He laughed callously. "I know she's anxious to see you." He took Margot's arm and leered at her. "You remember your old lover Wilf Brim, don't you, my dear?"
"You bastard," Brim gasped in anger, but Margot clutched his arm.
"Don't, Wilf," she warned, her eyes distant and glistening. "You can do nothing but make more trouble for me."
"She's right, you know, Brim," LaKarn sniggered. "But as I promised, old boy, we'll talk soon about the race—and a lot of other subjects as well. I'll be in touch." With that, he nodded to the protocol officer, and the next guest in line was announced.
Brim stood speechless before the woman who once had meant more to him than anything in the Universe. "I don't know what to say," he stammered.
"It's all right," she said, "neither do I."
"Y-you seem to be... ah..."
"Straight?" she finished for him. "Yes," she said, "for the moment."
"But—"
"There are no buts," she said. "Before this evening is over, I shall be the same as I was when you last saw me in Tarrott. The urges come at different times—none predictable, but all irresistible."
"M-margot." Brim began, but already a new guest had been introduced, and the next in line was waiting impatiently behind him. "Will I see you?" he asked desperately.
"Perhaps, Wilf," she said anxiously, "but I can promise nothing." Then, with a look of almost physical pain, she introduced him to the next dignitary in the line: an OverGalite'er of some sort. Brim never really caught his name.
Nor did he see Margot again that evening. Shortly after the last guests meandered through the receiving line, she disappeared for the remainder of the reception.
After opening ceremonies the next morning, Brim, Moulding, and Valerian, all dressed in blue Sherrington coveralls, found themselves balancing on a narrow work platform beneath the number two M-5 while they recalibrated an array of skewed accelerometers in the steering engine. As they worked, a small, wiry man walked up to the gravity pad looking like he owned it. Moulding turned and recognized him immediately. "Hello, it's Drummond from the embassy at Tarrott, if I recall correctly," he declared, peering over his gamma-Zemmerscope. "Aren't you a little far afield here in Rudolpho?"
Drummond laughed, as if his appearance were nothing out of the ordinary. "Oh, we embassy hands get around much more than one might think," he said, stepping over a bundle of glowing, multicolored cables.
He was dressed in a splendidly tailored business suit with no trace of embassy green. "Tell me, Gentlemen," he inquired, looking up at the work platform with an impish look in his eyes, "have either of you learned to pronounce 'Arry yet?"
Brim laughed. " 'Arry," he exclaimed.
"Right you are!" Drummond said, pointing a finger at the Carescrian.
Moulding groaned. "Somehow," he replied. "I have lingering doubts that even you pronounce it correctly most of the time, Mister Drummond."
"Gorblimey, Gov'ner," Drummond stage-whispered in overacted horror. " 'Ow could you even think such a thing?"
"Just a hunch," Moulding chuckled.
"And here I thought I was believable." Drummond laughed, just as Valerian extricated himself from the hatch with a fistful of glowing wires and a hand-held feedback indicator.
"General Drummond!" the designer exclaimed with a wide grin. "What brings you to our humble shed?"
Drummond laughed. "Mark, my friend, no shed even remotely associated with your starships could be described as humble." Then, abruptly, he sobered. "Actually, I have a message for these two troublemakers you've got working with you."
Moulding raised a blond eyebrow. "For us,... General?" he asked.
"Aye," Drummond replied, "mostly for your friend Brim, Commander," he said, "but you'll likely be involved one way or another." He glanced around the hangar, then looked Brim directly in the eye.
"Wilf," he began in an underbreath, "you'll this day be called to a very private meeting by your friend Rogan LaKarn and a few of his friends from the League. They're clearly planning to make you some sort of offer concerning the race." He grimaced. "We're interested in learning precisely what they want—although we think we know part of that—and what kind of deal they're offering. But most important of all, we want to know who's there to back up the deal."
Brim wondered what branch of the Admiralty Drummond really represented. "Very well, General," he said. "I'll learn everything I can: what they want, how much they'll pay, and who's in on the offer. Is that correct?"
"You've got it, Mister," the man said. Then he peered over his glasses thoughtfully. "I know that civilians, aren't obligated to help," he continued, "and I'm no prouder than anyone else about the treatment you got from our own dear Admiralty after the war, but..."
Brim held up a hand in protest. "That's all past, General," he said, "and no longer very important."
Drummond shook his head for a moment in silence. "Thanks, Brim," he said presently. "It's people like you who give me some hope the old Empire might yet survive, in spite of many inexcusable blunders."
Then, casting his eyes around as if he were about to divulge some critical state secret, he stepped closer to the gravity pad. " 'Ow do you two pronounce 'Arry, again?" he asked in a stage whisper.
" 'Arry," Brim repeated with a grin.
" 'Arry," Moulding sputtered.
"Good," Drummond pronounced soberly. "Can't be too careful these days." Then, with a grim little nod,
"When you're ready to talk, Brim, call the embassy and ask for me. They'll put you in touch." With that, he turned on his heel and started across the floor, stepping deftly through the clutter of cables and test equipment, as if he'd spent a lot of his life in shipyards. Just as he reached the door, he stopped and looked back toward the M-5. "Oh, Mark," he called. "One thing I almost forgot."
"What's that, General?" Valerian asked.
"After you've been with those two for a while, be sure you check your wallet and timepiece," he called.
Then, stepping through the door, he was gone.
Late that afternoon, Drummond's prediction came true. Brim was just climbing from the M-5 after a last practice flight prior to the next morning's race when Moulding handed him a small, white, unmarked envelope.
"Messenger delivered one to both of us while you were up," he said. "Thought you'd want to see it right away. Mine's an invitation to some ghastly sounding bash tonight, with a promise to pick me up at the embassy at Evening plus one."
Brim carefully zipped open his envelope and removed a delicate sheet of expensive-looking plastic stationery. Raising his eyebrows, he unrolled it and began to read: Wilf:
It has been much too long since you so charmingly tutored me in Avalonian. With your friend Anna Romanoff gratifyingly absent until tomorrow, we might get together for another special session this evening. I shall have a chauffeured car outside the Imperial shed at Evening plus one. Don't be late, dearest—the sooner we start, the more penetrating our studies will be.
Inge Groener
Brim scratched his head and laughed wryly. "What ever happened to good old-fashioned privacy?" he grumped.
"Privacy?"
Brim shook his head. "My invitation's not quite the same sort as yours, old man," he said. "Kind of personal. But it looks as if they're xaxt-bent on breaking us up for the evening."
"I wonder why," Moulding mused.
Brim pursed his lips. "Friend Toby," he said, "I have a hunch you're about to be entertained in a most extravagant manner." He chuckled. "You'll want to keep your eye on the old timepiece—wherever you might have disposed of your trousers—or you may just miss the whole race."
"Hmm," Moulding said with raised eyebrows. "If I've got to be involved in intrigue, this certainly sounds like the very best kind. But what about you?"