Bedecked with patriotic ornamentation befitting a significant national victory celebration, the cavernous War Memorial Hall in Avalon was literally jammed by Imperial aristocracy—many of whom had never bothered with the Imperial Starflight Society until Wilf Brim brought home its first Mitchell Trophy. Once disdained for his lowly origins, today the Carescrian was an honored associate among some of the Empire's wealthiest and most powerful individuals. He sat dressed in formal evening wear at a special engineering table, directly across the dance floor from Prince Onrad and the Table of Principals. On his left, as his personal guest, was the remarkable Anna Romanoff in a daringly low cut apricot party dress, her huge brown eyes soberly observing the whole affair as if it were some exotic wildlife exhibition.
Others at the engineering table included Nik Ursis, Dr. Borodov, Mark Valerian and his wife Cherie, plus a number of scientific luminaries vital not only to the ISS but to the Imperial government itself.
Long after an elegant banquet, the seemingly interminable awards ceremony was at last winding down with a final congratulatory address by Onrad himself. Earlier, Brim had been startled by receiving one or two minor awards himself that had caused Romanoff's eyes to glow with reflected pride. Now he was looking forward to the end of the long celebration—perhaps even escaping the crowd for a few private metacycles with his lovely companion. Universe knew he'd waited patiently for that opportunity.
Even at the tail end of the long awards ceremony, lusty applause and cheering greeted the conclusion of Onrad's address. Brim joined in tardily, hoping no one would notice he'd been daydreaming, but Romanoff had clearly caught him. Her eyes were dancing with laughter and her mouth had taken on the mysterious little smile she sometimes wore that both veiled and revealed so much of her complex personality. He was about to suggest that they steal off for the nearest exit when the room suddenly quieted again, and when he turned toward the speaker's table, the Prince was holding his hand up for silence. At the same time, General Zapt appeared behind the podium with a Fleet cloak over his arm.
Romanoff met Brim's glance and her eyebrows raised in question.
The Carescrian could only shrug impatiently and roll his eyes. "I have no idea," he whispered, "but enough is enough. Anna, I think we're victims of some horrible conspiracy...." Then with a helpless shrug, he settled back in his chair, arms crossed in a defiant attitude.
"Before I dismiss this celebration," Onrad declared with much gravity, "one final award remains. A special award, personally designated by my father, Greyffin IV. And though it is not even mentioned in your programs, to my way of thinking, it is perhaps the most important of all."
He paused dramatically while a rustle of excited whispers swept the room. Clearly, the Prince had caught most of his audience completely off guard.
"This particular award," he continued presently, "is not tendered so much for racecourse activities as for other services to the Empire—although acquisition of the Mitchell has certainly been part of our consideration." He paused again, this time frowning. "Moreover, in many ways it can not be considered an award at all. Rather, I think, it is the righting of a wrong, or the correction of a particularly unfortunate blunder."
When Onrad paused this time, the rustle of conversation became much more pronounced. "Finally," he continued presently, "this award will also have an important secondary effect, because it will serve notice to CIGAs everywhere that we do intend to permanently secure the Mitchell Trophy, despite the fact that in winning, we now represent an irritant to their beloved League rather than the paean to peace that we were when all we could do was lose!" During the laughter that followed, he pursed his lips angrily. "We can expect them to place every possible obstacle in our path," he warned at length, "but we will prevail!
After the applause that followed, Onrad nodded at General Zapt to bring the Fleet cape, which bore the insignia of a Lieutenant Commander, then continued with his booming, rhetoric. At the same time, two protocol officers took position at either side of the podium, one holding a pair of regulation white dress gloves on a peaked Fleet officer's cap, the other carrying a small box fashioned from a dark wood.
"Therefore," the Prince boomed, "I summon private citizen Wilf Ansor Brim to the podium once more."
In the silence of the huge hall, his deep voice was like a rumble of thunder.
Brim stiffened—he'd half heard it too. "Was that, Wilf Ansor Brim?" he asked under his breath.
"That's what I heard," Romanoff replied, a little smile beginning to form on her lips.
"You don't suppose there might be a couple of Wilf Brims here?" he asked hopefully.
"I think he means you," Romanoff declared, her smile suddenly expanding to a full-fledged grin. "I don't recall seeing more than one Wilf Brim on any of the membership lists."
An orchestra had already struck up the rousing "Summit Noble" when Brim reluctantly got to his feet, cast a momentary glance of mock horror toward Romanoff, then set off across the dance floor.
Spontaneously, the huge audience broke into ragged applause, which became a rolling wave of thunder long before he reached the podium.
When the wild acclaim finally subsided, Onrad stepped to the front of the podium and held the Fleet cloak before him as if he were a valet instead of a Crown Prince. "Wilf Ansor Brim," he proclaimed, "by direct mandate of His Majesty Greyffin IV, Grand Galactic Emperor, Prince of the Reggio Star Cluster, and Rightful Protector of the Heavens, I hereby conscript you into the Imperial Fleet with direct promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Commander." As the hall erupted once more into thunderous applause, the Prince motioned with his head. "Wilf," he shouted above the noise, "I'll be proud if I can place this on your shoulders myself."
Stunned, Brim could only nod and turn his back. He felt the weight of a Fleet cloak after nearly five years. Almost instinctively, he turned to the protocol officer on his left, placed the peaked uniform cap on his head (a perfect fit), and struggled into the white gloves. Then he came to attention, turned on his heel to face Onrad, and saluted. "Lieutenant Commander Wilf Brim, reporting for duty as ordered, Your Majesty," he said, desperately fighting emotions that threatened to crack his voice like a schoolboy's.
"Welcome home, Commander," Onrad replied in a voice that carried throughout the great hall. He was clearly struggling with his own emotions while he returned Brim's salute.
Once more, the throng erupted in thunderous applause and cheering, but this time, Brim turned and saluted them. At a distance, Anna Romanoff appeared to have buried her nose in a handkerchief—but then, so did both Ursis and Borodov.
Considerably later, Onrad held up both hands for silence, but a lot of time passed until the applause once more faded. "I shan't keep any of you too much longer," he proclaimed at length, "but there are two more presentations to be made before this evening is complete." He motioned to the other protocol officer who stepped forward and opened the wooden box he held. "First," he announced, reaching into the box to retrieve a medal, "there is the matter of a missing Order of the Imperial Comet—which I personally pinned on Commander Brim's uniform at Gimmas-Haefdon some years ago." He frowned with mock gravity as he fastened the small pin to Brim's cape. "Next time you lose one of these," he grumped so only Brim could hear, "you'll have to pay for the new one yourself."
"Thank you, Y-your Majesty," Brim stammered.
"Finally," Onrad declared, again to the general audience, "an Emperor's Cross." He reached once again into the wooden box and withdrew an eight-pointed starburst in silver and dark blue enamel with a single word engraved in its center: VALOR. It was attached to an ivory sash embroidered in gold with the words, GREYFFIN IV, GRAND GALACTIC EMPEROR, PRINCE OF THE REGGIO STAR CLUSTER, AND RIGHTFUL PROTECTOR OF THE HEAVENS. Opening the sash, he placed it around Brim's neck. "When you have a chance," he whispered, "notice the serial number. We managed to locate your original decoration." Then he smiled. "But don't ever pawn it again; General Zapt will have you killed. It took most of his staff a week to track it down." Then he grinned. "All right, Commander,"