He peered through the window into a courtyard of perfectly shaped flowering panthon trees whose glowing fruits made the quadrangle look like a miniature Universe of starry galaxies when viewed against the dark paving stones. A stately fountain danced placidly at its center. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment—this level of wealth transcended his understanding completely. He shrugged; none of it had much importance to him anyway. The only reality here was Margot. Once she arrived, everything else would fade to nonimportance.
Brim fidgeted impatiently as he tested the fit of his borrowed dress uniform before a full-length mirror: white tunic with stiff, gold-embroidered collars, epaulets, and high cuffs, dark blue breeches with gold stripe, knee-high parade boots (like polished hullmetal), white gloves, and peaked hat. A rich, red-lined cape was carefully draped on the bed—certainly nothing like the cheap rentals he had known at the Academy.
He felt a growing sense of excitement as he counted off the cycles before he would see Margot—it was impossible to sit anymore. He paced back and forth across the thick carpet, its softness wasted beneath his boots. Each cycle seemed longer than its predecessor, even though months had passed since the evening he shared with her on Gimmas Haefdon—and those now seemed like moments. Outside, a gentle breeze moved the panthon trees—the weather was perfection. An omen, perhaps? He laughed to himself. All moments with Margot were—perfection, so far as he could remember—he doubted she would disappoint him tonight.
As he stood staring at the patio, a distant chime sounded importantly. Then, in moments, a soft knock came at his door. "Come in," he said. "It's unlocked."
"About ready, sir?" Keppler asked as he stepped into the room. "The reception is under way in the ballroom."
Now that it was time to go. Brim suddenly began to fret about the other guests. Wealthy people, of a certainty. Influential. Powerful. He was no more than a simple Helmsman. What could he have in common with any of them? What could he say worth listening to? Would he make a fool of himself?
Suddenly, he felt tired. He wished he could have made other arrangements to see Margot. He never had a chance.
"You look splendid, Lieutenant," Keppler said. "They'll all be jealous—especially with your action record." He helped, Brim place his cape properly over one shoulder in the latest fashion. "Now stand back," he ordered imperiously. "Let me make a last-moment check."
Brim suffered further adjustments to his collar, cape, and an offending epaulet before Keppler was finished.
"Perfect, sir," the footman said finally as he nodded his approval. "A number of important people down there expect to meet you, so you'll want to look your best." With that, he gently propelled Brim from the room and into the lift.
Only a few cycles later, Brim found himself returned to the balcony at the head of the double staircase.
Voices and soft music surged from below as elegant couples filed slowly in from the portico and disappeared through the doorway beneath his feet. He paused for a moment, reflecting on his failure to submerge a natural Carescrian irritation with these scions of wealth and privilege. While they enjoyed unbelievable comfort and luxury, men and women of more humble origins were elsewhere locked in mortal combat to protect the very Imperial existence. Why were these people exempted? Then he grimly laughed at the folly he had just concocted. Here he was, himself dressed like the worst sort of professional courtiers—and in the absolute thick of it! He snorted and started down the staircase, contemplating his own double standard. The huge ebony doors were open now, eight gray-clad footmen with ornate symbolic pikes flanking either side. Beyond, an elegant throng preened and pirouetted: polished officers in, the colorful uniforms of every friendly nation in the galaxy, seas of half-revealed bosoms and lavish gowns in every hue and pattern art and science could conjure, humans, Bears, A'zurnians, and the less-numerous races. At the center of the high archway, a majordomo dressed in bright green tunic with dark trousers and green boots bowed as Brim approached.
"Your name, please, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"Wilf Brim," Brim declared. "A Carescrian." He looked the man directly in the eye.
"Ah, yes, Lieutenant Brim," the majordomo said. "A thousand pardons: I should have known." He turned on his heel and led Brim into the ballroom. "Lieutenant Helmsman Wilf Ansor Brim, Imperial Fleet," he announced, thumping the butt of his pike loudly on a special square of flooring. "I.F.S. Truculent."
A few heads turned indifferently, but the announcement was generally lost in the babble of the crowd.
And, from what Brim could see as he stepped into the room, his rank alone would relegate him to the very depths of nonimportance among most other guests whose ranks he could identify.
From inside, the room was high and huge—though a soft light level held the overall effect well within the limits of Brim's comprehension—longer than it was wide, with an ornate, domed ceiling covered by gold and silver designs in the form of a sinuous Logis vine. Three monstrous chandeliers like the one in the anteroom hung along its centerline. One wall was a solid bank of mirrors, the others were covered by rich-looking tapestries. The floor was a continuation of the flawless obsidian outside.
While Brim stood orienting himself in the heady atmosphere of hogge'poa, meem, and a hundred fragrances of perfume, a tall commander with a wisp of a mustache and piercing blue eyes appeared from the revelers, smiled, and clapped him on the back. "Brim, my good man," he said, "so glad you could; make it. I'm Avlin Khios, secretary to Lord Wyrood." He waved his hand apologetically. "Sorry your invitation arrived with so little notice. We hoped you might be able to make it anyway." He grinned.
"Understand you had an exciting mission, what?"
"'Exciting' is probably as good a word as any, sir," Brim acknowledged with a smile. "The important thing, though, is; that we were able to see it all the way through."
"Yes, I understand," Khios said with a knowing grin. "Well her Effer'wyckian nibs is certainly on tonight's guest list." He took Brim's arm and propelled him into the center of the crowd. "But until the young lady actually does arrive, we have some people who want to talk to you—not many of them have the opportunity to meet real fighting men."
Brim felt a goblet placed in his hand as he passed a pair of footmen. The shallow vessel made his passage through the crowd even more difficult than before. As he passed a red-faced Army officer, the man spit, "Carescrian," bitterly at him as if he were repeating an impolite word. Then, within a few more ticks, he was centered in a ring of smiling young officers) who wore the badges of the Admiralty Staff—and curious looks on their faces.
Khios named each as Brim greeted one after the other with the handshake he learned in the Academy (Carescrians normally avoided touching anybody, at least during a first meeting)—their names were promptly forgotten in the rush of questions that followed.
"You've actually been in one of their starships?"
"What were the cannon like on A'zurn? Were they easy to drive?"
"Were they hard to start?"
"League torpedoes are good, aren't they? How'd the J band stand up after the radiation from those mines?"
To his surprise, Brim quickly began to sense an underlying mood of serious interest—certainly the questions coming his way were founded on well-informed backgrounds. As the group continued to probe, Brim rapidly found he was not talking to the vacuum-headed courtiers he originally thought they might be. Rather, it seemed he was surrounded by a group of dedicated staff people: behind-the-scenes decision makers who—so far as he could ascertain—were probably far more valuable contributing to an office work group than fighting the war somewhere in a battle zone. In the ore barges, one learned quickly to respect anyone who was willing to make a genuine contribution—to almost anything.