Brim got off to an excellent start from the pylons, carried out a climbing turn, and thundered over the grandstands with the K-P generators crooning in his ears. Soon afterward, he passed within visual sight of the flickering 614-G marker satellite, then transitioned from generators to Drive as if he were flying a machine proven over years of successful operation. On his way to the circuits, however, he found it difficult lining up on Montroyal because of the narrow forward Hyperscreens, so he cut to an extreme inside track and took the curve in a vertical bank, close to the star's fiery surface where his field of vision was better in spite of the glare. And except for opening his trajectory somewhat to avoid fouling a timing station midway along the first straightaway, he remained on the inside track, no matter how much more dangerous it was to fly. Turning smoothly around Hellig-Olav, he came out on a perfect line down the course, then bunted past MetaGama and poured on full energy toward the starting point again. When he completed the lap, his computed speed came out to be 90M LightSpeed, an unofficial record!
And his second lap was faster still at 90.27M LightSpeed. With two hairpin turns to negotiate, it was clear that his speed in a straight line must be approaching 100M LightSpeed!
In the middle of the third lap, however, unanticipated trouble struck somewhere aft with a bell-like clang.
It was immediately followed by violent shudders that rattled the spaceframe. Multiple indicators turned red at the same time, opening a data dialogue on his Drive-status panel that indicated the crystal housing had unsealed.
Did the bastard Voot never sleep?
Biting his lip, he skewed the ship sideways for a momentary look at his wake. Sure enough, a gleaming ribbon of free electrons marked his path like a thin trail of smoke. He reduced power straight off, and the vibrations disappeared, for the most part. Curiously, his indicated speed seemed unaffected.
Again he skidded the ship sideways and miraculously the free-electron trail had virtually disappeared. It made sense. In combat, he'd had shot-up crystal chambers seal themselves—the hellish reaction inside tended to weld small fissures closed by it own heat. Good luck? Perhaps, he thought as he completed lap four. Unfortunately, nothing, especially good luck, came free. He could indeed continue the race, but at the risk of a complete power loss, with little or no warning. At best, that would leave him careening helplessly off into space at nearly 100M LightSpeed. It might also sent him smashing into one of the pylon stars before anyone could come to his rescue. And no hull in the known Universe could withstand direct collision with a star.
He seriously considered aborting the race during the next laps, but the little M-5 seemed to be running better with each circuit. His average speed had already risen to nearly 90.76M LightSpeed. How could he quit now?
In his days before the Fleet, he'd flown great, lumbering Carescrian ore barges every day. Most of them had been so badly worn out and poorly maintained that they made his partially crippled M-5 seem as safe as an IGL starliner. He shrugged. It was all a matter of being careful—that was everything. Besides, he could at least count on a few click's warning before all the systems failed at once.
Couldn't he... ?
Laps eight, nine, and ten passed at the incredible speeds of 92.5M LightSpeed, 93.8M LightSpeed, and 94.1M LightSpeed, respectively. As Brim headed toward Montroyal for the last time, he knew he had flown a good race. In a few cycles, he would not only win the Mitchell Trophy, he was also going to set a record of truly historic proportions.
However, as he skimmed the star and set course for the start/finish pylons at Rudolpho, his Wizard momentarily cut out—completely. It picked up directly, but the brief episode gave him a definite fright.
From that point, he flew with his heart in his mouth, keeping his thrust damper nearly wide open—and nearly made it all the way back. Horblein's star, Gragoth, nearly filled his forward Hyperscreens when the Drive began stammering again—this time badly. After only a few moments, he knew for certain that the ship would soon run out of energy. Angrily smashing his fist on the console beside him, he cut power to the crystal.
Not that he'd given up yet by any means, but even with the best blessing Lady Fortune could now provide, things were going to be close. Immediately, the Hyperscreens ceased to translate, and a whirling Universe of run-down photons blazed through the clear crystals in the wild kaleidoscopes of color.
Grinding his teeth, he disregarded the dizzying phenomenon and concentrated on his readouts. He'd been in tight situations before and so, as long as he didn't panic, odds were that he'd survive. With the Drive off, he could at least count on some energy for the gravity generators and steering engine. Enough to get him down in relative safety. The trick now would be trying to stay in the race. He'd already built a considerable lead over the other ships. If he didn't lose too much time in his actual landing, he might yet manage to win the trophy—or at least place.
Now, however, he had to remain patient while the Driveless ship bled off HyperVelocity and coasted down through the great Universal constant of LightSpeed. Biting his lip, he watched the readouts. Timing was everything, now. The LS meter was nearly down to unity. There!
Immediately, vision in the forward Hyperscreens cleared and he activated both gravity generators.
Ahead, Horblein's curve had already flattened into a horizon, and a voice began calling into his helmet receivers: "Imperial M-five, Rudolpho tower. Please report. Imperial M-five, Rudolpho Tower. Please report."
"Rudolpho tower, this is Imperial M-five," he answered, peering through his Hyperscreens. "Please hold for position report." Off in the distance, nearly lost against the blue of the planet itself, a ruby pinpoint winked in an odd rhythm. He drew a small tube from the starboard console and aimed its open end at the light. Immediately, a text readout on the closed end displayed: LAYER 32 LIGHTWARD HEMISPHERE K-VAIL 1278 BUOY, LEVEL 19.
"Rudolpho Tower, Imperial M-five Alpha is within layer thirty-two, lightward of K-Vail one two seven eight..., flight level nineteen."
"Imperial M-five Alpha, we have you now. Are you declaring an emergency?"
"Rudolpho Tower, Imperial M-five will notify you when and if an emergency is declared. Request immediate clearance racecourse start/finish."
"I-imperial M-five, Rudolpho Tower clears immediate racecourse start/finish. Wind zero two two at one five."
"Imperial M-five. Thank you." After that, there was little time for anything but judgment and reflexes.
Within a few cycles, the lights of Rudolpho were in sight over the nose. Unfortunately, his unplanned approach to the planet denied him the straight-in landing he might have chosen had he been powered and under control all the way. First, he would have to pass over the start/finish pylons going the wrong way, then make a sharp turn to reverse his bearings and finish the course in the proper direction.
Again, however, the relatively small size of the M-5's Hyperscreens forced him to fly much lower than he normally would have in other circumstances. He had no margin of safety as he skimmed along just below the tips of the huge, glimmering pylons, following the long beams of his landing lights. In a flash he was past and practically bending the ship around in a vertical bank to reverse his direction, delicately playing the controls while Valerian's spaceframe creaked and groaned from the vicious gravity torquing. He had only managed to come through half his arc when the generators stumbled, struggled raggedly onward for the blink of an eye, then tripped off completely. The tiny cabin went utterly silent—and dark.
Moments later, his M-5 smashed onto the surface of the water in a thundering cascade of inky water, throwing Brim painfully against his emergency seat restraints. Again... and again... and again the ship skipped and cartwheeled across the dark surface of the lake before it came to rest, bobbing low in the water nearly half a c'lenyt from the pylons—and any chance of even placing in the race.