"Seems fair," Moulding said, striding to the great brass machine that was leaking steam at any number of complex pipe joints. "I open the door; you buy cvceese'."
Brim threw a credit in a battered tin, then poured a mugful and stood in silence for a moment, sipping the sticky-sweet liquid that threatened to permanently scald his throat. No Logish Meem ever tasted so good as cvceese' first thing in the morning. Somehow it went together with ready rooms as naturally as clear sky goes with clean, fresh air. He smiled to himself. Even if he didn't have a uniform, by Universe, he did belong here.
Abruptly, Townsend let out an oath, pushed himself back from the table, and sauntered across to Moulding with a sour look on his face. He was tall and loose-fitted in a sloppy way with a round, flat countenance, sneering eyes, and a manner that suggested arrogance in ample quantities—the way of a small-minded person who had managed to far outstrip his own competence. Significantly, not a single battle star adorned his cuff. The man had never seen combat, but he did wear a showy gold CIGA ring on his finger. "This is Brim?" he demanded with a disparaging thumb and a sneer of disdain.
"That's who he says he is," Moulding answered with a frown. "But I suppose you might just check with him personally, what?" He made a little bow. "Mr. Brim, may I present Lieutenant Commander Cravinn Townsend, Imperial Fleet?"
"Glad to meet you," Brim offered evenly, extending his hand.
Townsend never acknowledged Brim's gesture. "I don't suppose you have anything like a space suit, do you?" he asked. It was more of a statement than a question.
"No," Brim admitted. "I'm afraid I'll have to check one out." He'd left all his belongings behind in Avalon.
"Wonderful," Townsend spat. "You must really know somebody important around here." He glanced at Moulding. "We'll probably have to furnish his underwear as well. Did you know that this clod is also a Carescrian?"
Moulding's straw-colored eyebrows rose slightly and he turned to look at Brim with curiosity. "I say," he remarked, "a Carescrian." Then he nodded. "I think I may have even heard of you, Wilf. Had quite a lot to do with the battle for Atalanta, didn't you?"
"A little," Brim said, "but then, so did a lot of people."
"Yes, I thought so," Moulding said, a little smile of interest forming on his lips. He turned to Townsend. "I shall take it upon myself to show him where one gets a temporary issue of space togs," he said. "What are you two scheduled to fly this morning?"
"AT-twenty-nine."
Moulding nodded. "Figured," he said. "Hot little beast, what?"
"Yeah," Townsend laughed, turning his face from Brim. He whispered something behind his hand that ended with, "and I'm just the one to do it."
"I see," Moulding said skeptically. "Well, I shall bring the fellow to the ready line in about..." he checked his timepiece, "say three-quarters of a metacycle. All right?"
"Make it a metacycle," Townsend said, starting for the cre'el table he had abandoned. "I've got some unfinished business over here." Then he laughed suggestively over his shoulder. "You'll want to be at the ready line to watch," he said to Moulding.
"Oh, I will indeed be there to watch," Moulding assured him in a droll voice. "In fact," he added quietly, almost to himself, "I don't think I'd miss it for half of Avalon."
Brim took everything in. Except for Moulding, it sounded like the Helmsmen's Academy all over again.
His wealthy classmates as well as his instructors had done everything in their power to make his life difficult, to make him quit. And they had failed. Townsend was no different; he would fail too.
"Well, Wilf?" Moulding asked, looking Brim in the face. "I can't imagine you missed his bloody intentions, so you know full well what to expect. Shall we still go check out some flying togs?"
Brim nodded grimly. "I don't think I'd miss it for half of Avalon either," he replied. "Too xaxtdamned many CIGAs there for my liking."
Little less than a metacycle later, the two men stood at the ready line beside a stubby little T-29G, two-seat advanced trainer of the Imperial Fleet for more than fifteen Standard years. Barely sixty-four irals in length, it was equipped with a powerful R-1820-86 spin-gravitron generator that provided astonishing acceleration. But with no Drive-crystal system, it was limited to HypoSpeed velocities. Brim had just finished an external walkaround; as he expected, it was in excellent repair as it bobbed in the light breeze above a portable gravity pad. A small puddle of coolant had dripped from the spin grav overnight, but as Brim well knew, when no coolant was leaking from an R-1820, there was probably none in the cooling chambers and some had better be added immediately. He stood in his borrowed space suit and felt a warm breeze from the bay on his face. He could hear the rumble of gravs bellowing from the run-up area and the other noises that came from a busy spaceport. A thrill teased his spine—nothing else in the Universe could match this. Spaceflight—the stars! He took a deep breath. It didn't matter who owned the space suit—he belonged here.
"Professional preflight job," Moulding observed, breaking into Brim's daydream. "The ship meets your approval, does she?" he added, while he brushed a stray wisp of yellow hak from his eyes.
Brim laughed. "Yeah," he said, unable to stifle a grin of pleasure. "I wish brother Townsend would hurry. It's been a while since I had my hands on a set of controls where everything works."
"Hmm," Moulding mused. "Yes, well, look here. That chap's been known to be quite late at times." He rubbed his chin, then thumped the little spacecraft's hull affectionately with his fist. "Tell you what," he said. "I can certainly take responsibility for letting you into the cockpit. Why don't you just pull the boarding ladder up and get started." Then he grinned roguishly. "Perhaps," he added, "if Townsend doesn't show up, I'll throw on some space togs, and you can take me up for a spin."
Brim made a mock salute. "Sounds like a plan to me," he said, extending the little ship's boarding ladder.
In short order he unlocked the front canopy, pushed it aside, then settled into the snug front cockpit, virtually surrounded on three sides by an array of readouts and controls that had been familiar since his days in The Academy. He shut his eyes while the odors of the ship transported him to another life.
Plastic, lubricating oils, logics and sealants—all intermixed with the spicy odors of organic insulating compounds. And polish: military vehicles always reeked of polish, no matter what their function. This T-29 was no exception.
For the next few cycles, Brim busied himself checking circuit breakers, valves, and switches. Then he preset the readout panels and peered out into the parking area—still no Townsend. He checked the energy choke: fully closed. Inverters: off. Next he punched all the circuit breakers in. Finally, he stood on the seat and again peered off toward the locker room, shading his eyes from Hador's glare. Townsend was still nowhere in sight. Shrugging, he slid into the seat again, and held his hand in the air. "Spinning up," he called down to Moulding.
Moulding quickly stepped back from the gravity pad. "Right ho, old chap!" he exclaimed. "Go to it!"
Brim switched on the spin-grav master, slid the power switch forward to activate while he counted three clicks, then returned it to energy on and watched the grav panel display energized. With the plasma thus set, he advanced the thrust control halfway off between off and minimum, then hit both run and energy boost in unison; the R-1820 whined and began to spin. He glanced at the interrupter. It began strobing almost immediately—an excellent ship, he considered, while a mindless grin of delight spread across his face.
Eight strobes... nine strobes... ten. Brim mashed START and the spin grav fired thunderously, shaking the little ship's spaceframe with a jarring rhythm while he fed in delicate thrust-control and plasma-form motions to take the machine from a few random zaps to a point where all eighteen ion chambers were sparking on cue. Moments later, the interrupter steadied and the noise and throbbing died to a velvety purr. "Look's like she wants to fly," he shouted.