Each starting gate consisted of two pylons accurately positioned in the water and equipped with three sets of lights: ruby for "nonready," amber for "start signal pending," and green for "race." When a ship was properly positioned just short of the pylons, its Helmsman signaled that he (or she) was ready by the simple expedient of standing on the brakes while directing full power to the gravs. This sent a great cloud of spray sweeping aft from the racer that quickly built hundreds of irals into the air. In acknowledgment, the Starter switched on the amber pylon lamps, then took his flag from a rack, held it dramatically over his head, and snapped it smartly down between two light-sensitive poles that activated the green takeoff lamps on the pylons. The actual race clock was started by the ship's passage between the pylons—and subsequently stopped when the ship returned between the same gates at the end of its run.
In no time at all, the Ripernian entry was bellowing along the lake, remaining just above the surface for nearly two c'lenyts before it lifted in a near-vertical climb and disappeared into the cloudless blue sky, although its deep thunder persisted nearly a cycle before fading below the clamor of the spectators.
Moments later, a second Ripernian ship was manhandled onto the gravity pool....
For the remainder of the day, and well into the long spring evening, each racing team took its turns at the starting pylons. Spectators followed the race on miniature scoreboards at their seats that showed the elapsed time at which each contestant snapped around one of the turning points. During much of the contest, it appeared as if LaKarn's Dampier DA.39 might take first place, with A'zurn's stubby little R'autor in a solid second. But as the last heats approached, Brim got a distinct feeling that the competition was far from over until the League had run its heats.
In a blaze of searchlights, the Leaguer crews—identically dressed in spotless white coveralls—manhandled Valentin's sinister-looking Gantheisser GA 209V-l onto the gravity pool, and within thirty cycles, Brim's old nemesis was turning in times that shaved whole clicks from the day's fastest runs. By the time he landed, it was clear that the next race would again be held in Tarrott.
As Valentin climbed from his Gantheisser amid a blaze of searchlights and thunderous applause, the League was now within a single race of capturing the Mitchell Trophy permanently. Brim sat silently, grinding his teeth. Had he fostered any questions about his commitment to the race, they were now totally gone. Only Valerian's voice rang in his ears, obscuring the thunderous cheers of the crowd: " We've got a trophy to win." Brim meant to do everything in his power to make sure that happened.
Less than a metacycle later, as if to add insult to injury, the number two Gantheisser ran a close second—piloted by the shapely and long-legged Praefect who had preceded Valentin into the League shed while Brim watched from the parking lot.
Both Brim and Moulding quietly departed Tarrott early the next morning, but soon after their return to Atalanta, the Carescrian embarked alone for Sodeskaya. He intended to learn everything he could about Krasni-Peych's new Drive, as well as the starship for which it was intended. One thing was now clear in his mind: he did not intend to watch Kirsh Valentin win anything again—ever.
Only a month later, the League began a second warlike confrontation, this time issuing trumped-up charges against its neighboring dominion of Beta Jagow. During the Great War, forces from this diminutive ally of the Empire had seized a thirty-planet area claimed by the League; now Zoguard Grobermann, the League's Minister of State, complained that ex-Leaguers on five habitable planets were being held in unwilling subjugation. This time, he openly threatened to send "forces" that would rectify the situation. He made no mention of what forces he might send, but the message was nonetheless clear: the League could back up its threats with warships.
The immense Sodeskayan passenger liner with its sleek lines and spacious accommodations seemed nothing less than incredible from Brim's delighted point of view. Clearly an engineer's ship from bow to stern, Ra'dio Kruznyetski Kondrashin was not only fast and economical, she was also luxurious beyond Brim's wildest dreams. If the recently launched vessel were any indication of what he might encounter at Krasni-Peych's research complex outside Gromcow, his visit to the planet of Sodeskaya promised to be an interesting one indeed.
He had also discovered shortly after his arrival in the ornate boarding salon that he had somehow been assigned to first-class accommodations. Surprised and apprehensive that he might have to pay for the upgrade—which he doubted he could—he'd inquired immediately about the situation and was informed by a Purser that nothing concerning his passage could be altered. Apparently, the upgrade of his original "tourist"-class reservations had been arranged for, as well as prepaid, in Gromcow, by order of Imperial Authority.
Now, as a guest on the spacious flight bridge of the big starship, Brim relaxed in the deep cushions of a luxurious jump seat and watched the crew set up for landfall on wintry Sodeskaya. The curve of the big planet had long since become a level, albeit cloudy, horizon in the forward Hyperscreens, and the Helmsman—one Ivanovich Kapustan Bokh—was setting up for his final approach into Gromcow's Tomoshenko Memorial Starport. Bokh flew smoothly and without effort, hunched attentively over the instrument panel while he scanned the readouts and peered now and then through the Hyperscreens, his great furry head and powder blue AkroKahn Captain's cap protruding above the seat back. "We Helmsmen of excellence must hang together," the smiling Bear had said, shaking Brim's hand on the latter's first visit to the flight bridge, "—there are so few of us in the first place."
After that, Brim spent much of his time with the crew—all Sodeskayans—realizing that here was an opportunity to rub elbows with some of the best starsailors in the Universe. Cursed with relatively poor eyesight in comparison to other spacefaring races, few Bears cared for the actual business of starflight, preferring instead to employ their vast intellectual energies by engineering vessels for others to operate.
Gromcow Tower was reporting low IFR with dense clouds right down to minimums. Forward, there was only gray to be seen; Kondrashin had been within the clouds since the fifteen-thousand-iral mark, descending slowly in a precisely timed holding pattern. There were light bumps, but Bokh clearly had the touch. He was handling the forty-five-thousand-milston starship as if she were a small trainer.
Moments after the Gromcow tower issued permission to land, Bokh smoothly banked the big starship into a descending turn and captured the ILS beam within the first few clicks, almost as if he were a Leaguer following some sort of bizarre cable system. At the middle marker, they picked up the ruby landing vector only just above minimum altitude, but once the starship was configured and the power was set, there were no perceptible changes in altitude whatsoever until the final flare-out. Absolutely no sensation in pitch, roll, or power—Brim's kind of Helmsmanship. And the landing that followed was equally good. Bokh flew through the driving snow with that special consideration for machinery that marked a true professional. He put Kondrashin onto her gravity foot with the feather-light touch most good Helmsmen got one time in twenty.
Once they were moored on one of Tomoshenko's massive gravity pools, Brim thanked the Sodeskayan Helmsman and his assistant for the masterful ride, but since both were filling out reports, they didn't get much of a chance to talk. Afterward, he hurried to his stateroom to collect the few valuables that weren't in his luggage, planning to make directly for the main boarding hatch to meet Ursis and Borodov. But he never made it.