by Bill Baldwin
Mustafa's Consort still had that appraising look in her eyes. "You are Commander Brim?" she asked. "Captain of the Star-fury?" she asked.
"At your service, ma'am," Brim replied.
"I think you did save my life, Commander," Raddisma declared with a mysterious smile on her full lips. "There can be no question about it. Someday, I shall see to it that you are appropriately rewarded, in a personal manner, of course."
Brim bowed gallantly. "Your safety is my greatest reward, ma'am," he said, but when their eyes met, he thought she might just have something specific on her mind. "I shall look forward to our next meeting," he added with a great deal of truth.
"As will I," she answered regally. "As will I...." Bowing slightly, she swept by his arm, passed him a secret little wink, and disappeared into the crowd that had again begun to move freely through the colossal hall.
Moments later, Saltash arrived at his side. "When I saw who you tackled," the envoy said, "I reckoned the best thing was to let you work things out for yourself."
Brim nodded phlegmatically. "Mighty decent of you, neighbor," he quipped. "I enjoyed the eunuchs especially. Big zukeeds, those."
"Well"—Saltash shrugged—"except for them, it couldn't have been all that uncomfortable. I mean, Raddisma isn't the worst person to end up on a floor with, now, is she?"
"I can't remember," Brim grumped. "I was so thraggling scared, I didn't notice a thing until the eunuchs got me, that is. And just look what happened to my Fleet Cape." He turned his back.
"Ouch," Saltash swore. "That will be difficult to fix."
"I'm going to bill the Fleet," Brim chuckled darkly. "It's a fine-of-duty reimbursable if I ever saw one and they're xaxtdamn lucky they don't have to repair me, too."
"In all seriousness," Saltash said, "we couldn't have wished for anything better to happen."
"We what?"
"Well," Saltash answered, "both the Pasha and his favorite bedmate are unquestionably in your debt—and by proxy, so is Fluvanna. That lady calls a lot of the shots around here."
"I get the distinct impression she didn't call those shots," Brim quipped.
"Very funny," Saltash chuckled. "Nevertheless, I think you'll find that your discomfiture was all for a good cause."
Brim grinned. "I'll try to remember that the next time some dimbulb tries to broil my back with a blaster. Voot's greasy beard!"
* * *
During the next week, in his capacity as Commander of a visiting warship. Brim attended more State receptions than be cared to remember. He also put on weight from all the rich food, in spite of his three- and four-c'lenyt morning exercise runs (the normally sedentary Fluvannians thought him quite mad, and often shouted their opinions as he puffed along the dawn-shadowed streets).
One evening, he and Saltash were at a refreshment center after completing the reception line for still another midweek ball when the diplomat nodded toward the main entrance. "I say!" he exclaimed with obvious interest. "Now there's one I haven't seen before. Simply exquisite!"
Chuckling, Brim turned his head for a glimpse; Saltash seldom missed a well-turned ankle. Suddenly his heart stopped and he almost dropped his goblet. "Sweet suffering Universe," he gasped under his breath.
"What was that?" Saltash asked, his face taking on a look of consternation. "Wilf, old boy," he said, "you've gone absolutely pale. Are you all right?"
At that moment, a paige's voice called out from the ballroom, "Grand Duke Rogan LaKarn, Absolute Ruler of The Torond, and Grand Duchess Margot Effer'wyck-LaKarn, Princess of the Effer'wyck Dominions."
Brim could only stand dumbfounded, his whole being absorbed by the moment. Once, a thousand years before, Margot Effer'wyck-LaKarn had been his one true love, and he, hers. They met nearly fourteen years previously at a wardroom party aboard old I.F.S. Truculent at the beginning of Brim's military career.
"Intriguing," Saltash mused, peering at Brim with considerable interest. "If I remember correctly, she was forced into a political marriage with LaKarn by Emperor Greyffin IV himself. Usually we keep track of friendships with important people. We should have had notification of one like that."
Brim could only shake his head—all references to his relationship with Margot Effer'wyck had been quashed years ago on direct orders from the palace. While Saltash continued to talk, he watched Margot enter the reception line and turn her face for a moment toward the refreshment area, instantly locking gazes with him. She seemed to falter for a moment, recovered, then continued into the line with a startled expression on her face, As always, her strawberry-blond hair was piled in fashionable disarray, framing a perfect oval face, languid eyes, generous lips, and a brow that frowned when she smiled—as it did while she charmed the Nabob within an inch of his life. She wore a glamorous gown in her favorite shade of apricot that set off her ample figure in a most voluptuous way. A small, snug string of elegant Zenniér pearls shone fashionably at her neck.
Behind the Princess stood Rogan LaKarn, her husband. His body was still hideously twisted after a run-in with Brim years previously. He was dressed in an elegant formal outfit that hid some of the damage, but not all. He turned momentarily with a quizzical frown on his countenance, then met Brim's eyes with a flash of abhorrence.
Brim returned his look with a stony implacability until the once-handsome Baron turned to meet the Nabob himself.
"Doesn't look as if that one much likes you," Saltash remarked. "I take it the two of you have squared off before?"
"It's a long story," Brim growled pointedly; then he let the subject drop.
Wisely, so did Saltash....
* * *
Brim found himself busy almost the entire evening, meeting what seemed like half of the Fluvannian population. He and Margot Effer'wyck locked glances a number of times, but one of them always seemed to be busy when the other was momentarily free. At last, however, Zacristy, the League Ambassador, disappeared with LaKarn and a scowling Mustafa IX Eyren through one of the Nabob's secret exits. Immediately, the ball settled into what was clearly a second phase; this one more of relaxed socializing than the spirited political mixing after the reception line. Brim was all too glad to accompany Saltash to the bar for another goblet of Logish Meem.
"Hmm," the diplomat mused, "a private audience, no less. Well, I don't suppose I ought to be surprised. After all, LaKarn is more or less the equivalent of a king back in The Torond, even if he is only a figurehead for the Leaguers."
Brim was about to comment when he felt a hand gently touch his arm. Turning slowly, he felt his heart catch once more. "Margot," he whispered, peering into her liquid blue eyes and hoping his voice wouldn't betray the emotion he felt. Clearly, she had aged. She had lines on her face that he couldn't remember. And at close range, he could see that her figure was considerably more ample than when she specialized in perilous covert missions to League planets. Too, her eyes now showed a muzziness that hadn't been there before the TimeWeed. But for all that, to him she was at least as beautiful as she ever had been, perhaps even more so in her maturity. "Baroness LaKarn," he said calmly as he could, "m-may I present The Honorable George Saltash of His Imperial Majesty's Foreign Service? Sir Saltash, Her Serene Majesty, Princess Margot Effer'wyck of the Effer'wyck Dominions and Grand Baroness of The Torond."
"I am honored, madame," Saltash mumbled, bowing deeply from the waist to kiss her gloved hand.
"As am I, Sir Saltash," she said, narrowing her eyes coolly. "You are well known by my husband's diplomatic services."
"Yes," Saltash said, "I suppose I am." He met her gaze with a steely look that told Brim they may never have met, but clearly each had encountered the other's power at one time or another. The diplomat bowed again, this time with a formal click of his heels. "Princess," he said formally, "Commander Brim: I am summoned for a moment to our limousine."
"By all means, Sir Saltash," Margot purred, extending her hand for another kiss.
For a long time following the diplomat's departure, Brim and
Margot stood silently, staring into each other's eyes. Then, as if they had been together only metacycles before, she took his hands in hers. "Hello, Wilf Brim," she said in her dusky, perfectly modulated voice. "It's been a long time."
"A century, at least," Brim stammered. "H-how have you been, Margot? I mean...."
"Are you asking about the TimeWeed, Wilf?" she asked, her eyes peering all the way to his soul.
Brim nodded silently.
"Nothing has changed, Wilf," she said with almost no emotion. "For addicts, death is the only release. The Weed now keeps me alive."
"You appear to have it a lot more under control than before," Brim observed, recalling more than one time when she had seemed to be almost totally under its influence, tike a drunk.
"I won't need more until morning," she replied. "Increased tolerance permits larger doses—they're cumulative, in case you hadn't heard. It provides me with longer stretches of being human than I had before." She lifted a goblet of Logish Meem from a passing servant's tray and looked thoughtfully into it before taking a sip. "Life is still treating you well?" she asked at some length.
Brim took a deep breath. "Years ago when we met," he said, "I would never have believed how generous Lady Fortune has been to me lately." Then he paused, reminded sharply of the loneliness he had experienced after dancing with Tissaurd, and suddenly it seemed to be time for conversation on any other subject. "How is your son Rogan?" he asked.
"Growing into a young man," she replied, "nearly six. Can you believe it?"
Brim smiled, "I remember when he was born," he said, staring off into the past. "It was the day of the first post-war Mitchell Trophy race."
"You remember well," Margot said with a little smile. "Then I am not completely gone from your life, am I?"
Surprised, Brim peered into her eyes and frowned. "Gone?" he asked, then stared at the floor while he attempted to comprehend her words. "Margot," he continued at length. "There is no way you will ever be gone from my life—at least from my past. Many of my most fond memories center around you."
"But your future?" she pressed quietly. "What of your future, Wilf? Am I any part of your dreams?"
"Should you be?" he asked. "You have not touched me for years."
She frowned. "How could I have touched you? Half a galaxy has separated us until today."
"One touches," Brim said gently, "and then one touches." He gently placed his hand on her arm. "Margot," he continued, "addicts touch only their addictions, and you are clearly not addicted to me."
She closed her eyes for a moment. "Perhaps it seems that way, Wilf," she said, barely whispering, "but..."
At that moment, a tall Leaguer dressed in a Controller's severe black service uniform, peaked cap, and knee-length riding boots forced his way so close beside her that she nearly lost her balance. His gold shoulder straps bore two large diamond-shaped devices, indicating that he was a Galite'er, the equivalent of a Rear Admiral in the Imperial Fleet. "Is this person bothering you, Princess?" he asked with grandiose disdain.
"N-no, Galite'er Hoffman," she replied, "he is an old friend."
"A friend?" Hoffman said, narrowing his eyes and turning his head to peer disdainfully at Brim. "How can that be? He is nothing but an Imperial."
Brim smiled and calmly looked up into the Leaguer's face. The blue cast of his skin and total lack of body hair identified him as a Varoldian from the Ta'am Region. "How badly is it you want trouble, mister?'' the Carescrian asked in a quiet voice. "With the kind of manners you've shown me so far, I can be very creative."
"Wilf, no!" Margot gasped in a frightened whisper. She took the Leaguer's arm. "Come, Galite'er Hoffman," she said. "I am ready to return to the ship.''
"An intelligent decision," Hoffman said, examining his spotless blue fingernails. "Your Imperial friend here is deeply in your debt. I should have enjoyed breaking him in half."
Brim gripped the back of a nearby chair, stayed from mayhem only by the look of panic in Margot's eyes. "Until we meet again, Princess," he said, bowing deeply from the waist.
Without acknowledging him in any way, she followed Hoffman into the colorful throng. Brim watched her reappear shortly afterward at the main entrance, where three more Varoldians conducted her into a black limousine waiting under the portico.
"What in the Universe was that all about?'' Saltash demanded, pushing his way to Brim's side with a look of concern on his face.
"I wish I knew," Brim answered, the shock of hearing Margot's voice just beginning to sink in.
"Well, what did you say to him?" Saltash asked.
"Who?" Brim answered distantly.
"Wilf—the Galite'er."
Brim chuckled, "Oh, the Galite'er? Don't pay any attention to him; he's only a guard."
"But why did he take the Princess away? What were the two of you talking about?"
"We had really only begun to talk," Brim replied with a frown. "Odd, that. In retrospect, it almost seems as if the bloody Leaguer had been waiting for something to happen."
"And that's all?"
"I'm afraid that's it, friend," Brim said, draining his goblet. "Damned strange evening, though. I haven't seen Margot for years, yet there she was, talking to me as if... well... as if we'd been apart only days. And then..." He stopped in the middle of his sentence as Rogan LaKarn hobbled painfully into the refreshment center. Once handsome, the man's face had become as twisted with hate and anger as his body. It would still be years until his spinal nerve trunks had regenerated to a point that they could be rebuilt by a healing machine.
"Ah, Brim," the Baron muttered, ignoring Saltash's presence completely, "I am told that my so-called wife is no better at staying away from you today than she was years ago." He laughed. "Well, you'll want to think twice before jumping into bed with her now that she's on TimeWeed. Let me guarantee that she needs it after a dose of love—physically must have it. And, as I am certain you are aware, the smoke she exhales will kill you, especially in the doses she now requires."
Brim looked grimly at the man's twisted body. "LaKarn," he growled, "if it would save that woman from the filth of TimeWeed, I'd break your spine again. Gladly. But since there is nothing I can do about Margot, I am simply going to leave." Turning to Saltash, he clapped the diplomat on his shoulder. "You can talk to him if you wish, my friend, but I am heading back to Starfury."
"Ah yes, Starfury," LaKarn crowed as if he had heard nothing Brim uttered. "Then you will be most interested in the arrival tomorrow afternoon of an old acquaintance of yours." He laughed bitterly. "I am certain that you will be on hand to welcome Kirsh Valentin when he arrives in a preproduction model of the League's new Gorn-Hoff P.1065. I understand that you and that shameless space pirate Baxter Calhoun have spent considerable time assessing covert recordings of the prototype."
Brim stiffened as yet another shock from the past collided with his mind. Kirsh Valentin. Handsome, intelligent, accomplished, and in too many ways as talented as himself, Valentin had been the Carescrian's arch enemy since the Leaguer egregiously tortured him as a helpless prisoner aboard a Leaguer patrol ship. Afterward, their paths continued to cross, in both war and the ensuing peace. And each time they did. Brim managed to frustrate Valentin's evil aspirations until the Leaguer's original disdain turned to cold and bitter hate. "I cannot imagine the meaning of your words concerning Baxter Calhoun," Brim lied calmly, "or recordings of some new Gorn-Hoff."
LaKarn's eyes filled with cold hate. "But you do remember Kirsh Valentin, don't you, Imperial gangster?1'
Brim nodded, ignoring the insult from a man who could no longer defend himself. "How could I forget a man who has almost killed me three times?" he asked with a dour smile. Valentin had been responsible for at least three—and perhaps more—attempts at Brim's life in the fifteen Standard Years that had elapsed since their first encounter.
"Perhaps next time will prove the charm," LaKarn countered with a smile. "Or the time after that."
"I wouldn't hold my breath,"
Brim countered evenly, "Kirsh isn't really very good at it, you know."
"Practice makes perfect, Brim," LaKarn growled, then abruptly turned to Saltash. "My respects, Councillor," he said, awkwardly clicking his heels. Without a backward glance, he hobbled back into the crush of revelers.
During the ride home in Saltash's sleek limousine. Brim began to prepare himself for another "peacetime" encounter with his old enemy. He had neither seen nor spoken to the man since the Mitchell Trophy races, where he had been involved in an unsuccessful plot that would have blown Brim and his Sherrington M-6B into subatomic components. But even as he stepped onto Starfury's entry chamber, he found that Tissaurd had the ship at lift-off stations with orders to loose for space immediately, destination: Avalon....
* * *
Starfury raised Avalon in record time, mooring in the military complex near Grand Imperial Terminal on the sixth day out from Magor. Had anyone at the Admiralty been interested in those sorts of things, the crossing could have gone into the record books. But setting records in Starfury was almost too easy. And actually recording the event in an "official" manner required a lot of advance planning that simply wasn't possible with an active military ship.
Brim switched the propulsion controls to Strana' Zaftrak and got to his feet, idly watching a big government limousine draw to a halt at the foot of the brow in a cloud of powdery snow. Its sleek lines were somehow out of place among the angular dockyard vehicles parked nearby. Curious, he leaned his elbows on the coaming behind his recliner and watched while a liveried chauffeur hurried to open the passenger compartment door for a familiar-looking woman in mufti... Regula Collingswood— his skipper from I.F.S. Truculent.
"Take over, Tissaurd!" he barked. "Farnsworth. Call down to the Duty Officer on the double! Order him to watch for Captain Regula Collingswood at the main port; then tell Chief Barbousse to show her to the wardroom—he'll recognize her!"
"Aye, Captain," the two officers replied in unison, switching on their intercoms with raised eyebrows that seemed to have replicated themselves everywhere on the bridge.
