"Good night, Nik," Brim said. "And thanks for the support."
"Good night, Wilf, for whatever remains of your bedtime. We shall perhaps discuss this further tonight over a glass of meem, eh?"
Brim smiled. "Nik, you've got yourself a bargain," he said as he started down the hall again toward his own cabin. But now he was wide awake. By the time he had his door open, he knew that going to bed now would be little more man a waste of time-especially since he planned to explore part of a large city. After changing into a summer uniform, he closed and locked his cabin again, then headed for the entry port. A bit early, perhaps, but he was ready to go....
Hador was still only a glow on the lightward horizon when Brim signed out for local leave and stepped into the fresh sea air beyond Defiant's main hatch. In the distance, Atalanta's huge fires had burned to a dull glow, and the two stricken merchantmen were little more than twisted skeletons collapsed into their ruined gravity pools.
Yet for all its recent chaos, the base appeared to have returned to normal almost immediately following the emergency. Brim nodded to himself as he caught a local tram for the base's main civilian terminal-the little vehicle was no more man a few cycles late. A hush passed over the passengers when they passed the two freshly burned out gravity pools-still smoking and littered with emergency vehicles. But as the tram bounced along its route through the huge starship base, it was filled and emptied a number of times by energetic-looking workmen who joked and talked among themselves as if this were simply another night shift. Haelacians were tough-he'd learned that in a hurry. And it looked as if Kabul Anak would discover the same thing himself, soon enough. According to top-secret situation reports, the Leaguer admiral had recently transferred his flag to his new super battleship Rengas. The attack wasn't far off now; Brim could feel it in his bones.
When he arrived at the base terminal, the end of the night shift was still more than two metacycles away, and both buildings were nearly deserted. Out in the tram shed, only two large interurban coaches hovered in the maze of shallow stone alleyways the vehicles used for a roadbed.
They were tall, old-fashioned-looking conveyances: Brim guessed as much as twelve irals in height, eight to ten wide, and perhaps seventy in length overall. Floating on two flat gravity packs near either rounded end, the floors of the big machines hovered approximately chest high. Forward, three-pane windscreens extended from slightly arched roofs halfway to the floor. Lines of similarly sized windows ran the length of each coach, the top third of each glazed with green stained glass. Powerful-looking headlamps were mounted below the center windscreen panels, directly over each car's number in brass Avalonian digits. The passenger entrance was a set of double doors amidships equipped with a retractable step.
Open hatches forward and aft had only a short ladder; they were clearly for the crew. Car 312 bore three orange stripes painted across the center of its arched roof; car 309 had a Stogie blue stripe. Aside from this, however, the trams appeared to be nearly identical except for signs at their turnstiles proclaiming "Monastery" and "Loop 12."
Brim frowned. It was reasonably clear that the former would arrive eventually at the top of Atalanta's hill at the Gradgroat-Norchelite Monastery. But what was a Loop 12? He rubbed his chin for a moment, then prudently decided on the monastery. If the mazelike Rocotzian section of town were any indication, he would be much wiser spending his time in bonafide tourist attractions until he was fortunate enough to attract another native escort.
He peered around the nearly deserted car shed; it smelled of stale food, stale sweat, stale mu'occo smoke, and the sharp stench of ozone from the humming, hovering trams. He guessed the last odor would easily reach unpleasant concentrations when the alleys were filled with coaches.
A green-uniformed worker dozed behind the ticket counter, but above his head hung a colorful map of the city. It was also marked with symbols that-wonder of wonders!-matched signs on all the turnstiles. On closer inspection, Brim discovered that Loop 12 was a route that circled the center section of the hill through a veritable maze of narrow side streets: a great place to become lost, he concluded quickly. Nodding to himself, he gently woke the ticket agent, purchased a round-trip ticket on the Monastery circuit, and made his way to tram number 312.
Inside, the empty coach smelled of hot oil, upholstery, and ozone; it was comfortably set up with four rows of carpet-covered bucket seats and a center aisle. It was also spotlessly clean. Brim took a window seat near the front where he could see out the windscreens as well. Then he sat back to wait.
During the next few cycles, he was joined by a number of workmen leaving early for one reason or another-mostly accidents. One limped on board with a fresh patch over her eye, two burly men in stevedore's overalls arrived with bandages around their heads, and a tall, angry-looking woman struggled up the stairs and into a seat despite the great cast that covered her right leg all the way to her knee. She was followed by a brace of grimy, tired-looking Gradgroat-Norchelite priests who smelled strongly of smoke. Brim quickly guessed where they came from. There would be a lot of work for priests at the two burned-out gravity pools. Wreckage such as he'd seen would allow for few survivors....
At length the crew arrived: conductor and motorman dressed in dark green tunic and trousers, white shirts with green bow ties, shiny black boots, and orange-beaked pillbox hats decorated by a device that looked like a wheel pierced by a golden lightning bolt. Shortly thereafter, bells sounded officiously, doors rattled closed, and the floor vibrated beneath Brim's feet while ancient gravity packs ground into ponderous action, moving car 312 out of the station and onto a main alleyway beading inland. As the big, top-hampered coach picked up speed, she began a rhythmic swaying motion that, coupled with the monotonous throb of her packs, had a soothing effect all its own.
Relaxing in his seat, Brim squinted at the window itself. It was a tall affair with polished wooden frames and brass hardware that allowed the bottom to be raised past its green stained-glass partner above-hadn't they heard of environmental control? The transparent bottom pane even boasted beveled glass! Outside, they were now crossing a bridge that paralleled the seven moss-covered stone arches of the Harbor Causeway-he remembered that bridge from his evening with Claudia.
For a moment, her oval face and soft-looking brown hair filled his mind's eye-he imagined the musky fragrance of her perfume teasing his nose. Somehow, she had been popping in and out of his mind a great deal since that night-much more than she should have. Truth to tell, he felt more than a little guilty about being attracted so strongly to her-especially when he was pledged to someone else.
Then he shrugged. Right or wrong, that was the way things were. For the next precious metacycles, he intended to relax and enjoy his precious leave. Tomorrow was time enough to moralize....
Car 312's gravity packs increased to a throbbing pulse beneath the floor as the alleyway began to climb City Mount Hill, and they entered a confusion of three-and four-story structures built mostly of whitewashed stone and mortar. By the early-morning light, Brim could see tiny gardens crowded into every possible nook and cranny, dappled with flowers that splashed the waking cityscape with a million dabs of color. These buildings were so close to the street that their balconies nearly touched overhead. The net effect was almost tunnel-like as the big car clawed its way up the steep grade. In places, the dusty alleyway actually doubled as a narrow street of sorts that they were obliged to share with dogs, barnyard animals, priests, fishermen, storekeepers, stonemasons, rothcats, dockyard workers, occasional Blue Capes, and droves of men and women in colorful native dress.