"But," Borodov finished for him, "you and Anna were the first two aboard I.F.S. Renown when word came through that the M-four's bridge pod had been recovered." He sounded as if he were grinning.
"We were lucky to find that pod at all," Onrad remarked in his distinctive brogue. "Our friend Brim did quite a thorough job of making sure nobody else would fly that contraption of yours, Valerian."
"That luck had Onrad written all over it," Valerian's deep voice commented in a serious tone. "You kept the search alive long after everybody else had given up, Your Highness. All I wanted to do was murder that zukeed flying the media ship."
Onrad laughed. "Well, I am in command of the squadron, after all," he chuckled, "—no trouble there.
Besides, you'd have assassinated me if I'd even looked as if I were going to give up."
"Lucky for us we had only one M-four," Collingswood said, "or Moulding would have killed himself trying to win for Brim."
"You know, I've got a hunch he can hear us," the mysterious voice interrupted. "What's the scope show, Jennie?"
"I'm getting definite reactions, Doctor Flynn," a female voice interrupted.
That one, Brim was sure he hadn't heard before. But he'd heard of Xerxes O. Flynn! That was who owned the other voice. A great feeling of relief flooded through him. Whatever was wrong, he was in the best possible hands. Flynn had been medical officer aboard both I.F.S. Truculent and I.F.S. Defiant.
Clearly, Onrad had signed the esteemed Doctor of Space Medicine aboard his own ship. Flynn was a true master of the healing machine.
"Wilf," Flynn said, "if you can hear any of this, blink your eyes twice."
It took every bit of his concentration, but Brim managed to blink twice.
"Well, I'll be xaxtdamned," Flynn said. "I guess we'll have to call off the Kerolean taxidermist we sent for." He chuckled. "Poor bastard—he's going to be disappointed. We promised him the ugliest human he'd ever laid eyes on."
"Doctor Flynn!" Romanoff exclaimed.
"I'm getting more reaction, Doctor..."
"Hey, Anna," Flynn said breezily. "That's no insult—it's quite an honor. I've seen some ugly ones, believe me. What do you think, Wilf? Does that hurt your feelings? Blink a couple of times for us."
Brim managed six blinks in a row. He knew he was going to be all right.
According to Flynn, Brim had been lucky in a number of ways. When he was extracted from the mangled cockpit capsule—using a carefully wielded collapsium torch—many bones in his upper torso had been shattered inside an "impregnable" battle suit. By all rights, he deserved to be dead. Only a left shoulder blade and—incredibly—his irreparable spinal column had been spared. His face was nearly flattened when his helmet deformed after impinging directly against a hullmetal bulkhead. Flynn had reconstructed new features only by skillfull interpolation of old Fleet medical records. Additionally, the tremendous concussion had driven bone splinters into the optical portions of both eyes. Repairing those took the most time, working mostly at a molecular level to conserve the incredible clarity that made Brim the finest Helmsman anywhere.
Nevertheless, despite the extent of his injuries, he was now out of danger and well on his way to a complete—if improbable—recovery. Flynn, a fancier of Atalantan rothcats, warned the Carescrian that he now had used up at least ten of his original nine lives.
Perhaps the best part of his recuperation came early, while he was still on board I.F.S. Resolute. Onrad brought the news personally. "Well, Wilf," the Prince said quietly one afternoon, "I suppose you've heard that you'll get to race in the Mitchell again, now that LaKarn's driver beat our friends from the League."
He chuckled. "Old Rogan said that Dampier of his was fast."
Brim took a deep breath as the machine's warm pseudopods gently manipulated his eyes. "I heard, all right, your Majesty," he said, carefully. "It was the best news I've had since I figured out I was going to live." He meant it.
"Marino's DA.67 is a damned handsome ship," Onrad observed. "Did you get to see it before...?"
"Only in the media, Your Majesty," Brim interjected. "But it looked like a fine ship. And you can bet that old Xnor Marino will be in there next year with an even faster version."
"No doubt," Onrad said. Then he laughed. "You haven't even mentioned second and third places. Aren't you interested—or does it even matter, now that you'll be racing in Valerian's new M-five next year?"
It was Brim's turn to chuckle. "It matters, Your Highness," he said. "I think you know how I feel about Kirsh Valentin."
Onrad laughed. "Well, Brim," he said, "in spite of your efforts to conceal it over the years, I have gotten the idea that you don't care for him a great deal." Then he paused for a moment. "The embassy, however, tells me that you have a much more, ah, should we say, friendly relationship with Praefect Greener."
Brim chuckled. "Somehow, Your Highness, I didn't think that was a completely private room they assigned me."
"Actually," Onrad said, "it was. But it isn't often Controllers come to spend the night, so, of course, she did attract her share of attention. And the rooms in that particular wing have uncommonly thin walls."
"I'm glad she at least took a third place," Brim said. "I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure if she actually could have beaten Valentin."
Onrad laughed. "He'd have her killed if she did." Then Brim felt the man's hand on his arm. "I'm terribly sorry about what's happened to Margot," he said in a serious tone. "I needed to tell you that. Neither Father nor I know what to do about it, either. She's LaKarn's legal wife, and because of it, she has dual citizenship. Otherwise, we'd demand her back. Unless one grows up smoking it—like most League children do who are destined for Controller training—TimeWeed will affect the brain. Flynn's best guess is that she's got maybe ten years. Then, well..." His voice trailed off.
After that, there was very little more to talk about.
Later, at the Imperial Hospital in Atalanta, it was Brim's job to make all the new body parts function as cooperating entities, including his eyes. With Toby Moulding generously supplying transportation, he spent countless metacycles doing physical drills of the most agonizing nature, until he could once again manage his gravcycle. After that, he divided his days between his job at the Fleet base, where he slaved tirelessly, regaining his old knack for Helmsmanship and working out in simulators, learning to fly Valerian's new M-5. Only irregular visits from Claudia Valemont and her husband broke the grueling schedule he set for himself—although he did manage to establish an active correspondence with the busy Anna Romanoff, who answered his messages from nearly every corner of the Empire. He wasn't about to let her off the hook; she'd promised him an evening.
Then, at long last, he was again bound for Rhodor, this time aboard the starliner S.S. Commerce Enterprise and luxuriating in first class by order of no less than Emperor Greyffin IV himself. But for all the heady opulence, he was most anxious to reach Sherrington's Woolston labs. In his latest correspondence with Valerian, he'd learned that one of the two M-5s ordered by the Society would soon complete her ground trials, and he intended to make her first flight himself. Besides, Dr. Borodov planned to be there this trip, and he hadn't seen the old gentleman for nearly a year.
When he climbed aboard the Sherrington Type 224 at the Bromwich terminal, he knew immediately that something troublesome was afoot. The little ship was already occupied by a quartet of thermal-transfer specialists from Krasni-Peych who had arrived aboard a Sodeskayan liner less than a metacyle prior to Enterprise. The Bears—ordered in by Dr. Borodov himself—were all more or less in a somber mood because the PV/12 Drive had lately encountered serious cooling problems. Heat elimination was always a special challenge when large emitter systems were installed in small starships where physical radiator area was at a premium.