As he expected, everything about the Drives was also precisely in order: intercoolers ready, time synchronizers on, mass compensators turning, blast tubes open, overdrivers off, HyperBoost on, and reserve energy at maximum.
At 0.95 LightSpeed—while forward vision degenerated to a confusing reddish muzziness—the generators began to run out of energy and he connected the starboard Drive crystal to the power mains.
Passing through 0.98 LightSpeed, he keyed in start for about twelve clicks, then hit the plasma primer and energize. With a harsh resonance that shook Valerian's little starship like a leaf in a storm, the big Lyon Napier came to life, barking out a satisfying rumble and a cloud of green radiation aft. The port crystal followed suit at 0.99 LightSpeed, and less than a heartbeat later, normal outside vision returned as the Hyperscreens began to translate. Behind him, two pulsing Drive plumes looked for all the world like the wake from a ghostly oceangoing ship.
For the next few cycles, he let the speed build as he headed out for the racecourse. During an actual heat, he'd now be under maximum acceleration, but he was still learning the little M-4, and this morning there appeared to be a hundred spectator starships nosing around the course, from private yachts to full-fledged warships.
When he entered the actual circuit, he took the first turn in a wide arc while he gained the feel of the little ship's stiff controls. Clearly, he chuckled to himself, Valerian's M-4 would never be remembered for her maneuverability.
Lap after lap, he flashed around the course, bettering his speed with each circuit: 72.18M LightSpeed...
74.67M ... 75.91M... 78.4M. But with each increase in velocity, the controls grew heavier and harder to operate. Valerian had invested only minimal volume in a steering engine. "She's no attack craft," he was fond of saying. And it made sense at the time. Brim grinned ruefully. At least he could detect no flutter. If there had been anyone to listen, he'd have cheered about that, but his only link to the outside was by KA'PPA COMM, and the sole person monitoring his frequency would be a bored Leaguer flight controller.
On the tenth lap, he increased his speed to 79.64M LightSpeed. By this time, the big Drive crystals were howling through the spaceframe like Great Sodeskayan crag wolves, and the controls were growing harder to use by the moment. He made a note about that in the log book, then steeled himself for the long straightaway. Somewhere between his present velocity and the next increase of two and a half M's of LightSpeed, his old ship would either run into flutter problems, or he would push her for eighty-five.
Carefully, he gated more energy to the Drive, scanned his instruments, then increased the power again.
The second time, he thought he detected a slight wobble in the steady thunder coming from below his feet. Nearly half of the long straightaway remained, so once more, he opened the energy gate. This produced an immediate and definite change in the sound of the Drive, as well as the feel of the controls: almost definitely the onset of flutter. He bit his lip. Now was the time to pull back, at least for any Helmsman with half a brain—or one who didn't have a race he had to win. Grimly, he turned the cabin gravity restraints to maximum, then tightened his chest and shoulder belts. One more increase in the energy. By now the hull was vibrating noticeably and his instruments registered more than 83.5M LightSpeed. He grimaced while he prepared for the next star. At this velocity, he wasn't able to cut the turns so closely.
A moment later, he saw the yacht.
She was a sizable craft—clearly modified from wartime service—and she must have been carrying media people, for she was blazing along where she had no right to be, well inside the restricted lane. Her Drive was throwing up a tremendous wake of gravitron combers—mass waves that Brim's little M-4 violently punched through as if it were smashing a whole succession of brick walls. Few people had any idea at all just how fast 83M LightSpeed was. One had to actually be there to know.
Ordinarily, the ship and its wake would have posed no problem, even well inside the restricted lane where they were. Brim, however, was traveling nearly three times her velocity and was under only a minimum of control—his steering engine almost totally useless for anything but wide-radius turns. "Voot's bloody beard— move!" he yelled helplessly as the range closed with awesome speed, but even if anyone had heard his voice, it was far too late for help.
No time to pause and consider the multitude of possible alternatives. No thought of saving the ship or himself. A lot of people were on that yacht ahead, and he was about to open it like a rotten fruit! There was only one way out—and if he were wrong, he had to go ahead anyway. Instantaneous decision was 90 percent of being right in all the myriad emergencies he'd survived over the years. To be wrong and follow through on the mistake was better than being right too late.
Desperately, he poured energy to the starboard Drive crystal alone. At the last possible moment, the jolting, bouncing racer yawed sharply to one side, then jogged past the yacht with little more than a c'lenyt between them. But the extra power also increased the M-4's previous vibrations by an order of magnitude. Resonance flutter! Instantly, the whole cabin seemed to come apart, a warning klaxon sounded, both forward Hyperscreens disintegrated in a billion whirring crystal shards, and then the whole Universe shattered into one excruciating instant of pain.
It seemed like a thousand Standard years since the accident... yet Brim had a difficult time remembering anything specific about what had happened afterward. He couldn't even remember his previous evening, although clearly it must have been one Universe of a party.
A monumental headache was absolutely dissolving his cranium, and he had no desire at all to get out of bed. Who had he been out with? Not Margot—he was sure of that. Inge? He didn't think so.
Anna, perhaps?
He stiffened. She was certainly on his mind. Was she in bed with him? He ground his teeth. If it were Anna—Great Universe! Why couldn't he remember? Had he been too drunk to make it worth her while?
Had he even been able to... He felt a surge of panic. Anna—wonderful, fragile Anna—and for the life of him he couldn't remember what she looked like when they... His head began to spin with apprehension.
Carefully, he started to probe the bed with his hand.
But his arm didn't seem to work. He tried again. Nothing. In fact, he couldn't move anything, not even an eyelid. Abruptly, he stopped worrying about Anna Romanoff—he was thraggling well paralyzedl By Voot's greasy beard, what in the Universe had he been drinking?
He tried to calm himself by doing a mental checklist, of sorts. He was breathing, although how long he might keep that up was anybody's guess. And, except for his headache, he didn't hurt anywhere. Mostly, so far as he could ascertain without moving anything, he was sort of numb.
And sleepy, again. To xaxt with the checklist—maybe he was dying! "No!" he yelled aloud. "No!" But try as he might, he couldn't match the wave of incredible lassitude that was overtaking him. After a while, he just stopped fighting...
When next he awoke, he could hear voices. And this time, he could open his eyes, too—although he couldn't seem to focus on anything. Nevertheless, somebody else certainly could.
"His eyes are open!" Anna Romanoff's soft voice exclaimed in a whisper.
"Hmm, yes," a strangely familiar, masculine voice agreed, though Brim couldn't place it. "And right on schedule. It's nothing less than a miracle."
"He's been through quite a few of those." It was Regula Collingswood. "I wasn't worried."
"We Sodeskayans would be the very last to impugn your words, Regula," Ursis chuckled, "but..."