Brim rubbed his chin. It did make sense, all right. With two new Drives—and probably half again her original power—the old starship ought to give anything a run for the money. If she could hold together.
He took a deep breath and peered at the two thick fairings—"trousers," Valerian called them—that attached the two lower hulls to the upper. They looked strong enough. But they had been designed more than a decade previously, for Drives that were vastly less powerful than the ones Valerian was talking about. "You don't think they'd tear her apart do you, Mark?" he asked.
"I don't think so," Valerian replied with a frown. "The only worry I've got right now is a possibility of resonance flutter at really high speeds. And a good Helmsman could take care of that by slacking off on the power." He looked Brim in the eye. "Couldn't he?"
Brim shrugged. "I don't see why not, Mark," he said with a grin. "It's a lot like talking to one of those guys from CIGA—so long as I'm standing here safe and sound in the hangar, everything sounds fine." He took a deep breath. "But up there, well..." He shrugged.
Valerian laughed wryly. "Yeah," he said. "I understand. SMOP—Small Matter Of Piloting, as they say."
He stared for a moment at the stained concrete floor of the laboratory. "Unfortunately," he continued after a moment, "bloody stubborn Prince Onrad has ordered Sherrington to come up with a starship racer that's speedy enough to beat the new Gantheisser 209V-2s—or rather their specifications. And that's what I've done." He shook his head angrily. "Of course, nobody outside the League's actually seen a 209V-2 yet, so far as I know." He raised his hands in supplication. "Well, with a pair of Lyon Napier-type Drive crystals—the kind they run in tandem on the latest FairmileD attack boats—this little antique has better specs than the ones Gantheisser's been handing out to the media. And believe me, Wilf," he added, prodding Brim's chest emphatically, "until the Sodeskayans get their act together and finish that so-called Wizard, this old M-four is the best I can do." Before the Carescrian could react, Valerian strode across the aisle and grabbed the corner of a tarpaulin covering a shape that was slightly larger than the M-4 itself. "Hey, Paul," he barked to a technician across the floor, "let's have some light over here!" Then he gave the canvas a sharp tug.
Brim nearly gasped as the big cover slid to the floor. "Universe," he whispered. Before him, he recognized the partially completed M-5—a graceful, trihulled synthesis of flowing lines and compound ellipses. Even less than half-finished, it was enough to take his breath away.
"Like her?" Valerian asked.
Brim only nodded, so stunned by the new ship that he feared his voice might betray him. After considerable delay, he managed a weak, "Yeah, Mark. I, ah... like her."
Valerian put his hands in his pockets. "Even if I could get her ready for Tarrott," he said, "she'd hold only one of those new Napiers—and as heavy as I've built her, she simply wouldn't have a chance." He swept his hand from stem to stern. "This baby's designed for a whole new generation of starship Drives," he said. "When they're ready, she'll be ready; without them, she's nothing much more than a dream."
" Some dream," Brim said soberly. "Unfortunately, the League's already got two Mitchell victories."
"Yeah," Valerian said, "I know. If they walk off with it this year, we won't need an M-five."
"That's about the size of it," Brim agreed, turning toward the M-4 again. "How long before I get to take this one up?"
Valerian raised his eyebrows. "Probably you won't want to hold your breath," he said. "I doubt if she'll be ready to fly much before race time."
" Much before race time?" Brim asked incredulously. "You mean that I'll have to—"
"—learn to fly it in a simulator? Probably you will. Is that so bad?"
SMOP! Brim shook his head. Valerian was, after all, only a designer. It took a Helmsman to really understand. He gulped a deep breath and wrestled his temper under control. "Like you, Mark," he said after a moment, "I'm not all that thrilled with the way things are turning out right now, but by Voot's greasy beard, I'll give it my best shot."
Valerian smiled grimly and extended his hand. "Thanks, friend," he said. "I'm well aware that my best shot will be a lot safer than yours when race day,rolls around."
Brim nodded as he shook Valerian's hand. "I guess that's true," he acknowledged with a chuckle. "But sometimes safety becomes a xaxtdamned small issue." In his mind's eye, he could see Krish Valentin standing tall and handsome in the Tarrott winner's circle. He ground his teeth—if he had anything to do with it, that would never happen again. After a few moments of silence, he turned to Valerian and smiled dourly. "Better have someone show me where the simulators are, Mark," he said. "It's high time I got to work."
CHAPTER 6
A Short Ride in a Fast Machine
One week prior to the race, the Carescrian stood in a corner of the Imperial shed at Lake Tegeler watching a Sherrington crew complete the assembly of Valerian's re-Drived M-4. Brim had actually flown the little starship three times before it was hurriedly dismantled, loaded aboard one of the newer cruisers in Greyffin IV's diminished Imperial Fleet, and rushed headlong to Tarrott, where it arrived less than a day before the official deadline for forfeiture by default.
"She'll be ready for you in the mornin', Mr. Brim," a heavy-set Crew Chief in blue coveralls said.
"Very well, Johnson," Brim said, "—and thanks. I know how much work that's been."
"Here's hoping she holds together, now," Johnson said. "We've done everything we can to put 'er to rights."
"I understand that," Brim said with an appreciative smile. He meant it. Johnson's crew had worked sorcery getting the old ship to this stage. Now, it was up to one Wilf Ansor Brim to husband it through the race—and still manage to win somehow. "When would be a good time to show up?"
"How about Dawn plus three?" Johnson asked. "She'll be right ready to fly by then."
"So will I," Brim declared, taking one last look at the handsome old racer. Then he turned on his heel and strode out into the late afternoon sunlight, where a limousine skimmer from the embassy hovered, its chauffeur holding the door.
Inside the passenger compartment, Toby Moulding relaxed in Fleet-blue fatigues and comfortable boots.
"I assume she'll be ready in the morning?" he said from a mound of cushions.
"Johnson claims Dawn plus three," Brim replied.
"Then you can count on it," Moulding assured him. "Ted's the best Sherrington has—and they're all pretty good there." He peered into Brim's face. "You don't seem very happy about it, though," he said.
Brim shook his head as the chauffeur picked up the cable and they ponderously started back toward Tarrott. "I wish I were, Toby," he said. "But there's something wrong with that ship. I can feel it in my bones—and don't you laugh. Everybody gets hunches now and then. This one happens to be mine." He folded his arms and stared out the window, biting his lip.
"You don't have to fly it, you know," Moulding said at length. "And that doesn't mean that I—or any other member of the HighSpeed Starflight team, for that matter—would volunteer to fly her in your place. If you don't think she's flyable, then it's your call." He laughed grimly. "We're here as backup Helmsmen, not potential suicides."
"Thanks," Brim said. "If I stepped aside and somebody else got killed because of it, I'd never forgive myself." He shook his head. "I'm the only one who's flown the M-four since the new Drives were installed. At least I got a glimpse of her little quirks in person."