He smiled to himself. Essentially a hopeless romantic, he recognized the moment as one of great drama and beauty—not because of the fame and power that would come to him for winning, but for the very love of this particular starship, and the majesty of the stars themselves.
Suddenly, the Bears were again grouped under the bow of the starship, and Vaskrozni Kubinka the Crew Chief had removed a mitten to hold his thumb aloft. Brim glanced at the five green Drive hatch indicators—all locked—and then the clock. The crew had set another record. Grinning from ear to ear, he returned the gesture, and made a quick scan of his panels while the Bears returned to the radiation shelter at a run.
"Alcott Ground," he said, "M-six Alpha requests taxi to gate."
"M-six Alpha, Alcott Ground clears taxi to gate area one five left, wind two one zero at one six."
"M-six Alpha," Brim acknowledged again. With a final glance toward the grandstands, he moved the thrust damper forward, called up enough power to move the M-6 onto a launch ramp, and taxied out over the water, setting course for the takeoff vector.
As he neared the starting gate, he changed communications channels and called the tower: "Imperial M-six Alpha to Alcott Tower at pylon area," he announced. "Request gate clearance."
"Alcott Tower to M-six Alpha. Cleared to enter gate one five left. Takeoff vector zero seven five on green light, wind two one two at one eight."
"M-six Alpha entering gate one five left, wind two one two at one eight, takeoff on green."
"Alcott Tower."
Brim swung the M-6's bow sharply to starboard and taxied into position just short of the start pylons, presently strobing red from each apex. Beyond, two rows of bobbing yellow vector buoys converged into the distance. For a moment, he sat quietly in the darkness, savoring the fragrance of the lake and gathering himself for the flight, while data from his readouts flowed smoothly across his consoles. Then, deliberately, he slid the Hyperscreen closed; it sealed with a distinct hiss as the bridge pressurized. He made a last systems check: flight controls—normal; lift modifiers—on TAKEOFF; flight readouts—normal and set; anticollision and position lights—on; cabin gravity—firm; shoulder restraints—tight; Hyperscreens—SEALED and LOCKED. Everything was ready.
Locking the steering engine at VERTICAL ONLY, he activated the gravity brakes, then signaled the Starter back at the grandstands by opening his thrust dampers. As his powerful generators built up to takeoff output, a cloud of spray and ice particles began to surge skyward behind the ship, and the bridge filled with a growing thunder. Presently, the pylon lights changed from red to amber. At this, Brim fairly stood on the gravity brakes and brought the dampers all the way to their stops. Even in his battle suit, the penetrating howl of the generators—operating now with no restriction whatsoever—became almost intolerable. The little ship plunged and bucked as it battled back the torrent of raw energy, and Brim found himself struggling with the controls to keep her nose pointed between the rows of vector buoys.
Only moments before it seemed that he would surely lose control, the lights changed to green and he popped the brakes. Instantly, both pylons disappeared sternward in a cascade of spray as the M-6 sprang forward, hurtling itself along the vector with a chilling liquid suddenness. Brim managed to steer a passable approximation of a straight line only by virtue of sheer agility, plus all the native flying skill he possessed. In the corner of his vision, he checked the power panel—still at a steady three ninety-five T-units—while his eyes scanned up and down, inside and out with one coordinated glance. Airspeed 115 c'lenyts. She was getting ready to fly, her mass rapidly transferring to the thundering gravs while his hands wielded the controls by instinct born of love and experience. With no need for instruments, he sensed the ship getting lighter on her footprint until at about 145 she smoothly changed to a creature of the sky.
There was a final moment when the blurred glow of the vector buoys below suddenly quit, ending his dependence on the ground, then he and the ship were in their element, climbing out along the beams of their own landing lights toward the ultimate freedom of the stars.
During its subsequent flight, the superb little ship behaved with utter docility. A perfect combination of hull, propulsion, and control, she snapped through lap after lap at tremendous velocities with stunning regularity, for not only a first-place victory but a new Universal speed record of 94.59M LightSpeed, as well.
Inge Groener's funeral in space was only symbolic; the explosion that took her life also reduced her body, and most of the big Gantheisser she was driving, to subatomic particles that would spend the remainder of eternity traveling outward from the final locus of their existence.
Most of the close-knit racing fraternity attended aboard Angor Renat, one of two super-Rengas-class battleships dispatched to escort the League's Mitchell racing team. Brim and Romanoff found themselves amid an unlikely gathering of royalty, the famous, the infamous (depending upon one's political affiliations), and even a few unknowns—although the latter composed a small, privileged minority. In the warship's enormous wardroom, Prince Onrad stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Kabul Anak as OverGalite'er Gorton Ro'arn watched in silence beside General Harry Drummond. Even Ursis and Moulding endured the company of Kirsh Valentin, who remained in stony silence throughout the interminable speeches that preceded the up-galaxy launch of a torpedo filled with Groener's belongings.
To say it was a friendly meeting was to beg the point—but in death, the beautiful Leaguer did bring many of the galaxy's bitterest enemies together for a brief moment that had little to do with politics. When the missile's glow at last faded away among the blazing stars, Brim felt reasonably certain that the ceremony would have pleased her considerably.
After celebrations of the Empire's second Mitchell victory wound to a close, Romanoff was soon abroad on another extended business trip and Brim began to prepare for the following year's defense of the Mitchell Trophy—which was now referred to by members of the ISS as "the hat rack." They were at last tied evenly with the League, two races all. One more victory by either contender would retire the trophy permanently.
Brim had hardly gotten back into the swing of his job in Atalanta when he received an unusual message from Regula Collingswood through the Fleet base's secure communications channels. It was personally delivered to his small office one early evening by COMCOMM herself, a short, pug Captain dressed in an immaculate Fleet uniform with—it was rumored—more seniority than Greyffin IV himself. "Figured I'd better bring this around in person, Commander," she said with a frown. "When I decoded the text, I couldn't help reading it—so I'll be enough of a meddler to wish you and your friend Moulding the best treatment Dame Fortune can provide. You're both going to need it."
"Er... thank you, Captain," Brim said with a frown of confusion, "I think..."
"You'll understand when you've read it," the Captain said as she turned and started down the hall.
"Probably you shouldn't thank me, either," she added as she rounded the corner, "—at least before you've read it. I suspect I've just delivered a whole Universe of trouble."
Concerned by the officer's words, Brim placed his right index finger on the plastic envelope's seal.
Instantly, it opened in a puff of smoke. Then, with a growing sense of foreboding, he withdrew a single message sheet and unfolded it:
UN2378523ZXCN
[TOP-SECRET EYES-ONLY PERSONAL COMCOMM]
FM: ADMIRALTYCOMCOMM@AVALON
TO: COMCOMM@HAELIC:FLEET:COMM
<>
DELIVER TO:
BRIM@HAELIC:FLEET:FLIGHTOPS
MOULDING@HAELIC:FLEET:FLIGHTOPS:
INFO:
GALLSWORTHY@HAELIC:FLEET:FLIGHTOPS
WILF, TOBY: