"Sister," Miaree greeted, pausing. "She is very lovely."
"She tends to yaw on a sunward track."
"But lovely. And such a flaw can be tuned out."
"My second Bertt," the veteran flyer said. "Good man, but I think influenced by the cold of Five. Too much weight in the insulation, I fear."
"My first was a Bertt," Miaree said. "A sweet Class II."
"And now?"
"A Corleu."
Five?
"Six."
"Ah. You have more hours than your youth would lead one to believe." There was a new respect in the older female’s eyes. "I wanted a Corleu. The waiting list is unbelievable."
"I was lucky," Miaree said, putting one delicate foot on the outer rim of the Bertt VI, standing casually, spacecloth draping her form, eyes drinking it in, the long lines of sports flyers at the docks, the hustle and bustle of the Haven, the chargy smell of it, the feel of space outside pressing down, the nearness of the power of the sun, the feel of it through the dome warming her skin under her delicate fur.
"I wish more females would go into building," the veteran said. "There is a lightness. The feel of the wings, I suppose."
"Yes."
"Well, good flight."
Down the line a flyer warming, converters charging at peak, rocking the ship at its moorings. The prickly feel of the charge restoring a full cheer to Miaree. And there, at the end of Dock Ten, Rim Star, the shape of the egg of an Artonuee female, graceful, shining outer hull decorated with the business instruments of flying, viewer large and all-encompassing, sail storage areas bulging like juplee fruit about to burst.
Inside, cushioned in the seat, checking the list. Nothing forgotten. She did not want to have to abort her ten-day flight. Not because some dock hand had made a bad count. Provisions, however, checked. "Operations, thank you. Check and receive."
"Acknowledged, Rim Star."
"Rim Star warming."
"Acknowledged and granted."
The purr of it, the great, sweet hum of it. Servos cutting in. Power crackling, making that delicious prickling feeling on her inner skin.
Charges building. Weather on one frequency saying confirmation of the forecast with figures which sent a thrill of elation through her.
"Storm warnings for classes II through IV. Classes II and III limited to local flying not exceeding ten minutes return."
Poor novice. The one on the shuttle.
"Class V warning. Winds may exceed structural design limitations in the vicinity of One Planet."
"Rim Star warmed. Charge check. Converters check. Sails check. Navigation request, unlimited. Request clearance and lift."
"Acknowledged and granted, Rim Star."
Ahead of her the Bertt VI, lifted on the arms of the giant crane, cradled tenderly in padded holds.
"Stand by, Rim Star."
Dock boys appearing, chattering, running, laughing. Lucky lads. Sacrificing immortal souls to work on the fringes of wonder, to see the flyers being lifted, to hear the hum of converters. The muted contact of the lift arms, movement. Above, the lock. Front view. Frosted dome. A push and contact with the lock and an end to the artificial gravity of Haven. A lifting in her seat against the belts, the freedom of space. A surge of elation and the hiss of evacuating air and then the instruments registering the cold of naked space on the hull and the converters humming. The outer door opening and out there down the tunnel of the lock the cold stars, the lock faced away from New World.
"Guidance jets ready," she sent.
"Cleared."
"Charging."
"Acknowledged."
"Mass unit one-minus and lowering." The meters spinning, measuring mass of the flyer, minutely calibrated, dials glowing, hands making swift revolutions and her wide eyes following. "God, they’re cooking today." The exclamation thoughtless. No place for personal observations and chat-chat on the control channels. "Sorry, control."
"Converter efficiency?" asked the cold, male voice of control.
"Eighty-five-point-nine and lowering."
"Cleared."
"Ninety and lowering."
"Good flight, Rim Star."
"Ninety-eight-point-nine, steady. Expel, please."
"Acknowledged."
A movement. There is a strange feel about a flyer at charge. Skin tingles. Hair seemed to be individually electric. Fur is alive. With satisfaction she noted the excellence of old Beafly’s tune-up. Mass lowered, as the flyer moved along the tube and leaped. Never had she seen the convertors working so efficiently. The mass of her flyer, and herself, and all the provisions and the bottle of jenk liquor in her carry baggage, all lowered, lowered to within a few points of nonexistence. The miracle of Lonwee the Ancient, the conversion of mass, the Lonwee principle which made flying possible.
"Rim Star clear. Sails."
Click. Servos moving in near silence, sensed by feel. The gravitational field of New World the controlling factor as she unfurled billowing yards of diaphanous sails, extending the area of space commanded by Rim Star tenfold, a hundredfold, and more. The weak force of New World’s gravity now negated as the winds of the sun blew, and off on a wing, sails tilted, Haven diminishing in an instant. Massive acceleration as the quiet wind moved.
She entered a new world. A world of quiet and peace. One last word. "Haven, Rim Star. Systems check. Exit path 180 reverse from Haven. Sunward inclination 45. Rim Star out, requesting privacy. Emergency frequency seven on monitor."
"Rim Star, good flight."
The World was in opposition, on the away side of the sun. First Planet was oblique on its near orbit, a growing dot as wind speeds were achieved, the flyer drifting across the wind on a tight tack, orbit spiraling, decreasing. Rim Star was a mote in space, near weightlessness, near zero inertia. Huge sails were battered by the force of the eternal wind, the flow of particles from the furnace which grew and gained a corona visible to the naked eye. And it was her world, her life. Below, she was valuable, a worker. Here she was Miaree of the Artonuee, female, free, flying. Here there was a play for all her senses, measuring, sensing, feeling, tasting, calculating. Fingers flew at the console keys, asking the lightning synapses of the mechanics to aid her own senses, for at wind speeds the brain was a poor, slow thing. And the distances, interplanetary, which once had cost lives and the wealth of The World, which were fearful chasms for the primitive drivers, were but winged thoughts for a mote flying at wind velocity, even beating sunward as the computer lowered mass reduction to use the gravity of the sun itself to hasten the fall toward the burning light.
First Planet grew. Barren. Magnified by the scope of the viewer, it glared reflected light and spun its flattened hills there so near the furnace that no life grew and surface temperatures reached fearful intensity on sunside.
The chronometer clicked. But it alone measured time. For Miaree, time was back there, on New World and Haven. When she was hungry, she ate. When she was thirsty, she drank. The flyer was cramped, but she was at home in it. As she established a spiral approach and locked in, she sang. The tune was old, old as The World, a melody keened by winglings learning. And as her heart soared, she slipped the spacecloth and was herself, slim, delicately formed, shapely. She stretched her long legs and, in unashamed narcissism, admired them, the knees, perfect. The long muscles slim and graceful. Slim waist. Lovely torso. Long neck. And all of it furred sweetly, delicately, electric to the touch as her hands smoothed it from its long captivity in the spacecloth.
Naked Miaree, freed in space in the wings of Rim Star. Keening melody from her throat. Reaching for the jenk liquor and sipping, for she needed no further intoxication toward happiness. Happiness was flying out there close to God, and if God, being a selfish wench, abhorred company and doomed a race for Her privacy, a pox on her.