"That hasn't allowed much time to talk about anything yet," Borodov added, peering over his glasses.
"And I just ran into him a few moments before you did," Collingswood put in.
"I see," Onrad replied. For a moment, he smiled at some private thought, then he nodded. "Tell you what," he said, looking at Collingswood and the two Bears, "I need to see the three of you for a few moments concerning the membership committee rules. Wilf, why don't you take one of these comfortable lobby chairs for a few cycles, then join us in the grand ballroom for the opening ceremonies?" He consulted his timepiece. "At Morning: two forty-five. That will give us an opportunity to conduct our business—and you can amuse yourself with that letter."
Brim bowed. "Very well, Your Highness," he agreed. "I shall plan to join you in the grand ballroom at Morning: two forty-five sharp."
"General Zapt, a badge for Mr. Brim, if you please." Onrad commanded. Instantly, the wraithlike General handed Brim a holobadge containing the latest three-dimensional representation of his head and shoulders that had been recorded in base security. With that, the Prince and Collingswood swept grandly past, the two Bears and General Zapt hurrying along in their wake.
Brim watched the little convoy maneuvering through the throng. Try as he might, it was difficult to feel any great indignation toward Onrad for having taken his decision for granted. In truth, he doubted if princes could operate without making a lot of assumptions. They simply wouldn't have enough time. Besides, he was under no obligation to anyone. If he decided against employment with the ISS for any reason, he could always turn in his badge, leave the hotel, and that would be that. He hurried to one of the lobby's great wing-backed easy chairs where he impulsively ripped open the envelope, extracted two sheets of pale coralline manuscript plastic, and began to read:
Dearest Wilf,
In the long months since we last met in Avalon, you have seldom been far from my mind. In that way, you have sustained me through what you must by now have discovered has been a virtual captivity. Until this day, Rogan has successfully blocked all of my many attempts to communicate. Cousin Onrad, however, is far beyond my husband's reach.
I trust that by now you also know that I have finally delivered my son, Rodyard. Not only has he introduced a whole new love into my life, he has also brought a fresh set of responsibilities. And in no way would I even attempt to claim that I remain unchanged because of him. The truth is that I am totally changed. Only in my love for you do I remain constant, even though I know that our relationship must now endure its second drastic permutation. That change is something that we must someday work out, my dearest, but only when our eyes can meet as well as our minds. For now, Wilf, be certain of my love, but be forewarned that I no longer exist as the Margot Effer'wyck you once knew.
Now, time grows short, and I must complete this message. Onrad confesses to me that he will soon offer you the position of Principal Helmsman for the Imperial Starflight Society, but he is not at all certain you will accept. He refuses to discuss the basis for his doubts, but I suspect that I know. I spent the last night of my own freedom looking helplessly at your despair. After the reward you received for your wartime sacrifices, you could retain very little love for our ungrateful Empire or its people.
Nevertheless, I pray to the very Universe that you will somehow find it in yourself to overlook these all-too-obvious transgressions. One glimpse into Kirsh Valentin's eyes and you would know why you must. Wilf, these competitions have suddenly become much more than quests for pride or even an outlandish token like the Mitchell Cup. The real trophy is now the crass promotion of industrial and scientific capabilities—factors that attract allies whose added might can insure achievement of more fundamental goals: conquest and power. Believe me, I know. My own husband is already strongly attracted to the tyrant's cause.
Onrad has returned now, so I must end. The Universe speed your flight, my darling, until we touch again.
Love thou the land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought.
—Cennone
I love you,
Margot
Brim devoured Margot's letter, reading it over and over again, examining each elegantly handwritten word for all possible meanings while he desperately attempted to create her face in his mind's eye. He was so preoccupied that he nearly missed the opening ceremonies. When he finally consulted his timepiece, only moments remained in which to hurry across the crowded floor, catch a jammed lift to the fifth level, and sprint to the grand ballroom, where he arrived, rather out of breath, with less than a cycle to spare.
An imposing doorman in a purple uniform trimmed with gold glared at Brim. He was backed up by ten government types with short haircuts and massive chins who looked totally out of place in evening clothes. "The employment office," he proclaimed regally, "is two flights below, at the other end of the hall."
Brim peered up at the man and flashed his badge. "Glad to know that, friend," he said impassively. "Let me know if you find work." Then he opened the door for himself and strode through as if he had been a member of the ISS for the last thousand years.
Inside, under a colonnade that ringed the perimeter of the great, circular room, it was instantly clear to Brim—who was wearing a plain blue tunic over white civilian trousers and walking shoes, the best clothes he owned—why the doorman had tried to prevent him from entering. Beneath a high, magnificently-colored trompe l'oeil ceiling of mythological space creatures in flight, a glittering assemblage of perhaps two hundred unquestionably affluent people had assembled, dressed for the clear and singular purpose of impressing each other. They were seated at ten large, circular tables, noisily laughing and talking, while artfully ignoring the extravagant ministrations of at least a hundred servants in ill-fitting evening clothes who scurried here and there, lugging huge trays of goblets and bottles. The air was heavy with odors of fine wines, liquors, cigarettes of every scent, perfume, and the delicate scent of glowing panthion blossoms that were placed everywhere in great baskets and sprays. Music from a small orchestra wove through the conversation and muted clatter of tableware.
At the far end of the room on a raised dais, a long, straight table had been set for twelve. In the center, Prince Onrad presided over the whole assemblage, flanked by Regula Collingswood and a brooding aristocrat whom Brim immediately recognized as Onrad's longtime confidant and trusted friend, the Duke of Washburn. At Collingswood's left sat Anna Romanoff, unobtrusively staring into a portable information terminal. And beside Romanoff posed a svelte woman with captivating gray eyes whom Brim recognized as Veronica Pike, Director of the Sherrington Hyperspace Works, a small but highly reputed starship manufacturer. Poised and enigmatic as a gryphon, she was dressed in severe light gray business apparel that accentuated long, sable hair and a flawless, tawny complexion.
Grinding his teeth in embarrassment, the Carescrian speedily concluded that there was no place in the room for a credit-strapped Helmsman named Wilf Brim. Turning abruptly to avoid a large, bovine maitre'd whose obeisant professional gaze had just trapped his glance, he reached for the door handle at precisely the same time that Toby Moulding rose from a nearby table occupied mostly by people in Fleet uniforms. "Wilf!" he called, "Here, sit with us. I've been saving you a place."
Brim shuddered, attempting to conjure some excuse that would allow him to escape. But he was too late.
In a moment, Moulding had ushered him to a chair between his own and a comfortable-looking, middle-aged man dressed in a brown herringbone tweed jacket with dark flannel trousers and pointed Rhodorian boots. "Mark," Moulding said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder, "I want you to meet Wilf Brim—a person you'd want to know even if he weren't about to do some flying for you."