"Margot," he stammered. "That's a beautiful name."
Her cool blue eyes remained neutral, but the large hand tapering fingers in his grip were warm and friendly to his touch. "I like the name, too," she said, "even if everyone does use it these days."
Brim watched her full, moist lips, and suddenly he was bashful schoolboy all over again—he couldn't even look her in the eye! On the left shoulder of her cape, she wore insignia of a full lieutenant, and her name tag read, "CHIEF, THREAT ASSESSMENT SECTION, TECHNOLOGY DIVISION." An impressive-sounding job for one so young. Even her uniform looked perfect (and reminded him, for the millionth time, of his own shabby, regulation-issue blues).
While Flynn and Sophia (what was her last name?) exchanged words, with considerable friendly laughter, he met her glance again. This time, some of the coolness was replaced with interest. "You're new aboard Truculent, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes," Brim answered, wretchedly wishing he could think of something more clever to say. "I reported this morning."
The smiling frown reappeared. "You drew a good ship," she said, looking about the room. "And a lucky one, too. People like to share the wardroom when she's in port." She laughed. "I think they secretly hope some of the luck may rub off."
"Not you, though?" Brim asked with a grin.
Margot's eyes sparkled. "Perhaps me most of all," she said, laughing again. "I accept all the good luck I can get." Suddenly, she gazed at the blazes on his collar. "What made you become a Helmsman?" she asked.
"Oh, I'd done a bit of flying before I was called up," Brim explained modestly. "But I think the Admiralty was getting desperate, if you want the absolute truth."
Her eyes drew his. "I'd certainly say so," she agreed with a twinkle. "It's known that only madmen fly those ore carriers."
Brim took a deep breath. Everyone seemed to know about him. "Being a Carescrian," he answered coldly, "I was fortunate indeed to achieve the exalted status of 'madman.' It put me at a Helmsman's console. Most of my contemporaries were privileged to suffer radiation sickness in the cargo holds...."
"I'm terribly sorry," she said, wincing. "I suppose I know better than that." She put a hand on his arm.
"Your name came up at a party the other evening. They say you are a superb Helmsman."
Brim grimaced. "They should have informed you I am also unreasonably touchy Carescrian," he said, suddenly ashamed his outburst. "Will you forgive me?"
"I shall call it even," she said, color rising in her cheeks. " ' I have not loved my words, nor my words me/nor coin'd my voice to smiles....' "
Brim frowned, concentrated for a moment, then snapped his fingers and grinned. "' Nor cried aloud,'"
he continued, " 'In worship of an echo in the crowd. '"
Her sudden smile seemed to light the room. "You know that?" she asked.
"'Star Pilgrim,'" Brim said. "I suppose I've read a lot of Alastor's poems." He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I've had a lot of time on those old carriers—and secondhand poetry books are pretty cheap."
"But nobody reads poetry anymore."
"Evidently you do," Brim said with a smile. "And I do. I'd like to think neither of us is a nobody."
A new look was now on her face—one that hadn't been there before Alastor. "Who else do you read?" she asked.
"' Father of this unfathomable Universe/Hear my solemn song, for I have loved your stars....'"
"That...that's 'Solitude' by Nondum Lamia," she said with delighted eyes.
"Yes. That's right," Brim said. "Verse two."
"And how about, ' Roll on, thou deep and star-swept cosmos—roll/Ten thousand starfleets sweep thy wastes in vain....'"
"Yes!" Brim said, frowning again. He raised a finger. "Lacerta. 'Rime of the Ancients,' I think. ' Men mark their worlds with ruin—their power/Stops with their puny ships; upon the starry plain...."'
Clearly speechless, she shook her head. 'That's beautiful," she finally whispered. Then she raised her hands, abruptly serious. "It's nice to know I'm not totally alone sometimes...." Her voice trailed off.
Taken aback, Brim raised his eyebrows. "I don't understand," he began, but was interrupted by an elegantly uniformed commander.
"Sorry, Lieutenant," the man said without bothering to introduce himself. "It's about time I escort this young thing back to headquarters."
"My date seems to be here," Margot said, instantly recovering her previous mood of reserved amiability. "I'm very glad I met you, Wilf." Their eyes met once more—lingered for a heartbeat. "Until the next time," she whispered in a husky voice. Then, before he could answer, she was on her way through the crowd.
Entranced, Brim shamelessly stared as she walked away: long, well-built legs revealed below her cape through skintight trousers, feet in tiny, ankle-length boots. "You are spilling your meem, friend Wilf Ansor," Ursis said, once again breaking into his reverie.
"Yes, thanks," he mumbled, shaking his head.
"Quite a lady, Miss Effer'wyck," Flynn sighed. "But then you've already noticed, haven't you?"
Brim felt his face flush. He was sure he had already made a fool of himself.
"I think you may have to admire that one from a distance," Sophia observed tactfully. "Turns out she's already spoken for—the Honorable Commander LaKarn, Baron of the Torond, no less."
"Story of my life," Brim grumped good-naturedly. "Too late for everything."
"Well, perhaps not quite everything," Sophia observed. "You've still got more than a day before you face old Gallsworthy on the bridge."
"It's true, Wilf Ansor," Borodov interjected. "Lots of time to spend learning those deep-space whiz-clanks you Helmsmen play with on the bridge." He winked meaningfully.
"Not that we'd want you to disappoint Number One or anything so subtle as that," Flynn said under his breath.
Brim grinned. "I think I'm beginning to understand a lot of things," he said.
Borodov put a hairy finger on Ursis' cuff. "After the chill and darkness of a storm, wise Bears run without snow, eh?"
Ursis raised an index finger. "There is much truth in that, Anastas Alexyi," he said sagely. "Without snow, indeed."
By the time Brim returned to his cabin, the face of Margot Effer'wyck was already vague in his mind's eye. If nothing else, he had learned long ago to take life one step at a time.
Weary metacycles before dawn lightened Gimmas Haefdon's cloudy sky, Wilf Brim was already busy on Truculent's empty bridge. "Good morning, Mr. Chairman," he said, settling carefully in the right-hand Helmsman's seat. Good morning, Lieutenant Brim," replied the Chairman's disembodied voice. What service can we render?"
Brim peered into the darkness through the Hyperscreens where yesterday's snowfall had again relapsed to driving sheets of rain. Below, wet hullmetal decks gleamed under hovering battle lanterns; beyond, Eorean Complex was revealed by the half-lighted shapes of sleeping starships, grotesque forms on other gravity pools, and the ever-present shipyard cranes. Compulsively, he pulled the cloak tighter about his neck, though the air was warm and dry. "Simulation, Mr. Chairman, "he said at length. "All systems."
"All-systems simulation, Lieutenant," the Chairman repeated. "Starboard Helmsman's console in simulation mode." Soft-hued patterns filled the displays before him, moved and changed. "Will you require special circumstances?"
"Later, Mr. Chairman," Brim answered, concentrating on the startup data flashing past his eyes. "Right now, you can do something a bit easier—like the last takeoff here on Gimmas. Do you still have that stored?"
"A moment, sir," the Chairman answered. Presently the Hyperscreens became opaque, flickered, then abruptly came to life in the illusion of gloomy daylight, this time a mile or so out to sea from the complex.