The Helmsman

She smiled warmly. "'Margot' is fine, Wilf," she said. "And we shall never get to the wardroom if you don't come in and let me start your debriefing."

Somehow, those words brought him around. "Sorry," he said, regaining at least some of his composure and breaking into his own smile of honest pleasure. He shook his head. "I guess I never expected to see you here," he said.

"Some ships get special treatment, Wilf," she said. "Ones that carry special people."

Brim looked at her hands, smooth and shapely and perfectly manicured, as she set up the keyboard of Amherst's Communicator. He listened to the sounds of the cooling hull, the raucous celebration in the wardroom. "Thank you" was all he could think to say. She was disconcertingly beautiful. Then he lost all track of time while she probed his mind with professionalism and skill that nearly took his breath away.

He was first surprised and then fascinated by her deep understanding of the technology of warfare, and especially starflight mechanics. She posed questions that led to others and to others still—forced him to recall details that he had forgotten as unimportant but which were decidedly the opposite, from her viewpoint.

"The triggering gear you saw in the corvette's central globe, Wilf, was it in the upper firing room only—or was it in both?"

"Both, I think," he answered.

"Then, were they the same?" she asked, blue eyes searching his very soul. "Could both disruptors be operated from the same firing room if the other was shot out?"

He thought for a moment. "Yes," he answered finally, "because the power cables went to both firing rooms."

Every word he uttered seemed to have some value. He had never met anyone like this before—never a woman both so beautiful and so talented all at once. When she finished, he found himself dazed with mental fatigue. They had worked without interruption for nearly three metacycles.

"You have quite a memory, Wilf Brim," she said, fatigue slowing her own voice, "which has provided me a great deal of material for study." She smiled comfortably. "Now I shall claim the further pleasure of sharing some meem from your wardroom. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful," Brim said, looking at her softness. "Just wonderful." Then other words suddenly crept into his mind. He grinned. "' Oh weary lady Geraldine,/I pray you drink this crystal wine,'" he recited, gesturing dramatically.

Margot closed her eyes for a moment and frowned. Then she laughed, a look of pleasure spreading from her lips. She pointed a finger at him. "' It is a wine of virtuous powers;/My mother made it of wild flowers. ' There! Something out of Leoline's 'Silver Lamp,' isn't it? You've yet to stump me, Wilf Brim. Even when you choose some of the very worst poetry in the whole Universe!"

They both laughed at that, then she deactivated Amherst's Communicator and they made their way to the wardroom.

They were late to the party—much of which was by now moved off to other ships and wardrooms across the sprawling base. Truculent's badly depleted meem supplies would be better stocked for the next round of celebrations. The wardroom was still well populated, but the early frenetic energy was now worn into a comfortable hum of conversation, and the musical clink of goblets. Most of the lights were dimmed, and here and there couples shared the privacy of shadowed tables. A gathering of Bears talked quietly at one end of the room; Ursis signaled "hello" from a seat close to a slim female whose eyes never strayed from his face. The air was heavy with the scent of perfume and hogge'poa. Two other female Bears talked animatedly with Borodov while a number of other furry couples toasted in the Sodeskayan manner—goblets raised empty and upside down while they chanted the age-old drinking litany, "To ice, to snow, to Sodeskaya we go!"

Margot nodded toward Borodov. "He's everybody's darling," she said with her husky laugh. 'The sly old Bear."

Brim smiled and nodded. "I didn't realize so many of their females had joined the Fleet," he commented.

"More of them arrive from Lo'Sodeskaya all the time," Margot continued as he helped her into a chair at a dark table. "Bears can't get along without them any more than men Can," she laughed softly.

"Professionally, that is."

"The Logish meem you ordered, Lieutenant," Steward Grimsby said, materializing cadaverously from the smoky darkness.

Startled, Brim looked up as the ancient steward placed two goblets before them. "I didn't order..." His eyes met Margot's—they were laughing and sleepy all at the same time.

"It's a fine choice, Wilf," she said as Grimsby half filled her goblet.

"Thank you, Lieutenant, ma'am," Grimsby said to Margot. He poured Brim's with total aplomb. "My compliments, Lieutenant Brim," he said. "I can only agree with Princess Effer'wyck. It is a fine choice.

Saved for a special occasion. Then, quickly as he appeared, he was gone again.

Margot shrugged and raised her goblet. "To you, Wilf," she said, "and to old Truculent here—and to Nergol Triannic's slipping on a ca'omba peel."

He lifted his goblet and touched hers with a tiny musical sound. "I'd duel a dozen Nergol Triannics—ripe ca'ombas at ten paces—if you would promise to debrief me each time I got home." The meem was like silver fire in his throat. He bad never experienced such fine vintage.

"One Nergol Triannic is quite sufficient for this war," Margot said with a wink, "in spite of what I am sure are your very formidable talents throwing ripe ca'ombas."

As the cycles slipped by, they talked of poetry, Gimmas, and the endless duty watches. She clearly had the broader picture of their war, and by the time Grimsby materialized with a second bottle of the same rare Logish meem, Brim had a confused impression that her mysterious Technology Division was actually beginning to grasp some of the enemy's meter, that Count Rogan LaKarn didn't find his way to Gimmas Haefdon as often as she thought he should, and that even when he did, her own work schedule took its toll of an already abbreviated love life. Somehow Brim found nothing unusual about her last comment. She was that sort of person. Besides, he reminded himself, this was simply a social occasion shared between two professionals. But, oh, how he wished he could satisfy that particular area of her needs!

He savored her oval face, her loose curls, her sulky eyes—now even sulkier as fatigue and the meem took effect. And he drew her out, learned what be could of her life, her family, her loves—from her days as a little girl. She spoke freely, clearly relishing the memories of carefree dalliances before the war. Brim smiled with her, but somehow the words were bittersweet in his ears.

Then, suddenly she looked about the wardroom. His eyes followed. Except for Grimsby's spectral presence in the pantry, they were alone. Margot glanced down at her timepiece and shut her eyes. "Oh, Universe, Wilf," she whispered. "I'm oh duty in less than five metacycles. I've got to go—now!" She touched his hand and drew his eyes to hers. "Thank you for a beautiful break ma long tour of duty," she whispered. "'Rarely, rarely, comest thou,/Spirit of Delight!/Wherefore host thou left me now/Many a day and night? '"

As he helped her into her Fleet Cloak, Brim found his mind a poetic blank. "All I can think of right now are my own words," he stammered. "But I need to tell you that—that this evening has made some of the tough parts of my life suddenly well worth living through." For a few moments of absolute unreality, he stood so close he nearly touched her. And found his carefully nurtured professional attitude was rapidly evaporating with each passing cycle.

Then, from nowhere, Grimsby appeared again, this time with Brim's own Fleet Cloak. It broke the spell.

"M-Many thanks, Grimsby," the Carescrian stammered, looking perplexedly at the strange little man.

"Yes," Grimsby agreed with a warm smile. "She is lovely, isn't she, sir?" Then he saluted and scuttled off toward the pantry.

Margot looked at him and smiled sleepily. "I shouldn't begin to question him, were I you, Wilf," she giggled. "This old Universe has always contained its share of magic.—Grimsby's clearly a part of that."

"So are you, Margot," Brim whispered as he followed her into the companionway.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Nothing," Brim replied. "Just saying good night to Grimsby."

Outside, the wind had abated somewhat, but the cold nearly deprived Brim of his breath while they picked their way over the icy brow. In the snow-strewn mist at the breakwater, they stopped outside her little skimmer.

"I'm glad I scheduled you last, Wilf," she said—almost disconcertedly.

"You did that on purpose?" he asked.

Margot smiled. "My professional secret," she said. "But aside from missing all the important data I took from you, I might also have missed the pleasure of these last few metacycles with you, mightn't I?"

Brim looked down at his boots. "Yes," he admitted. "I would never have dared to even ask you to drink with me." He shook his head and shrugged. "So many other officers must want..."

She put a gloved finger to his lips. "The Universe doesn't have many Wilf Brims to offer," she said.

"Let me choose my friends. All right?"

"All right," Brim agreed with a smile. He opened the door to her skimmer in a shower of tiny snowflakes that tingled against his face and flashed in the dim light of Truculent's battle lanterns.

She slid into the seat, then looked him in the eye once more. "We don't have many people here who recite poetry, either, so don't be a stranger, Wilf." She tilted her head slightly. "Soon," she added, then shut the door.

"I promise," he said.

Moments later, the little machine trembled into life and shook itself of snow. Then it rose and skimmed off over the drifts, lights beaming through the tendrils of fog. Brim stared silently at the point where it disappeared a long time before he trudged thoughtfully back to the starship. A bloody real princess—and he didn't even care.

A fitful night ensued as Brim tossed endlessly in his narrow bunk while his timepiece metered away the early morning watch. When occasionally he could trick himself into something resembling sleep, he was beset by further dream sequences with Margot—whose beauty remained frustratingly untouchable (for one reason or another), but who was at least now unencumbered by Baron Rogan LaKarn. When more commonly he couldn't sleep at all, he lay staring at the dark ceiling attempting to convince himself his impossible relationship with this beautiful young noblewoman was nothing more than a friendship growing naturally out of some shared professionalism.

"Shared professionalism." The term pleased him—a good foundation for a friendship, even with a royal princess so far above his station she ought rightly to be completely out of sight. It explained everything.

Made it all right.

Eventually, he did succumb to a deeper sleep, but it lasted only in to the first portion of the morning watch: two metacycles at most—then chimes woke him, directing his attention to his. message frame, which announced a wardroom meeting for officers in twenty cycles. Sleepily, he pulled on his uniform.

"Shared professionalism," he thought while he polished his boots. Well, if that's what it was, then it was clearly his turn to get them together. Muzzily, he combed the knots from his thick black hair. What did one do with royalty? He shook his head and chuckled. This time, he'd have to improvise as he went because the average Carescrian simply wasn't outfitted with that kind of knowledge, at least as standard equipment. Then he smiled.

Yet...

"I shall detain you only a few moments," a smiling Collingswood called out from the head of the table.

"I know everyone is as anxious to be about their business..." the merest blush of color rose high in her cheeks, "as am I."

A joshing kind of rustle swept the table, punctuated by, "Hear, Hear!" and, "Good on you, Captain!"

Brim looked down the table while the small stir settled. Nik sat to his right, outfitted in his usual finery, the heel of one expensive-looking boot hooked to the front of his chair, hands folded across a sturdy Bear ankle. At the opposite end of the table from Collingswood, Amherst sat imperiously looking neither right nor left, and to his left Gallsworthy already swayed drunkenly in his seat. Next to him, and closest to the door, a tired-looking Sophia Pym slouched in loose-jointed comfort, her red-rimmed eyes dreamily focused somewhere a long way from Truculent.

"We have a whole lot of repairs to put to rights this trip," Collingswood was saying, "as all of you know so well." More laughs and comments punctuated that. "Well, they're going to make it worthwhile for us, too. This time, people, I have been notified we shall be in port for one full month—starting today. And we shall be processing applications for leave directly following this meeting."

At this, the wardroom fairly erupted in cheers and applause. Nik pounded his fists on the table, great diamonds flashing in his fangs. Fourier and Pym slapped each other on the back, and Borodov nudged Flynn in the side with a wicked look on his furry face. Only Gallsworthy seemed not to notice—a momentary cloud of sadness passed over his face. Then it was gone, replaced by the impenetrable mask of drunken indifference.

Collingswood completed her presentation quickly after that finishing with the usual port announcements, duty-roster requirements (to be satisfied before any leave applications we be processed), and official Fleet notices. One of these had to do with a call for volunteers—a special mission of one or another, but Brim missed most of it in the chorus of hoots and general disparagement which followed the word "volunteer." Something about a converted starliner registered in the back of his mind. I.F.S. Prosperous was it? If memory served him, a ship by that name was among the fastest in the peacetime fleet. Then the meeting was over and everyone was suddenly fighting over the duty roster.

Brim walked quickly past the happy throng signing up leave. He had none coming—nor anyplace to spend it if did. Alone in his cabin, he sat before the Communicator reported in to the Base's general-availability roster for the duration of Truculent's stay in port. Dutifully removing one the Fleet's ubiquitous personal transponders from his cabin he sent in its serial number, activated power for one stand month, then swallowed the tiny device and waited.

"Recorded and verified, Lieutenant Brim," the Communicator said. "We shall be in touch if necessary."

So much for that.

Within the metacycle, Brim was on Truculent's bridge once again, watching a husky, broad-shouldered tug materialize out of a thick fog to tow the destroyer to one of the inland repair pools.

Collingswood had long since signed her over to the base repair organizations and would not return for at least two weeks. For that matter, nearly all the rest of the officers were gone, too. Only Ursis remained with the ship to rum the in center gravity generator while the ship was towed—and even he was scheduled to depart with Borodov when that was done. The Bear watched approvingly while the tug's crew grappled on to Truculent's hull with the huge mooring beams the little ships seemed to use whether they needed them or not.

"One would think we displaced as much as Benwell," the Bear chuckled as Truculent was eased backward off her gravity pool.

"So long as he drives us to the repair pool and not me," Brim laughed, "he can use real rope for all I care—I can't keep track of the silly rules they've got for overland running."

In no time at all, their original mooring was swallowed in the fog. Brim watched in silence from the bridge as occasional buoys passed below in the swirling wake of the generator's footprint on the water.

Then they slowed and passed between two great, age-blackened stone pylons, and the ice-filled water of the basin was abruptly replaced by grimy, dirt-tracked shipyard snow.

The tug was soon towing them over a pair of glowing rails, for the kind Brim had followed on his arrival at the base. And he Gimmas Haefdon had meanwhile transformed itself into a disjoint parade of weathered buildings, suddenly looming gantries, and dismantled starships, which appeared and faded in the grayness as the destroyer glided backward in the swirling mists. Here and there, they saw trackside parties of grinning, heavily bundled workmen who alternately held their ears and waved as the ships rumbled past, cheering soundlessly outside the destroyer's bridge.

Finally, Truculent jolted to a stop on a pool surrounded by a forest of towering cranes and dozens of new umbilicals to sustain the ship's logic systems while her main power supply was shunted elsewhere for diagnostics.

Ursis no sooner shut down the center generator than a monstrous brow gently latched aboard, and presently the bridge filled with a rowdy gaggle of rough-hewn shipyard engineers tad and technicians.

"I shall offer my farewell here, Wilf Ansor," Ursis said gravely. "I would remain, but I am sure you understand one takes leave when he can." He solemnly raised a long finger. "'Dark snow and thrice-frozen lamps beckon old Bears and cubs alike to caves in the Great Vastness,' as the saying goes," he observed.

Brim smiled and put his hand on the Bear's shoulder. "I think I understand, Nik," he said. "And thanks for the thought."

Ursis bowed formally. "Besides," he said, "Borodov and I have a. . ." he frowned, ' feeling, shall we say, that you will not lack for companionship if last night is indication."

"Last night?"

The Bear merely laughed as he peered through the Hyperscreens, then nodded toward the breakwater where an elegant chauffeur-driven skimmer had drawn up opposite the gate. "Borodov," he pronounced, grinning now. "We shall talk again, eh?" He clapped Brim on his arm. "Enjoy Princess Effer'wyck, my good friend. She is known among Bears as a fine young woman—in spite of her royal blood." Then he was gone. In a few cycles, Brim watched him stride across the brow toward the waiting skimmer, six great traveling cases bobbing along in his wake.

Soon after Borodov's massive skimmer disappeared into a new snowstorm, Truculent's bridge became a confused mass of incomprehensible voices and engineering babble until Brim could stand it no more and escaped to the relative tranquillity of his cabin. While these crews were on the jab, Truculent, or at least the Truculent he knew, would cease to exist.

With little to occupy his normally busy mind, his thoughts returned quickly to Margot—and the promise he had made her. He frowned. Well, why not? He reached for the Communicator—then shook his head, suddenly unsure of himself: wardroom parties were one thing, but right now, he didn't even have the prospect of a wardroom, much less another party. What would he say to her? One didn't just invite someone to visit a gravity pool! And he knew nothing about the rest of Gimmas Haefdon—or how to entertain a full-blooded princess.

He laughed. He didn't have to know anything about either, for Margot Effer'wyck did. She'd been around the bloody base for years now! Screwing up his courage once more, he activated the COMM.

switched his way around the Threat Assessment Division (Universe, but they were secure!). At some length, her face appeared in the display.

"Wilf" she said, brushing aside a stray curl. "How nice. I hoped I'd hear from you."

The warmth of her smile managed to calm him before her physical beauty made a gawking schoolboy of him again. He laughed. "I hoped you'd hope," he quipped. "Now, all I have to do is find something to say next."

Margot grinned. "Hmm," she said. "Perhaps I can help. What was it you had in mind?"

"Actually," Brim answered, "I had you in mind."

"Well," Margot said with a look of mock thoughtfulness, "you have come to the right person, then."

"I thought so," Brim said. "Perhaps, then, you can tell me how I might suggest another evening together."

Margot smiled again, her heavy-lidded eyes alive with warmth and humor. "That's not difficult," she said. "You could ask me to supper—I'm quite available for something like that." She winked. "Including tonight."

Brim felt his heart skip a beat.

"Universe," he stammered, "I'd love that—but I have no idea where."

"I see," Margot said in mock seriousness. "Well, were such an invitation tendered, I should be glad to take care of the other details—including transportation."

Brim laughed. "I was going to cross the transportation bridge when I got to it," he admitted.

"Gets cold around here for a lot of Walking," Margot asserted. "But, then, I haven't been invited anywhere, either."

"You did say tonight, didn't you?" Brim asked, hardly willing to believe his ears.

"Well, I am free."

"Would you. . .?"

"Wilf, I swear I thought you'd never ask."

"Universe."

"Pick you up right after the third watch—does that sound all right?" she asked.

"Rebuild pool 581," Brim answered, regaining some control of himself.

"I know," she said. "Bring an appetite." Then she was gone.

Grinning to himself, Brim shook his head happily. Whatever else she might turn out to be, Margot Effer'wyck was also a whole new set of rules. He looked forward to learning as many as he could.

By precisely the end of the third watch, Brim had carefully picked his way over the icy surface of the repair pool's monster brow and now stood impatiently on a platform before the mail gate. Light snow was falling, and for the first time he could recall, the wind was still. Even Gimmas Haefdon had its peaceful moments—but not many.

She arrived only slightly late—Brim was checking his timepiece for the ten-thousandth time when headlights glowed softly down the road. Moments later, her well-used little skimmer was hovering at the platform.

"Hungry?" she asked when he settled into the seat beside her.

He nodded. With the hood of her cape back over her shoulders, she looked tired, relaxed, and ravishing. Brim felt his breath quicken. "Where are you taking me?" he asked in mock-frightened innocence.

She looked his way for a moment. "A favorite place of mine," she answered. "I think you'll like it, too—and it's not too far, either." They were soon off the main highway and climbing a gentle grade over what Brim guessed was once a country road, now buried irals deep in Gimmas Haefdon's everlasting snow. On either side, tall, tangled forms of ancient trees wound themselves into a sinuous wall of bare branches draped by garlands of snow-mute reminders of summers now lost forever as the dimming star Gimmas continued its long march toward ultimate death. Ahead, at the summit, soft lights shone in glittering circles through the gentle snowfall.

"It must have been beautiful once," Brim pronounced, looking out at the dark landscape.

"It still has its beauty, Wilf," she said quietly. "You've got to look for it, though." She smiled. "' Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of time/it is most hard, with an untroubled ear/Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear!'" They glided through an ornate metal gate set in a high stone arch—a huge lantern at its center illuminated the swept cobblestones of a spacious courtyard. She brought the skimmer to a halt before a mossy stone building with a great vaulted entrance whose dark wooden doors were covered by intricate carvings. Over these, a ponderous sign hung from stout chains below an age-bleached yardarm set into the stone. "MERMAID TAVERN," it read, "ESTABLISHED 51690"—nearly three hundred of Gimmas Haefdon's long years in the past.

"Universe," Brim whispered in a hushed voice as he peered up at the snow-covered jumble of steep peaked roofs and tall stone chimneys. Huge wooden beams appeared everywhere, in every architectural capacity imaginable, each carved in bas-relief with shapes of strange animals and birds. Translucent first-floor windows glowed warmly in the darkness; here and there, a softer light emanated from the upper floors.

"Like it?" Margot asked softly, her voice soft in the stillness of the tiny passenger compartment.

Brim could only nod emotionally.

"Wait till you see the inside," she said, smiling.

Still shaking his head, Brim opened the door and stepped into cold air scented with the sharp spice of wood smoke. Snow tingling on his nose and cheeks, he held the opposite door—while she stepped out, a long, shapely leg escaping from her slit skirt in a giddy flash of white. Brim felt himself blush as his breath caught in his throat. Then all too soon she was on her feet, Fleet cape wrapped demurely around her.

She smiled impishly. "Did that pass inspection?" she asked, eyes sparkling with good humor.

Brim felt his face flush anew—thanking providence for the darkness. "I suppose I'm sorry I stared," he stammered in embarrassment. "I'd forgotten the uniform included anything like a dress gown." Then he chuckled. "And, yes," he admitted, "you certainly pass any inspection I'll ever give."

"In that case, I shall take it as a compliment," she said, wrinkling her nose and smiling. "I always did have great legs." Then she started for the entrance, Brim trailing in utter disarray.

He opened one of the huge wooden doors—it moved silently on massive hinges so perfectly balanced he thought for a moment it might be servo-activated. Then he smiled to himself as he helped her over the high stone stoop. No automatics here. In a place like the Mermaid Tavern, servomechanisms would be an intrusion.

Inside, with the doors closed, the spicy odor of burning wood was much stronger—an impossible luxury here on Gimmas Haefdon, where the last tree must have died a hundred years in the past. They were standing in a dark room with a low, beamed ceiling and rough-textured walls decorated with ancient landscapes mounted in massive frames. Flickering candelabra softly illuminated stout wooden furniture, richly patterned carpets, and a gleaming stone floor. Liveried domestics in long, ornate coats with oversized golden cuffs and collars materialized from nowhere and quietly helped them from their Fleet capes, then disappeared into one of many doorways leading from the room in all directions.

"Good evening, Princess Effer'wyck, Lieutenant Brim," a voice' said softly from beside a high wooden desk half hidden in the darkness. "We are most gratified you have chosen the Mermaid Tavern." Brim frowned as he turned to face the speaker.

Like the domestics of his employ, the steward of the Mermaid Tavern wore a long red coat with oversized cuffs and collar. There however, resemblance ended. If by no other means, he was utterly distinguished by an explosion of curly white hair that reached all the way to his shoulders. A veritable landslide of ruffled lace separated lavishly embroidered lapels, and his silken breeches were white as his hair. Huge golden buckles decorated his gleaming shoes. He spoke with the guarded, inexpressive mien of those used to dealing with wealth and power—no trace of subservience, only a practiced grace and an unerring precognition of what people expected.

Brim nodded silently when the man offered his arm to Margot. The place made him remotely uncomfortable—though he couldn't pinpoint the reason why. He had the feeling it had more to do with his Carescrian background than anything else. He followed them through another of the many doors into a second candle-lit room with a low ceiling and exquisitely carved beams. The tables were placed on islands of rich-looking carpet where shadowed couples sat close by each other in the soft warmth—here and there, he glimpsed badges of unimaginable rank. Eight formal musicians in black ruffles played quietly from a raised dais in the center of the room. They made a sound of such exquisite elegance Brim was reminded of his visits to Collingswood's cabin. Perhaps the same music—or composer? He listened, enraptured. Another kind of poetry, he guessed. It would bear study someday—if he survived the war.

The shadow of Valentin's face suddenly intruded in his mind, and his skin prickled with remembered agony. .He gritted his teeth. Before he might involve himself in anything so beautiful as music, he would first have to deal with that evil zukeed and a lot more like him. Then he grimaced to himself and forced the anger from his mind. Tonight... Tonight, there was Margot. And he didn't intend to share her with anyone in any way—especially Leaguers!

The quiet music blended with the murmur of intimate conversation and the gentle, ringing assonance of goblets. At the far end of the room, huge growing logs blazed in a high stone fireplace. Delicate odors of spice and rich perfume blended with the smooth effervescence of meem, hogge'poa, and burning wood, the whole muzzy atmosphere creating an aura of absolute luxury Brim found difficult to believe.

The steward assisted Margot into a high-backed chair at a table close to the warmth of the fireplace—the other was placed so the table's occupants were compelled to sit together facing the fire.

Somehow, the whole arrangement gave an illusion of privacy. Once they were seated, it was almost as if they occupied a warm, spice-laden room all their own. In the softly flickering firelight, Margot's lovely oval face seemed even more beautiful than ever—her moist red lips and sleepy eyes more desirable than any he could remember, or imagine.

"You're quiet, Wilf," she said with her smiling frown. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," Brim answered bemusedly. "Nothing's wrong at all. It's more like nothing has ever been quite so right."

'That's good," she said, closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair. "It's awfully nice for me, too."

She smiled. "' All precious things discover'd late,/To those who seek them issue forth.'"

Brim nodded. "' For life in sequel works with fate,/And flings the veil from hidden worth' Latmos the Elder always did write your kind of verse, you know," he added.

Margot kissed her fingertips in admiration. "My kind?" she asked.

"Well," Brim said, "so much of you as I know."

She blushed. "I'm terribly honored," she said.

"You should be," be commented, watching a domestic serve from a dust-covered bottle of Logish meem. "He wrote for no one else but you—and did so more than five hundred years before you were born. Makes you quite social, you know."

She laughed. "You're pretty special yourself, Lieutenant Brim. And you don't even need Latmos."

"Me?"

" You," Margot affirmed. She frowned. "You know, Wilf, I haven't beard a word from you about what you really went through out there—only the technical detail." She raised her eyebrows and moved her face close to his. "Anybody else would still be crowing about how brave be was."

Brim snorted. "Nothing much to brag about," he said. 'They beat me up same, and we lost the merchantman we went after in the first place."

"You did have something to do with stopping the corvette, though."

"Well," Brim admitted with an embarrassed chuckle. "Yes, I suppose I did. But anyone could probably have done the same. The brave ones were Ursis and Barbousse—they started the commotion that let me get away."

She laughed—a wonderful, honest laugh Brim wished he could somehow keep going for the rest of his life. "Wilf Brim," she declared, "you are impossible. Nothing to it, eh?"

Now it was Brim's turn to laugh. "Well," he said, "I had to let one of them shoot me, if I remember correctly."

Her face was suddenly serious, and she brought her face close to his again. "That's what I mean," she said. "You are special. Do you have any idea how many people wear the Fleet uniform—call themselves Blue Capes—and never even hear a shot fired. People like me, Wilf."

"Wait a cycle," Brim protested suddenly. "Getting shot at or not getting shot at has little to do with much of anything. It just turns out that I fly starships pretty well. And people naturally shoot at starships—big targets." He shrugged, looking her in her sleepy eyes. "If I could do something else better, they'd probably have me doing that."

Margot sighed. "I stand by my words, Mr. Brim," she said. "You are impossible." She smiled sleepily, her face soft in the firelight. "Given sufficient impossible people, we might even win this awful war."

Later, they dined sumptuously on food Brim recently thought be would never live to savor again. And they talked—about starships, the war, poetry, and love. But as the evening passed, they settled more on matters of love. For a while, Margot drew him out, listening to his words with a faraway look in her eyes. Later, she spoke of her own first lover. "I was terribly fortunate," she told him, her eyes focused across unbridgeable gulfs of space and time. "He had so much love to give. So gentle..."

Brim felt a thickness in his throat. He knew he would carry her words to the end of his days—and an irrational jealousy be would never manage to overcome. Without thinking, he took her hand—then panicked when he realized what he had done. To his surprise, she responded with her own hand, then looked silently into his eyes.

It was suddenly difficult to breathe in the tropical wash of her perfume. She was speaking as she squeezed his hand. She bad a confused look in her sleepy eyes. "I hardly know you, Wilf," she was saying hesitantly. "What's the matter with me?" Then she closed her eyes and shook her head—but kept her tight grip on his hand. In a moment, she seemed to regain herself and took a deep breath. "Hello, Lieutenant Brim," she said huskily as she opened her eyes.

"Hello;" Brim answered. He took her other hand, oblivious to anyone else in the room, then abruptly threw caution to. the winds. "I noticed they have rooms upstairs," be said. "Should people find themselves, ah..."

"0-Overcome... ." she stammered.

"Yes. By, ah, whatever," Brim finished.

She laughed suddenly. "'Whatever,'" she repeated. "I hate that terrible word, Wilf. My mother used it when she wanted to avoid me." She drained her goblet. "And, yes," she said, bringing her face close to his. "They do have rooms upstairs." Then she looked at her hands as if she were afraid to say the rest.

Brim never wanted anyone the way he wanted Margot Effer'wyck now—ever in his life. He squeezed her hand, took a film grip on his fast eroding emotions. "Th-Then..." he stammered shakily, "then, would you... ?" Before he could finish, he was stopped in midsentence by a hand on his shoulder, and taken completely by surprise, he turned in the seat, heart pounding, to confront the tavern's white-haired steward.

"A thousand pardons, Lieutenant Brim," the man whispered. "Your transponder."

"Sweet thraggling Universe," Brim swore fiercely under his breath. The thrice-xaxtdamned personal transponder he'd swallowed! He closed his eyes in total and absolute defeat. "Very well," he said with resignation. "Let's have the bad news."

The steward handed him a tiny message packet, which he authenticated with a fingerprint and placed in his ear.

"You are summoned immediately to I.F.S. Prosperous," it said, "at emergency priority. Your kit is already packed and delivered from Truculent."

"I deeply regret the intrusion, Princess Effer'wyck," the steward said as he turned to leave. "We had no choice."

'I understand," Margot answered with a wry look. Then she turned to Brim. "What?" she asked.

"I.F.S. Prosperous," Brim whispered. "I've been summoned."

With an incredulous look in her eyes, Margot suddenly dissolved into giggles. "A transponder?" she asked incredulously. "You really swallowed one of those things, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Brim admitted, cheeks burning from sudden embarrassment.

"Oh, Wilf," she exclaimed. "Didn't anybody tell you?"

"No," be admitted. "I haven't been around long enough to learn much of anything that's not in a textbook."

She shook her head. "Well," she said, "you've just had lesson one." She smiled sadly. 'There's no getting out of priority emergency. At least none I know." She squeezed his hand for a moment more, then gently withdrew. "I can probably save you a few steps in my skimmer. We Assessment types get cleared for all sorts of strange places."

They were on their way back down the tree-lined road in a matter of cycles.

No sooner had Margot swung onto the causeway than the Mermaid Tavern, the fire, everything but the woman herself quickly faded to an aura of unreality. Even with shared expenses, he'd never before spent so much for a single meal—nor been in a position where be could. He had no illusions about why everything bad gone so well. The name Effer'wyck was well known—often feared—all over the galaxy and beyond. But she'd never mentioned it. He smiled to himself. This beautiful young woman had no need to try to impress anyone; she simply did.

The wind had picked up considerably since the third watch, and she drove skillfully in the gusts, picking her way among rapidly forming snowdrifts. Now, it was she who was strangely silent when they quit the main thoroughfare, this time for a side road crowded with heavily loaded vehicles of all kinds.

She drew to a stop before one of a dozen heavily guarded sentry booths and offered her ID card. It flashed an unusual color passing through their reader (which it did, Brim noticed, with singular ease). "I'm delivering Lieutenant Brim," she said simply as she handed his card through the window after her own.

Both were returned with a half-heard, "Thank you, Princess," then they were waved through into the milling confusion of the loading complex.

"It's been a wonderful evening, Margot," Brim said lamely as she drove carefully through, the crowded system of ramps leading to the 'midships brow. Beyond, a mammoth liner floated on a gravity pool of truly heroic proportions—easily five or six times the size of those in the Eorean starwharves. The Fleet's ebony hullmetal could by no means hide her thoroughbred lines. She was Prosperous, all right.

More than 950 graceful irals of blue riband starliner—with speed and power in her gigantic bull to outrun all but the fastest warships.

Margot stopped the skimmer short of the orderly mob passing through the gate, then turned his way, face softly lighted by the instruments. Her heavy-lidded eyes were moist, and she had a serious appearance that Brim had never seen before.

"It was a wonderful evening, Wilf," she said. She blew her nose softly on a lace handkerchief. "And I think I owe you an apology. I'm afraid I let things get way out of band back there."

"We both did," Brim agreed. "But then, nothing really came of it, either."

"No," she said quietly. "But you don't understand..."

"I don't want to understand anything," Brim asserted suddenly, surprised at the force of his own voice. "I want your lips, Margot—after that, we can reset and start over again. But I want a kiss from you more than anything else in the Universe."

Without a word, she was in his arms, her lips pushing eagerly against his, wet and open—and hungry.

Her breath was sweet in his nostrils as she clung to him, big in his arms; an ample woman. Their teeth touched for an instant, and he opened his eyes—hers opened too, blurred out of focus before they gently closed again. He felt her tremble, then her grip suddenly loosened. She took a great gulp of air, and he released her.

They sat in panting silence for a moment, Brim's heart pounding all out of control.

"I th-think I'd better go right now, Wilf," Margot said in a shaken voice. "My 'reset' is going to be difficult enough as it is."

Opening the door of the skimmer to the noisy bustle and confusion outside, be nodded wordlessly and jumped to the snow, touching his fingers to his lips. She returned the salute as be gently pressed the door closed, then moved off in a cloud of snow and was quickly lost in the throng of vehicles.

With an unaccountably heavy heart, Brim pushed his way through the crowd toward the guard shack where someone who looked very much like Utrillo Barbousse waited with a familiar battered traveling case.

"Barbousse?"

The huge starman saluted as Brim stepped into the lighted area at the entrance to the brow.

"Lieutenant Gallsworthy thought you might need some assistance, Lieutenant, sir," he shouted above the noise of the big ship's generators. "An' I hadn't made plans for the layover, so I took the liberty of signing on the cruise with you." He handed Brim the side-action blaster.

"It's the kind of mission you might be needin' this."

Brim shook his head and grinned with honest appreciation. He clapped the big starman on the shoulder (which felt like Octillian shore granite). "Let's be on our way, then, Barbousse, my friend," he said. "It's becoming very clear I have an awful lot to learn about the Fleet—and everything else as well."

CHAPTER 5

Swept along in the lines of soldiers and military vehicles coursing up the wide lanes of the brow, Brim and Barbousse caught only glimpses of the great starliner as she hovered on her monster gravity pool.

She seemed to stretch for c'lenyts on either side, and lighted only by the weak glow from beneath, she still looked splendid. Her forward deck tapered gently upward from a conoid bow to a high, rakish superstructure surmounted by two enormous KA'PPA beacons and a dwarfed control bridge, the latter providing the ship with a nearsighted and, to some extent, surprised expression overall. The remainder of the wide, shallow hull—at least three-quarters of her overall length—appeared to be covered by cascading Hyperscreen terraces, which gleamed brightly from within as the big ship loaded.

Below, streams of tarpaulin-covered cargo lumbered along under the lights of at least a dozen cargo-level brows—Brim glimpsed giant cargo tractors levitating a line of self-propelled disruptor cannon into an access hatch deep in the hull. Enormous machines. A great turrent squatted on each flattened hull, ridiculously small for the apparent weight it bore, and angular glassed-in driving cabins projected awkwardly like after-thoughts from the forward port and aft starboard corners. Inboard of these, massive cooling systems were ample proof of the prodigious energy required to fire the thick, stubby disruptors that protruded from the turrets.

"What do you make of those?" he asked Barbousse, nodding toward the big vehicles crawling along below.

"Captured fieldpieces, by the looks of 'em, sir," the big I rating answered.

"No wonder they looked strange," Brim remarked. "Won't they be a surprise to a couple of Leaguers somewhere."

Barbousse laughed as they crested the uphill portion of the brow. "Serve Triannic right to have those turned against him, Lieutenant. Nine-Ks are mean weapons, I've heard. Big, but exact for all their size.

Use 'em for knockin' armored vehicles around, as I hear it. Like tanks and things."

Suddenly the whole ship was spread before them. Brim shook his head in wonder, imagining how she might have appeared before the war-hullmetal in brilliant white and the legendary IGL logo shining ostentatiously on her bridge. "She must have been beautiful," he whispered, literally stunned by the immensity of the gigantic machine floating before him.

"Aye, sir," Barbousse agreed beside him. "Another world all by herself, so they say."

"Not a Carescrian's world, you can bet," Brim said as they continued their journey down the other side of the brow toward the main aperture 'midships.

"Nor mine, Lieutenant," Barbousse said, then he chuckled. "But in the Fleet she belongs to all of us, in a manner of speakin'. War has a funny way of redistributing the wealth."

Even stripped of peacetime luxury. Prosperous' Grand Receiving Lobby was everything Brim expected—and more: spacious pillared concourse with wide, arched corridors leading off in all directions to other parts of the ship. Tracks glowed everywhere in the deck, and they guided dozens of hooting trains piled high with military luggage pushing slowly through the noisy crowds. The air was alive with the smell of excitement, and everyone seemed to have somewhere important to go—although it was not at all clear any of them knew precisely where that somewhere might be located.

In the center of the lobby, a crew of harried-looking clericals toiled desperately within the perimeter of a huge circular desk, fielding questions, peering into half a hundred terminals, and generally assisting the mob of newcomers struggling into the ship. It was here Brim and Barbousse found themselves separated, the latter assigned to a damage-control unit, Brim to Flight Operations.

"I'll keep an eye on you, sir, just the same," Barbousse said, voice raised to make himself heard in the crowd. "When you want me, just ask any of the ratings." Then he was gone, pushing his way confidently toward one of the large companionways as if he had been assigned to the mammoth starship all his life.

Brim smiled as the big man disappeared in the crowd. Prosperous was a large ship, with a lot of strangers on board—a likely place for feeling lonely. He laughed to himself—before Truculent, he hadn't really thought that much about loneliness; he'd been simply used to it. Now... It was nice to have Barbousse around. Someone from home, so to speak.

"You'll want to check in with the Flight Ops," a bucktoothed rating with narrow eyes and a long nose said as she handed him back his identification. Her perfume suggested crushed ca'omba cookies, somehow. "Fifth level, zone 75—catch the 16-E tram, Lieutenant. Concourse 3." She pointed vaguely across the room. "One comes by every few cycles during loading operations."

Brim nodded and started through the crowd, chuckling to himself. So far as he could remember, this would be one of his very first rides in a shipboard tram. All the really big ships had them, of course—even giant Carescrian ore carriers. The big difference was that presumably ones on Prosperous worked!

"Oh, you're welcome on the bridge anytime, old boy," said a youngish-looking lieutenant commander wearing prominent Ka'LoomKA signet rings (one of which gave his name as "C. A. Sandur"). With a bulbous nose, pursed lips, and enormous gray eyes, his round face wore a perpetual look of pleased astonishment. "But probably you'll never touch a control," he added uncomfortably. "Pity they dragged you along at all. You're clearly dressed as if you had better plans for the evening."

"I did, Commander," Brim answered, looking bleakly around the spacious cabin —everything was big on this ship. "I'm replacing someone suddenly ill, is that it?"

"That seems to be the drill," Sandur said.

"Just my luck," Brim grumped, thinking of a warm room in a warm tavern with a warm Margot. "All that trouble and now I've got nothing to do. Sir."

"The woman you are replacing had nothing to do, either, if it makes you feel any better," Sandur answered patiently. "She was just a temporary Helmsman like yourself. We always have full crews of IGL people to man this particular liner—same ones who fly her in peacetime. Like myself." He snorted humorlessly. "Yet the movers and shakers in your Admiralty I think we need Fleet types to help us run our own equipment now they've got a war." He shook his head in good-natured frustration. "It's not as if we hadn't been piloting this elegant rustbucket for close to seven years now." Then he laughed amiably.

"But that isn't your fault, is it, Brim? Any more than it is my fault you find yourself here. Is there anything I can I do to make your stay more, ah..."

"I'll say there is," Brim piped up. "Sir," he added quickly. "They called me out so quickly, nobody told me anything about the mission."

Sandur shook his head. "Oh, my," be said sympathetically. "They really did the job on you, didn't they, Brim?" He laughed. "Well, that seems about the very least I can do." He swept his Fleet Cloak from a nearby recliner and fastened it around his neck with an expensive-looking—and very nonstandard—collar clasp. "Why don't you follow me up to the bridge? We can I observe the takeoff from there, and then I shall tell you what I know."

Less than a metacycle later, Brim watched Gimmas Haefdon recede in the aft Hyperscreens from a disappointingly normal looking control bridge. He chuckled to himself—wondering why he'd expected anything special about Prosperous. Bridges were, after all, bridges—some larger than others, but in-most aspects alike as so many shells on a beach. Another study in relativity, he decided while he settled down to his first details of the mission code-named "Raid Prosperous."

As Sandur put things, the operation had been sorely needed for a long time now. A'zurn, a mild, lushly vegetated world on the edge of Galactic Sector 944-E had been violently seized by the League at the outset of the war. The solitary planet and the star that gave it sustenance lay directly astride one of the principal thoroughfares in Triannic's TimeWeed trade. Location itself made the illegal seizure one of military as well as social necessity—at least the way the Leaguers saw things. To provide a modicum of propriety in which to wrap this outright rape of a blameless republic (and longtime ally of the Empire), Triannic immediately constructed a network of sixteen research centers within the capital city of Magalla'ana. Then he broadcast far and wide that the new facilities would be dedicated to beneficial purposes—ridding primitive worlds of viral diseases that threatened their most promising life forms.

Of course, nobody believed a word—weapons testing is difficult to conceal anywhere. And all sixteen centers were successful from the outset: so much so that destruction of the network soon became an obsession with Imperial war planners everywhere. But the Leaguers stayed one step ahead. They cleverly used A'zurnian natives (a race of flighted humanoids) for on-site laborers and hostages—with the latter function more vital than the first. While big, starship-mounted disruptors could easily wipe out the whole research network without even coming into orbit around A'zurn, they could not do so without slaughtering the thousands of innocents imprisoned directly within each of the sixteen target areas. Only if the hostages could first be evacuated to safety could the Fleet destroyers accomplish their mission.

Essentially, that called for sixteen individual ground forays—closely followed by sixteen individual destroyer strikes. The necessity of coordinating all the diverse units necessary to field such a complex operation eventually led to Raid Prosperous, hosted by Imperial Fleet Operations and implemented as a joint effort by the tradition-steeped Imperial Avalonian Expeditionary Forces, units of the Nineteenth and Twenty-fifty Destroyer Flotillas, and His Majesty's Royal Transport Command, whose temporarily Blue-Caped IGL employees operated Prosperous in war as they did in peace.

During the last day out, Brim audited a series of briefings conducted by native A'zurnian officers: onetime diplomats and military attaches stationed in Avalon at the outbreak of war who found themselves unable to return home before their dazed government capitulated.

Even Carescrian children got to study pictures of A'zurnians—everyone in the Universe did, it seemed.

But Brim had never yet encountered one in real life. Close up, they were stunning. Men and women alike were tall, barrel-chested individuals who dressed in wonderfully old-fashioned regimentals: tight gray tunics with twelve golden frogs, crimson collars (elaborately embroidered), gold epaulets, and dark knee breeches with crimson side stripes, and light-weight, knee-high flying boots. The uniforms cast an odd but beguiling grandeur wherever they appeared.

From the front, A'zurnians were normal enough humanoids, resembling most all of the space-traveling sentients encountered so far. From the back, however, their wings—really a second, very specialized set of arms—set them apart from all the rest. Midway between the shoulders, their tunics opened to accommodate a down-covered, pillow-sized lump common to all adult A'zurnians known as a "tensil."

This protrusion (manifesting itself at puberty) covered an outgrowth of the reflexive nervous system which automatically coordinated the complex motions of feather and flesh necessary for flight. From each side of the tensil, great folded wings arched upward like golden cowls trailing long flight feathers in alabaster cascades that reached all the way to the floor. Brim found himself awe-struck.

The briefings themselves were well prepared and easy to understand. Careful lectures from a whole staff of experts gave Brim details of the landscape and climate, planetary transportation system, the Magalla'ana city layout (including locations of the target research nodes), and known effects of the League occupation.

This last subject was covered by a tall female with the huge eyes and large retinas of a born hunter—she instantly captured Brim's imagination. Her presentation, however, drove all thought of pleasantries from his mind, for 'she described an A'zurn that suffered mightily under Triannic's iron fist.

As she explained it, League soldiers intended no special malice toward their A'zurnian thralls, but the net effect was much the same as if they did. Triannic's military structures were specially designed to stifle independent thought of any kind. Pragmatic rules covered everything—including how conquered peoples were to be governed. So, when the fragile A'zurnians were subjected to the same general treatment that subdued a planet of sturdy warriors like the seven-iral giants of Coggl'KANs, their hollow bones and fragile wings literally tended to crumple and shatter upon contact. Broken extremities were so common that fully a quarter of the A'zurnian population was known to have succumbed in the first two years of occupation alone. And if this were not enough, the feared black-suited Controllers (who were occasionally permitted to think) soon discovered it was much more convenient to imprison A'zurnians once their wings were snapped in half just below the "elbow." Captives altered in such a fashion could then be impounded without the Leaguers' first having to construct sky barriers as well as walls. It wasn't so much cruelty that led the Controllers to devise such gross tortures—it was simple pragmatism.

When the briefing ended, a much subdued Brim made straight for his stateroom and pondered the utter callousness of war. At that point, he would almost have joined the ground forces himself.

Less than a day later, the big liner arrived in high orbit over A'zurn. Below, on the surface, a small but highly organized A'zurn underground was already well into a noisy—and highly I successful—uprising in the distant city of Klaa'Shee to draw League occupation troops away from Magalla'ana while Imperial land forces disembarked for operations on the surface. In the air, the Imperial Fleet held complete, if temporary, command of the skies. After six years of League occupation, the A'zurnians were so totally devastated that the Controllers had seen fit to reassign all but a few surveillance warships to other occupied planets where more active opposition to League ministrations made such equipment mobs in demand.

"I say, Brim," Sandur exclaimed, bursting onto the bridge where Brim idly watched a stream of shuttles ferry men and equipment toward the surface. "Someone claims they've actually got work for you down there. How does that sound?"

Brim laughed. Used to constant—grueling—activity on blockade duty, he was more than halfway desperate for something to at least occupy his mind. "Where do I sign up, Commander?" he asked immediately.

"Well," Sandur said, smiling and cocking his head, "you won't need to sign anything. Seems they've already saved that trouble and volunteered you."

Brim smiled. "How thoughtful, sir," he chuckled. "What sort of work do they have in mind?" he asked.

Sandur frowned, managing somehow to look even more surprised than normal. "I don't know, Brim,"

he answered. "You're to receive your orders from an Army type once you've arrived—a Colonel Hagbut, I believe." He cleared his throat. "I suppose it could be dangerous."

Brim nodded with equanimity. "Boredom can be dangerous, too, Commander," he chuckled. "I'll be packed in five cycles."

Sandur grinned. "That's the spirit," he said. "And you won't go alone, either. There's the most Universe—awfully big rating who insists he travel with you." He scratched his head. "Don't rightly know how he even found out about the whole thing—nor how he managed to get orders cut and signed by the Captain himself But he did. Said he'd wait in the shuttle, Brim. You Truculents stick together, don't you?"

Brim smiled. "Have to, Commander," he agreed. "It's a rough war out there."

"Isn't it," Sandur said soberly. "And getting more so all the time, as I am about to inform you." He squared his shoulders. "Seems Triannic's occupation forces got off every broadcast for help we predicted they would. Maybe even a few more. We were pretty accurate guessing those." He gazed thoughtfully out the Hyperscreens, drumming his fingers on a nearby console. "Unfortunately, we also predicted Triannic wouldn't be able to free up much equipment for a counterattack," he continued, "at least not before we finished most of our work." This time he ended with a grimace.

"You weren't so accurate there, Commander?" Brim asked.

"Not quite," Sandur answered.

"What went wrong, sir?"

Sandur laughed. "Nothing actually went wrong, my young friend. We simply did not count on Admiral Kabul Anak and his battlecruiser squadron to be in quite such close proximity." He shook his head in disgust. "You've heard of him, of course."

"Once or twice," Brim growled, a little girl's face flashing painfully in his mind's' eye. "And us with only destroyers..." He stared out into the starry blackness. "How long do we have, Commander?"

"Perhaps three standard days," Sandur said, frowning daddy. "Instead of the five Planning Ops allotted." He grimaced. "I thought I'd better let you know beforehand—because whatever you're going to accomplish down there, you'd better do it quickly. When we receive orders to move Prosperous, we'll move her—let me guarantee you that. This starship is more than just a fast transport; she's considered an Imperial resource—one of the biggest and fastest liners in the Universe—but she can't fight and she can't outrun a battlecruiser. So when those orders arrive, we'll pick up whomever and whatever we can on the way out—and we'll leave everything else here." He placed a hand on Brim's shoulder. "There's ample time to accomplish the destruction of the research network—that's important to the Admiralty, too. But once those objectives are accomplished—well, remember, Brim, after the raid, everything is expendable except Prosperous herself."

Later, the Carescrian hurried toward his cabin, chucking in spite of storm clouds gathering in the back of his mind. He could distinctly remember the Commander's original warning that he might likely have nothing to do on this trip.

Barbousse arrived on A'zurn's surface armed to the teeth. He carried two heavy-looking meson pistols on his belt and a wicked-looking curved knife strapped to the top of his right boot, this latter in a splendid jeweled scabbard that glittered in the bright afternoon sunlight as he jumped to the ground from the shuttles He surveyed the noisy, crowded landing field for only a moment, then pointed to a big L-181-type armored personnel carrier hovering nearby, its driver beckoning with a burly arm.

"Transportation into town, Lieutenant," he announced while Brim adjusted the small knapsack attached to his battle suit.

The crowded roadway was not in the best of repair, but Magalla'ana itself was beautiful, though mysteriously bereft of all but a few winged inhabitants—at least from what little Brim could see through the side port of the L-181 as it lumbered along at high speed through equipment-crowded suburban streets. He fancied exploring its tree-shaded squares and shaggy-moss-covered carved stone spires (which looked as if they had been in place since the Universe cooled.) Here and there they passed side lanes lined by deserted-looking homes with upper-story doors and overgrown gardens of multicolored flowers in place of roofs. Then they rattled between two heroic obelisks and out across an ornate stone bridge spanning what looked to be a major canal. Through intricate balustrades, Brim could see a great waterway fronted by palaces or at least important houses of state, each terraced with the remains of once-tended gardens, most gone wild with neglect. The burned-out wreck of a graceful water craft rose gruesome from the center of the channel like a charred finger of warning. Brim grimaced sadly as they drove through more deserted streets and lanes. Heroic efforts would truly be needed to restore this, tiny paradise to its former tranquillity—beginning with the demise of Nergol Triannic and his horde of invaders from the League.

In due time, the personnel carrier rumbled to a hovering stop before a stately portico of ten ornate pillars that fronted a circular stone building topped with a high, age-discolored dome. Carved two-story wooden doors provided street-level entrance through the weather-stained walls.

"You'll find the Colonel in there," Brim heard the driver shout to Barbousse over the noise of the traffic, "and may the Universe spare you both." He laughed, then Barbousse slammed the hatch shut and the L-181 lurched into the thundering flow of traffic amid an angry blare of warning clicks from the other vehicles. Deciding to ignore the overheard warning for a time, Brim silently led the way up a broad stone staircase toward the massive doors. Under the weather-stained portico, they proffered their orders to four white-gloved guards, then stepped inside under the dome where Barbousse audibly gasped with awe.

The whole structure enclosed one grand circular room lined in polished, flawlessly white stone. Elegant inlays divided the curving walls into four quadrants, and on each of these, great carved murals depicted heroic struggles between winged men dressed in ancient-looking body armor and tall, eight-legged creatures with lancelike fangs. Above these, the dome glowed from hundreds of circular doors set into its very plates, and a huge sword dangled perilously, point down, from a curious ornamentation at the very apex. The floor—swarming with people running in all directions—was constructed from the same white stone as the walls and was arranged in three concentric circles, the inner two raised and surrounded by a strange carved-metal balustrade. Aisles ran straight from the mural-covered walls to a circular altar centered on the inner circle. This was presently occupied by a figure in the tan and red battle dress of the Imperial Army.

"D' you suppose that's Hagbut?" Brim asked with a shrug.

Barbousse grinned. "I'd bet on it, Lieutenant."

"I'll be back in a cycle or so, then," Brim said, and started up one of the aisles.

He was no more than a few irals past the first balustrade when he was intercepted by a pink-looking civilian administrator who looked very much out of place in his ill-fitting battle suit. "Your orders, Lieutenant," he demanded officiously.

Brim silently handed over his card for inspection—which was accepted as if it bore some shameful disease.

"You may approach the Colonel," the man said after a long pause, indicating the figure at the center of the room with a pained nod of his head.

Brim's eyes met Barbousse's for a moment; then he was on his way. As he climbed the second alabaster staircase, an ornate nameplate became visible on the surface of the desk. Self-powered and multicolored, the clearly expensive device flashed:

Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z' Hagbut, Xce, N.B.E., Q.O.C., Imperial Expeditionary Forces (Combat).

The mustachioed figure behind the nameplate was a small, intense-looking individual of middling years who spoke as though he disliked showing his teeth. His left collar wore distinctive crossed blast pikes, which identified him as a graduate of the prestigious BDM-38 Darkhurst Academy, a close neighbor of Avalon itself. Likewise, his clearly custom-tailored battle suit and mirrorlike boots spoke of considerable wealth—wielded by a man to whom the act of commanding probably came as a natural inheritance. His red-veined face further revealed him as an officer of quick temper or little patience or (more probably) both. As Brim approached, the man's coarse gestures to a cowed-looking subordinate gave substance to Barbousse's earlier warning that the undersized field officer was known as a "cod'dlinger" (a uniquely Narkossian-91 reference to excretory organs of a local slops-yard scavenger). "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," he had assured his companion, "but I'm not sure I'll be able to do anything about it."

"YOU THERE!" the Colonel roared in a voice that sounded as if his mouth were open a great deal wider than it appeared. He motioned imperiously to Brim. "OVER HERE! ON THE DOUBLE!"

Brim ran the last few steps, then saluted (smartly, he hoped). "Lieutenant Wilf Brim, I.F. reporting as ordered, Colonel," I he said, gazing politely up at the huge sword dangling from the center of the dome.

"Certainly not a moment too soon," the Colonel rumbled I irately. "Where have you been?" He sat back with a sour look on his pinched red face. "You Fleet types are so worthless," he observed at length, spitting noisily over the balustrade. "WELL?"

Brim remained at attention. "What can I do for the Colonel?" he asked in a respectful voice, still staring at the sword.

"You mean you don't know?"

Brim swallowed his embarrassment, sure every eye in the room was laughing at him. "No, sir,"' he said, looking the Colonel in the eye for the first time. "I don't."

"Universe," the Colonel sniffed, spitting over the balustrade again. "Well, I suppose I shall have to tell you, then—mind you, it won't be the first time I have covered for your organization's INCOMPETENCE!"

Brim spied a wiry little sergeant standing on the second ring about ten irals behind the red-faced officer. The man winked and rolled his eyes toward the sky—it helped somehow.

"HERE," the Colonel shouted, gesturing Brim's attention to a display globe that suddenly materialized over a portable COMM pack. It pictured the eight captured disruptors Brim had watched being loaded aboard Prosperous. They were now resting lifelessly on the ground. "You are to take command of those League fieldpieces," he snorted. "Lost all eight of my regular crews in a shuttle accident last night. Can't trust you Fleet types to get anything right, can I? At any rate, I knew you've all been trained to fire a disruptor. It's probably all you can do."

Brim felt his jaw drop open. "Colonel," he stammered, "I have a lot to learn about League disruptors."

"Well, you'd better GET BUSY!" the Colonel bellowed "because those eight vehicles were starlifted all the way from Gimmas Haefdon especially to protect my portion of the mission from league armor.

They were my idea—League vehicles will be nearly invisible to counterattacking forces looking for Imperial equipment. And all eight of those fieldpieces will move out precisely two metacycles from now.

UNDERSTAND?" He shot a pair of elegant battle cuffs, then raised his eyebrows as if he were reassuring a hopelessly dense child. "This is A BRILUANT INNOVATION, and you will be PROUD to have been instrumental in its trial run."

Brim could only stare wide-eyed and silent in disbelief.

Hagbut frowned for a moment, stared closely into Brim's eyes, then grimaced. "You really don't know anything about the job we summoned you down here for, do you?"

"No, sir," Brim assured him. "I do not."

Hagbut laughed aloud. "I'll bet those drafted IGL people never let you in on a xaxtdamned thing, did they?"

"They said I'd receive my orders from you, Colonel," Brim replied flatly.

Hagbut regarded him bleakly. "Wonderful," he muttered.

Brim held his tongue. There was nothing more he could say.

After a few moments in thought, Hagbut shrugged to himself and looked Brim directly in the eye.

"YOUR XAXTDAMNED FLEET STINKS, Brim," he said with his upper lip raised. "You can't help it—and neither can I. BUT IT DOES. Luckily, your uselessness probably won't mean a thing to me this time anyway. Since the A'zurnian underground staged their big show in Klaa'Shee a couple of days ago, those rotten Leaguers hardly have anybody left in the area at all—much less tanks to fight the cannon you're here to drive. All you've got to do is follow along and keep your head down when there's fighting to be done." He drummed his fingers on the altar. "For you, the mission ought to be easy as falling off a cliff. You follow us to the research center in your cannon, wait out of the way while we free the hostages they've got penned up beside the main laboratory, then you call in your destroyers to blow the whole thing up once we're on our way back." He shook his head in disgust. "Do you think you can handle that much?"

"I shall certainly try," Brim answered.

"Well," Hagbut said bleakly, "at least you seem willing. It's I better than nothing, I suppose. BUT NOT MUCH." He gazed balefully across the altar, lost for a time in some inner thought. "Probably," he continued presently, "the worst part of the trip will come when we get to the hostages themselves."

"I understand they've been pretty roughly treated."

"An understatement," Hagbut said with a grimace. 'Those Controllers they use as guards aren't very nice people at all even dislike coming up against them in combat," he said. "Hard to go about the job professionally—without emotion, you know."

Brim felt his eyebrow raise. "Sir?"

"We Army officers usually go out to fight our opposite numbers in the League," Hagbut answered,

"like the guards they'll have at the outer gates to the whole compound. No emotion there. It's simply professional against professional; somebody wins and somebody loses. But what kind of person do you think they have guarding the inner gates to the hostage compound? Army types? Not on your life. They'll have Controllers. Bloody black-suited Controllers. And when I come up against them, then the fighting gets bitter. Because those scum of the Universe deserve anything we do to them." Suddenly he stopped, looked at his shaking hand, and thrust his jaw in the air. "I don't know why I feel constrained to tell all this to you, Brim," he said. "This interview is at an end." He raised a pontifical finger. "As for your cannon, I shall direct you PERSONALLY as to where and when I want them fired. It will save you from overtaxing what little of your gray matter remains operable in your head after a tour in the Fleet Academy." He looked down his nose. "Do you have any questions, Lieutenant?"

Brim stifled an urge to laugh in the man's face and nodded instead. "I do have one question, Colonel," he said.

"Well? Be quick about it."

"Who else do you have scheduled to crew those eight fieldpieces, Colonel?" he asked. "They sent only two of us down from Prosperous."

Hagbut laughed triumphantly. "I have ALREADY seen to that, Lieutenant," he boomed. "More than one metacycle ago, I deposited EIGHT of your ordnance ratings with the disruptors to help do that." He spat again. "And since I KNEW they'd be worthless as any other Fleet type on land, I gave you fourteen equally worthless extras to assist." He frowned. "Those last are a BATTLE COMM group—all women, but they're at least warm bodies, I think." He guffawed without humor. "NOW GET MOVING. You've less than five metacycles to get that blasted machinery into some sort of useful operation." He turned back to the desk in a clear gesture of dismissal.

Brim saluted uselessly, then trudged back down the staircase to where Barbousse waited, a black look on his brow.

"Cod'dlinger," the big rating glowered in a low voice. "If you please, sir."

"I xaxtdamn well please," Brim grumped. "Come on. Let's see if we can find someone who knows where those mobile disruptors are. Maybe we can use one to run the bastard over once he's in the field accidentally, of course."

"Of course, sir," Barbousse chuckled darkly. "Accidentally, by all means."

Barbousse worked his magic rapidly in the old temple and within a few cycles, he both discovered the location of the mobile disruptors and lined up another ride. Presently, the two Truculents found themselves deposited in a large urban park bordering dense groves of tall, gnarled trees. Nearby, the mobile disruptors sat disconsolately on their warty rounded bottoms, leaning drunkenly at odd angles like toys discarded by some titanic child. A row of twenty-two Blue Capes dangled their legs from one of the hulls, kicking their heels against the giant cooling fins beneath, and talking excitedly.

Brim glanced at a flight of starships traveling so high he couldn't even make out what kind they were—but he could hear them. He suddenly felt homesick for Truculent. Truth to tell, he felt more than a little out of place here on the land—inadequate was more to the point. Then he laughed to himself. Fat lot he could do to change things anyway! He braced his shoulders and strode across the field. Might as well look confident, he thought, even though he didn't feel that way.

As he approached the fieldpieces, two of the ratings jumped I from their perches and ran to meet him, saluting smartly.

"Leading Starman Fragonard here, Lieutenant," one announced importantly. "In charge of your ordnance men." He was short and rawboned, his hair was gray, and he seemed to be in motion standing still. His constantly darting green eyes were those of a master thief or a master gunner. Right from the beginning, Brim suspected he was both. On his uniform, a number of gold and crimson ribbons presaged excellence in his specialty of Ordnance. Too bad nobody gave awards for mischief, Brim thought with a stifled smile. At least none were approved for wearing on a Fleet Cape!

Brim returned their salutes, then nodded toward the second with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeoman of Signals Fronze reporting, Lieutenant," the other said; she was a squat, heavyset woman with broad shoulders and neutral hair. Her flat, amorphous countenance served merely to highlight a coarse, open-pored complexion. Only flashing eyes and a winning smile saved her from total, unmitigated plainness. She was neither young nor old, but her large hands suggested long periods of manual toil long ago in another life. Both she and Fragonard would have been nearly invisible on a crowded metropolitan street in Avalon, but where Fragonard might well have made a diligent effort to achieve such an effect, for Fronze it would have been automatic. She indicated thirteen women of various sizes wit jumped to the ground and saluted raggedly. "Two mobile KA'PPA beacons and the best BATTLE COMM in the Fleet," she added with a toothy grin.

Brim smiled back as his heart sank. BATFLE COMM people to drive League tank destroyers.

Wonderful! He supposed somewhere nearby a squad of qualified drivers were probably attempting to fathom the arcane operation of a KA'PPA beacon. "Ordnance and Communications," he said lamely.

"Well, I'm, ah, certainly glad to have you, ah, aboard. I don't suppose anyone knows anything about starting one of these mechanical marvels, does he or she?"

"Us?" Fragonard asked incredulously, holding a slender (and reasonably clean) hand to his chest.

"Lieutenant," he said, "we only fire the disruptors, we don't do nothin like drivin'." He stopped suddenly as the rumble of heavy artillery intruded from a distance.

Barbousse stepped quietly to the side of the rawboned little man and plucked him from his feet by the scruff of the collar, smiling pleasantly all the while. "You," he said gently over the far-off booming, "are, of course, volunteering yourself and all of your men for whatever duties the Lieutenant suggests. Is that correct, Starman Fragonard?"

Fragonard's eyes bulged, became large as saucers. He tried to swallow something much larger than his throat, but the latter was constricted by the peculiar way his collar was twisted within Barbousse's huge fist. "Of course," he choked.

"M-My ssignal ratings, too," Fronz piped up hurriedly. "Always glad to help out anywhere we can."

Barbousse nodded silently, returning Fragonard none too gently to his feet. "My apologies for the interruption, Lieutenant," he said, regaining his position behind Brim.

"Er, yes," Brim mumbled, struggling to stifle a smile. He looked over the heads of the assembled Blue Capes to the huge machines lying cold and silent in a forlorn pile of—unless he could start them—space junk. He counted heads for a moment, frowned, and scratched his head, listening to renewed artillery fire in the distance. "All right," he said to the two ratings, "we've got eight of these monsters to operate. That means teams of three each. Count off your people, Fronze—two in a control cab. One of yours in each turret, Fragonard. Understand?"

"Aye, sir," Fragonard answered, his face a picture of concentration, "but twenty-two people only crews seven of those big thumpers."

Brim nodded his head. "That's right," he said. "Barbousse and I crew the eighth. And you run the turret for us. Does that fit with your previous views on the proper division of labor?"

Fragonard peered at Barbousse for only a moment, then he nodded. "Absolutely, Lieutenant," he said, grinning. "Besides, I'm a very good gunner—and a very bad wrestler."

Brim sat uncomfortably upright in the cold, stiff-backed control seat, a dark instrument panel staring balefully at him in the afternoon glare. The distant artillery duels had recessed for a moment, birds sang in the background, and heavy vehicles rumbled somewhere on a crowded highway. His mind drifted to Ursis and Borodov—most likely off at a hunting dacha on one of the Lo'Sodeskayan planets, happily drinking Logish meem and hunting the great two-headed mountain wolves which shared—and ravaged—many areas of the Bears' home worlds. Bears would know how to start this hulking bucket of bolts!

He shook his head enviously as another flight of distant starships thundered across the sky at the edge of space. Little more than a metacycle remained before his own part of the operation was expected to move out. And the thrice-xaxtdamned fieldpiece that fell to his own lot to drive was canted at a perfectly sickening angle to the horizon. It made him dizzy every time he looked outside. Drumming his fingers on the console, he gazed in helpless disgust at the bewildering array of controls.

For the hundredth time, he considered the large red button that occupied a prominent place on his lower starboard instrument quadrant. Its center ring displayed the Vertrucht symbol for 'begin," but Brim was not about to blow himself to atoms by that sort of simpleminded error. In the League's crazy vocabulary, the word "detonate" started with the same symbol. He grumpily looked outside at the other seven inert forms, also canted at uncomfortable angles. In the last—precious—forty-five cycles, he had managed to accomplish nothing, and no spare time was virtually gone—along with his options. He shrugged to himself, squeezed his eyes closed, gritted his teeth and mashed the button, waiting anxiously for the explosion that would snuff out his life.

Instead, he was greeted by bird-punctuated silence broken now and then by heavy breathing—his and that of his two companions.

Cautiously opening his eyes, he found himself confronted by nothing more threatening than all the lights on the vehicle blazing out as if it were the blackest darkness outside. That and a newly operational instrument panel. Moreover, one of its readouts, CL-2 intensity (all CL-2 readouts looked more or less the same), was already starting to rise. He watched it for a few cycles, then smiled. Normal. Even at its present rate, he estimated it would take about fifteen cycles to reach operating parameters.

He showed the button to Barbousse and Fragonard, then sent them out to help power up the other machines. "By the time you get back," he called down the ladder after them, "maybe I'll have the next step figured out."

As he expected, the remaining controls and readouts were all more or less incomprehensible, except for a big pulse limiter—anybody could recognize one of those. And to its left, a primitive linear slide control was mounted in the panel. It looked a lot like an adjustable thrust sink—common cost-conscious substitute for antigravity brakes on many large military vehicles built for the League. The slide itself was pushed all the way to the top of its slot, where the highest index numbers were. An "on" position, probably, but he couldn't be sure, so he kept hands off while he studied further.

He frowned. Most heavy ground equipment operated by ducting energy from a pulse limiter into a gravity-defraction transmitter. The latter acted as a simplified antigravity generator, providing lift and directional thrust through a simple logic-lens arrangement. It couldn't fly, of course, any more than a traveling case could fly. Antigravity technology guaranteed no more than vectored thrust to really fly, one needed a lot more major systems than one could economically cram into a ground vehicle.

Grimacing, he pondered the correct amount of energy to gate from the pulse limiter—how much CL-2 was good? Or bad? It was still building steadily, according to the readout in front of him—but to what?

He considered the possibility he had just sent Barbousse and Fragonard on a mission to blow up the other seven vehicles in his tenuous command, then shook his head. If that was the way things were going to turn out, then so be it! He had to start somewhere. He returned his concentration to the controls.

Ah! There, low in the left-hand quadrant of the center console, his eye caught a primitive sort of phase converter-regulating mechanism for just about every pulse limiter he'd ever seen. Of course, the ones in his experience were also installed on heavy mining equipment—and were never set at more than half conductance. This one indicated a full three-quarters, and even a little more. He grimaced. He knew he could fine-tune the device by thumbing a notched wheel under its mounting, but if he set the converter too high, it could severely spike the defraction transmitter when that device came on line—and then he'd never get it started. He could also get a runaway power plant, he remembered with a shudder, and decided to leave everything set as it was for the time being.

He narrowed his eyes. To the left of the converter, he recognized a strange-looking resonance-choke readout, which indicated a pulse average of zero. Probably all right, as he recalled; these units ran with really low pulse pressure. But if the reading slid into negative values, he knew he would have to consider dumping the CL2 pressure to start all over again—and he didn't have time for anything like that. Then he noticed the choke was switched to "off." That explained zero pressure at the readout—but didn't do much to relieve his growing sense of apprehension.

"Lieutenant," a voice called out, breaking into his concentration, "we've got 'em all turned on now."

Brim looked up to see Fragonard's face peek over the door coaming from the boarding ladder. He checked the other seven machines—each was blazing with unnecessary lights—and, happily, nothing untoward seemed to have resulted from punching the big red power buttons. "No problems?" he asked.

"None, sir," Fragonard declared.

"Good," Brim said offhandedly, "because the next thing you'll have to do is teach those same people how to run them."

"How to run 'em, sir?"

'Not to worry. Fragonard," Brim chuckled darkly. "It isn't clear I shall ever discover anything to tell you about the subject."

"Sir?"

"Nothing," Brim said as he got up to stretch. "But you'd better get our friend Barbousse up here with us. We'll all three of us see if we can't learn how this fool thing operates—together."

"Aye, sir," Fragonard said as he scrambled back down the ladder. He presently returned with Barbousse in tow, and the two were soon breathing over Brim's shoulder, watching his every move.

As he scanned the readouts, he brought himself up short, peering at the resonance chokes in utter disbelief. The thrice- xaxtdamned zero reading! He snapped his fingers in angry comprehension.

Somewhere in the system, a heavy-duty demodulator kept the whole radiation mechanism safe. And chances were that if the resonance choke was off, so was that demodulator! He felt sweat beading on his forehead. The whole subsystem might already be far beyond the limits of safety. He frantically scanned his readouts searching for... There! He breathed a sigh of relief. He found it, and it was on.

He glanced nervously at the CL-2 intensity. Universe! Now that was all the way up to fourteen hundred. He gritted his teeth, doing a desperate conversion from milli-ROGEN to something he could work with. Then he shook his head and relaxed. Certainly. Fouteen hundred milli-ROGEN was all right in this sort of system (it had no local storage capacity). In fact, the reading was just a hair under normal.

Getting a firmer grip on himself, he watched the CL-2 climb into the operational range, then switched the choke to "on" and squinted tensely at the readout. It was just beginning to register. Presently, a great plume of vapor sighed from the cooling mechanism behind the cabin and the gravity-defraction transmitter came on line. The big vehicle automatically righted, lifting smoothly to about eight irals above the ground, where it hovered quietly, at last on an even keel.

"That's the way, Lieutenant!" Barbousse cheered in an awe-struck voice.

Brim could hear more cheering from the ground. He leaned his head against the chair's high back for a moment and took a deep breath. He really had started the xaxtdamned thing.

"All right, Barbousse, Fragonard," he said. "You were both watching. Think you can show the others how to do that?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant," Barbousse declared immediately.

"I think I could, too," Fragonard said after frowning once more at the control panel.

"You only think you could?" Brim asked pointedly.

"No, sir," Fragonard declared with a grin. "I could."

"That's better," Brim said, grinning at the two ratings. "Get bopping, then, both of you. You've seven more to fire up while I try to get this oversized ore hauler moving next." Walking to the hatch, he listened to the deep, steady growl coming through the logic lenses from the gravity-refraction transmitter, then peered down at the small crowd of ratings gathered below. "Stand clear, down there," he yelled, then made his way back to the front of the cab and took his seat at the controls.

Buckling himself firmly to the seat, he looked at the pulse limiter and shook his head. Its setting of three-quarters conductance was simply too high. The thumb wheel, however, was mounted in an incredibly awkward place, and he found himself hard pressed to move it. Eventually, he prevailed (with a few skinned knuckles) and changed the reading to fifty percent. Now he gingerly reached out and opened the phase converter itself, gating raw energy into the pulse limiter. The machine sounds behind him changed subtly, becoming deeper and more damped as he listened. He bit his lip nervously, considering everything he had done. So far, it all checked CL-2 intensity normal (a little on the high side, but not enough to worry about), phase converter at "open" and set to approximately fifty percent, cooling on, gyros lighted, hull trimmed level. He checked the ground in front of him. It was clear. His previous audience of spectators had mostly disappeared, but here and there he caught a face peering out from behind the protection of a tree or a large rock.

He laughed. He certainly couldn't blame anybody for that!

Shrugging, he acknowledged the vehicle was as ready as he could make it, and retarded the pulse limiter. The sounds in the power compartment increased precipitately, and the big machine began to vibrate. But nothing else happened.

Brim frowned, opening the pulse limiter still farther. Now a great, discordant roar came from the shuddering traction machinery, but he was moving, albeit in palsied jerks and hops. Trouble was, the movement was nowhere near what it ought to be, considering the tremendous power he was gating to the deflection transmitter. He opened the pulse limiter a little farther still, and his forward progress did improve, but the increased speed was accompanied by intolerable levels of roaring from the traction machinery plus an alarming cycle of repetitive shuddering now coming from beneath his feet. Outside, the few stragglers who persisted in watching the big vehicle move were running panic-stricken for the nearest shelter. Behind him, a huge cloud of steam was blasting from the cooling unit as brightly glowing fins stripped vapor from A'zurn's moist air. The cabin air was blue with the acrid smell of red-hot metal.

Suddenly, he pounded his fist on the instrument panel. The thrust sink! That's what was doing it. On its highest setting, it was recycling all the energy back to the coolers. No wonder the traction machinery was tearing itself to pieces. He grabbed at the slide, then bit his lip. "Easy, Brim!" he yelled as he moved it gently to the center of its slot.

The rasping noise faded immediately—although the cooling system continued to race. His face flushed and sweating, Brim suspected it would continue to do that for quite awhile to come.

He was picking up speed smartly now. Tentatively, he pushed one of the rudder pedals. The vehicle lumbered around clumsily but steered well enough to provide at least a modicum of control. It wasn't built for much manual steering anyway—only enough to maneuver to and from the ubiquitous cableways installed wherever the League held sway. Near any one of these, automatic devices in the hull of the fieldpiece could take over and "follow the wire," as the expression went. Typical, he considered, of a civilization that discouraged any sort of free thinking outside a small ruling class. He could see the thick cable he would soon follow himself disappear around the trees at the far end of the field.

Those trees! For some reason, he was still picking up speed—a lot of it. Already he was running a great deal faster than he should if he were to negotiate a turnaround. He had to stop the big machine.

And soon!

Frantically, he smashed the thrust-sink slide back to the top of its slot—the rasping noise resumed immediately, along with the shuddering, which quickly turned into a bone-jarring series of grinding jolts.

Everything loose in the control cabin cascaded to the deck, where it added its own distinctive clatter to the rattling of every plate in the hull.

And that hadn't stopped it! If anything, he was moving even faster—toward the trees, which now looked like a green wall of solid stone. What had gone wrong?

In something closely related to panic, Brim suddenly realized his mistake—the thumb wheel on the phase converter. It was supposed to retard energy flow instead of increase it—so when he'd changed the setting from three-quarters (retardation!) to one-half, he'd actually doubled the device's output. No wonder the thrust sink wouldn't do its job! In horror, he visualized the big machine smashing itself farther and farther into the thick forest ahead until one of the trees was simply too big. He shuddered. In sudden desperation, he awkwardly jammed his fingers onto the little wheel and painfully moved it back close to its original position.

Immediately, his speed began to drop—along with the shuddering rasp from aft. But far too late to help. With a shattering crash, the big machine plowed through the edge of the forest, snapping trees like twigs and throwing splintered lags a hundred irals in the air. The cab ricocheted back and forth like a starship caught in the great-grandfather of all space holes as he stood on the port rudder pedal. Ahead, through the armored glass, he watched a huge tree that seemed to have deliberately moved in his way.

That was it! He braced himself for the crash just as the runaway vehicle smashed over a half-buried rock, swerved crazily, then wobbled level again, miraculously turned around the other way—and stopped against a sapling no thicker than his forearm.

He sat for a number of cycles in the smell of crushed vegetation, listening to more distant artillery, the angry cries of disturbed birds, and the rattling polyphony of cooling metal behind him. Then he returned to the controls and carefully retraced his well-marked route back to the sunlight.

By the time he reached the forest's edge, his steaming, branch-strewn vehicle was traveling at a normal rate of speed—under positive control for the first time since he entered the cab. Brim could feel himself blush as he brought the big vehicle to a stop beside a cheering crowd of ratings. Some days, it simply didn't pay to get out of one's bunk.

Ten cycles before Brim's scheduled departure, all the mobile cannon were finally operational, their fledgling crews making the most of a few moments' practice. The field was alive with rumbling, steam-breathing machines that staggered drunkenly over the smashed grass in a scene filled with resounding collisions and general confusion. Red-faced and very much out of breath, Barbousse and Fragonard both returned on foot, grumbling they were hard pressed merely to stay alive amid the roaring mayhem outside.

Now, with Fragonard safely ensconced in the turret, Barbousse reactivated the COMM, and within a short time a display globe materialized the wobbly image of Colonel Hagbut.

"WELL?" the flush-faced officer demanded. "Are you ready to move out?"

Brim glanced at the clattering disorder outside, gulped, and nodded his head. "Absolutely, Colonel," he declared, thankful the Army officer was not privy to the same view of the field. In truth, he rationalized, the Blue Capes were probably as ready as they were going to become for a while.

'That's BETYER, Brim," Hagbut barked. "We shall make a proper soldier of you yet."

Brim uttered a silent oath about that.

"In precisely eight cycles," the Colonel continued, "you will lead your fieldpieces onto the wire at the end of your field and proceed at speed paint zero three. That will put you in position to switch onto my cable—behind the personnel carriers—five cycles later. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" I

"Aye, Colonel," Brim said.

"That's 'Yes, Colonel,'" Hagbut corrected. "On LAND, we I do not 'aye' anything."

"I understand, Colonel," Brim said through gritted teeth.

"That's better, young man." Abruptly, Hagbut frowned and peered directly in Brim's face. "Of course," he said in sudden recognition. "You're that Carescrian they let into the Fleet, aren't you?" I

"I am a Carescrian, yes," Brim said stiffly.

"Universe," Hagbut said. "That explains a lot. Well, do the best you can, then. I'm sure you can't help what you are."

Brim felt his face flush—at the same time he also felt a massive grip on his forearm—well beyond the console's video pickup.

"Stand easy, Lieutenant," Barbousse's voice whispered. I "Don't let the cod'dlinger make you throw it all away!"

He clenched his fists. "Very good, sir," he spit through his teeth, but the COMM globe had—as usual—already gone out.

Five cycles later, all eight machines hovered idling at the end of the wire in reasonable approximation of line-ahead formation, Brim's foliage-littered fieldpiece at the van. Directly behind him, the cab from the next vehicle in line hung over his savaged rear deck—where it had come to rest as the result of a badly planned stop. A red-faced BATTLE COMM rating smiled in discomfiture from the controls as Brim and Barbousse picked themselves up from the deck, strapped more securely into their seats, and prepared to follow the cable into the leafy tunnel.

Running at precisely 0.3 speed, according to his velocity readout, Brim's group of lurching vehicles cleared the boundaries of the park (and the end of his temporary cable) precisely at the same time as Hagbut's speeding troop-carrier convoy. So accurate was their arrival that they switched in line behind the last Army coach without even slowing, now following the stronger signal of a permanent cable buried in the road.

"Not bad for a worthless gaggle of Fleet types," Brim growled under his voice as the COMM module spawned another display globe.

"CONGRATULATIONS, Brim," Hagbut barked. "You do tolerable work."

"Thank you, Colonel," Brim grumped, keeping his voice just the safe side of propriety. At least the zukeed didn't sound as if he wanted to press the Carescrian issue.

"Our convoy travels no faster than those fieldpieces of yours, Lieutenant, so keep a careful watch to the rear," the Colonel admonished. "We have all indications that League forces are nowhere within a day's march—but with operations like this, one trusts one's own eyesight, as they say. Understand?"

"I understand," Brim lied, wondering how much the recent artillery exchanges affected the Colonel's "indications." Turning the controls over to Barbousse, he positioned himself at the COMM module and set up a neat row of seven display globes, one to each of his companion mobile disruptors.

"Now hear this," he said into the COMM console. "Our friends from the Expeditionary Forces tell us all League forces have been drawn from the area," he began. "But just to be on the safe side..." He scanned the seven faces peering at him from the globular displays. Each was serious, but showed no fear Whatsoever. "Just to be on the safe side," he repeated, "you will each keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious—and report it to me immediately."

Seven versions of "Aye, Lieutenant" joined Barbousse in the rumbling control cabin as Brim settled back in the awkward seat for a few moments of relaxation—he had been working at peak output for a considerable time, and was only feeling the first pangs of fatigue. The gentle swaying of the heavy vehicle and the steady thunder of its traction system relaxed him. He leaned back as far as he could in the straight-backed seat and crossed his legs. Forward, the giant shape of Barbousse hunched attentively over a console, poised for instant action should the machine require assistance at the controls.

He turned his head and peered through the thick armored glass as they roared past blackened shells of suburban homes, windows and top-story doors gaping hideously like open mouths caught forever in the great gasp of death. No sense of surprise clouded his mind's eye, only disgust. Triannic's invaders laid their cableway with the typical arrogance of all conquerors—burning their right-of-way straight as a die through the city with no regard whatsoever for the hapless victims in its path. I The neatly spaced ruins with their pitifully blackened gardens and skeleton trees continued for a considerable distance, eventually giving way to shrub-lined fields dotted with tall, dome-capped structures—some connected by fantastic lacelike webs shimmering in the afternoon sun. But nowhere did he see the planet's winged inhabitants aloft. He pondered momentarily on this, then quickly dismissed it. He had plenty of other concerns to solve—before he tackled that!

Swiveling in his seat, he looked out the opposite side of his control cabin and across the broad expanse of stained, tree-rumpled metal that formed the front of the vehicle. Fragonard's huge disruptor loomed overhead, pointing their course like a stubby veined finger with three sets of grooved antiflash shields circling its tip. To starboard, tall, closely spaced buildings replaced the domes, then mixed with residences—these of clearly diminished promise, but whole nonetheless, having. U glazed windows to flash back the brilliant sunlight as Brim's heavy vehicles rushed past.

Presently, they came upon the banks of a broad canal and I took up a new heading atop a moss-covered seawall whose age-blackened stones looked easily twice the size of the mobile fieldpiece in which they rode. They whizzed past a string of rotting pilings out on the water covered with green braids of hairlike moss. The pilings curved abruptly from the seawall and terminated at a tumbledown pier before a crumbling brick structure of uncertain purpose. On the far shore, Brim could see rows of ramshackle warehouses fronted by networks of wooden piers extending far out into the stream—but few water craft anywhere: mute testimony to the ruined commerce of the conquered world.

They soon flashed across a connecting waterway, the cable exposed and suspended in an arch by rusty-looking wire bundles depending from pairs of slender pylons at opposite sides of the stream.

Then abruptly they were thundering wildly along a narrow, shadowed thoroughfare between two close-set rows of giant buildings faced with panels of dreary color decorating vast expanses of featureless wall.

Emerging again into the sunlight, they sped steadily along the stone seawall until the canal itself ended in a great lagoon. Their cable—and travel—diverged, however, in a sharp curve to the right, continuing uninterrupted through marshes and tidelands near the shore until they passed a second dark canyon of buildings in a streaming blur—this much longer than the first. Then suddenly, far off to port, Brim caught sight of a stupendous arch bridge rising gracefully a thousand irals into the afternoon sky before it descended again in the hazy distance on the otherside of the lagoon.

The trip answered all his questions as to why A'zurn was considered such a paradise. His mind drifted for a moment, and he daydreamed himself hand in hand with Margot on one of the quiet streets in Magalla'ana or lying in the still privacy of a wooded shore. He grinned to himself. The last idea—now, that was worth dreaming about! He took a deep breath and closed his eyes just as an excited voice broke into his thoughts from the COMM console.

"Lieutenant Brim! Lieutenant Brim! I think we've picked up a few extra vehicles! I can't see how many, but a couple at least."

Instantly awake, Brim frowned at an image of Yeoman Fronze in the last vehicle.

"What do they look like?" he asked.

"Don't exactly know how to describe 'em, Lieutenant," the woman said, looking off to one side. She squinted, frowned. "Big, for sure. An' squatty, like a roach or somethin'," she reported. "They're kind of keepin' their distance right now."

"Ask her if they're square shaped like this one, or long, sir," Barbousse urged from the driver's seat.

Brim relayed the question.

"Long," Fronze stated emphatically. "With three turrets. A big one to starboard and two on the port side facin' fore and aft."

"Sound like RT-91s to me," Barbousse pronounced. "About the best the League manufactures," he added.

"Comforting to know those League people are more than 'a day's march away,"' Brim snorted, then established connection with the Colonel's personnel carrier.

"WELL?" Hagbut demanded.

"Someone seems to be following us along the cable, Colonel," he reported. "Were we scheduled to rendezvous with other captured vehicles from Prosperous—RT-91 types, perhaps?"

Hagbut's brow wrinkled. "Negative," he said. "You've seen these RT-91s with your OWN eyes?"

"They've only been reported to me, Colonel," Brim answered. "But I have no reason to question—"

He was interrupted by a glowing blue-green geyser that shot skyward about five hundred irals out in the lagoon. The huge waterspout immediately burst about five hundred irals to his left with terrific flame and concussion.

"Don't bother, Brim," Hagbut blustered. "I could see that!" He immediately bawled a string of orders over his shoulder and the troop carriers began to accelerate, soon outdistancing the lumbering fieldpieces by a considerable margin.

Brim winced as a second explosion leveled a large row of warehouses to his right in a cloud of dirty flame and flying, debris. So much for doing the mission in "invisible" captured equipment, he thought. The xaxtdamned ruse hadn't worked more than a single watch! He shrugged phlegmatically. At least the Leaguers weren't having much luck with their ranging shots.

"I have ordered the troop carriers forward, Brim," Hagbut boomed from the display globe. "To insure the integrity of my mission" Brim nodded. "Aye, sir," he said.

"Not to mention the integrity of your bloody skin," Barbousse muttered under his breath. "Beggin' the Lieutenant's pardon."

"What was that?" Hagbut demanded.

"The local grass, sir," Brim said, desperately stifling a laugh. "Starman Barbousse suffers a violent sneezing reaction."

"Poor fellow," Hagbut pronounced as another explosion destroyed an island of trees a few hundred irals to port. "Damn Leaguers never could seal a driving compartment."

"No, sir."

"It is now your DUTY, Brim, to stop the bastards," Hagbut continued in what must have been his best pontifical voice. " Use those cannons soon as you can." He turned in the display for a moment to bark more orders at someone, then swung back to Brim. "Catch up to us when you've stopped whoever it is back there—but not before. UNDERSTAND? We cannot compromise the mission!"

"I understand, Colonel," Brim said, but again he spoke to a darkened display. He shook a mock fist of anger at Barbousse, then opened a connection to Fragonard in the turret. "You're the disruptor expert, Fragonard," he said. "What do you say? Can these fieldpieces really tear up a couple of tanks?"

"Easily," Fragonard replied with a frown, "if we can just aim enough. I've told the men to have a go at it soon as they've got their equipment ready. Trouble is, we haven't had time to adjust 'em well enough yet to fire accurately while they're moving. Maybe we can get close, but if we kill more Leaguers than locals, it'll be more out of good luck than good 'aiming, if you catch my drift, sir."

"Tell everybody to do the best they can," Brim yelled over the noise of another near miss. This one sent a deluge of green water drizzling into the control cabin between the panes of glass to puddle on the deck and COMM cabinet. He ruefully wished he'd thought to have the BATTLE COMMs rig a permanent KA'PPA to his fieldpiece. Perhaps he might now be calling in some close support from space—one couldn't do that with ordinary COMM gear, of course. He shrugged and dropped the subject from his mind. The fact was that he couldn't make that call—no power in the Universe could change the past. "Are they gaining on us?" he queried Fronze in the last disruptor.

"Aye, sir," she answered, face serious. "We're gettin' ready to try an' put the disruptor on 'em, Lieutenant—but Starman Cogsworthy up in the turret don't think we've much chance of hittin' them, what with no stabilizers an' all." Her image bounced in the display as the same enemy fire sounded first from the COMM console, then a tick later from the windows.

"Thanks, Fronze," Brim said. "Let me know when you get the thing going." They were passing along a relatively clear stretch of shore marsh now. His mind raced. If he couldn't get at the pursuing tanks, what could 1k do? Stop and fight? He laughed at that possibility. They'd all be sitting ducks while the ordnance men recalibrated their disruptors. He shook his head. Perhaps he ought to sacrifice the last few cannon in line—order Fronze to stop and fight a lonely battle of delay. He discarded that idea, too—not enough delay.

Presently, a deeper, more substantial explosion sounded from the rear, its flash visible at midafternoon.

A dirty column of smoke and debris shot skyward. "Lieutenant!" Fronze yelled excitedly from a display globe. "Cogsworthy got it goin', sir! That ought to give 'em somethin' t' think about!" Her image jumped violently as sounds of heavy return fire filled the control cab.

More of the huge, drumming-explosions followed the first. These were succeeded in rapid succession by whole series of smaller bursts. "By Corfrew's beard," someone said excitedly, "I don't think they liked that!"

"Can't understand why not," another voice said after more explosions tore up the marsh. "Look! It wasn't anywhere half near them. Bastards have no sense of humor."

"How's it going back there, Fronze?" Brim asked.

"Not so bad, Lieutenant," the rating said through clenched teeth. She blanched while a whole volley of discharges thundered from the disruptor above her, then turned to peer out the rear of her vehicle, shaking her head. "'Cept," she added, "I think they're shootin' closer t' us, an' Cogsworthy's gettin' farther away from them." She grinned. "This single-file-on-the-wire stuff cuts our shootin' down to my one projector." Her image danced violently in the globe as Cogsworthy let go with another shot, then continued to shake from a peppering of near misses landed in return. "Course," she added cheerfully, "it also saves our skins from more'n one of theirs, too."

Suddenly, the display globe seethed with a churning glow and disappeared. A violent flash from aft lit the afternoon sky, followed by a grating, trembling roar. Brim swung in his seat in time to see a burning turret arch lazily through the sky, trailing thick clouds of amber smoke until it disappeared with a monstrous splash and cloud of steam far out into the lagoon.

"Universe," someone bawled, "that was Cogsworthy!"

"Poor Fronze!" wailed another voice.

"Shut up, the both of you," a third voice rasped. "None of those three felt a bloody thing! So just maybe they're the lucky ones.

"Yeah," said a fourth. "You'll wish that was you if we're ever captured, you will!"

Brim squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, thinking about a prefect named Valentin, then nodded in silent agreement.

"Someone told me you were worried about bein' bored this trip, Lieutenant," Barbousse called out over the roar of the machinery, his face an impish parody of surprise.

"Must have been someone else," Brim said, eyeballs raised in feigned concentration. "It surely wasn't this Wilf Brim!" He glanced out the windshield and nearly jumped in surprise. His running battle was rapidly approaching the titanic suspension structure he had viewed from a distance.

He snapped his fingers. That was it! An artificial hill—and a big one.

He activated "broadcast" on the COMM console and began to speak, taking special pains to keep a calm inflection in his voice. "Now hear this, all hands!" he yelled over the rising thunder of the disruptors.

"We are about to run the high arch ahead. While we're on this side, you'll each have fine visibility and a clear field of fire below. Make the most of both! And remember that any tanks you don't polish off will have the same visibility and field of fire when you are on the bottom!"

CHAPTER 6

So absorbed was Brim with the unfolding battle that the ascent onto the bridge, when it came, nearly took him by surprise. Fragonard had the big disruptor in action before they climbed fifty irals. The noise was deafening, as was the concussion. Higher and higher they rose, traction system roaring and dense white vapor streaming from the cooling fins. Brim watched the ground below erupt in gigantic explosions as the wiry little gunner switched to rapid fire and fairly peppered the right-of-way around the speeding enemy tanks. He counted ten of the lopsided enemy machines and thanked whatever powers had dissuaded him from stopping to battle the tanks in place. His second fieldpiece soon added its fire to the holocaust below, then the third. The cable pitched and swayed from dozens of frenzied discharges.

Without warning, a particularly bright blast on the ground was followed first by a cloud of peculiar-looking debris and then by frenzied cheering from the COMM cabinet.

"A hit!" someone yelled.

"I nailed the bastard, I did!"

"Good on you, Ferdie! Give 'em wot for!"

Soon all seven of the captured fieldpieces were firing rapidly and wildly—as often as their disruptors could recover. Below, the Leaguers maintained a furious barrage in return—although two more of their number were now carbonized junk mounds smoldering at the base of towering smoke columns along the right-of-way. Beneath Brim's straining vehicle, the rampaging cable was bucking violently in two axes, making Barbousse lean desperately on the rudder pedals in a frantic attempt to keep from plunging off into the considerable abyss that now separated them from the surface.

"Sweet bloody Universe!" someone screamed in panic from the COMM console. "I'm losin' it!"

Horrified, Brim looked back along the wire to see one of his fieldpieces skid up and off the writhing cable, its projector still firing spasmodically. Momentum carried the awkward vehicle perhaps twenty irals higher before it peaked, rolled lazily to port, and plunged like a stone through the suspension wires, disappearing in a great splash that spread rapidly in all directions from the point of impact. Heartbeats later, a single explosion rent the lagoon in a giant glowing bubble that burst with a massive eruption of smoke and greasy flame-quenched almost instantly in a plume of steam and slowly tumbling debris.

Ahead, the apex of the great arch was now visible through the windshield—no more than a few hundred irals distant. Aft and below, the remaining enemy gun layers were finally warming to their jobs—space around Brim's convoy was suddenly alive with explosions and concussion. Three of the armored windows above his head shattered, filling the control cabin with a swarm of whirring glass splinters that buzzed harmlessly along the armored fabric of his battle suit and helmet, but shredded the tough upholstery of his seat. He shook his head. Another near miss tore a huge access hatch from something near the cooling mechanism—which was itself beginning to glow again from the strain of the long, steep climb and the insatiable demands of the disruptor, now firing almost constantly. Renewed clouds of steam billowed in their wake from the cooling fins, and as he looked down along the weaving, swinging cable, he could see his other fieldpieces were in no better shape at all. It was now or never. He bullied the COMM cabinet back to "broadcast" and yelled over the noise, "Now I hear this, all hands!

Switch targeting immediately to the buried cableway five hundred irals in front of the bridge. I repeat, in front of the bridge." The disruptors went silent momentarily I as he talked. "Dig up the cable so the tanks can't follow right away," he enjoined the ordnance men. "But don't touch the bridge. We need that for our own trip home!"

"Right ya are, Lieutenant!" someone called back over the noise.

"We'll be careful, sir," someone else echoed.

In short order, the six disruptors directed a new frenzy of ft flame and concussion onto the buried cableway—no more accurate than before, but now at least concentrated. The bridge began to sway again, but Barbousse was now mastering the big machine, and he tracked the cable flawlessly as it pitched and yawed like a pendant flying in the breeze.

Suddenly Fragonard's thundering disruptor went silent. Brim looked up from his COMM cabinet—over the top! The big fieldpiece could no longer bear on the approach ramp to the bridge.

Soon the next cannon topped the bridge, then the next. When the sixth left off firing, Brim leaned out of the cabin in the roaring slipstream. Two thousand irals below, wide areas fronting the bridge approaches looked like they had been plowed by a large asteroid. Gaping holes here and there told of many near misses, but the area through which the cable had to pass was now a gigantic crater that glowed from within and vomited forth a dense smoke pillar as the underlying rock formations themselves burned from the hellfire of Brim's disruptors. While he watched, the first enemy tank pulled to a halt well short of the zone of destruction, firing off a desultory round now and ft then toward its escaping quarry.

Brim frowned as he drew his head back inside the cab.

"They're stopped," he told Barbousse.

The big rating expressed no surprise at Brim's announcement. "Makes sense, Lieutenant," he said. "I figure in their eyes we've made ourselves out to be a lot more trouble than ft we're worth." He grinned as the fieldpiece roared between two pylons and the cable disappeared once more into the ground.

"I suppose that's right," Brim said, watching the other machines regain the surface.

"It is, sir," Barbousse assured him. "If you can't beat somebody you're fightin', it never hurts to convince him he can't beat you, either." He grinned. "Besides," he added, "anybody who's spent his life followin' a cable isn't going to be too happy about pickin' his way through that mess of craters—probably fall in and never get out."

"Let's hope," Brim agreed, settling wearily back in his uncomfortable seat at the COMM console.

"Now all we've got to do is catch up with Colonel Hagbut."

"Beggin' the Lieutenant's pardon, but that bird's liable to be all the way to Avalon by now," Barbousse said.

Brim smothered a laugh—just as the landscape ahead erupted in flashes of light. Ticks later, the cascading, rolling thunder of high-energy artillery reached them. He looked at Barbousse and frowned.

"Another battle?" he whispered.

"Sounds like it to me, sir..." Barbousse started, then he was cut off by the screech of an emergency channel running overload on the COMM console.

"Brim! STAY CLEAR! WE'RE PRISONERS! Target is map locus 765jj. Everything up to you now..." The display globe went out in a manner similar to Fronze's demise.

Galvanized, Brim displayed the coordinates of the message on the COMM console. "Nine thirteen point five by E9g. Can you help me remember that, Barbousse?"

"Nine thirteen point five by E9g. I'll remember it, sir."

"Good," Brim said, his mind working furiously as he peered off along the cable right-of-way. "Now get reedy to stop us in that patch of trees coming up to starboard. We've got some serious thinking to do before we go any farther."

Scant cycles later, the convoy was hidden under the dense foliage of a large forest glen. Brim clambered onto the cool, fern-carpeted ground and motioned for the rest of the crews to stand down for the remainder of the day, then he leaned on a stump and breathed the clean fragrance of the trees, pondering what he ought to do next.

Suddenly, he found he was in total command.

Late into the long summer evening, Brim sat alone on the cool forest floor, back to a stump, hands/around his knees while he desperately tried to assemble a coherent mental picture of his predicament. Reduced to absolute basics, the situation appeared to consist of no more than three primary elements, which he absently counted on his fingers for the hundredth time: (1) his chances for calling anyone to assist him, (2) his mission (and what to do about it), and (3) the meager resources at his disposal.

The first element—assistance—was simply unattainable. He immediately dismissed it as such. The Fleet certainly couldn't help him. Even if he asked his BA1TLE COMMs to call, any starships they might find were powerless against his target—at least until he could contrive to achieve Hagbut's original mission and remove the A'zurnian hostages imprisoned there. And from the flood of combat messages that presently filled every B-range channel on his COMM cabinet, he knew full well he could expect little assistance from the hard-pressed Imperial Expeditionary Forces attacking other research centers around him.

The second element, his mission, was a different proposition altogether—in which the word

"impossible" had no meaning whatsoever. It represented a commitment to duty he absolutely intended to fulfill. Of course, that involved no less than capture of a major research facility (which he had never so much as seen), freeing a sizable group of hostages who unwillingly—but effectively—protected that same facility from attack, delivery of the hostages to safety (wherever that was), and, finally, getting himself and his charges back to Magalla'ana in time to escape before the mission terminated. All this, of course, had to be accomplished notwithstanding his secondary obligation to search for the captured Colonel Hagbut—if he found himself with spare time on his hands.

The third element, unfortunately, threatened ill for everything else. His resources were nowhere near to being suitable to the requirements of his mission—and that included himself. His fewer than twenty BAITLE COMMs, for example, had superb equipment for calling in destroyers—but before they could use any of it, they first had to double for 180 of Hagbut's highly trained foot soldiers!

The combined lack of help, impossible task load, and inadequate resources might have daunted many a normal Imperial. Carescrian Imperials, however, shared a unique background of adversity—one in which even the best of circumstances normally required making do with whatever expedients came to hand. He shrugged. He knew a way had to exist for getting the job done; no doubt about it. All he had to do was discover what that was.

He began early in the first watch of the night with Barbousse, poring over a three-dimensional map, scouring dusty corners of his mind to remember everything he ought to know about field operations from exercises at the Academy. As photo-mapped by an orbiting reconnaissance craft the previous morning, his research center sat astride the cableway in a wooded location at the extreme limits of Magalla'ana. A wide, narrow building, it cascaded down a hillside in three levels of attached terraces, courtyards, and glass-enclosed laboratory structures. Significantly, its doors were on the ground story. Surrounding this structure was a huge campus area protected by a Stout fence with gates at two opposing cable crossings.

Clearly, the big facility also doubled as a key checkpoint controlling the cableway—both gates appeared to be protected by large guardhouses. Inside the campus and considerably removed from the gates (as well as the research center itself), a rectangular compound with separate guardhouse was set off by its own double fence. The compound contained approximately ten rectangular buildings in two rows of five each.

"The hostages," Brim declared grimly, pointing with the magnifier for Barbousse.

"Looks like, sir," Barbousse said. "And only one entrance to the compound." He pursed his lips.

"Makes things a lot easier for us with all the guards concentrated in one place."

"First," Brim warned with a grin, "we've got to get there."

Barbousse nodded gravely. "I've been thinkin' about that, Lieutenant," he said with a frown.

"What's on your mind?" Brim asked.

"Well, sir," the big man said, "hasn't been much traffic on the cableway since we hid in these woods this afternoon—and during that firefight we had comin' up to the bridge, you just know somebody got a warning off to the lab." He frowned and shrugged. "So by now it pretty well stands to reason they've fixed a special welcome for anyone arriving at this side of the research center. I mean, we know they've got tanks around, so there's no tellin' what else they have in store."

"You're right," Brim agreed gravely. "I guess I've given that some serious thought myself. And I think I've found something that might help." He pointed on the map to an overgrown path that formed, a rough semicircle around the campus and connected to the cableway at both ends approximately five thousand irals from the gates.

"I see, sir," Barbousse said dubiously, studying the map. "What do you suppose it is?"

"Looks like a construction road to this ex-miner," Brim pronounced. "Couple of years old at least.

Might well have supplied gravel from these pits it runs beside. The research center probably used plenty, the way it's built." He laughed. "Whatever they used to use it for, that old right-of-way just might make our job a whole lot easier and less risky tonight."

"How's that, sir?" Barbousse asked, scratching his head.

"Because," Brim explained with a smile, "we could leave the main cable and use that road to go around to the other side of the research center. Then we'd simply get back on the cable again—coming from the opposite direction—and arrive where they're not even looking for us. Like a convoy of Leaguer reinforcements. After all, that's why Hagbut says he brought these captured cannon in the first place."

Barbousse nodded his head and smiled. "And if they've got most of their troops at the other gate like we think they do, Lieutenant, it evens the odds a little better." He laughed darkly. "We aren't exactly the best substitute for the Colonel's hundred and eighty foot soldiers."

Brim chuckled. "You've noticed?"

"I've noticed," Barbousse agreed, "but it's yet to worry me, sir." He laughed quietly. "We'll make a go of it, Lieutenant. You've already figured out a good way to get at the bastards. Catch a little sleep now, and the rest of your answers will come in the morning."

Brim nodded sleepily and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair as the big rating switched out the light on the map table. He remembered nothing more until the first crimson rays of dawn filtered through the trees.

Following an early morning assembly, Brim set the various crews to searching their fieldpieces for anything of possible value to the task at hand. Not surprisingly, they found each vehicle had been well equipped at Gimmas Haefdon. Emperor Greyffin IV was a steadfast Army man, and consequently, the Imperial Expeditionary Forces were known everywhere for the wealth of equipment they carried in the field.

With the sound of distant artillery grumbling through the morning air, Barbousse and Fragonard lowered a number of heavy packing cases to the ground with two cables, then broke the seals with a power draw bar. From these, they lifted packages of blast pikes, oversized power cartridges, cartons of proton grenades, and a brace of battle lanterns—wiping each clean of "proof" grease and preservative gel.

"Gantheissers, no less," Fragonard said admiringly, turning one of the big blast pikes in his hands. "Not bad for emergency-pack stuff." He slotted a power cartridge in place and grinned with pleasure as the self-test finished. "All ready to fire, too," he said. "Got to give those weird Ganthers credit. If they do nothing else well, they surely can build weapons." He departed shortly to make sure the other crews had their weapons under control.

When all the stores were prepared and distributed, some of the orphaned BATFLE COMMs set to unpacking one of the portable KA'PPA sets. "Sooner or later we'll need it to call in. the destroyers, sir," Barbousse explained to Brim. "I suggested they get their testing over with now."

"Good idea," Brim agreed, watching two ratings reverse a large plate in the packing crate—which soon became a control panel. Others attached an auxiliary power unit via heavy cables with complex connectors, while nearby a third team unfolded the antenna lattice from a slender silver container. These tasks complete, everyone pitched in to lever the longish structure into the air and guy it in place with a triad of insulated wires. Immediately, operators busied themselves with integration tests using equipment contained in a third pack the size of the power unit. Operation of the complete assembly was verified in half a metacycle, then the whole bulky unit was restored in five more. A'zurn's star was high in a hazy, cloud-dappled sky by the time the BATTLE COMMs replaced the unit aboard Brim's fieldpiece, then marched off toward still another task with Barbousse in the lead.

By midafternoon, the clouds had changed to a low overcast and a brisk wind was rustling the treetops.

Brim stood at the edge of the cable right-of-way, inspecting a larger portion ft of sky than he could view from the forest floor. It was the fourth time he'd come; each time he did, he became more confident than the last. This time, it even smelled like rain. He smiled. Had he ordered the weather himself, he could scarcely have done a better job.

Later, rejoining the mobile fieldpieces, he visited the ordnance men adjusting their disruptors.

"Probably get a mite better performance out of 'em this time," Fragonard assured him from one of the boarding ladders. "None of 'em was ever fine-tuned before—thank the bloody Universe they were ready to fire, even if we couldn't hit anything, in a manner of speakin'" He chuckled mirthlessly. "We'd all be dead by now."

"Or worse," Barbousse added under his breath.

Inside the quietly humming turret, Brim watched two ratings concentrating their efforts on the big disruptor, aiming the heavy weapon indirectly by means of a rigged index point—a hatch cover tied in a distant sapling—just visible through the trees. Leveling devices and compensators whirred and hummed, dizzily (to Brim) changing the attitude of the huge turret as the ordnance men fine-tuned elevation and transverse targeting controls in both automatic and manual modes. "This time," Fragonard said confidently, "if we need 'em, we'll know better how to use 'em."

By late afternoon, everything appeared to be ready eluding the rain. A few drops filtered through the trees while Barbousse patched broken glass in the control cab and Brim completed his equipment checkout with Fragomird.

"Got the map," the rating declared.

"Check."

"Blast pikes?"

"Nine. One of 'em couldn't run diagnostics, so I pitched it."

"Good. Positron grenades?"

"Forty-six energized, Lieutenant. Four duds with no power."

Brim nodded. "That's it," he said as the gathering storm began to drum loudly against the fieldpiece's metal flanks. "The KA'PPA's tested, everybody's armed in one way or another, and you've got the disruptors tuned. I think we're about ready as we're ever going to be." A smell of rain filled the control cabin, fresh and damp to his nose. He peered around at the other fieldpieces. Probably it was his imagination, but somehow each one looked much more deadly new that he knew the disruptors were tuned. Then he closed his eyes and forced his racing mind to relax. Tonight would be a long night indeed.

Later, when storm-gray daylight faded to the near darkness of A'zurnian evening, the rain—which was previously, only falling lightly—now began to come down in torrents. "We're not going to make much speed with visibility like this," Barbousse observed, peering through the water streaming along the windshield, "even with all the lights on."

Brim nodded agreement. It was raining with a vengeance. "At least we don't have far to go," he observed. "And anyway, it'll make it harder for them to spot us.

'Through optical sights, sir," Barbousse grumped with a smile.

"Those jammers in the hull ought to confuse their other sensors some." Brim offered.

Barbousse smiled. "They won't believe it if they do pick us up, Lieutenant," he said. "Nobody would go out on a night like this."

"Absolutely," Brim agreed as he stretched forward and opened the phase converter. "You make sure the traction gear works and I'll test the COMM. After that, we'll get started and find out."

Five display globes again hovered above the shifting light patterns of the COMM cabinet as Barbousse gunned the traction engine from the driver's seat. "Everybody ready?" Brim asked this time in short-range "secure" mode.

Five versions of "Aye, sir" provided his answer from the other fieldpieces.

"Fragonard?"

"Ready, sir," came his answer on the interCOMM from the turret.

Brim peered around the hunched form of Barbousse in the driver's seat. The big rating had his windshield cleaners in action, and the trees appeared like specters in the dim illumination of the battle headlights. "All set?" he asked.

"All set, sir."

"Let's move out."

"Aye, sir." Barbousse nodded and carefully lowered the thrust sink. The big machine lumbered into motion, its traction system throttled back just above idle. Brim swung in his seat, watching five pairs of battle headlights follow in a serpentine track among the trees. "There," the rating muttered, manhandling the heavy vehicle into a sharp left turn.

"Cableway?" Brim asked.

"Aye, sir," Barbousse answered. "But I'm not lockin' on the cable—just as you ordered, Lieutenant."

He cocked his head momentarily. "Do you suppose they can track who's followin' the cable?"

"Don't know for sure," Brim admitted. "But it's always possible—and besides, the construction road isn't that far away."

"Aye, sir," agreed Barbousse, peering out into the rain ahead.

To Brim, the raging torrent looked like a meteor shower in the battle headlights' dull glow.

They drove in silence, Barbousse picking his way carefully with the trees a bare ten irals to his left.

"Break in the woods coming up, sir," he said tensely.

Brim peered past the man's shoulder. "About the right time," he confirmed. "Try it." Then he turned to the five COMM displays. "Hard right coming up," he warned the others. "Watch for a break in the woods to starboard." The landscape abruptly skidded to the left and the fieldpiece tipped precipitously, then righted, Barbousse swearing under his breath. Then they were once more under control, picking their way slowly along the overgrown construction road.

Considerably time elapsed before the six vehicles completed their circuitous route around the research center—successfully avoiding nine open quarry pits along the way. By the time they drew to a halt at the cableway again (this time on the far side of the campus), neatly half the night had passed.

"Everybody still with me?" he asked the COMM cabinet.

"Aye, sir," five voices replied.

"Barbousse?"

"Doing fine, sir," the big rating assured him.

"Very well," Brim said. "Let's be at it—just as if we'd been coming this direction all day."

"Aye," Barbousse called over the roar of the traction engine. He swung the heavy vehicle left onto the cableway. "Picking up the cable now," be reported as a trio of green lights began to pulse on the panel before him. "Lock on."

"Good," Brim replied. "Let's put the lights on—we might as well get it over with and be done for once and all."

Barbousse switched energy to the three big forward illuminators and all the running lights. The other five fieldpieces followed suit. Brim mentally shuddered as trees bordering the cable right-of-way stood out in sudden detail. He imagined the lighted machines looked a lot like six oversized refugees from a Gambian Feast of Lights.

In due time, they coasted to the foot of a lengthy downgrade, then began what the map promised was a short climb to their first view of the research center at the bottom of the hill.

Just before they crested the rise, Barbousse drew to a halt, hovering in place over the cable. Outside, the right-of-way was now lined with a row of tall night illuminators like Karlsson lamps. They made hazy orange circles in the driving rain. "All right, Fragonard, it's time," Brim called into the interCOMM.

A moment later, the turret hatch opened and the ordnance man scrambled down a ladder, raced across the deck, and fairly burst into the control cab in a spray of rain. "Universe!" he sputtered as he struggled out of his battle helmet. "Make sure you've got your suit dogged down tight; otherwise it could fill up and drown you."

"I'll do that," Barbousse laughed. "And we've got a long way to walk."

"All set?" Brim asked.

"Aye, sir," Barbousse answered.

"Remember to flash the signal three times—soon as you can see my lights," Brim reminded them.

"Three times it is, sir," Barbousse assured him. "If the map's right, we shouldn't need more'n twenty cycles to get there." He pulled his helmet over his head, then followed Fragonard over the hatch coaming and out into the storm.

Brim slammed the hatch shut in a shower of flying rain, watching the two men scramble down the ladder. At the bottom, Barbousse waved, touching his thumb and forefinger together, then the two figures set off through ankle-deep puddles toward the top of the hill and soon disappeared into the gloomy downpour.

Brim hovered, idling a full thirty cycles just to be sure, then settled in the driver's seat, lowered the thrust sink, and drove the lumbering cannon up over the crest of the hill, locked on to the cable. Behind, five more brightly lit vehicles followed.

Interminable cycles later, a ruby glow clawed its way through the deluge three times in succession. He stepped up his speed along the downgrade until a number of high illuminators began to show through the rain ahead: Hagbut's target—now his own—was less than a cycle away. He forced himself to relax. Now was the time for calm, not mind-numbing tension.

He pulled up sharply just outside the guard shack, adjusting the big vehicle's traction system to its highest—and noisiest—power level. Then, taking his cue from the officers aboard Valentin's illfated corvette, he boldly activated the external amplifiers. "Well?" he broadcast imperiously in Vertrucht.

"Hurry, fools. We have little time to dawdle here at your gate. Enemy vehicles are in the area."

"P-Please identify yourself, s-sir," a voice responded unsurely from the guard shack.

Brim smiled to himself. Just as he guessed. "Identify myself, indeed!" he growled. "You will present yourself immediately to open the gate in person, fool."

"But w-we have orders..."

"How long," Brim interrupted, "has it been since your last fire-flogging, fool?"

"But sir..."

"You will immediately present me with your name for the Center's flogging roster or you will, alternatively, open the gate."

"A moment, sir."

"Immediately."

The door to the guard shack opened and a fat, slack-jawed guard waddled onto the stoop as if his feet hurt. His hand was palm up in a very unnecessary verification of the teeming rain. Behind him, Brim saw a second guard struggling into some sort of foul-weather suit. As the first stepped all the way out into the storm, a great arm materialized suddenly from the shadows and wrapped itself around his face. In the next instant, a jeweled knife flashed in the glare of the headlights. Then the guard's tunic was covered with a rain-thinned curtain of red before everything disappeared again in the shadows. Brim gunned the traction system to muffle any further noise when the second guard met a similar fate. Abruptly, Barbousse and Fragonard scrambled around the corner—battle suits surprisingly free of stains—and disappeared inside the guardhouse. Each carried a big Gantheisser ready at his hip. Light flashed explosively for a few heartbeats from the half-open door, then the two reappeared at a dead run for the main gate.

The huge one-section gate must have been heavy, for Barbousse and Fragonard struggled considerably before it grudgingly slid aside. Extinguishing his running lights, Brim began to move through the opening. He slowed to a crawl while the two ratings boarded on the fly, then shoved the big traction system to its highest speed and roared into the campus toward their second objective: the hostage compound.

Moments later, Barbousse and Fragonard yanked the hatch open and clambered over the coaming, dripping rain.

"I think it's lettin' up," Fragonard declared, popping off his helmet.

"Has to," Barbousse agreed. "Can't be much left up there anymore." He peered through the windshield. "They've got a map in the guard shack back there, Lieutenant," he said. "We guessed right—that square fenced area is marked with the Vertrucht symbol for prisoners you taught me."

"Good," Brim said, nodding out ahead and to his left. "That's it, just off the port bow." He switched off two of the three cable followers. "How'd it go back there?" he asked.

"Like it was programmed, Lieutenant," Barbousse declared. "They never got the first warning out."

Brim smiled to himself. So far, so good, he thought—but the business was far from finished. At about three thousand irals, he eyed the entrance to the hostage compound. He could just make out the rooflines beyond against the sky, and in that instant, the last details of his plan fell into place. "Second and third fieldpieces follow me!" he yelled at the COMM cabinet. "Last three shear off and take out anybody you find at the city-side gate. Got that?"

Five voices returned a confusion of assent just before the last three fieldpieces pulled out of line. The Carescrian grinned and flexed his shoulders. Then he disengaged the third cable follower and leaned hard on the left rudder pedal. His big machine banked wildly and skidded around until it was racing full speed for the gate. The roar of the traction system was deafening in the cab. A glance over his shoulder assured him the other two fieldpieces were in close formation behind him, bobbing and swaying ponderously as they galloped over the uneven ground, battle headlights like the eyes of great steam-breathing nocturnal monsters.

"Halt and identity yourself!" someone yelled over a loud hailer from the guard shack ahead.

Brim opened the phase gate farther and the speed increased again. The big machine was barely under control now, swaying and skidding from side to side, clouds of steam belching from the cooling system and the rain streaming from its sodden flanks. "Buckle in!" he warned.

Ahead, a cluster of figures burst from the guard shack with blast pikes, kneeled, and began to fire, their charges pattering harmlessly against the armored plate of the rampaging fieldpiece.

"Hang on!" Brim yelled over the howl of the straining traction system. Simultaneously, the guards seemed to realize what was about to happen. As one, they dropped their pikes and scattered in all directions—but much too late. Every one disappeared beneath the front of the vehicle into the thrashing torrent of gravity from the raging logic lens. An open-mouthed head suddenly bounced forward into the glow of the battle headlights, rebounded from a rock, and trailed a smeared string of dark red offal across the armored windshield as it joined a ragged upper torso that spun lazily in their wake like a thrown rag doll. Then, with a tearing, shrieking crash, the fieldpiece burst wildly over the guard shack, throwing a torrent of flying debris in all directions.

Brim jammed the thrust sink into full detent amid screeching protest from the traction system; they shuddered to a stop not more than fifty irals from the first four hostage barracks. He glanced over his shoulder again as the other two fieldpieces drew to a skidding halt nearby—the last spun dizzily out of control for a moment before coming to rest precariously against a solid-looking utility building. At the same moment, the sky to his right lit, blazing forth with terrific flashes of disruptor fire, followed by waves of concussion as the last three cannon went to work on whatever League forces they found marshaled at the city-side gate.

Leaving the controls set at a fast idle, he joined the two ratings at the hatch. "You know what to do,"

he yelled over the hiss of the cooling system. "Each of you take a building—get the hostages out quick as you can. Any of 'em can't fly, get 'em on one of the fieldpieces—anywhere. Understand?"

"Understand, Lieutenant," Barbousse answered, then he disappeared over the coaming, followed by Fragonard. Brim clamped his helmet firmly in place and climbed down the ladder after them. Outside, the storm appeared to have run its course. Only a few drops spattered against his faceplate before they were instantly cleared. Ahead, Barbousse was already inside the first building of the first row. Fragonard was heading for the second. To his right in the darkness, Brim made out six other figures heading in a low crouch for the second row of barracks. All the buildings appeared to be dark, both outside and inside.

Unexpectedly, a group of figures dashed from the third building, firing wildly in all directions. One discharge flashed blindingly beside Brim, knocking him from his feet and rolling him across the muddy turf. He lay low for a moment while deadly beams of energy crisscrossed only fractions of an iral above his helmet. Proton grenades flashed coldly in the darkness and guttural shouts filled the air. Then his vision cleared and he clambered stiffly to one knee, took his great side-action blaster from its holster, and, in an Academy-perfect two-hand crouch, blew the nearest Leaguer completely in half. Sodeskayan Bears, he observed, built powerful hand weapons. Moments later, a number of thundering Gantheissers suddenly joined his blaster, and the defenders rapidly disappeared, screaming in a welter of flame and concussion.

An instant later, he was back on his feet and at the entrance to one of the barracks. He blew the latch from the door and burst into the poorly lighted room—where he stopped short shuddering in absolute horror. The stench of rotting flesh alone was almost enough to drive him gagging into the fresh night air.

The far end of the room was filled by a pitiful knot of cadaverous things he guessed once were like the flighted people he had seen aboard Prosperous. Now they were unbelievably emaciated—with shriveled stumps where once there had been wings. No wonder he'd seen no one aloft! He'd been warned—characteristic Triannic pragmatism. He stood for a moment, transfixed, then forced his mind once again into action. "Can any of you walk?" he choked.

"Y-You...an Imperial!" one of them stammered from behind starved, deep-set eyes. "Our hopes are answered."

"Have you come to set us free?" a spectral woman asked in a thin voice.

"Yes," Bum said, his eyes filling with tears. "Can any of you...walk?"

"We can walk if our steps lead to freedom," a gaunt old man with a white beard and spindly, ill-matched wing stumps pronounced somberly. "Freedom of any kind."

Brim fought his emotions back under control. 'Three League fieldpieces wait outside," he said. "Climb aboard—anywhere. They're not very suitable, but..."

"They will serve, young man," another haggard prisoner said. "We shall carry our comrades who can no longer walk. Come, my friends. We make our way to more useful employment."

Brim nodded as the fleshless mass of humanity untangled itself from the end of the room and began to shamble for the door. Outside, he could see other halting lines of people already struggling to reach the waiting vehicles. Barbousse and Fragonard were both in the adjacent barracks as he ran along the walkway. The next building—opened by someone else by now—was a repeat of the last, emptying a pitiful remnant of emaciated bodies with blackened, deep-set eyes and torn, snapped-off wings. Some were already dead, as were many others in the remainder of the barracks he visited.

Then, once all the buildings had been opened, he found himself running headlong through the pitiful lines of shambling hostages. The wind had picked up now and the rain came in spurts. Nearby, Fragonard and Barbousse were boosting hostages gently up the ladder and onto the vehicle's broad back. All three machines were filling rapidly with pitiful knots of what once were graceful flighted men and women. "Get 'em up there quick as you can," he yelled to the ordnance man. "I want us out of here before the Leaguers bring up some real reinforcements!"

As the six machines lumbered back through the gate and up the hill—running lights darkened this time—stars were showing through the clouds. Brim glanced at his timepiece and nodded. They were almost precisely on the schedule he had set. Less than a metacycle remained before dawn.

The first recall signal was broadcast from Prosperous not long after Brim and his party rejoined the other three fieldpieces just over the crest of the hill. "Battlecruisers, Lieutenant," Fragonard reported with a look of concern. "Operations gives us less than four watches before Prosperous leaves—ten metacycles at most."

Brim pursed his lips, thinking of Sandur's warning, then he shrugged and smiled. "Ten metacycles gives us plenty of time," he answered in what he hoped was a voice of confidence.

"If you say so, Lieutenant," Fragonard muttered, but his face gave the lie to his words.

"Count 'em yourself," Brim reasoned. "It took us only three to drive to the high bridge—so four metacycles will certainly get us back from here. And with another for shuttling up to Prosperous, we still have most of five metacycles to use looking for Colonel Hagbut."

Fragonard's eyes looked as if someone had just slapped him on the side of the head.

Brim smiled sympathetically at the ordnance man's discomfort . "I understand how you feel," he said honestly. "And I am also well aware of how close that could be cutting things. But we can't just desert those men without at least giving our best shot to bring them home. Remember, once we're gone, they have no hope at all."

"You're right, sir," Fragonard agreed. "I understand. I'd surely want it that way if I were in their shoes."

Brim nodded. "Besides," he said with a grin, "we'll have some potent help locating 'em soon as we call in the Fleet."

Fragonard knuckled his forehead. "Sorry. I..."

"Sorry nothing," Brim interrupted with a smile. "You gave me a chance to review my plans. Everybody needs a sanity check once in a while." Then he winked and made his way to where the BATTLE COMMs were busily rigging a portable KA'PPA.

"Ready in a moment, Lieutenant," a signal rating said. "By my timepiece, it's just about time to make your call."

Brim nodded, remembering his last view of the research center as he had crested the hill just before dawn. All the lights had been blazing—too late, he had noted with satisfaction. Now, in the early cycles of the morning, the clouds of the spent storm were disappearing rapidly and a cool breeze rustled ft the grass outside the fieldpieces. Everything smelled of A'zurn's rich, wet soil. The sirens were again quiet—he could hear chirps of morning birds and a low babble of conversation from the A'zurnians over the idling rumble of nearby traction systems.

"All ready to call the Fleet in from orbit, Lieutenant," the rating declared. "Your time window begins...now."

Brim nodded. "Call 'em," he ordered.

Instantly, patterns of light changed position and hue on the console while overhead KA'PPA rings spread lazily from the beacon on its portable tower. "Sent," the rating reported. Then, only ticks later, he added, "And acknowledged, Lieutenant. They're ready."

Brim nodded. "Pack it up then, ladies," he said to the BATTLE COMMs. "We'll be moving out momentarily. Then he trotted across the field and hoisted himself up the ladder. Climbing over the coaming, he turned to stare out the open hatch—listening.

He waited only cycles before he heard the distant rolling thunder. Nothing else in the Universe made a sound like that. Big, deep-space antigravity generators, a number of them, if his ears heard correctly. As far as his eyes could see, the overcast was shredded now into distinct layers of gray and white cloud tinged here and there by the gold of a still-hidden dawn. Below these, visibility was perfect. The rumble quickly grew to a crackling, pulsing thunder he could feel as well as hear. Soon the very air was steeped in it, a palpable, physical sensation that seemed to shake the very warp and woof of the planet itself.

Direction was obvious now. Brim peered into the fleecy clouds—any moment now. From the research center, he caught the overwhelmed wail of sirens. He grinned to himself. Too late for those, too!

Presently, the ships came arcing down among the distant clouds, growing rapidly as they steered directly for his bill. At the same time, the entire Universe dissolved in an unbelievable storm of raw, physical sound that physically throbbed against the massive fieldpieces and blasted the forest on either side of the cable right-of-way in a cloud of dead leaves. For a moment, the sky itself darkened, then the three big K-type Fleet destroyers glided overhead not more than two thousand irals high, their slipstreams whistling shrilly past bridges, deckhouses, and casemates as they came. Each hatch and housing on their undersides was visible as twelve long-barreled 200-mmi disruptors indexed smoothly downward, targeted on the research center.

An instant later, all discharged in crackling waves of blinding green plasma and incredible concussion.

Brim felt his hair stand on end. Trees glowed and sparked with globs of ball lightning—and the buried cable itself writhed burning from the ground in a traveling burst of soil and debris. Then a monstrous black cloud erupted over the hill with a vivid core of crimson and yellow flame as the three destroyers banked away to port into a gentle climbing turn, their disruptors returning to fore-and-aft parked position.

When the noise level dropped again, Brim could hear wild cheering from the A'zurnians. No one remained alive down there, and they knew it as well as he.

"Ships're calling for you, Lieutenant," Barbousse yelled, pointing to the COMM cabinet.

Brim ripped himself from his near trance and stepped into the control cabin. "Sublieutenant Wilf Brim here," he shouted.

"Commander Englyde Zantir here, Wilf," a voice boomed from among the flashing lights. "We're at your service as long as you need us. What else can we do to brighten your morning, Lieutenant?"

Brim stiffened. Englyde Zantir—everybody knew that name: dashing hero of a thousand hard-won battles. At his service. He was stunned. "Th-Thank you, sir," he stammered, then quickly recovered.

Hero worship could wait. "We need to find Colonel Hagbut's men, Commander," he continued. "They've been captured. If they're still in the area at all, they ought to be near their personnel carriers—six of them, I think. Last transmission came from nine thirteen point five by E9g."

"Personnel carriers," Zantir repeated thoughtfully. "Well, we'll have a look for them." In the distance, the rumble from the destroyers ceased to fade.

Brim looked toward the top of the hill, beyond which huge chunks of molten rock and debris were still falling through the towering column of smoke. "You people up to traveling some more this morning?" he called to the A'zurnians. "We need to move up the hill."

"Oh, we're all right, Lieutenant," a voice called out from the pitiful collection of rags and starved flesh.

"You Imperials worry about driving this thing, and we'll worry about hanging on."

"Yeah," another called out. "We've got a few scores to settle."

Brim nodded to Barbousse, the traction system roared, and the fieldpiece lumbered ahead. At the crest of the hill, Brim gasped first in astonishment, then in dumbfounded horror. Even the A'zurnians hushed with awe. Below, in the place where the research center once stood, all that now remained at the base of the towering smoke column was a glowing, bubbling crater perhaps two thousand irals wide and a hundred irals deep. Around this, a charred circle of smoldering, melted destruction extended outward another thousand irals. The blackened cable trench ran from the top of the bill and disappeared into the lurid incandescence below. He shook his head—a single salvo! So much for map locus 765jj .

It was the renewed A'zurnian cheering that brought him back to reality. The broken-winged shreds of once-flighted beings were now on their feet, clapping each other on the back and pointing toward the destruction like men possessed (which, in retrospect, he supposed they were).

He smiled grimly. Thus grew the seeds of Nergol Triannic's eventual downfall!

"Commander Zantir for you again, Lieutenant," Barbousse interrupted.

Brim nodded. The rumble of the destroyers was getting louder again.

"Believe we've found old Hagbut for you, Wilf," Zantir's voice chuckled from the COMM cabinet.

"Six armored personnel carriers—Imperial built. Is that right?"

"Yessir," Brim replied. "Six of them."

"Not far from you, then," Zantir said. "Two hills distant, near a quarry of some sort. Do you have a chart?"

"I've got one, Commander," Brim answered. "An A971FF."

"Good," replied Zantir. "Like mine—with the late research center at the top. Your hill is the next one down. Right?"

"Aye, sir."

"Two hills to the left of you is what looks like a stone quarry. See that?"

"I see it, Commander," Brim acknowledged.

"That's where they are, Wilf," Zantir said. "The six troop carriers are parked on the paved apron you see surrounding the pit. The whole thing's guarded by eight big Leaguer tanks of some kind—shouldn't be much of a problem for those fieldpieces you're in. They're pulled up close around the pit so they can aim at the prisoners."

"Thank you, sir," Brim replied as he studied the chart. No cableway connected him to the enemy position, but his BATTLE COMMs by now were adept at handling the big machines with rudder pedals alone, and the path to the quarry looked as if it were clear of obstructions for most of the way. "We still need your help, Commander," he added.

"Name it, Wilf," Zantir replied. "We've got more than nine metacycles to get you back to Prosperous."

"Aye, sir," Brim answered. "And what I need more than anything else right now is your noise."

"Our what?"

"Your noise, Commander," Brim repeated. "While you're orbiting the area, we can sneak up on anything, even riding these roaring monsters."

"Aha," Zantir exclaimed, laughing. "Good thinking, Wilf! Regula Collingswood said you were a bright lad, and she's seldom wrong. We'll be back in half a moment—at which time nobody will so much as hear himself think!"

Brim looked Out at the A'zurnians—no battle suits for them. No protection from anything—and in a very few cycles, a pitched battle was a distinct possibility. He slid the window open beside him, leaned out, and explained the situation in as few words as possible.

"What that means," he concluded, "is that we can leave you here in the safety of the forest or you can go with us. The choice is yours."

Not a moment of hesitation elapsed. They roared back in mass, "We go. We go against the League!"

In moments, A'zurnians on the other fieldpieces had also taken up the shout and turned it into a litany.

"We go. We go against the League! We go!" Then the stillness of the skies shattered once again as Zantir's destroyers returned.

The next cycles were the noisiest Brim could remember in his lifetime. Once he gave orders to move out, the three destroyers took up station around the quarry, circling at a constantly diminishing radius that brought one of them blasting low over Brim's galloping fieldpieces every fifteen cycles. Even in the protection of his battle helmet, the noise was absolutely deafening. He marveled that the A'zurnians could stand it out on the unsheltered flanks of the vehicle, but all were flapping their pitiful wing stumps excitedly and pointing ahead like children on a holiday outing.

The six bellowing, steam-spewing vehicles covered the distance to the quarry in what seemed to be no time at all. They were soon charging up the last hill toward a wide opening in the surrounding ring of dense forest. On either side of the opening, two huge—and incredibly old-looking—carved columns rose into the morning sky, each topped by the figure of a huge flighted warrior, wings outspread as if in gliding flight.

"Double up!" Brim yelled at the COMM cabinet, wondering if anyone on the receiving end could hear anything he said.

His answer came in moments when the second fieldpiece in line pulled abreast on his starboard side and thundered along in tandem with him, hostages grinning and laughing in the slipstream as they clung to the vehicle's bucketing deck. The convoy exploded between the two columns, scattering Leaguers left and right as they came. "Stand by," he yelled into the COMM cabinet. "Starboard column takes the starboard side of the pit, port takes port—and have your disruptors aimed at one of those tanks!" As they burst onto the apron, he saw a score of Leaguers sprinting for their tanks, but already they were much too late. The big fieldpiece careened wildly to port as Barbousse skidded out onto the apron, then again to starboard as they raced along the periphery of the pit. He watched the disruptor indexing smoothly this way and that as Fragonard compensated for Barbousse's wild maneuvering—but it was always aimed for one of the enemy tanks. The ordnance work done in the forest had not been wasted.

Then the traction engine bellowed in reverse while the big vehicle shuddered to a stop in a boiling cloud of steam.

As the other five fieldpieces skidded into place, Zantir's voice boomed from the COMM console.

"Looks as if that went well, Wilf."

"Aye, sir," Brim answered. "So far..."

"I shall put up into orbit above the atmosophere, then." Zantir said, his voice amplified above the roar of his generators. "You'll be able to negotiate with them a bit more easily if they can hear what you have to say—and we'll stick around to back you." The roaring boomed momentarily, then Brim watched the triangular shapes disappear into the clouds and suddenly the landscape was saturated with a delirious silence.

In the first tentative chirps from surrounding trees, Brim watched the stunned Leaguers begin to revive.

Beyond, at the quarry pit, the Imperial prisoners started to wave and cheer.

Beside him the ex-hostages only stared in deadly silence at their torturers. They sensed their time was near.

Abruptly, the Carescrian was galvanized into action. "Fire up the outside amplifiers," he whispered, thinking furiously. "I have a game to play with these bastards—and I learned the rules from a man named Valentin."

The amplifiers clicked on and hummed. Brim watched the dazed Leaguers freeze in place and warily turn toward his fieldpiece, waiting. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught the turret of one of the enemy tanks as it surreptitiously began to creep around from its bearing on the prisoners. Squelching the amplifier input, he hit the turret interCOMM. "Take that tank out, Fragonard," he ordered calmly.

"Between those two piles of rocks—right now."

"No problem, Lieutenant," the ordnance man said, "now that I've got these honkers calibrated." The stubby disruptor overhead moved smoothly to the left, dropped rapidly, then thundered, rocking the massive chassis back on its gravity cushion. Opposite, the League tank disappeared in a neat cloud of blackish flame, ragged chunks of debris wobbling over the trees and out of sight. The too-clean stench of ozone filled the air, but not a stone was disturbed on either side of the void where the tank had been.

"Nice," Brim commented.

"All in the setup, Lieutenant," Fragonard said modestly.

Nearby, a Leaguer in a black suit had begun to emerge from one of the tanks. He stopped to peer at the empty space, turned for one quick glance at the glowing disruptor on Brim's fieldpiece, then disappeared again into the hatch.

Brim lifted the squelch from the amplifiers. "Surrender, or we blast you all to atoms," he broadcast in Vertrucht. "As you can see, we've learned a thing or two about your cannon."

Silence.

"Four archestrals remain for your answer, fools," he said. "Then we destroy you." That gave them two full cycles to make up their minds.

An amplifier clicked on at the black-suited Leaguer's tank. "Another shot from those fieldpieces, and we kill our prisoners, Imperial fool," a metallic voice warned.

"So?" Brim inquired imperiously.

Surprised silence ensued. "Well...ah...you know," the metallic voice said lamely. "We kill all these Imperial prisoners we have captured. Including your Colonel Hagbut. Make no mistake, Imperial. We mean what we say!"

"Of course you do," Brim said laconically. "But that really doesn't have much effect on me—or my mission."

"What do you mean?"

"Listen, hab'thall," Brim chuckled into the amplifier, "my orders say to bring back the six personnel carriers you've got parked on the apron—they're expensive. We can get soldiers anywhere, and of course we've got to shoot old Hagbut anyway for getting himself captured." He looked at his timepiece.

"You've got two archestrals left."

More silence. Finally, the voice came again from the tank. "You say you can replace the soldiers anywhere?"

"Well, of course, fool—just like you," Brim answered. He knew he had them now. "You kill those prisoners and we bring the personnel carriers back empty—with you dead, of course. Otherwise..."

"O-Otherwise?"

"Well, you certainly must know that," Brim answered. "Otherwise, we blow up your tanks without you in them. Either way, we get what we came for, understand?"

"Yes...I ah, understand."

"I was pretty sure you would," Brim said. "All right. Time's up. What'll it be? We have a busy day ahead of us." Above his head, he watched the big disruptor index toward the next enemy tank. "Ready..."

he broadcast. "Aim...!" The other disruptors indexed slightly.

"We capitulate! Don't shoot!" the metallic voice screeched, this time in broken Imperial Avalonian.

"We capitulate!"

Suddenly, the A'zurnians and the Imperial prisoners in the pit erupted into wild cheering. Brim took a deep breath, hoped his voice wasn't shaking too noticeably, then spoke again into the amplifier. "Very well," he broadcast. "Then I want those tanks of yours emptied immediately. Everybody out. Weapons on the ground in front of you. I'm sending the A'zurnians to make sure none of you retain any surprises."

He watched the cheering ex-hostages pile off the fieldpieces and hobble toward the tanks—all of which were soon open, crews standing forlornly before them, weapons in the hands of their former A'zurnian captives. Brim silently wondered bow many of the Leaguers would be alive by the time the sun set. The lucky ones, he concluded, would not be among them.

"And I've given the personnel carriers to the A'zurnian underground as well, Colonel Hagbut," Brim explained. "They'll take them over immediately with the Leaguer tanks, then send crews with us on the run to Magalla'ana so they can drive these fieldpieces back when we ship out." Two ragged A'zurnians stood quietly at the rear of the control cabin.

Hagbut's eyes narrowed for a moment—Brim could almost swear he heard clockwork clattering nearby, then the man's face broke into a wide grin. He put a fatherly arm around Brim's shoulders and thumped him on the back. "You make me PROUD of you, boy," he roared. "I KNEW you had it in you when I put you in charge. I shall write a favorable memorandum on your behalf."

Brim felt his eyebrows raise—along with his hackles a half-stifled snort issued from Barbousse at the COMM cabinet.

"I shall tell my high command that the success of the mission is actually a tribute to the fine training I received at old Darkhurst Academy," Hagbut continued, striking a heroic pose.

He turned to address the A'zurnians. "This accomplishment, gentlemen, is merely the latest in the unbroken series of military victories which mark my career." He indicated Brim with his free hand—as if the Carescrian were his personal prodigy. "I provided this talented young man with the proper equipment for his task, instructed him as to mission parameters, then COMMANDED him until I could no longer physically command. Once properly instructed and equipped, he merely followed my lead to insure the success of the mission." He turned again to Brim. "Yes, young man," he said, "I shall write, a highly favorable memorandum concerning your part in this successful operation. YOU FOLLOW ORDERS WELL!"

"Four-metacycle departure warning from Prosperous, Lieutenant Brim," Barbousse interrupted in a choked voice.

Brim winked at the big rating, then turned to Hagbut. "Perhaps we should consider starting out for Magalla'ana, Colonel," he suggested. "Took us a bit more than three metacycles to drive here in the first place, and we left a real mess to negotiate at the end of that high suspension bridge."

They both stopped to watch the BATTLE COMMs hoisting a Fleet battle pennant to the top of the KA'PPA tower where it fluttered lazily just below the transmitter—more magic courtesy of Barbousse.

Hagbut nodded his head and glared out of the corner of his eye. Then he took a deep breath. "All right," he conceded. "Lieutenant Brim, you may broadcast orders for my men to mount the fieldpieces immediately."

They only just made it. When Brim's steam-breathing fieldpieces charged into the pickup zone with battle flags flying, they became the last vehicles to return at all. The whole area was littered with abandoned equipment, most of it showing clear evidence that other segments of the raid also met with serious opposition. Only one large shuttle remained idling in the center of the lift-off area, crewmen at both hatches beckoning frantically with their arms.

"I think they want us to hurry," Barbousse said as be braked the big machine to a halt.

"So do I," Brim agreed. "If that League fleet is still on schedule, Anak and his battlecruisers can't be too far away anymore." He switched on the amplifiers. "End of the line, gentlemen," he announced to Hagbut's soldiers. "Everyone into the shuttle over there—on the double!" Instantly; the men began clambering to the ground. Hagbut was out of the control cab before Brim had even stopped speaking and led the sprint across the field. "Don't stop for anything," the Carescrian added, chuckling—then he turned to the pair of gaunt A'zurnians who would take his fieldpiece back into the hills.

One wore the battered tricornered hat of a highly placed A'zurnian nobleman, the other was totally bald with a huge red welt from his prominent nose to his right ear. Both were filthy and disheveled. Their wings had been cruelly snapped from their backs, ripped away, leaving long, ragged blades that moved slowly—and uselessly—while they talked. Except for a few facial differences, they were alike as twins, he thought with a twinge of pity. But then, emaciated people all tended to look alike. He had discovered that long ago in Carescria sunken cheeks, joints swollen, dressed in tattered rags that hung in shreds from their bony frames. Yet in these hollow eyes burned sparks of hope and deep bitter anger. These wrathful men would soon make implacable enemies for the conquerors of A'zurn. No fear of death remained among them. Each long ago relinquished all hope for his life.

Barbousse had just finished reviewing the controls one last time. "Any more questions, gentlemen?" the big rating asked with a grin. "We want to be sure you put these mechanical brutes to the best use possible."

"Thanks to your patient instruction, we have none," said the one with the tricornered hat. "My colleague and I will master the machine with practice."

"At one time," the second one croaked, holding up a spindly forefinger, "we were masters of many machines. Fine machines...."

"But few weapons among them," the other said with surprising vehemence. "When we have scourged Triannic's plague from our homeland, we shall never again neglect that part of—our responsibilities."

"Nor forget a brave Imperial lieutenant named Wilf Brim—to whom we credit all success of the mission," the scarred one added. "Someday," he said, "when a new generation of A'zurnians have regained our heritage of flight, we shall properly thank both you and Starman Barbousse. Meanwhile, there are ways to appropriately express our appreciation in a more current time frame."

Brim smiled with embarrassment, fighting a lump in his throat. "Just keep on fighting," he interrupted.

"Live and win! That's thanks enough for any of us." Then he saluted the two gaunt warriors before they could continue, and followed Barbousse down the ladder. "Good-bye and good hunting," he shouted as his feet hit the grass. An instant, after he cleared the hull, the traction engine roared and the fieldpiece lumbered off after the others toward the protection of the low hills that formed the lower boundary of the city. In the control cabin, the man with the tricornered hat was saluting him through the armored glass.

Respectfully, he returned the salute, then turned and sprinted desperately after Barbousse for the shuttle—which was half buttoned up and clearly ready to lift. Only the aft hatch was still open, with a gaggle of BATTLE COMMs crowding up the ladder.

"COME ON, you worthless Fleet types," Hagbut yelled from the opening. "Anak's ahead of schedule.

GET A MOVE ON IT!"

Running for all he was worth, Brim glanced over his shoulder— nobody was there. He and Barbousse were the last off A'zurn! Somehow he found strength to run even faster.

The shuttle was already moving forward when he followed Barbousse onto the ladder, shaking with exertion. It was climbing vertically when the big rating dragged him by his arms through the opening, panting desperately.

The next days became a confused melange of wailing sirens and sprinting crew members—beginning with a full-emergency takeoff when Prosperous' powerful Drive crystals shook her massive hull like a storm-driven leaf. Every few metacycles, alarms clattered in the liner's bridge as sensitive detectors picked up long-range locator probes from the enemy battlecruisers—but the return signals were evidently too weak to betray the Imperials' location, and after a time the probing came less frequently, finally ceasing altogether On the morning of the third day.

Raid Prosperous was over.

During the return to Gimmas Haefdon, two personal messages from widely separated sources caught Brim's attention immediately. The first, from Effer'wyck/Gimmas, had been sent only metacycles after his release of the A'zurnian hostages. It contained the following lines penned—he assumed—by Margot herself. "Wilf the Helmsman flies faster than Fate: Wilf is he who rides early and late,/Wilf storms at your ivory gates: Pale king of the Dark Leagues, Beware!" Her short message ended with the cryptic sentences: "Today, Wilf, I begin to earn my own way in this awful war. Think of me." This time, it was signed simply "Margot."

Brim wasted little time puzzling over the words during his return flight—he was relishing plans for discovering their real meaning (among other things) in person. Instead, he sent a short note of thanks, signed only "WiIf," then settled back to dream of his next rendezvous at the Mermaid Tavern.

The second message, from Borodov/Gimmas @ Lo'Sodeskaya/983F6.735, contained another cross-reference to the Journal of the Imperial Fleet. This article was much nearer the front of the file and started:

Gimmas Haefdon (Eorean Blockading Forces) 228/

51995: Sublieutenant Wilf Brim from I.F.S. Truculent

played a decisive role in the recent A'zurn raid. Leading 25 men and eight captured mobile cannon under

the command of Colonel (the Hon.) Gastudgon Z.

Hagbut, X ce , N.B.C....

The usual debriefing followed Prosperous' planetfall on Gimmas Haefdon—this time conducted by a dried-out commander who may well have been as skilled in his profession as Margot Effer'wyck, but infinitely less pleasant to Brim. It seemed as if the cycles crawled by before he returned to Truc ulent—and the base COMM system.

He called up her code the moment he finally returned to his cabin, but found to his dismay that Margot was "temporarily reassigned and unavailable for personal contact." Emergency messages, he read, could be directed to her usual address—so long as the sender harbored no illusions concerning time of delivery.

And no date was set for her return.

With a grim sense of foreboding, he now began to seriously question what she might have meant by earning her own way in the war. But his subsequent efforts to learn anything resulted in dismal failure—everywhere he tried. Personal inquiries wee turned away at the Technology Assessment Office by low-level clerks, and his own clearance was insufficient to gain him audience with anyone who might have access to further information. It was as if she had disappeared from the Universe.

So he sent a number of messages to Effer'wyck/Gimmas—all remained unanswered—and he finished the remainder of Truculent's refit amid varying shades of gloom to match the weather outside. Not even the obstreperous return of the Bears from Lo'Sodeskaya really helped, though a sudden increase in his meem intake considerably dulled the worst pangs of loneliness.

A brief ceremony celebrated Barbousse's promotion to Leading Torpedoman, then a few standard days later, Truculent's lengthy refit was complete. Two weeks of space trials proved out her new systems, and Gimmas Haefdon's perpetual storms once again ebbed to insignificance in the aft Hyperscreens. Collingswood wisely saw to it that Brim's responsibiity—and metacycles at the helm—were greatly increased during this, his second tour on blockade. And with this extra duty, the image of Margot Effer'wyck once more began to fade from his mind's eye. In time, her memory became bearable once more—but only just. Clearly, her "reset" had been much more successful than his.

CHAPTER 7

Partway into an endless early morning watch, Brim and Theada attended Truculent's helm while most of the crew snatched a few cycles' badly needed rest below. In the nearly deserted bridge, only occasional warning chimes and snatches of disjointed, conversation disturbed the muted rumble of the generators. Off to port, a bleak asteroid shoal crawled diagonally astern beneath the bows as though the destroyer were skirting the surface of some infinitely large inclined plane.

"Good morning, friend Wilf," Ursis said cheerfully, materializing in a display globe. "What gradient have we outside?"

"Morning, Nik," Brim said, peering at his readouts. "Looks like it's shifted a bit, now that you ask."

"So," Ursis mumbled, entering data via an overhead console.

"Let her fall off a few points to starboard nadir, Mr. Chairman," Brim ordered. The steering engine sounded for a moment, and the stars shifted slightly in his forward Hyperscreens.

"Course nine ninety-one, orange," the Chairman reported.

"Very well," he acknowledged, studying Truculent's decks the glow of a smoky dwarf blazing overhead. He swung his recliner aft, scanning the trunk of the KA'PPA mast and twin globes of the directors. Farther back, he cursorily checked the scorched cowling of their torpedo launcher flanked by the hemispheres of W and Z turrets. All appeared in trim—as usual. He had just reached above his head to start a suite of power-system checks when a shadow fell across the main console. He looked up to find Gallsworthy leaning over Theada's recliner.

"Take a break, son," the senior Helmsman muttered, indicating the bridge exit with his thumb. "I'll keep the seat warm while you're gone."

"But, Lieutenant," Theada protested, "I just had a..."

"You look tired, Theada," Gallsworthy said. "Tired."

"Oh. I, ah, see, Lieutenant," Theada agreed, fairly jumping out of the recliner.

Gallsworthy nodded. "Give us about ten cycles," he said.

"Aye, sir," Theada said, squeezing his way into the main bridge corridor.

Gallsworthy thumped into the recliner and frowned, drumming his fingers on the console. "I guess I'm a messenger today," he said, glowering at Brim. "Collingswood's asked me to pass on a bit of information she doesn't really want to talk about."

Brim nodded, trying to appear indifferent—but inside he was all curiosity. Collingswood normally needed no intermediaries. She said what she wanted—when she wanted. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

"She's got herself dunned with another xaxtdamned Admiralty detail," Gallsworthy explained. "Has to 'volunteer' some of the crew. Only..." He pursed his lips and drummed his fingers again as if he were having trouble with the words. "Only," he repeated, "she got a few extra parameters with this order.

Nobody's supposed to know about 'em. But you're a special case, in her eyes." He scratched his head for a moment, then nodded as if reaching some internal accord. "I guess I agree with her," he said with a frown, "for whatever that's worth, Carescrian."

Brim's curiosity was really piqued now. Senior Helmsmen never shared personal opinions with people who reported to them. He waited. Gallsworthy would get it all out in his own good time.

"What it boils down to," the man continued at some length, "is that you, your friend Ursis, Theada, Barbousse, and a couple of ratings are going to form a temporary team—Regula will brief you in a couple of cycles about it. And she's put Amherst in charge of the whole thing."

Brim nodded within. So that bothered her! He calmly scanned the instruments, waiting.

"She wanted you to know," Gallsworthy said presently, "that she didn't make the Amherst assignment by choice. That part came in a personal note from Amherst's father—you've heard of Rear Admiral Amherst, I'm sure."

Brim nodded sourly. He'd heard, all right. According to Borodov, the Admiral was among the loudest and most vocal opponents to passage of Lord Wyrood's Admiralty Reform Act. It certainly showed in his son.

"The old boy decided Puvis needed a bit more exposure in the media. Maybe a couple of medals to help the next promotion." He chuckled gruffly—and uncharacteristically. "Probably you had something to do with that, punk, what with those articles you got in the Journal. So whatever happens, figure it's your own fault, one way or another."

"I'll try to remember that, sir," Brim said, more than a little relieved it wasn't something worse. Life as an everyday Carescrian was still fresh enough in his mind that he could put up with quite a bit of harassment.

"Thank Collingswood sometime. I'm just the messenger," Gallsworthy said. "And, yeah, there's one more thing."

"Sir?"

Gallsworthy nodded his head, indicating the systems console farther back in the bridge. "You have the job of telling Ursis. He's not going to like this at all."

Within the metacycle, all four officers sat awkwardly together in Collingswood's cramped cabin—Ursis' bulk crowded in a center position. The Captain (dressed, as usual, in her worn sweater) was explaining what little she knew about the mission. "The Admiralty wouldn't give me much detail. Not even where you are going. Just that it involves a very small starship—some sort of scout, I imagine. That and a mercifully—for me—short duration: three weeks maximum, they say." Her eyes looked at Brim with a twinkle of humor. "These little side trips are getting to be a habit with you, Wilf," she said.

"Aye, Captain," Brim agreed with a grin.

"At any rate," she continued, "the requirement is for four officers: a leader, two Helmsmen, and an engineer. That ought to tell you where each of you fit. Plus a torpedoman and a crew of six general-purpose ratings. I'll be sending Barbousse to run that lot for you."

"Barbousse," Amherst gasped with raised eyebrows. "Why, he's only just been promoted to that rank. Besides which, the big lout has absolutely nothing between his oversized ears. Er, Captain."

Collingswood's eyes narrowed. "I believe," she said patiently, "Barbousse will serve quite admirably.

His records indicate a number of assignments within that duty category."

Amherst sniffed, glancing first at Brim, then at Ursis. "Bloody lowbrow crew, if you ask me," he grumped peevishly.

Brim glanced at Ursis. The Bear scowled.

"That will be sufficient, Lieutenant," Collingswood warned Amherst. "You will carry out the assignment as ordered, whatever your personal feelings. Is that understood?" Her quiet voice had suddenly turned to hullmetal.

"Yes, Captain," Amherst agreed hurriedly. "I, ah, understand."

"Good," Collingswood said. "Because I am also permitting the mission to proceed while harboring some rather serious reservations of my own."

"Well!" Amherst started, then clearly thought better of it and abruptly shut his mouth.

Collingswood closed her eyes and tapped her toe. "Since I have little more information to impart," she said stiffly, "I declare this meeting at an end. We rendezvous with your pickup ship in approximately two metacycles—it will, I am assured, take you to your mysterious destination. Good luck to all," she said in a clear sign of dismissal. "I am sure I do not have to remind any of you that I expect performance that reflects favorably on the Imperial Fleet and on Truculent." Then, abruptly, she busied herself at a console.

"We shall do all in our power, Captain," Amherst muttered stiffly, leading the way from her cabin Brim followed Ursis and shut the door quietly behind him.

"Try to report to the transport hatch on time, you three," the First Lieutenant said. "I shall leave it to your judgment who should be responsible for notifying Barbousse." Then he burned self-importantly down the ladder and disappeared into the next level below.

Brim looked at Theada and smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "It won't be all that bad. Besides, Amherst has no objections to your pedigree at all." He patted the younger Helmsman on the back. "Go down and pack for a three-week trip; we'll meet you at the hatch. All right? If we all stick together, everything will come out all right. You'll see."

Theada nodded his head and smiled bravely. "I guess," he said uncertainly. Then with a grimace he followed Amherst down the ladder.

Brim stood and shook his head and looked at Ursis. "Wonderful," he said with a wry grin. "Just thraggling wonderful."

The Bear frowned. "Perhaps, Wilf Ansor, it is not as bad as it seems, especially in light of the, shall we say, 'special' information Captain Collingswood has provided."

"How can that be, Nik?" Wilf asked. "We both know what he's like when he's got the wind up."

"Just so," Ursis growled quietly. "And because of it, I for one will never unthinkingly follow an order from him again. Nor, I suspect, will you."

Brim nodded. "You're right, Nik," he said. "Never again."

"Therefore," Ursis pronounced, holding his hands at his chest, palms inward, "we may be the only team that can operate successfully, given the circumstances." He narrowed his eyes and looked Brim directly in the face; "Others might well hesitate to cross him—as I hesitated. And with the same disastrous results."

"I was as guilty of that as you," Brim interrupted.

"'Guilt' is a word that looks only toward the past," Ursis observed with a smile. "One of the most useful truisms from my homeland. This duty is in the present—and future. No?"

"It is."

"Then Lady Fate has smiled once more on the tired old Empire," Ursis said. "Let us notify our large compatriot, Barbousse, and prepare for whatever the Lady has in store."

Shortly after midwatch, the "volunteers" gathered at Truculent's main hatch in time to view their rendezvous. Directly on schedule, a light cruiser swooped up out of the blackness and pulled smartly abreast. "Brand new," Ursis observed. "One of the new Nimrons, from her silhouette."

"I.F.S. Narcastle," Brim read, squinting through the Hyperscreens.

"That one's just finished fitting out," Theada said. "They must have called her in from her space trials."

Outside, brows connected with a muffled series of clangs. Only moments later, air hissed into the passage and a mooring crew unsealed the main hatch.

"Look lively," Amherst whispered impatiently. "I shall brook no slackers while I am in command."

Motioning the others to hurry, he shoved Barbousse roughly toward the transparent tube. Brim frowned.

Something was definitely bothering the First Lieutenant. He briefly wondered what it was as he followed the Torpedoman into the hatch.

On his way through the tube, he got a good look at the new starship. She was shaped like an oversized lance and appeared twice the length of Truculent's angular hull. Like all Nimrons, she was specially built for high-speed reconnaissance work—supporting battle-fleet operations in deep space.

Accordingly, she was also lightly armed for her size, carrying only six small turrets on rings about a third of the way from bow and stern. A scant superstructure was topped by a sharply raked control bridge, and six hefty Drive plumes merged from oversized blast tubes exiting just behind her aft turret ring.

Inside, she smelled every bit as new as she was. Ozone, sealant, hot metal: all the familiar detritus of a starship—except the smells of life. Those latter took time to accumulate. And she certainly was called in from her space trials. She was filled with civilians everywhere he looked. Even the tube operators were dressed in the distinctive silver and green space suits of the big commercial shipyard at Trax.

The team was met at the opposite air lock by a tight-faced lieutenant commander with a large red mustache and narrow-set eyes, who regarded them as if they were some special brand of nuisance. "This way, gentlemen," he directed unceremoniously, directing the way down a narrow companionway to a large cabin clearly intended to house portions of a permanent crew. "I shall have to ask all of you to stay here for the remainder of the trip," he said. "Someone doesn't want you mingling with any of the trials crew we've got on board—too many civilians and all that sort, you know."

"By whose authority, Commander?" Amherst protested peevishly.

"Mine will do as well as any, Lieutenant," the officer said pointing to the lieutenant commander's insignia on his left shoulder. "And besides," he added as he slid the door shut in front of Amherst's face, "I'm not authorized to talk to any of you, either."

Brim shrugged and looked at Barbousse, who was standing politely with his five ratings. "What do you know about this?" he asked out of the side of his mouth. "You always have advance word on what's going on."

Barbousse chuckled quietly. "Aye, sir," he admitted. "That I usually do—but not this time. It's caught me as much by surprise as you."

Moments later, the steady rumble of the cruiser's Drive increased to a deep thunder, and Brim watched through a small Hyperscreen scuttle as the familiar shape of Truculent dwindled rapidly in the distance. Ursis cocked a furry ear for a moment, then frowned "The flight crew is certainly in a hurry to go somewhere," he said. "Drive crystals are wide open, from the sound of things." He settled into a recliner, crossed his legs, and folded his hands across his chest.

"Just what do you think you are doing, Lieutenant?" Amherst demanded angrily.

"Relaxing, Lieutenant Amherst," the Bear said as he shut his eyes. "Until someone lets us out of this cabin, it seems to be the most intelligent thing we can accomplish." Brim and Theada spent a few moments in desultory exploration of what little there was to see in the room, but eventually thumped into recliners beside him. Barbousse and the other ratings followed suit.

Amherst looked annoyed, but clearly had no acceptable rejoinder to any of them. "Oh, very well," he said lamely. "I shall, ah, notify you what is expected next."

"I look forward to that," Ursis grunted quietly. In a few moments more, he was snoring.