They hung together for what seemed like an eternity. Then finally, gently, he released her.
As he moved away, she finally raised her face to him and—Lord of the Universe, how alluring she was!
Only now it was probably too late to try again. "Anna," he whispered. In spite of his fears, he took her hands, warm and soft in his. In that moment, he knew. She was also vulnerable. She was his! He felt his breathing deepen and his knees grow weak. He wanted her the way he'd wanted the class beauty at the Helmsmen's Academy. Not just for the sex—any woman could give sex. He wanted to make love with her because she was the best. The most beautiful. The most successful. He put his arms around her again, and this time, she yielded completely. Her breathing had become labored as well. "Anna," he repeated urgently, "will you?"
"I-I don't know, Wilf," she whispered after a long moment. "I'm not thinking very rationally."
Suddenly, he went cold sober, as if someone had poured water over him. He had bedded that class beauty as soon as he had gotten the chance, but only once. Now, because of that, he was going to walk away from Anna Romanoff, a creature at least an order of magnitude more desirable. He wanted a lot more than a quick romp with this fascinating woman. A lot more. Taking a deep breath, he grasped her hand. "I'd better go," he stammered. "I'll message you. All right?"
Romanoff looked relieved and disappointed at the same time. "All right, Wilf," she whispered, opening the door. "I'd love to hear from you."
"Goodnight, Anna."
"Goodnight, Wilf," she said, staring into his eyes for a moment as if she were trying to find something very important there. Then she stepped inside and closed the door.
Alone in his room, Brim got little sleep that night—or the next.
Rudolpho was the largest city on the mostly barren planet Horblein, fifth satellite of Gragoth in the Aakreid Sector. It was also capital of the Torond, a dominion of some sixteen occupied planets whirling within an extensive asteroid belt rich in crystalline Kapal, a critical substance in forging Drive crystals. For an important seat of government, however, the city had grown large much too quickly. It had somehow evaded the mellowing process that with cities, as with many foods, provides the difference between fare for the gourmand and fare for the gourmet. Its architecture was monotonously modern, its streets tediously arranged in a perfect grid, its terrain precisely landscaped, down to the placement of individual trees. Even people here lacked any unique personality, appearing to have borrowed from the citizens of Tarrott lock, stock, and uniforms. In the streets, every man, woman, and child wore some sort of uniform, including black-garbed, imitation Controllers called Grenzen. "Ugly lot," had been Moulding's only comment as they followed still another intelligence-officer-cum-chauffeur to a waiting limousine.
Brim couldn't have agreed more. He'd wondered how Margot managed to stand her life here. Then he'd remembered the smell of TimeWeed and shuddered.
Now, two nights before the race, Brim and Moulding attended the traditional prerace reception in a colossal hall of state constructed on the shore of artificial Lake Garza that served as both Rudolpho's terminal and LaKarn's elaborate new racing complex. The hall, as well as the complex, still displayed signs of damp cement and plaster from the recent construction.
Tonight, Brim was dressed in his own suit of evening clothes, the first he'd ever possessed. He'd purchased it used, of course. But that sort of clothing rarely changed style, and it was magnificently cut.
Its former owner had clearly been a man of both taste and wealth. More than anything, the suit reflected Brim's mending financial and social status, and he'd been eager to show it off to Anna Romanoff.
Unfortunately, she was still en route to the race after an extended business conference halfway across the galaxy and was not due to arrive in Rudolpho until the morning of the race itself.
All things being equal, Brim couldn't decide if Romanoff's absence on this particular night was better for him or not. From the tenor of their correspondence, he had clearly established a special relationship with her. But in only a few cycles, he would have a chance to speak personally with Margot, and he had no idea what that would do to his feelings. He'd been peering toward the head of the line where she stood with LaKarn, greeting dignitaries and principals of the race itself. She wore a short, orange-vermillion party dress with matching elbow-length gloves, and as usual, she was gorgeous. Statuesque and seductive as ever, she gave no sign of her addiction as she smiled, occasionally bending forward to better hear the banalities muttered by her awestruck guests, and generally acting as if she were delighted to greet everyone. Brim nodded to himself. He guessed she might be unique in that. Her Royal Highness, Margot, Princess of Effer'wyck really did like people and enjoyed entertaining them.
Then he bit his lip. The Margot he'd known before her addiction enjoyed people. With a cold feeling in his chest, he reminded himself that this beautiful woman was no longer his lover. He'd spent considerable time discussing her plight with Xerxes Flynn and learned that the potent Time Weed would effect drastic, unpredictable changes in her personality.
All the way through the long waiting line, Moulding—who tomorrow would pilot the second M-5—maintained a rapid-fire conversation about the coming race, clearly trying to bolster his partner's spirits as they approached the reception area. Brim truly appreciated his efforts, but with the advent of Anna Romanoff in his life, the effects of his changed relationship to Margot had been considerably blunted. Now, as Moulding preceded him, exchanging greetings with Rogan LaKarn, Brim peered forward and momentarily caught her eye. In one awful instant, their minds met and she conveyed a look of utter torment. The ghastly realization hit him like a body blow, and he understood—as might only a former lover—that she was suffering a kind of anguish he could barely imagine.
At long last, a sleek, black-uniformed protocol officer announced, "Wilf Ansor Brim, Carescrian and Principal Helmsman of the Imperial Starflight Society."
Rogan LaKarn clasped Brim's hand in a firm grip. He was dressed in the ebony uniform of a Grenzen Commodore with double-breasted tunic, black shirt and tie, jodhpurs, and shiny, knee-high riding boots.
"Ah, Brim, my good fellow," he said, almost as if he meant it, "welcome to Rudolpho. We are given to understand that you have delusions this year of winning the trophy."
"A few, perhaps," Brim said, glancing sidelong toward Mar-got who was laughing at something Moulding had just quipped. Then he returned LaKarn's phony smile with one of his own. "I suppose we'll have to run the race before we know whose delusions were appropriate, won't we?"
"True," LaKarn conceded, the smile remaining on his handsome face. "However, if the ISS continues to field space garbage like Valerian's poor old M-four, you may not live to find out." He looked at his fingernails. "This year, we understand that they will risk your neck to prove the Sodeskayan's untried Wizard Drive—with cooling problems, no less," he added as if he were savoring the words. "How generous of you, my Carescrian friend, especially after the treatment you received from your Imperial associates after the war."
Brim laughed grimly, mustering all the good nature left in him. "I can handle the Wizard," he said with a confident nod.
"Yes," LaKarn said, his countenance giving way to a momentary look of speculation, "one is certain that you hope you can handle it. However, last time you played with the Imperial snake, you were bitten quite badly." With that, he reverted to his former mood of disdain. "But we shall talk more of that, soon, Brim, believe me. For now—well, I am sure you are looking forward to a reunion with your former paramour."