot more than good Helmsmanship—and he meant to start with all the background he could get.

Little more than six months following the last Mitchell Trophy Race, Starfury coasted off the stocks with Brim at her partially finished helm. That evening, he found himself promoted to full Commander. Afterward—for the remainder of what seemed to be an interminable ordeal of administrative bilge—he spent most of his waking metacycles managing her fitting out, as Regula Collingswood had gleefully predicted he would. At long last, however, K 5054 was ready for space. Finished in pale blue hullmetal, she was so fast and powerfully armed that Wogord's famous yearly publication All the Galaxy's Starships termed her a "pocket battlecruiser."

The morning of her first flight, Brim was in the left-hand seat, commanding mostly Sherrington technicians—with a few old hands to assist. Bosporus Gallsworthy, once the greatest Helmsman in the Fleet, backed him up at the right console. Dean Nikolai Yanuarievich Ursis, Master of the prestigious Dityasburg Institute managed the systems console. P. Dvigat Krasni IV, Senior Director of Krasni-Peych, presided over the Drive chambers while Mark Valerian and Veronica Pike rode at the structures and navigation consoles respectively. And—unknown even to the Emperor—Crown Prince Onrad occupied a huge weapons-control station behind the helms.

History would never record that totally ridiculous crew—in the first place, nobody would have ever deemed it credible. But as they taxied out onto cold, gray Glammarian Bight, each understood that everyone aboard was riding much more than a starship. I.F.S. Starfury was a commitment.

Later, amid steady, velvet thunder from four Wizard-C Reflecting Drive units, Brim checked hundreds of colored patterns flowing across his readout panels, trimmed the autohelm slightly, and then relaxed with a feeling of real satisfaction. A few minor systems problems had surfaced so far—some still flashed angrily on warning panels here and there. But all in all, Starfury was nearly flawless. Outside her dimly lighted bridge, speeding stars streaked the Hyperscreens in a familiar "spaceman's tunnel" while five recently commissioned K-class destroyers struggled to maintain formation—after requesting a third reduction of speed. Following a day of intense concentration, he had a few moments to himself before he again busied himself reversing course for their scheduled return to Bromwich.

He took one last check of the readouts, then sank back into the deep cushions of his recliner with a grim smile. The future promised little in the way of his present tranquility. Ominous shadows of war once again darkened the galaxy in every quarter. Nergol Triannic busily augmented his already impossible demands against neighboring dominions like Fluvanna and Beta Jagow, bringing the delicate fabric of galactic civilization a little nearer to disaster with each new exaction. The Torond—rotten from within by Leaguer fifth columns—had already fallen with hardly a shot fired in its own defense. And in the Empire herself, League apologists like Commodore Puvis Amherst functioned with little or no oppostion, shrilly contesting every effort to preserve what few squadrons remained of the Imperial Fleet.

Starfury was potentially the most deadly warship ever launched. But alone, she could have little effect against whole fleets of powerful—albeit old-fashioned—enemies. Squadrons of Starfuries were needed to restore the Imperial Fleet—and soon. Yet even with the most up-to-date shipyards, building programs of such magnitude required time.

Brim pursed his lips as the great warship gracefully steered herself clear of a huge planetary system that materialized ahead. Could Nergol Triannic be stopped this time—or was it too late for anything or anyone to save Greyffin's Empire? He had a premonition that this and a number of similar questions would be satisfied sooner than anyone suspected.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1, **End of the Line**

CHAPTER 2, **Claudia**

Royal

Book Early for the

CHAPTER 3, **Old Friends**

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5, **Lys**

CHAPTER 6, **A Short Ride in a Fast Machine**

CHAPTER 7, **Princess Margot Effer'wyck-LaKarn**

CHAPTER 8, **Anna Romanoff**

CHAPTER 9, **Dityasburg**

CHAPTER 10, ***The Champion***