"Hmm," Moulding observed, raising his eyebrows in approval. "Now there's an improvement if I ever saw one."
"Maybe," Brim answered, "but I'll bet she wears her blaster to bed."
"Uncomfortable, that," Moulding conceded, wrinkling his nose.
"More than one would imagine," Brim quipped from the side of his mouth.
Last out of the Majestat-Baron was a tall, well-built figure of a Provost who, even from behind, made Brim's scalp bristle. Instantly, the Commander of the honor guard stepped from his position and took the man by his elbow, nodding toward the two Imperials in the parking lot as he spoke.
"Looks as if you're being tattled upon," Moulding quipped. "Perhaps this will teach you to not to drive through Leaguer flower beds so indifferently...."
Still with his back to the parking lot, the tall Provost haughtily dismissed the Legionnaire, then called something to his companions. Only the Praefect responded, turning for a moment and nodding before she followed her two superiors through the door. This accomplished, the man spun on his heel and peered out into the evening darkness, his aristocratic features highlighted by the overhead lights.
Brim inadvertently caught his breath.
"Friend of yours?" Moulding asked.
"An acquaintance," Brim growled through clenched teeth. "We got together a couple of times during the war. His name is Kirsh Valentin."
"Somehow, I thought I recognized him," Moulding said grimly, watching the Provost start across the parking lot toward them, his boots clicking smartly on the pavement.
As Valentin approached, Brim leaned casually against the cable car, his head spinning with loathsome memories; the man represented everything he detested. Suddenly, his churning emotions turned to icy calm, almost as if he were on the bridge of a starship preparing for battle. He took two steps forward, then settled calmly with his hands on his hips, legs apart, waiting. It was Valentin's territory. He could make the next move.
The Leaguer stopped a short distance from Brim, smiled, and clicked his heels. "Well, my once and future antagonist," he said, peeling off a white glove and extending his hand. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?" He smelled both of cologne and Time Weed.
Brim gripped the proffered hand. It was cool and dry. "Probably not long enough, Valentin," he said, meeting the man's gaze with a sardonic grin. "—for either of us."
Valentin laughed. "Ah, Brim. You Imperials take life too seriously. The war is over, my friend. And forgotten. We are no longer enemies: merely competitors. Spend some time considering what your onetime shipmate Puvis Amherst has to say. That organization of his, the Congress for..." He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Intragalactic Accord," Brim prompted as if he had just pronounced a truly evil malediction. He'd heard that the cowardly Amherst—once a shipmate aboard I.F.S. Truculent—had become a major force in the CIGA, but he had no idea how famous the man had become.
" Yes," Valentin remarked, "the Congress for Galactic Accord—'CIGAs' you call them. Well, you should listen to what they have to say. That movement represents the future—a truly nonaggressive society whose time has come." Then he snickered. "But of course," he added, opening his arms in a magnanimous gesture that wounded Brim to his soul, "you don't even wear a uniform anymore, do you?"
"In spite of the thraggling CIGA traitors at home, some of my friends still do," Brim replied through clenched teeth. "Commander Toby Moulding, meet Kirsh Valentin."
Valentin clicked his heels and bowed slightly without offering his hand. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, Commander," he said.
Moulding smiled at the obvious snub. "Yes," he agreed quietly, "you are."
Contemptuous anger blazed momentarily in Valentin's eyes. "Your score, Commander," he acknowledged. For a moment, he inspected his perfectly manicured fingernails, unconsciously grinding his teeth. "How regrettable," he observed at length, "that you Imperials have been unable to ready a starship for the races this year. But I am told that you both inspected our Gantheisser GA 209V-1s today, so you will already know that the race would have been ours in any case. That must be some recompense."
"Races are never won until the finish line is crossed," Moulding reciprocated. "I wasn't aware that any official heats were run today."
"Ah, my dear Moulding," Valentin chuckled, raising his hands palm up to his waist, "of course the race must be actually ran, but can there be any question about its resolution?"
Moulding stuck to his ground. "I'm dashed if I'll concede you the race, Valentin," he said hotly. "No matter how good that new Gantheisser looks, it won't be the winner until it is actually fastest over the race course. And quite a lot can happen between now and then, you know."
"True," Valentin allowed, "but it won't. We have left nothing to chance. You will see this is true when I personally pilot the winning starship." Then his eyes narrowed. "And for next year's race," he added, this time looking directly at Brim, "there is nothing your poor Sherrington Works can produce that will compare to the Gantheissers we have under development. Believe me. I have already seen the mock-ups."
"Next year at this time," Brim said, "I shall be quite glad—and ready—to discuss next year's racers. Right now, this year's is quite enough for me to digest."
"True," Valentin said. "I trust you will be present at the finish line?"
"Count on it," Brim said. "I wouldn't miss a moment of it."
"Good," Valentin said, pulling on his white gloves. "Then you will watch me win." He chuckled cynically.
"It will prepare you for next year—if Valerian and your silly Bears can actually cobble a new ship together by that time."
"We'll see next year, won't we?" Brim answered.
"Indeed we shall," Valentin relented with a smirk. "But I really did not come to argue racing tonight," he said. "Actually, I came to personally extend you, Commander Moulding, and your civilian friend, an invitation to a Chancellery reception tomorrow night before the race. Kabul Anak is in the capital for the races and is interested in meeting you both. Formal attire, of course."
Brim met his partner's eyes. "How about it, Toby?" he asked. "I can't imagine you traveling without a formal uniform, and I'll bet the embassy can throw together something appropriately civilian for me."
Moulding grinned. "I'm sure they can," he said. "Provost Valentin, I accept your kind offer. I have always hoped I should one day meet the famous Admiral Kabul Anak."
"And I," Brim added. "Perhaps one day we shall even have the honor of meeting Nergol Triannic himself."
Valentin's eyes narrowed. "The Emperor's exile will come to an end in good time, Imperials. You may count on it. Then..." His voice trailed off and he nodded to himself as if rehearsing some secret thought.
He took a deep breath. "I shall look forward to the honor of meeting you again tomorrow evening," he said, dropping the subject of the exiled Nergol Triannic like a hot coal. Abruptly, he came to attention, clicked his heels, and started off toward the shed. As he cleared the entrance, six armed guards took their places on either side of the portico, and a sign lighted on the door itself: no admittance.
Clearly, the League's peaceful countenance existed only during daylight metacycles. Brim and Moulding left immediately for their hotel, each deep in his own thoughts.
The special reception was officially in honor of the race crews, but its published guest list made it clear that the event was really given to impress influential hangers-on who attended the race more as a social event.
Brim spent part of the morning studying a protocol manual supplied by the mysterious Drummond, who also volunteered to locate a suit of formal civilian evening clothes—no easy task, considering that most of the civilians who owned such outfits were also planning to wear them to the same event.