Little less than a metacycle
later, Brim stood with Moulding at the ready line beside a stubby
little T-29G, one of the later models, if he remembered correctly.
Barely sixty-four irals in length, it was equipped with a powerful
R-182O-86 spin-graviton generator that provided astonishing acceleration.
But with no Drive-crystal system, it was limited to Hypospeed
velocities. He had just finished an external walkaround; as he
expected, it was in excellent repair as it bobbed in the light
breeze above a portable gravity pad. A small puddle of coolant
had dripped from the SpinGrav overnight, but as Brim well knew,
when no coolant was leaking from an R-1820, there was probably
none in the cooling chambers and some had better be added immediately.
He stood in his borrowed space suit and felt a warm breeze from
the bay on his face. He could hear the rumble of gravs bellowing
from the run-up area and the other noises that came from a busy
spaceport. A thrill teased his spine--nothing else in the Universe
could match this. Spaceflight--the stars! He took a deep breath.
It didn't matter who owned the space suit--he belonged here.
"Professional preflight job," Moulding observed, breaking
into Brim's daydream. "The ship meets your approval, does
she?" he added, while he brushed a stray wisp of yellow hair
from his eyes.
Brim laughed. "Yeah," he said, unable to stifle a grin
of pleasure. "I wish Brother Townsend would hurry. It's been
a while since I had my hands on a set of controls where everything
works."
"Hmm," Moulding mused. "Yes, well, look here. That
chap's been known to be quite late at times." He rubbed
his chin, then thumped the little spacecraft's hull affectionately
with his fist. "Tell you what," he said. "I can
certainly take responsibility for letting you into the cockpit.
Why don't you just pull the boarding ladder up and get started
with a systems check." Then he grinned roguishly. "Perhaps,"
he added, "if Townsend doesn't show up, I'll throw on some
space togs, and you can take me up for a spin."
Brim made a mock salute. "Sounds like a plan to me,"
he said, extending the little ship's boarding ladder. In short
order, he unlocked the front canopy, pushed it aside, then settled
into the snug front cockpit, virtually surrounded on three sides
by an array of readouts and controls that had been familiar since
his days in The Academy. He shut his eyes while the odors of the
ship transported him to another life. Plastic, lubricating oils,
logics and sealants-all intermixed with the spicy odors of organic
insulating compounds. And polish: military vehicles always
reeked of polish, no matter what their function. This T-29 was
no exception.
For the next few cycles, Brim busied himself checking circuit
breakers, valves, and switches. Then he preset the readout panels
and peered out into the parking area-still no Townsend. He checked
the energy choke: fully closed. Inverters: off. Next he punched
all the circuit breakers in. Finally, he stood on the seat and
again peered off toward the locker room, shading his eyes from
Hador's glare. Townsend was still nowhere in sight. Shrugging,
he slid into the seat again, and held his hand in the air. "Spinning
up," he called down to Moulding.
Moulding quickly stepped back from the gravity pad. "Right
ho, old chap!" he exclaimed. "Go to it!"
Brim switched on the spin-grav master, slid the power switch forward
to ACTIVATE while he counted three clicks, then returned it to
ENERGY ON and watched the grav panel display ENERGIZED. With the
plasma thus set, he advanced the thrust control halfway off between
OFF and MINIMUM, then hit both RUN and ENERGY BOOST in unison;
the R-1820 whined and began to spin. He glanced at the interrupter.
It began strobing almost immediately-an excellent ship, he considered,
while a mindless grin of delight spread across his face.
Eight strobes...nine strobes...ten. Brim mashed START and the
spin grav fired thunderously, shaking the little ship's spaceframe
with a jarring rhythm while he fed in delicate thrust-control
and plasma-form motions to take the machine from a few random
zaps to a point where all eighteen ion chambers were sparking
on cue. Moments later, the interrupter steadied and the noise
and throbbing died to a velvety purr. "Look's like she wants
to fly," he shouted.
"I do, too!" Moulding shouted back. "I shall be
back before you finish your preflight checklist." He started
for the center at a run, but never got much past the gravity pad
before Townsend pulled up in an open skimmer, his flabby face
red with anger.
"Who said you could start that ship?" he shouted at
Brim. "Who even gave you permission to board? Xaxtdamned
Carescrian imbecile-I'll teach you to..."
Moulding grabbed the man's arm before he could reach the boarding
ladder. He was smaller than Townsend, but the look in his eyes
brooked no nonsense. "I gave him permission," he growled.
Townsend stopped abruptly, then took a step back. "Oh,"
he said, looking down at Moulding's hand. "I see."
"That's a good chap," Moulding said, releasing his grip
with deliberate slowness. But the steely look in his eyes remained.
"I'm counting on you to provide Mister Brim with an impartial
check ride, old boy. Don't let me down."
Townsend rubbed his forearm and scowled. "Oh, he'll get a
ride, Moulding. One he won't forget."
"That may well be so," Moulding agreed, then glanced
up and met Brim's eyes for a moment. He winked, then looked back
at Townsend with a little smile on his face. "But then,"
he added, "unless I miss my guess, Townsend, so will you."
Within fifteen cycles, Brim had completed the ship's preflight
checks, while Townsend silently haunted the rear cockpit like
a wraith. As whining electric motors drew the canopy shut, he
could see that Moulding had taken up a position off the starboard
forequarter, and was standing with his hands behind his back,
cape blowing in the breeze. "Ship's ready for internal gravity,
Commander," he reported on the intercom.
"Well, switch it, then. Don't tell me about it," Townsend
sniffed. "After that, you may taxi out to the takeoff area.
I've filed a flight plan. And be careful, mind you. These are
touchy ships."
"Aye, Commander," Brim said between clenched teeth.
He pulled on his helmet, then called the tower for clearance and
switched to internal gravity. While the little ship lifted from
the gravity pad and hovered on its own, he endured a brief moment
of nausea that tied his stomach in knots. Finally, he got his
clearance, locked the steering engine into taxi mode, and slid
the thrust control into run-up position. At his wave, a Crew Chief
dressed in bright yellow coveralls shut off the optical moorings,
and the T-29 moved off the gravity pad. Moulding grinned as they
taxied past and held his thumb up in the universal sign of good
luck.
"You'll need it, Carescrian," Townsend laughed archly
over the intercom.
Brim kept his silence. While the spacecraft moved out, he made
a final panel check and selected the STABILITY AUGMENTATION function
on the navigation board. Within a few clicks, a white star illuminated
on the mode selector, indicating that the ship had located and
was tracking at least three stars in its preprogrammed catalog.
If Townsend were as sloppy a Helmsman as promised to be, the system
might save both their lives. At the run-up area beside the bay,
he waited for takeoff clearance while he spun the R-1820 through
military power and completed his takeoff checkout list. Then he
taxied out over the water to the departure vector. Ahead, a solid
ruby light flashed out of the bright distance. "Your ship,"
he announced to Townsend. Somehow, in the last few cycles, the
morning had become a lot better, in spite of the blockhead riding
aft.
Townsend advanced the energy choke to military power but held
in place for a few moments to let the plasma build. Then he released
the gravity brakes and the T-29 began to dash across the water,
gaining speed with each moment.
After about fourteen clicks, Brim began to frown. They had plenty
of takeoff velocity now-why weren't they lifting? He checked the
readouts as their speed increased. Everything looked normal. Glancing
at the flight systems panel, he started to scan for a malfunction
when suddenly Townsend pitched the nose up violently and the little
ship began to climb like the old-fashioned chemical rockets he'd
seen in school. A split click later, the T-29 started to roll
around its forward axis as if it were drilling a hole in the sky.
Biting his lip, Brim grabbed the seat on either side of him to
keep his hands from the controls.
Soon they were nearly fifty thousand irals up, but the rolling
climb continued unabated. Was the ship malfunctioning or was Townsend
merely showing off? Brim decided to wait things out for another
few clicks and braced himself for anything that might transpire.
An instant later, the T-29 whipped around in a wild yaw and headed
back toward the surface. But an abrupt decrease in power told
Brim all he needed to know about their wild maneuvering. Townsend
was still in control, and whatever game the arrogant numskull
was trying to play, it was clear he actually thought that he could
frighten a combat Helmsman by a little stunt flying. Taking a
deep breath, Brim settled back in his recliner, relaxing while
the little ship's spaceframe creaked and groaned under the violent
maneuvers. With the Stability Augmentation system in backup control,
there wasn't much even a total incompetent could do to get them
into trouble. But truth to tell, Brim already had endured enough
Townsends to fill a cesspool. Now he was simply waiting. This
match had two periods, and the second was his.
His turn came after a purposely-crabbed landing that almost cost
them a surface loop; Brim could feel Townsend desperately fighting
the controls for half the landing vector. When presently they
coasted to a hovering stop just off the surface of the water,
Brim almost felt honored. The simpleton had tried so hard to frighten
him that he'd almost caused a crash.
"Your ship," Townsend announced disdainfully. But his
voice had a slight edge. He knew how close he'd come.
"Very well," Brim acknowledged in a calm voice. He took
his time running a number of checkout routines, then accelerated
into a normal takeoff run and gently lifted ship, climbing slowly
while he tested himself. It was, after all, months since he'd
been at any controls. By the time they'd climbed through thirty
thousand irals, however, he knew all he needed about himself and
the ship. He was satisfied. Then he waited. What occurred next
was entirely up to Townsend.
"Well, come on, Brim," the man taunted presently. "Anybody
can take off and climb." He laughed cynically. "You
must have convinced somebody you know how to fly. But so far,
all you've shown me is that you're a typical Carescrian phony.
Let's see something exciting if you fancy a job flying for the
Fleet again."
"You're sure that's what you want?" Brim asked.
"I am not in the habit of wasting words on lowlife trash
like you," Townsend growled. "Now either show me some
flying, or I shall take us back to the base immediately. Unlike
you, I have important things in my life."
"I see," Brim said through clenched teeth. "As
you wish." Quietly, he shut off all external COMM, then punched
four circuit breakers controlling the little ship's Stability
Augmentation system. For the maneuvers he had planned, it would
just be in the way.
"Hey, jerk," Townsend complained promptly, "you
just shut down the SAS-you want to get us both killed?"
"Perhaps I do," Brim said quietly into the intercom.
"Are you ready to die?" At that, he rolled the ship
inverted and shut off the spin grav. The T-29 began to fall like
a rock.
"Xorked Universe!" Townsend swore in a panicked voice.
"What are you doing, zukeed?"
"Locking you out of the control system, for one thing,"
Brim answered, punching more circuit breakers. "-and your
escape mechanism," he added. "You said you wanted some
excitement-well, by Voot's beard, that is precisely what you are
about to get." While he spoke, the still-inverted ship was
dropping like a meteor, with less than a thousand irals to go.
Townsend had begun to scream incoherently and pound on the canopy
with his fists when Brim at last fired off the spin grav at no
more than thirty irals altitude and then began to streak along
the surface toward the Fleet base, still upside down. In moments,
he sped over the beach (coating his windshield with spray!), cleared
the run-up area at no more than twenty irals, then zoomed through
an outside loop that ended, inverted again, at precisely the same
twenty irals of altitude. Clicks later, Brim rolled the ship right
side up and continued inland at high speed toward Atalanta's City
Mount Hill, dodging hangars and trees with the fluid control inputs
he'd used as a youth, racing ore barges through the perilous ore
shoals off Carescria. After a few moments' play, however,
he cranked the ship into a tight turn, then laid it on its side
while he flew through one of the narrow stone arches supporting
Harbor Causeway, this time to the sounds of Townsend vomiting
in his helmet. It hadn't taken long at all. Too bad, he thought.
Already, it was time to go home.
Soaring out over the base again in a gentle turn, he activated
the external COMM and called for landing clearance. As he expected,
he got it quickly; he'd just broken every rule in the book! He
laughed. This would certainly be his last time piloting any kind
of a government spacecraft. For just a moment, he felt a pang
of regret for the trouble he knew he had just caused Claudia.
Then he put her out of his mind. It wasn't he who had asked for
today's little jaunt around the base; therefore, she would just
have to understand.
Finally, with Townsend still spluttering in the backseat, Brim
caught the winking ruby flash of a landing vector, cut power to
his spin grav once more, and made landfall dead-stick, bringing
the ship to an effortless hover on its own gravity in a few easy
hull lengths. "Your ship," he said, as they bobbed gently
above the swells.
Silence.
"Well?"
After a long while, Townsend's voice came weakly over the intercom.
"I can't d-do it, you bastard," he groaned weakly, "too
s-sick."
The words were accompanied by more feeble spitting noises, so
Brim switched off the intercom and taxied along the maze of canals
that led to the ready line. He smiled wryly. If nothing else,
it had been fun getting back at the controls again. He hoped he
wouldn't have to pay for his pleasure by doing time in the brig,
but the kind of lesson he'd just been handed regarding government
employment was worth at least that. After today, he would never
again waste his life mooning after another government flying job.
From now on, it was civilian employment exclusively for
Wilf Brim. And if that meant that he wouldn't fly for a while,
then so be it. He was making a good-enough living with his axes.
He had just turned onto a ramp leading back to the ready line
when a Base Operations skimmer bobbed in front of him with flags
flying officiously. A flashing sign across its stern commanded,
FOLLOW ME. Shrugging, Brim pulled in behind the little vehicle
and trailed it all the way to the main concrete apron of gravity
pads that separated the headquarters building from five square
c'lenyts of gravity pools and canals it commanded. Most of the
pads were in use by other utility craft of various shapes and
sizes; however, one--located in the first row nearest the glass
walls of the Administration section--was unoccupied. And it was
to this pad that the Security skimmer directed him.
He frowned in the bright sunlight as he swung the nose of the
ship. Three people were standing on the far side, and the one
dressed in a close-fitting yellow jumpsuit was certainly Claudia-he
could pick her out anywhere. He grimaced and swallowed a lump
in his throat. Her much-deserved anger would be difficult to endure.
The man to the right of her was...Moulding, of course! He, too,
had every right to be angry-furious, even. A pity, Brim considered
with a grimace; the blond officer seemed to be a decent sort of
person, even if he was wealthy.
But who was the other man? Dressed in a severe civilian business
suit, he had a familiar look about him. Suddenly, Brim's heart
jumped as the distance narrowed. No one else in the Universe had
that combination of features: the dark complexion, thin,
dry lips, pockmarked jowls, short-cropped hair, and eyes that
could drill holes in hullmetal. They could belong to no one but
Bosporus P. Gallsworthy, formerly Principal Helmsman of I.F.S.
Truculent--and one of the finest Helmsmen in the
Fleet, if a hopeless drunk at the time. Brim hadn't seen him for
years, but clearly the man had retired into civilian life. And
whatever he was doing there, it didn't bode well for someone who
had just broken nearly every flight regulation on-or above-the
base.
With a shrug, Brim concluded that their anger could wait until
he properly shut down the T-29; it made little sense to take his
troubles out on the ship. Then, driving the little trainer onto
the ample gravity pad, he carefully set both gravity brakes, stop-cocked
the energy choke, and powered off the spin grav. As soon as the
boarding ladder deployed, he heard the rear canopy rumble open.
Presently, in the corner of his eye, he watched Townsend stumble
to the pavement, then bolt headlong toward the Headquarters locker
room, looking neither left nor right as he ran.
Cycles later, when he finished inerting the ship's systems, he
once again focused his eyes and his attention on the trio waiting
to vent their ire on him. Strange though, he ruminated as he slid
the canopy back, each now appeared to be grinning at him.