The man had a sizable nose, damp, humorous eyes, and a drooping black moustache of truly prodigious size. His woolen coat and trousers hinted of a cool home climate, and he wore an old-fashioned white shirt and necktie. "Glad to meet you, Wilf," he said, extending his hand. "Mark Valerian's my name."
"Glad to meet you," Brim said, gripping Valerian's hand in his own. The man's name rang a bell somehow, but he couldn't quite place it. "I'm at the Fleet base here in Atalanta," he added, slipping into his chair.
"I work for Veronica Pike over at Sherrington's," Valerian returned.
"Sweet Universe," Brim swore, suddenly recalling where he'd heard Valerian's name before. "You're the designer who engineered the attack launch for I.F.S. Intractable, aren't you?—the one built to Abner Klisnikov's specifications."
Valerian's bushy eyebrows arched with sudden amazement. "Where in the galaxy did you hear about that overpowered beast?" he exclaimed. "I thought that little kite was blown to atoms when Intractable hit a space mine back during the war."
"Not quite," Brim replied with a growing sense of excitement. "She was eventually destroyed in the war, along with a grand old starship named Prize. But she lasted long enough that I got to put in quite a few metacycles at her controls. I even took her on a mission—and, yeah, she was a bit overpowered with those two big spin gravs, but all in all..."
Moulding laughed as he took his seat. "Somehow," he said, "I thought you two might have a lot to talk over, but I didn't know about Abner Klisnikov's starship. Universe."
"What's this about Klisnikov's starship?" a handsome woman in an exquisite uniform broke in. "Abner was the greatest Helmsman of all time, I understand."
"Yeah," another interjected. "Let's hear..."
At that point, the harried waiters arrived to serve luncheon. In addition to goblets of vintage Logish Meem, they brought rich soups, delicate luncheon saucisson from rare game meats, cheese of every flavor and persuasion, yeasty breads fresh from the oven, fruits from all over the galaxy, glacés and desserts of every conceivable description. It slowed, but never completely defeated, the eager conversations that ebbed and flowed among the very serious deep-space advocates at the table. The banquet took fully two standard metacycles to consume, but by the end of it, Brim had come to understand that not all of the ISS members were wealthy fops, although it was reasonably clear that most were wealthy beyond his own wildest dreams. To his surprise, he was sitting with the elite Imperial Fleet's HighSpeed Starflight Team.
Following a second dessert course, the Duke of Washburn brought the meeting to order, or at least to a semblance of order. At most of the other tables, conversations went on unabated, albeit in a quieter tone.
Many of the socialites were nodding in their chairs while Romanoff recited the minutes of the last meeting, and some actually fell asleep while Collingswood went through the motions of introducing the Society's reorganized racing plan.
Brim's eyes met Valerian's for a moment. "Are they like this all the time?" he whispered.
"I don't know," Valerian confided quietly beneath a glowering frown. "But if wealthy people have to act this discourteously, I think I'd just as soon stay indigent, thank you."
Brim was about to comment further when Onrad rose to speak. That served to quiet the irritating hum of conversation that pervaded the room.
"Today," the Prince announced in his most monarchical rhetoric, "the Imperial Starship Society begins an altogether new racing curriculum—one that will forever change the way we conduct our competitive activities." With that, he explained at length that Sherrington Hyperspace Works had already been retained to design and construct a special racing hull under Chief Designer Mark J. Valerian.
Furthermore, the Sodeskayan firm of Krasni-Peych, whose galaxy-famous research center was located only a short drive outside Gromcow, would supply both a gravity propulsion system and Hyperspace Drive.
Brim grinned to himself. That explained a few things, including the presence in Atalanta of his two Sodeskayan friends. Then his heart stood still when he heard his own name.
"Additionally," Onrad proclaimed, "not only has the Admiralty directed the Fleet's renowned HighSpeed Starflight team to act as our consultants, we have ourselves engaged the services of Mr. Wilf Brim, an extraordinary Fleet veteran and Diagnostic Helmsman from the base here at Atalanta, to serve as Principal Racing Helmsman for the Society...."
Brim felt his face flush as polite applause rippled through the room. He glanced at Moulding and Valerian, then shrugged. "First I heard about any of this," he whispered.
"You mean he didn't ask you beforehand?" Moulding queried in astonishment.
Brim chuckled. "Why bother?" he asked. "There isn't a Helmsman alive who'd turn down a berth in the Mitchell and he knows it." Then he turned to Valerian and grinned. "Especially if that Helmsman flew one of Mark Valerian's ships before."
"Well, I thank you kindly," the designer said with a pleased look of surprise on his face. Frowning mightily, he seemed to deliberate for a moment, then after some sort of conclusion reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded scrap of cheap, yellow note plastic. "Tell me what you think of this," he said, handing it to Brim.
The Carescrian felt his eyes widen with genuine awe as he unfolded the scrap of plastic on the tablecloth between himself and Moulding. On it, Valerian had sketched three views of a starship that could only be described as an aerodynamic masterpiece—a graceful collection of fluid, elliptical curves that represented a total departure from the last two centuries of angular, wedge-shaped design. Brim turned the elegant little starship in his imagination: a truly handsome conformation of second-degree conics that managed to integrate hull and superstructure into one perfectly aesthetic whole. After what he realized must have been considerable time, he looked up from the drawing and peered into Valerian's eyes. "Universe," he whispered almost reverently, "I'd probably kill for a chance to fly something like this."
"Do you suppose you could use an accessory to that killing?" Moulding asked. "I'm sure any of us on the Team will be glad to help."
Brim grabbed Moulding's hand. "You're on, Toby," he said, "but I have a feeling that we'll need everyone's help before this thing is over."
A ripple of quiet cheering went 'round the table as the others raised a toast with their goblets.
"In that case," Valerian said, looking around the room with a frown, "I suppose His Bloody Cocksure Highness over yonder is going to have his way again—despite this gaggle of highbrow society blockheads at the other tables." He swiveled his chair to face the two Helmsmen and tapped the yellow scrap of plastic with a long, slim ringer. "The problem is," he drawled, "this time, things aren't going to turn out entirely the way Onrad wants them."
Brim raised an eyebrow while the remainder of their table-mates leaned forward in expectation, hanging on Valerian's words.
"Complex systems like starships don't just come together instantly," the designer explained, "especially new ones that have to be faster than anything else in the galaxy." He took the drawing from the table and tucked it back into his coat. "It takes time to produce this kind of a design, even when we hurry. And," he continued, nodding toward the two Bears at the other end of the table, "I can't believe that our Sodeskayan friends are going to come up with their new drive much faster."