"Probably the only difference between the two of us is that I may know the name of the entertainer,"
Brim answered. He laughed and shook his head. "Crazy, this racing business," he said. "In any other circumstances, we'd be xaxtdamned fools to get ourselves tangled in something like this the night before we fly. But our friend Drummond—General Drummond, no less—has got us locked into making just that kind of mistake." He shook his head. "I hope he's also prepared to help if we need it."
Precisely at Evening plus one, an unmarked limousine skimmer pulled up at the main entrance to the Imperial shed. "You Brim?" a great, hulking chauffeur demanded through the window. He had light blond hair and the dull, close-set eyes of a bully.
"That's me," Brim answered evenly.
"Get in," the chauffeur ordered insolently.
Brim silently climbed into the back seat. "All right," he said as the man closed his window, "I'm ready."
Without another word, they set off at high speed, clearing the huge racing complex in a matter of cycles, then heading along a major highway toward the shimmering towers of central Rudolpho itself. Before they arrived, however, the skimmer veered through a warren of side streets, skidded into a wide driveway, and drew to an abrupt halt on the capacious front terrace of a huge estate. Brim got out and stood for a moment, staring at the great mansion and taking stock of his situation.
"Inside," the chauffeur suddenly growled from directly beside him. "This is a blaster in your ribs."
Brim flinched as something jabbed his side. It seemed prudent to believe the purported blaster was real.
He ground his teeth in irritation. How could he have been so xaxtdamned careless?
"Move," the Leaguer grunted, "and don't get any ideas about trouble, Carescrian. I'd love to blow you away."
Brim kept his silence and started across the terrace. He didn't believe the Leaguer had any intention of actually using the blaster. His job was to deliver a live Wilf Brim to some sort of meeting, and he had probably only drawn the weapon in muddleheaded arrogance.
Whatever his reasoning, Brim didn't like being on the business end of any (hypothetically) loaded weapon and made up his mind to do something about it forthwith. "Say, covieel fangovt," he snorted, the words challenging his captor's birthright in Vertrucht, "does thy mother still sell her scabbed body to Vacca drivers?"
"Brazen hab'thall," the chauffeur gasped in rage, grabbing Brim by his left arm and jabbing the blaster roughly into his right shoulder. "You will regret that."
More stupidity. Anger was just what Brim hoped for. Biding his time, he continued across the well-lighted terrace, coordinating his steps so they became precisely opposite to those of his captor.
Then, at the far end, he pretended to stumble. "Look out!" he whooped, joggling the Leaguer off balance as he was about to tread on his right foot.
"Huh?" came a startled exclamation.
"Too late!" Brim shouted. In the blink of an eye, he dropped beneath the blaster's field of fire, grabbed the Leaguer's forearm and heaved forward. At the same time he smashed backward with his right heel, caught the man just below his right kneecap, and threw him over his right hip.
Howling in bewilderment, the Leaguer spasmodically tossed his blaster into the air, then followed it to the pavement where he landed headfirst with a sickening, hollow thump. He lay still for only a moment, however, then astonishingly shook off his concussion and sprang up to recover the weapon.
Surprised at the man's prodigious endurance, Brim was still too swift. Bringing his own right foot solidly to ground, he snapped his head and kicked forward violently, catching the hulking guard square on the jaw and sending him backward to the pavement in a spray of bloody spittle and shards of teeth.
This time, there was no getting up.
Brim knelt for a moment, retrieved the blaster (a powerful Zspandu-50) from the pavement, then strode directly to the ornate entrance. He aimed with both hands and blew the inlaid doors from their hinges in a shower of glass and splinters. "All right, xaxtdamnit," he shouted fiercely into the ragged, frost-covered frame, "what in Voot's greasy beard is going on in there? I thought I was here to get laid!"
Within a few clicks, six surprised and heavily armed guards exploded through the entrance. Triggering the blaster at stun, Brim dropped the first two in their tracks; the other four expeditiously threw their weapons away and stood with their hands in the air.
"C'mon!" Brim roared at the empty doorway, "who's in charge here? Speak up. I don't have all thraggling night!"
"I-I am in charge," a voice called hesitantly from within. It sounded like LaKarn.
"You get your face out here right now, or I'll drive this limo back to the Imperial shed, and you can forget whatever it was you wanted. Understand?"
Moments later, LaKarn and Kirsh Valentin appeared at the doorway, both in full military dress. The latter stepped forward confidently. "Very well, Brim," he said. "Here we are. Shall we go inside now?
There are others who wish to speak to you."
"I should have known you had something to do with this," Brim grumped, striding up the short flight of stairs and tossing the blaster to a confounded guard, who almost dropped it. "Lead on, Valentin. I'm all ears."
Inside a darkly paneled, high-ceilinged room lined with antique bookcases and real books, two men and a woman waited at an ornate table. Brim recognized one of them immediately, Vice Admiral Hoth Orgoth, Commander of the League's newly formed Seventh Battle Squadron. His hard, narrow face had been much in the media lately, supporting the return from exile of Nergol Triannic. "Good Evening, Admiral Orgoth," he said. "I'd been told a League battleship was in the area."
"Good evening, Brim," the Admiral answered, a ghost of a smile on his face. He was dressed in dark-hued civilian clothes—severe, as befitted his high station, but a great deal less portentous than the uniform of a Vice Admiral. "You do believe in dramatic entrances, don't you?" he commented.
Brim nodded. "I had a bit of encouragement from your jackass of a chauffeur," he said.
"Somehow, I am not surprised," Orgoth said with a momentary glance of annoyance at LaKarn. "I assume he won't be a bother now?"
"Not for a while, Admiral," Brim assured him.
Orgoth nodded. "In that case, I shall make introductions. The gentleman on my right is OverGalite'er Gorton Ro'am, Minister of State Security for the League."
Ro'arn—heavy set with hair cut into a short brush—nodded, and then only slightly. It was probably all he could do, considering the great roll of fat he'd grown at the back of his neck. He was also dressed in the black uniform of a League Controller, but flaunted the black and red cordons of high League officialdom draped from his right shoulder. Brim returned the nod. He'd learned during the war that one Leaguer was pretty much like another.
"On my left," Orgoth continued, "is Hanna Notrom, Minister for Public Consensus." He indicated a tiny, middle-aged OverGalite'er, whom Brim suddenly recalled from the first Tarrott race when he encountered Valentin at the Leaguer shed. She had walked with a distinct limp, as if her right foot were injured in some way. Like Ro'am, she wore black and red cordons on her right shoulder.
Notrom smiled. "So," she said, "you are the famous Wilf Ansor Brim from Carescria. We have watched your career for a number of years now, with much interest."
Brim bowed. "At your service, Madam Notrom."
"You, of course, already know Kirsh Valentin and our kind host Rogan LaKarn," Orgoth continued.
Brim couldn't contain a wry grin. "We've met, Admiral," he said, "—a number of times."