Brim's Orders specified signing the scout over to the scientific community on Proteus, and accordingly (on the thirty-second day of the voyage), he slowed to Hypospace, rounded the Vernal-204 space buoy, and set up his final approach to the gleaming planet of Imperial science. With the scout's seemingly indestructible generators rumbling steadily in his ears, he was passed through to the military sector and entered the spaceport traffic pattern when the last flickers of reentry plasma cleared from his Hyperscreens. Below sprawled three circular clusters of buildings and laboratories known through the Empire as the source of nearly half the important military technology developed in the last hundred years.
He eased E607 into the downrange leg of the traffic pattern while Theada trimmed ship for a dry-land planetfall. As the Klaipper-Hisses began to spool up, a Military Harbor Master appeared in Brim's COMM display and cleared them on to the complex.
"All hands to stations for planetfall. All hands to stations for planetfall," Theada announced on the ship's speakers.
Brim rolled left through an abbreviated base leg for immediate transition to final amid running footsteps and alarm buzzers as landing crews scattered to their positions. When the ship righted, he lined up on one of the long Becton-type gravity-cushion tubes (commonly used in place of water for hard-surface touchdowns), carefully pulled off more lift, and established a gentle glide angle, checking the nose in relation to the near end of the fast-approaching tube. Steady as a rock. He smiled. Couldn't mistake this for Gimmas Haefdon—no wind!
He made one final power reduction directly over the green-flashing ALPHA beacon, then energized the lift modifiers, held his speed steady, and waited for the approach lights to loam up as he rumbled in over the end of the tube. E607 settled solidly onto the long gravity cushion as its shadow dashed in from alongside and became a blurred spot beside them on the right-of-way. When Brim sensed a definite hover, he dumped the modifiers and completed his roll-out with gravity brakes alone, generators rumbling at idle.
His instrument panel was already a satisfying mass of flowing colors and patterns by the time he taxied from the tube at the second turnoff—and amid wild cheering from his travel-weary crew, he finally parked the little ship at a special gravity pool near the military terminal. E607's first and only mission was complete.
"Text, messages for you, Lieutenant Brim," Barbousse announced suddenly from the COMM cabinet, his voice nearly lost in the eager commotion of technicians clambering aboard the little ship from three separate brows.
"What do they say?" Brim asked, busily shutting down the flight systems.
"Appear to be personal, sir," Barbousse yelled. "You'll probably want to display them yourself—beggin' the Lieutenant's pardon, of course."
"I see," Brim said as he activated a COMM globe over his control panel. The short text message cascaded instantly across the display: Wilf—I am required to attend the Godille function as representative of my dominion. Shall I see you there? I believe the Admiralty has deprived you of any excuse to decline. (Regrets Only)—Margot Brim's heart raced as he read the first few words. Then he frowned. "Godille function?" "Admiralty?"
He looked up just as Ursis switched over to external gravity—and almost fell out of his recliner.
Swallowing hard, he wrested control of his heaving stomach, then turned to yell hotly at Barbousse. "Are you sure you got all of that?" he demanded. "It doesn't make any sense at all."
"Which one, sir?" Barbousse asked solicitously. The big generators were spinning down now, and it was a little easier to talk.
"I only got one," Brim yelled, his voice now far too loud in the little control cabin. Everyone turned to stare at him—he felt his face flush.
"But which one, Lieutenant?" Barbousse asked again.
Brim gritted his teeth. "Personal" his foot! 'The one from Margot," he answered in capitulation.
"Oh," Barbousse said with raised eyebrows. "That's the second one, Lieutenant. The first one must have got lost."
"WON-der-ful," Brim fumed.
"I'll send it again," Barbousse said.
Brim thumped back in his recliner, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes at his back. "Thanks," he said, pulling in his neck. Then he swiveled rapidly to face his audience. Eight technicians were expectantly looking over his shoulder at the message globe. "As you were!" he thundered. They scattered to eight tasks elsewhere in the suddenly quiet control cabin. Then the first message cascaded across the globe: TO: Wilf A. Brim, Lt., I.F. @ Proteus.991E
FROM: Lord Avingnon B. Wyrood @ Admiralty/
Avalon
Lieutenant Brim: Your attendance is hereby commanded at a court divertissement by His Majesty, Crown Prince Onrad in tribute to the Honorable Archduke of Godille.
This evening: 1900
Lordglen House of State
Grand Boulevard of the Cosmos
Avalon
BY ORDER OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY GREYFFIN IV, GRAND GALACTIC
EMPEROR, PRINCE OF THE REGGIO STAR CLUSTER, AND RIGHTFUL
PROTECTOR OF THE HEAVENS.
(formal attire)
————————————————————————————
Personal to Lt. Brim: Take the R-37 Shuttle to Imperial Terminal, Avalon. Transportation will be standing by at the Quentian Portal. A formal uniform awaits your arrival at the Lordglen House.
—A. K. Khios, Secretary to Lord Wyrood
That made more sense—at least as much sense as inviting a Carescrian to a court affair in the first place. He laughed. Margot's work for a certainty. Well, if that was the requirement to see her now, then so be it! He'd faced up to some of the best the League could throw at him so far. Avalonian society couldn't be very much worse than that!
Later, on a tram from the landing field, Brim told the others about his invitation.
"The Lordglen House?" Theada exclaimed. "Universe, Wilf, that's one of the fanciest official palaces of all. How'd you get an invitation there when we stay at the Visitors' Quarters?"
"Friends in high places," Brim laughed evasively, feeling color rise in his cheeks. "Besides, it's just until we ship out tomorrow night."
Ursis laughed and clapped Brim on the shoulder. "I think perhaps you do have such friends, Wilf Ansor, but perhaps not whom you think." He smiled. "I shall be most interested to discover who your sponsor really turns out to be."
Brim never found himself in Avalon's Grand Imperial Terminal without a total sense of architectural majesty. Taken altogether, the huge structure could only be described as incredible with its immense, cloud-filled ceiling, which soared hundreds of irals over a thousand crowded ramps and concourses winding among terraced gardens and colored lagoons.
It was a fitting metaphor to represent the civilization that conceived and built it. Awesome—like the vast collection of worlds and stars it connected.
Making his way to the bustling Quentian Portal, Brim scanned the dozens of curbside lanes for his transportation. A bus? A van? He idly noticed a huge chauffeured limousine skimmer thread its way carefully through the crowd and draw to a halt amid "oohs" and "aim" from the street throng. He watched with interest as the chauffeur dismounted—somebody important was slated for that vehicle (or, he chuckled, a Bear on leave). He continued to scan the other lanes for his own ride.
"Lieutenant Brim?" a voice asked.
Brim turned in surprise to confront the chauffeur, who was small, dressed entirely in light gray, and appeared to be totally bald (bare scalp gleamed all around his peaked cap). "That's me," he said doubtfully.