Back in his room, he took Margot's ring and chain from around his neck, then dropped them into the bottom pocket of his duffle bag. He could neither look at them nor throw them away. They were all that remained of a beautiful woman he once held dearer than his own life. The blonde he'd seen smoking TimeWeed was clearly someone he didn't know—and had no desire to meet.
CHAPTER 8
Anna Romanoff
After his previous night's misadventures and wrenching emotion, race day itself was more or less an anticlimax to Brim—even discounting LaKarn's magnificent new lakeside complex with its sweeping grandstands, glittering multitudes, and warships from every known dominion. Going against tradition, LaKarn— very noticeable by his unexpected absence—had previously decreed that the prior year's victor would fly first. Consequently, competition for 52006 opened with the takeoff of Dampier's new DA.72, the release of one hundred thousand multicolored balloons, and at least (it seemed) as many loudspeakers braying "Oh Grand and Glorious," the Torond's brassy national anthem.
Primarily a remake of last year's successful entry, the graceful little Dampier put on a rousing performance at the impressive average speed of 82M LightSpeed under the first-rate Helmsmanship of H. G. Esslingen, Captain, StarFleet of the Torond, and made landfall amid wild cheering from the home grandstands.
For Brim, who was watching from the Imperial shed, the heat was especially encouraging. He was certain that the DA.72 would be one of only two real competitors. Even with heating problems, his M-5 could fly all day at almost eighty-six. That left only Valentin who might threaten genuine competition for the M-5. And, as he had so often said himself, the actual race alone would determine a winner. From intelligence briefings, he knew that once Gantheisser engineers learned how fast Valerian's new ship could fly, they were forced to radically uprate their new GA 209V before the ship had even completed its initial space trials. It appeared, however, that their efforts had been blessed with success—so far as conventional Drives were concerned. The new Gantheisser GA 209V-3 had an estimated top speed in the range of 85M to 87M LightSpeed.
Fortunately, from an Imperial standpoint, the hard-pressed Gantheisser engineers had achieved this impressive speed by taxing an old design considerably beyond its maximum limits. Sodeskayans at Krasni-Peych predicted that the now-fragile Leaguer Drive could easily fail, especially at high velocities, unless it was handled with extreme care. A clumsy hand on the controls would most assuredly prove disastrous. Nevertheless, because the GA 209V-3 was also entirely capable of race-winning velocities, Brim had to take the Leaguer entries quite seriously.
Thanks to Rogan LaKarn, whose condition at the time was still a complete mystery, the League's performance capabilities were soon revealed. Kirsh Valentin, runner-up in the previous year's race, took off next. And not surprisingly, the Torond's boosters in the home grandstands accompanied his departure with the same euphoric Pandemonium they'd bestowed on their own entries less than a metacycle previously.
Brim crossed his arms glumly, wondering how long it had taken for state security forces to free what remained of LaKarn and his masters from last night's debacle. With a great mental effort, he forced the awful picture of Margot Effer'wyck from his mind. In a lot of ways, he hoped he hadn't killed the zukeed who called himself her husband. He very much wanted the pleasure of choking him again someday.
Perhaps a number of times!
Abruptly, his grim reverie was interrupted by Ursis and Borodov. "Good morrow, Wilf Ansor," the older Bear said gently. He had dressed for the races in an elegant gray pinstriped suit with wing collars and a black bow tie. "We had thought to leave you in peace because of the recent difficulties you have encountered," he started, "but it seemed wiser to inform you that your friend Valentin has encountered mischance on his second lap."
"What happened?" Brim asked as he watched the number two Gantheisser taxi out onto the water. "It looks like they're sending Inge Groener up for an alternate heat."
Dressed in the Sodeskayan Home Guard uniform of a full Colonel, Ursis peered out over the water through a set of tiny translating binoculars. "That appears to be correct," he affirmed. "Evidently, Valentin overstressed his Drive. Probably he was unnerved by last night's activities. We estimate he manhandled the controls, with predictable results."
Brim felt a dull current of anxiety replace his previous excitement. Was the word out? Had he actually killed LaKarn? Was he not a fugitive from a murder charge? "How did you find out about last night?" he asked.
"In spite of an unfortunate treaty," Ursis explained quietly, "many Sodeskayan intelligence organizations still operate as a unit with their Admiralty counterparts."
"Those units of the Admiralty that we can still trust," Borodov added darkly.
"Be that as it may, Wilf Ansor," Ursis continued, "your secret is safe with us. In fact, we complained concerning your safety when Drummond discussed his plans with us yesterday. What he does not know is that we also deployed a detachment of special forces—from our own embassy—to back his operation. You were much safer than you knew, my furless colleague," he chuckled, "even when you did such a splendid job on their chauffeur."
"Thank you, friends," Brim said with real feeling. "Do you have any word on LaKarn, himself?"
"We have," Borodov answered. "You and he are both fortunate after last evening's folly," he growled quietly, "although it is not clear that he will ever regain his former state of good health." The Bear looked penetratingly into Brim's eyes. "Healing machines can accomplish wonders, as you well know, Wilf Ansor." he said. "But they cannot work miracles. And you left the Baron much closer to death than even you could have imagined."
Brim shook his head slowly. "Thanks, Doctor," he said after a little while. "That's been a considerable worry."
"All snow melts when necessary, Wilf Ansor," Ursis said. "Considerations among true friends tend to even out over the space of a lifetime."
During the next metacycle, Groener—clearly handling her tricky controls with special concern—managed to finish the course at an average speed of 83.88M LightSpeed. And that finished the race, so far as Brim was concerned. Unless one of the smaller societies came up with an extremely fast machine, the race was nearly his. All he had to do was fly with the same care as had Groener, and the Imperial Starflight Society would gain possession of the Mitchell Trophy!
Toward evening with the night's revelry already underway in the city's lavish nightspots and LaKarn's huge grandstands populated only by handfuls of true racing enthusiasts, Brim completed his pretakeoff checklist at the tail end of a field of last year's also-rans. None had looked particularly threatening; all performed in much the same manner. Now, as he taxied out over Lake Garza toward the start pylons, he didn't particularly care if everyone abandoned the grandstands. Anna Romanoff's storm-tardy liner had finally arrived that afternoon, and she was watching.
The racecourse defined by LaKarn's SAT (Starflight Association of the Torond) was conventionally triangular in shape and defined by three solitary, type-G stars: Montroyal, Hellig-Olav, and MetaGama.
Entry to the circuits portion of the race was close by Montroyal, nearest of the three to Horblein at 375 light-year's distance. From there, a long straightaway of 330.72 light-years stretched to Hellig-Olav, where a sharp turn introduced the shortest leg of 113.48 light-years. Following this, a gentle curve around MetaGama and a second long straightaway of 254.24 light-years returned the course to its entry point. Ten laps plus the round-trip to the start/finish line at Horblein defined a complete race.