"I noticed some real corkers in the simulator, myself," Moulding said.
"The simulator didn't get 'em by half," Brim grumped.
"Then what do you plan to do?"
"I don't know right now, Toby," Brim said. "I suppose I'll make up my mind sometime before tomorrow morning."
"Right ho," Moulding agreed, clamping a reassuring hand on Brim's shoulder. "A couple more metacycles either way isn't going to count much difference once you've got your decision nailed down."
Brim nodded. "Meanwhile," he said, "there's the bloody Leaguer's reception tonight. And just living through that ought to be more than enough challenge for the rest of this day."
"Wilf," Moulding laughed, "one could get the idea that you don't love the Leaguers—as our friends the CIGAs presume we do."
"Who, me?" Wilf asked, eyes wide in mock surprise. "Dislike the Leaguers? Now where would you get an idea like that?"
"Oh, I don't know," Moulding answered with a careless shrug. "Maybe it has something to do with a prediction of mine."
"What kind of prediction?" Brim asked.
Moulding frowned. "The prediction that you'll be fool enough to risk your neck in that hotted-up M-four just so the bloody Leaguers can't bag the trophy without a fight."
Brim only laughed. "Toby Moulding," he said grimly, "you are a very convincing and perceptive predictor indeed."
After his second floodlit procession to the Chancellery, Brim found himself in another reception line with Kabul Anak's innocuous-looking visage near the far end. This time, however, Kirsh Valentin stood in the place of honor at Anak's left hand, clad in dress blacks with a chest full of medals and gold cordons looping down from his right epaulette.
"Aha," Moulding chuckled under his breath, "I can tell right away that this is going to be a wonderful evening for you."
"Just wun-derful," Brim grumped. "Why, Tarrott is simply full of my favorite people"
"Hmm," Moulding said suddenly, nodding toward the front entrance, "now here comes someone who doesn't fit your model of Tarrott."
Brim turned just as Anna Romanoff entered the Chancellery on the arm of a tall, handsome civilian.
"See," Moulding said, pointing to the couple as they handed their wraps to a aide-de-camp, "you certainly count her as a friend, don't you?"
"Unfortunately, only a friend," Brim admitted absently. He'd never seen her dressed the way she was tonight. She wore a low-cut, white gown, long, white gloves, a stylishly short skirt, and white, spike-heeled shoes that set off a pair of gorgeous legs. All that remained of the formidable businesswoman Brim had come to know was the soft, reddish brown hair, that she still wore more or less gathered into a loose braid at the back of her head. She was everything Brim imagined she might be, and much more. He felt a twinge of jealousy when the man took Romanoff's elbow and guided her to the end of the receiving line, conversing with Anak's aide-de-camp as if such affairs were a commonplace part of his life. "Wonder who she's with?" Brim asked.
"Oh, I know him," Moulding replied. "That's Wyvern J. Theobold—from Civilization Lixor. He's heir to Theobold Interspace, one of the biggest armaments empires in the galaxy."
"Whatever else he's got going for him," Brim commented absentmindedly, "he also has excellent taste in women."
"I say," Moulding observed. "I didn't know you were so taken with our comely ISS Secretary."
Brim felt his face redden. "W-what? Taken?" he stammered. "Not at all. I was thinking that she's sort of good-looking. That's all."
"Oh," Moulding said with an unconvinced grin, "of course. Sorry." Clearly, he didn't believe a word.
When they had worked their way to the front of the line, Moulding was announced first even though he was behind Brim in the slow-moving procession. Valentin shook Moulding's hand in a perfunctory manner, mouthed a few words, then quickly passed him off to Anak while he turned to Brim contemptuously.
"Principal Helmsman to the Imperial Starflight Society, Private Citizen Wilf Ansor Brim!" the aide-de-camp announced.
"Brim—my old adversary," the handsome Leaguer brayed. "Welcome again to Tarrott." He grinned with some inner pleasure. "If I remember correctly, the last time we spoke, you promised that you would discuss this year's races—but only at race time." He laughed. "Well, Carescrian, the time has come to talk. I look forward to learning how you plan to compete against our new Gantheissers with Valerian's ancient M-four."
"The race hasn't been run, yet, Valentin," Brim said calmly, trying to conceal the fact that he'd been stung.
Valentin laughed again. "Ah, yes," he said. "That was your friend Moulding's statement last year. Can't you Imperials come up with something more original—or perhaps more meaningful? You do remember who won the race, don't you?"
Brim was about to answer when Valentin sneeringly nodded his head toward Admiral Anak. "Save it for the reception, Brim," he said. "I shall make sure we have some time to talk this evening. Your excuses in advance for this year's loss ought to prove quite amusing indeed." Abruptly, he turned to his right while Brim bit his lip in frustration. "Admiral Anak," he said without further ado, "I believe you recall meeting ex-Lieutenant Wilf Brim at last year's race reception?"
Tonight, Anak was dressed in a plain civilian evening suit with only a few medals dangling from his chest, although a portentous black and yellow sash ran diagonally across his ruffled shirt. He nodded at Valentin's words. "Yes, Provost, I remember him quite well," he said without apparent emotion.
"Welcome again to Tarrott, Brim," he pronounced in Vertrucht while extending his hand in the Imperial fashion. "I understand that you've returned to wrest the trophy from young Valentin here."
"That is correct, Admiral," Brim answered as Valentin smirkingly turned to his next guest.
Anak glowered. "And you actually will attempt highspeed starflight in that overpowered relic of Valerian's?"
"I will, sir," Brim answered, a little startled by the Admiral's abrupt manner.
Anak nodded while for a long moment his eyes focused somewhere distant. "I don't suppose there is any way to deter you from that sort of vainglorious nonsense?" he asked presently.
Brim felt his mind whirl. What was the old Admiral getting at?
"Brim," Anak continued quietly, "listen to this carefully—I have time to say it only once: engineers from both Gantheisser and Gorn-Hoff have calculated that the two Lyon Napiers in your M-four will interact with destructive resonance flutter when you reach approximately eighty-two M LightSpeed. Our covert agents tell me that you have yet to exceed eighty in your tests." He looked the Carescrian squarely in the eye. "In the name of all that is Universal, don't throw your life away." Then, mercurially as he had begun, he turned to the woman on his right, the curvaceous Helmsman who drove her Gantheisser to second place behind Valentin in the previous year's race. "Praefect Groener," he said, as breezily as if he had never seen Brim before in his life, "it is my pleasure to present Mr. Wilf Ansor Brim, Principal Helmsman of the Imperial Starflight Society. "
Groener's dress blacks consisted of a tight-fitting black tunic with a military skirt that was short enough to flaunt voluptuously athletic legs and small, high-booted feet. She also smelled slightly of TimeWeed.
"Good evening, Mr. Brim," she said in Vertrucht-accented Avalonian. "Kirsh has often described your considerable abilities in Vertrucht. Perhaps later this evening, you might permit me to practice my Avalonian on you?" Beneath a peaked Controller's cap, her blue eyes probed with a half-friendly wariness, as if she expected a rebuff.
Brim silently recalled a futile mission to capture an enemy ship when he ended up being captured instead by Kirsh Valentin—and the cold-blooded torture he later endured at the hands of the young Controller.