"Yes, my dearest," Margot whispered, opening a panel in the wall, "until then." Beyond, in a dim passage, stood two chauffeurs dressed in the green, white, and red colors of the Torond. "We shall see each other more often now that my captivity has ended," she said. "And I shall let you know. I shall shout it to the very Universe." Then she squeezed his hand and was gone, hurrying down the passageway as the panel slid noiselessly shut.
During the next few days, Brim and Moulding spent most of their waking metacycles poking around the race district, making the most of the HELMSMAN: ALL ZONES guest passes they had been issued as members of the Imperial Starflight Society's racing committee. At first, they were hesitant to enter the shed area where the starships were being groomed for the race. Then, utterly amazed at how much leeway the passes actually permitted, they began to barge through every hangar—Moulding in full uniform, Brim in casual civilian clothes—studying whatever they could lay their eyes on.
The racers themselves were tiny in comparison to normal starships; even the largest carried a crew of two or three at maximum. Floating on custom gravity pads, these special machines came in every conceivable shape and style. Some were slim and graceful, optimized for efficient operation within the race's dictated atmospheric takeoff and landing areas; others were squat and clearly shaped to enclose the maximum propulsion apparatus possible within an envelope of minimum mass-to-drag ratio. Still others disregarded atmospherics almost completely, relying on brute power to achieve speed objectives in the void of space where a preponderance of the racing would be done. All, however, shared one characteristic in common: they were colorful. R'autor RC3-5s from A'zurn raced in gleaming silver with red and white stripes curving gracefully from diminutive Hyperscreens to Drive outlets; Dampier DA.39s, first native entries from LaKarn's Torond, were colored a stunning orange-green with national colors vertically striped on their huge gravity-generator outriggers; businesslike Gantheisser GA 209V-1s from the League were purest white with gleaming red sponsons and bridge highlights; Velone-451s from Beta Jagow raced in bright green with jasmine racing bands and black accents. Brim, who had spent most of his flying years on clapped-out ore barges or uniformly obsidian-colored Fleet warships, found himself fascinated by the colorful spectacle.
Out on breezy Lake Tegeler, speeding pleasure craft and tour boats roiled the waters all day, trailing endless wakes that gleamed against the deep blue like white ribbons of foam among the endless march of waves. In the starship lanes, great liners came and went, their rumbling thunder linking the great capital city to the distant ends of the galaxy. Now and then, one of the racers would crackle out to a takeoff vector, freezing every form of movement on the sparkling surface until it had completed its tests, whatever they happened to be.
And in the background, forbidding ranks of gray warships hovered at their moorings, tier upon tier of grim superfiring disrupters parked fore and aft. Brim shuddered; these huge Leaguer ships clearly didn't exist in the filtered vision of the CIGAs. But when it came time to fight—and that time would come—what Imperial ships would remain to face them?
The race pavilion itself encompassed a broad, paved apron on the austral banks of the lake. Facing the inland perimeter of the apron was an imposing grandstand with a colossal crystal bubble that could be moved into place during inclement weather. Shed areas where the starships were prepared by their various crews were sited at either side of the grandstand. The "sheds" themselves, were identical cylindroid hangars, individually fitted out and equipped by the racing teams that inhabited them. Fronting each of these was a fixed, "standard" gravity pool whose dimensions and parameters had been agreed upon among representatives of the contestants months prior to the race. It was from these that the racers would depart and return, like the commercial starships of Mitchell's dream.
Each shed took on the personality of the domain to which it had been assigned. The Leaguer shed, for example, had four of the gleaming new Gantheisser racing machines parked out back, as backups.
Inside, the walls were lined with precisely ordered rows of accessories for use by veritable armies of technicians in white laboratory coats who swarmed over the two racers that were being readied for the actual contest. Brim shook his head as teams of meticulous Leaguers carried out complete practice shop drills timed by a Controller with a huge chronometer. These people were out to win their second race in a row—no ifs or buts about it. He wondered when he would encounter his old adversary Kirsh Valentin.
In contrast to the machinelike organization in the Leaguer's shed, an absolute confusion of activity seemed to spin around the Torond's two graceful Dampier starships. Mechanics and technicians were everywhere, swarming over the two DA.39s like a plague of insects. Brim needed no coaching to take that team's efforts seriously, in spite of his personal attitude toward Baron Rogan LaKarn. Mario Marino built first-rate starships.
Brim had special friends in the A'zurnian shed, and had purposefully saved that visit for last. Otherwise, he'd strongly suspected that he might see little else on the lakefront. And he was substantially correct. As soon as he and Moulding arrived, they were treated as if they had personally signed on as members of the A'zurnian racing team. Brim's special friend Aram of Nahshon was off planet for the day, but others had been alerted for the arrival of two Imperials, and they were afforded hospitality that was clearly reserved for visiting dignitaries.
Metacycles later—after much fine Logish Meem and a most detailed inspection of the A'zurnian's chunky little R'autor RC3 racer—the two Imperials had just climbed into their skimmer when Moulding pointed at a long, pretentious Majestat-Baron limousine coming off the cable toward the Leaguer's shed.
"Important bus if I ever saw one," he observed. "Suppose we ought to drive over for a closer look?"
"Sounds like a plan to me," Brim chuckled. "After all, these guest passes make us all bosom buddies.
Right?"
"Right ho," Moulding agreed sarcastically. "Brothers all under the skin—or something like that."
Without even linking their car onto a cable, Brim steered a direct course (more or less) across three parking lots with the rudder pedals alone. "Never did believe in their damned guide wires," he joked as they jolted at right angles across a number of cable ways.
Moulding shook his head sagely. "Brother Brim," he answered, "if you keep this up, you're going to make things very difficult when you apply for League citizenship."
"Ah... yeah," Brim agreed, with his index finger raised cheerfully. "That's precisely what I had in mind."
Moments later, they whirred through a huge ornamental garden, careened around a fountain in a cloud of tumbling flowers, and drew to a halt in a parking stall near the front of the Leaguer's shed. The big skimmer was just coming to a stop under the portico, where an honor guard of gray-uniformed Legionnaires braced at stiff attention. As the two Imperials debarked and strolled to the front of their car, the alert Commander met Brim's eye. His hostile glare made it amply clear that the Legionnaires behind him were in place for more than the ceremony.
Grinning, Brim shot a rakish salute to the man, then settled back to watch as the hulking Majestat-Baron began to disgorge its passengers—all Controllers.
First out was a brutish Galite'er, Leaguer equivalent of an Imperial Commodore. Heavyset and totally bald around his high-peaked cap, the man had vast shoulders and a massive frame that seemed to threaten his tight black tunic with every movement he made. After him came a dwarfish, middle-aged woman—an OverGalite'er—who walked with a distinct limp, as if her right foot were damaged in some way. She was followed by another woman, a buxom, athletic-looking Praefect who was much younger than the other two.