Townsend had begun to scream incoherently and pound on the canopy with his fists when Brim at last fired off the spin grav at no more than thirty irals altitude and then began to streak along the surface toward the Fleet base, still upside down. In moments, he sped over the breakers (coating his windshield with spray!), cleared the run-up area at no more than twenty irals, then zoomed through an outside loop that ended, inverted again, at precisely the same twenty irals of altitude. Clicks later, Brim rolled the ship rightside up and continued inland at high speed toward Atalanta's City Mount Hill, dodging hangars and trees with the fluid control inputs he'd used as a youth, racing ore barges through the perilous ore shoals off Carescria. After a few moments' play, however, he cranked the ship into a tight turn, then laid it on its side while he flew through one of the narrow stone arches supporting Harbor Causeway, this time to the sounds of Townsend vomiting in his helmet. It hadn't taken long at all. Too bad, he thought. Already, it was time to go home.
Soaring out over the base again in a gentle turn, he activated the external COMM and called for landing clearance. As he expected, he got it quickly; he'd just broken every rule in the book! He laughed. This would certainly be his last time piloting any kind of a government spacecraft. For just a moment, he felt a pang of regret for the trouble he knew he had just caused Claudia. Then he put her out of his mind. It wasn't he who had asked for today's little jaunt around the base; therefore, she would just have to understand.
Finally, with Townsend still spluttering in the backseat, Brim caught the winking ruby flash of a landing vector, cut power to his spin grav once more, and made landfall dead-stick, bringing the ship to an effortless hover on its own gravity in a few easy hull lengths. "Your ship," he said, as they bobbed gently above the swells.
Silence.
"Well?"
After a long while, Townsend's voice came weakly over the intercom. "I can't d-do it, you bastard," he groaned weakly, "too s-sick."
The words were accompanied by more feeble spitting noises, so Brim switched off the intercom and taxied along the maze of canals that lead to the ready line. He smiled wryly. If nothing else, it had been fun getting back at the controls again. He hoped he wouldn't have to pay for his pleasure by doing time in the brig, but the kind of lesson he'd just been handed regarding government employment was worth at least that. After today, he would never again waste his life mooning after another government flying job.
From now on, it was civilian employment exclusively for Wilf Brim. And if that meant that he wouldn't fly for a while, then so be it. He was making a good enough living with his axes.
He had just turned onto a ramp leading back to the ready line when a Base Operations skimmer bobbed in front of him with flags flying officiously. A flashing sign across its stern commanded, follow me.
Shrugging, he pulled in behind the little vehicle and trailed it all the way to the main concrete apron of gravity pads that separated the headquarters building from five square c'lenyts of gravity pools and canals it commanded. Most of the pads were in use by other utility craft of various shapes and sizes; however, one—located in the first row nearest the glass walls of the Administration section—was unoccupied. And it was to this pad that the Security skimmer directed him. He frowned in the bright sunlight as he swung the nose of the ship. Three people were standing on the far side, and the one dressed in a close-fitting yellow jumpsuit was certainly Claudia—he could pick her out anywhere. He grimaced and swallowed a lump in his throat. Her much-deserved anger would be difficult to endure.
The man to the right of her was... Moulding, of course! He, too, had every right to be angry—furious, even. A pity, Brim considered with a grimace; the blond officer seemed to be a decent sort of person, even if he was wealthy.
But who was the other man? Dressed in a severe civilian business suit, he had a familiar look about him.
Suddenly, Brim's heart jumped as the distance narrowed. No one else in the Universe had that combination of features: the dark complexion, thin, dry lips, pockmarked jowls, short-cropped hair, and eyes that could drill holes in hullmetal. They could belong to no one but Bosporus P. Gallsworthy, formerly Principal Helmsman of I.F.S. Truculent—and one of the finest Helmsmen in the Fleet. Brim hadn't seen him for seven years or so, but clearly the man had retired into civilian life. And whatever he was doing there, it didn't bode well for someone who had just broken nearly every flight regulation on—or above—the base. With a shrug, Brim concluded that their anger could wait until he properly shut down the T-29; it made little sense to take his troubles out on the ship. Then, driving the little trainer onto the ample gravity pad, he carefully set both gravity brakes, stopcocked the energy choke, and powered off the spin grav. As soon as the boarding ladder deployed, he heard the rear canopy rumble open.
Presently, in the corner of his eye, he watched Townsend stumble to the pavement, then bolt headlong toward the Headquarters locker room, looking neither left nor right as he ran.
Cycles later, when he finished inciting the ship's systems, he once again focused his eyes and his attention on the trio waiting to vent their ire on him. Strange though, he ruminated as he slid the canopy back: each of them now seemed to be grinning at him.
At the foot of the boarding ladder, Brim loosened his helmet, then carefully rotated it forward and off, squinting at the three silhouettes walking toward him in the sudden, unfiltered brightness. Folding his arms on his chest, he stood his ground, feet apart, chin thrust out in the fresh sea breeze. If retribution was indeed his lot, then it might xaxtdamned well come to him. He braced himself.
Gallsworthy broke the silence in his distinctively hushed voice. "Humph," he began, gripping the Carescrian's hand in a rare show of feeling. "It's been a long time, you young pup." Then, with no warning whatsoever, he began to speak in a boisterous voice that was entirely out of character with anything Brim could recall. "Perfectly dreadful series of malfunctions you had out there, Brim." he bellowed. "Ah yes—it's certainly clear you've lost none of your extraordinary flying skills, Humph."
"Malfunctions?" Brim stammered in bewilderment. He glanced at Claudia for some explanation, only to encounter a perfectly spiritual countenance, brown eyes turned reverently toward the heavens.
"All three of us watched from the control tower, m'boy," Gallsworthy affirmed boisterously before Brim could even open his mouth again. "I was especially impressed when your ship rolled itself on its side and you still managed to safely steer it under the stone bridge. Splendid Helmsmanship! Splendid."
"Yes, right ho," Moulding added, even more stridently, slapping Brim on the shoulder and nodding in an eloquent manner toward a pair of scowling Safety Officers in blue and gold uniforms who were charging around the corner of the gravity pad, clearly intent on grabbing someone. They stopped just short of Brim, puffing officiously. One was a mousy, nervous woman with the mean, narrow eyes of a martinet; her partner was a nondescript and rather stupid-looking man of about twenty who badly needed a shave.
Both wore boots with the gleaming, patent-glass finish favored by security guards everywhere in the galaxy. "A great show of Helmsmanship," Moulding continued to Brim without stopping for breath, "carried out under the most difficult of circumstances. It is certain that you saved Lieutenant Commander Townsend's life. Few men in the Empire could have pulled it off the way you did."
At that, both security officers turned to Gallsworthy with a look of consternation.