Red and Turlon had a layover of a single day and transferred to a high end
passenger liner for the trip from Spica to Sardis.  That trip would take
another 18 days.  Red enjoyed the luxury of the ship, and for her the
days passed quickly.  Turlon was eager to be back and for him the
days passed slowly.  Even slower than they might have otherwise
as he exhausted the last of his training chips. The days did pass, 
though, and eventually they landed at Sardis.

Turlon squared the bill with a scribble on the sensorpad, then he turned to
Red "You want to check on the Firebird? I'll go check us out of the hotel."

"Check, I'll meet you back at the hotel this evening." Red turned to
go, then turned back.  "Should I start laying a course for home?"

"That is the best thing I've heard in weeks," he replied.  Turlon swapped
over his gear to Red, one thing he didn't need was any hassles from the law
for carrying a blaster in public.  Turlon headed back to the hotel.

The hovercab ride to the hotel was as beautiful this time as it was the
first time, but Turlon didn't notice.  There was a message waiting
for him at the desk from Red.  "Five days till lift and a twenty day
trip, or thirty-nine days till lift and a six day trip.  Your call,
but this planet is a hell of lot more comfortable than the ship -- Red."

Granted, Sardis was incredible but Turlon had been through so much that
getting home was first on his mind.  As he pocketed the message he began to
walk off, but caught himself and turned to address the desk clerk.

"Excuse me, could you tell me if Mary Finnean is in?" he asked.

"One moment, sir," the clerk tapped in a request.  "No one by that
name is registered here, I'm afraid."

Turlon looked disappointed, which wasn't entirely fabricated.  "Did she
leave a forwarding address?  I was supposed to meet her several weeks ago
and got tied up with business.  I believe she was in penthouse suite Galaxy
A-17."

"No, sir.  No forwarding address.  I'm sorry," came the reply.

"Oh well, it is her loss.  And I had something very special for her," he
replied before heading back to his room.

Turlon arrived back the room without incident and looked over the suite.
He noticed immediately that the flowers had been replaced, how many times
since they had been gone, he wondered.  'There's nothing like a five star
resort' he said to himself.  Turlon changed out of the clothes he had been
wearing for what seemed like an eternity,  the Tharon mining togs Jake had
provided were OK if you were stuck on a desolate planet with no breathable
atmosphere but here..."Ah, where have you been all my life," he said
pulling out the tourist clothes tailor made for him back home.  Turlon
changed into the clothes which suddenly became much more enjoyable to him.

Soon, Turlon was back in the lift on his way to meet Red in the lobby.

Red had freshened up a little on the ship, but as soon as she met
Turlon, she turned him around and headed back up the room.
"No way, Van, am I going out looking like this."

As she changed and bathed she asked, "So, what's the plan? Hang out
or hit the road ASAP?"

Turlon flopped down on the sofas, it was good to be able to rest, "I think
we ought to get back ASAP.  It would be nice to relax, but we really need
to get back to Sensei and tell him what happened."

Red sighed theatrically, "Ok.  I'll start plotting the course
tomorrow.  Tonight, though, you can take me out to a big fancy dinner and
we'll see some nightlife.  You're taking me dancing, boyo!"

Turlon groaned, and leaned over with an exaggerated pained expression.  "I
think I pulled something when I ran down the corridor from the Power Dome.
Maybe I should just rest."  He looked through squinted eyes to see if Red
was buying this tall tale.

"Hmm, maybe you'd rather just go shopping with me.  All night.
For shoes," Red lashed her tail in humour.  "Come on, it'll be fun."

She dragged Turlon out the door.

     *         *         *         *

Hours later they were back in the room, thoroughly exhausted.
Red had run Turlon ragged, but he now knew several popular dances
and one stately Mek'Purr Pavane.  Red herself was curled into
a ball on one bed, sleeping and purring softly.

Turlon lumbered to his own room and yawned.  He had been on all day hikes
in high G planets, mountain climbing with full packs, and rescue missions
out numbered 1000 to 1 but never had he felt so tired.  Barely, he made it
to his bed and collapsed.  There he began to dream of meeting Redjos and
Mary again; as a smile formed on his sleeping face.

Red left early the next morning with her gear, "I'm going to take us
home in four jumps of about 50LY each.  That way I can work on the
course for each leg while we're in transit.  That means I'll be pretty
busy, though.  So, come and visit when you get the chance.  I'll
buzz you when we're ready to lift.  About five days, though."

"Aye aye Captain," he barked out.  Turlon hoped that the mere fact that
they had lived through the ordeal on Tharon meant his luck had changed and
he had some time to kill in the casino.

A quick check of the casino showed no sign of Mary, so Turlon
settled in at a 500CR HyperCube game.  When he arose several
hours later, he was 8.5 KCR poorer, but he was also satisfied that
Mary and Redjos were not at the casino.

'So much for my luck changing,' he thought to himself.  Turlon bummed
around for a bit watching people far luckier than he hit big jackpots and
settled in for a hand of Fizzbin.  He didn't expect to win but figured the
social aspect of the game would do him well.  There were always some
interesting characters around that game and Turlon could use some
entertainment.

Turlon knew that Fizzbin was a mug's game and so he bet small
amounts and managed to amuse himself for a few hours on a couple
of hundred credits.

Knowing that thinking was a detriment to Fizzbin, Turlon let his eyes roam
about the casino.  He'd listen to just enough of the betting and card draws
to stay in the game.  After this hand he planned on heading over to the bar
and see what conversations he could strike up with the regulars.

He entered the bar and verified what he had suspected, there were
no regulars in the hotel bar.  The hotel regulars were too rich to
mingle in the bar, and the locals wouldn't meet there.

'Beautiful,' he under his breath.  Turlon had never seen such garish
clothing in his entire life, of course he wasn't helping things much with
his own wardrobe.  All he needed was some trader on vacation telling him
about his adventures to make it complete.  Spying a table against the back
wall, Turlon grabbed a seat and ordered a drink.

The people watching was, he had to admit, splendid.  The styles
were wild and varied widely.  There were skinpainted belters
and domedwellers, as well as cultural outfits from a hundred
planets.  By turning to take in the lobby, he could see the
vast panoply of humanity and felinity stream by.  Here and there
were other races; he saw a tall creature of obvious avian ancestry
bedecked in barbaric splendor, a pair of saurians moving slowly through
the crowd with reptilian grace, as well as several types of
humanoids.


There was a sudden stir in the crown as the lights in the bar dimmed
and the ceiling was lit up with a holoprojection. A voice sounded,
"The Starflight 2000 is about to begin."  The voice faded but
a text scroll in half a dozen languages appeared on the perimeter
of the holoprojection.  "The 2000km race is about to begin, leaving
from Starflight City on Sardis III.  The best flyers in the sector
and beyond have come to race." Closeups of the fliers followed, with
their names and statistics.  Each wore airfoil wings and most wore
respirator masks.  None had any other form of propulsion.  "This
is a grueling test of skill and endurance. Wager may be made for
another hour only, when the race will begin."  History and being
interest stories began to run to fill up the time.

Turlon pushed his empty glass aside and settled the bill.  As he nodded to
the server, Turlon asked about the Starflight 2000.  "Big thing, eh?  Got a
tip?"

"One of the four big races each year," said the man.  "Smart money
is on Johnny Clash, he won last year and is in top form.  There's
a couple others, though, with a shot.  This guy from Nightloft,
maybe." He pointed to an avian, of the same race as the one Turlon
had seen in the lobby. "I don't know, though.  First timers and all."

"Thanks,  I'll keep that in mind."  Turlon looked for a betting window and
listened to the myriad of conversations and analyses as he waited in line.
A quick glance at the odds and entrants allowed him to formulate a betting
plan. There were twenty-five entrants, most from Sardis and most
professionals or championship amateurs.  There were a few who caught
his eye: Johnny Clash at 3 to 2, from Sardis, won last year and was
the favorite; Jack VonHoch, an active duty TUFP StarForce Commando
racing for the prestige of the force was listed at 3 to 1; Argus,
Cerebus, Gaea and Galatia were an aerial ballet team, all good
fliers but it was not their type of race, none had ever placed higher
than sixth; the longshot was K'll'Klick'Caw, 30 to 1, an avian from Nightloft 
which had only recently been admitted to the TUFP -- his presence was
a diplomatic sop to the planet.

Turlon studied the entrants while in line.  'Hmm,' he thought, Johnny Clash
reminded him too much of a singer who was in and out of jail, and VonHoch
was a Commando so he knew what stuff he was made of.  With each step Turlon
changed his mind.  Finally he got to the window and dealt with the harried
human there, who was in no mood for chit-chat.

"Give me 2500 on VonHoch," he ordered.

He turned to walk away, and rocked back.  Hunches were for fools when it
came to gambling and for survivors when in war, he had heard said.  Turlon
called out, "And 500 on K'll'Klick'Caw."

Gathering his lami-chips, Turlon pushed through the crowd to get a good
view of the upcoming race.

The race would take five days, each leg being 400 km. A good flier could
do 40 km/hour and do the leg in 10 hours, so Turlon would have something
to occupy him while Red plotted her course.

The launch was a beautiful sight.  The twentyfive competitors leapt
off the tower at the city of Starflight and adopted their strategy.
Most dropped a few meters and then began to settle into a steady
stroke.  Two, the avian and one of the twins plummeted nearly a
hundred meters before spreading their wings.  The added velocity
shot them ahead of the cluster of other racers, but it was
a risky strategy; they'd have to make up that altitude later somewhere.

Fans and newsbots followed the racers and race officials in gravsleds
set up a loose perimeter.

Turlon was never one for sports, oh he had watched the Digichase finals for
years and played some Team GlowBall in StarForce, but he was always amazed
at the devotion of fans.  He sat and watched a couple of women, who were
dressed in total Johnny Clash attire, yelp and swoon with each announcer's
comment.  Over at another table was a man telling a group of tourists about
Bill Denisov's greatest races, and then there were the factions arguing
about this racer versus that racer.

A smile formed across Turlon's face at the passion these people displayed.
He was content to stay by himself but the dynamics of the people began to
affect him and wanted to get into the act of discussing the race.
Dismissing the giddy women out of hand, Turlon walked about looking for a
serious race fan to talk with.

Turlon had never been one for gregarity, and even though his studies
had reduced his sense of isolation, it was still an effort for him
to seek out a stranger with whom to talk.  He finally settled on
two men who were seated at table a bit off the beaten path.  Although
they were certainly interested in the race, they were not displaying the
manic cycle of the fans who watched intently and then crashed. Rather,
they would check in with the progress now and again, and then
return to their conversation and their game of ... chess? Turlon
was not an expert in archaic pasttimes.

Silently he watched the men move the oddly shaped pieces across the board.
Their concentration was remarkable as each move seemed to require intense
thought.  He continued to watch the contest, trying not to be a
distraction.

After some time, one of the men asked, without looking up, "Do you play?"

Turlon was startled, having become engrossed in the game play, "Oh.  No.
Only seen it a few times."

The man grunted and returned to the game.  After another twenty minutes,
he said, "Mate in three."  The other man nodded, "Agree. I concede."

Turlon seized this moment to interject a question, "Chess is based on a
military storyline, isn't it?"

"Abstractly, but yes," said the man.  He gave a quick overview of the
game and the pieces, then commented, "The strategies are applicable on
a larger military scale, though.  Misdirection, analysis, prediction
of enemy action and developing methods to counter that action
with a minimum of effort. I'm Rhys Wing-Davies.  This is Allan
Attewell."

Turlon snapped a respectful nod to the men, "My name is Turlon Vantilles.
Did you serve?"

"Does it show?" the man shook his head, as his companion gave a gently
laugh. "Yes, StarForce."

"Discipline always shows, sir" responded Turlon.

"I take it you served as well?  Let me guess, Marines?" asked Wing-Davies.

Turlon patted his midsection with a smile, "I admit I'm a bit out of shape
sir, but not that much."  Turlon chuckled as he replied, "Commandos."

"Ah.  Please sit," he indicated a chair.

"One moment," said Allan as he tapped a keypad.

A muted voice rose from the table.  "As they pass the 100 kilometre mark,
a cluster of leaders has pulled out from the pack.  Clash and Ashmovia
are leading, with VonHoch, Galatia and Jones behind.  Surprisingly,
K'll'Klick'Caw is also in that group."

"Thank you," said Allan as he took the sound out.

"Do you have a favorite?" asked Turlon gesturing toward the keypad.

"Several," said Allan.  "Clash, of course, smart money is on him.
But I think he's overconfident.  Personally, I think it's Ashmovia's
year.  I like the two amateurs, though, Jones and Wilkerson."

"I should have met you earlier.  My money is riding on VonHoch and the
newcomer," said Turlon.

"VonHoch has a chance, but he's not sufficiently in training," said Allan.

"Your esprit de corps is nice, though," offered Wing-Davies.

"Which newcomer," asked Allan.

"K'll'Klick'Caw," Turlon answered.  "Apparently I was the only one who
couldn't resist the odds," he smiled.

"I'm sure there are other in that boat," said Allan.  "He's doing
surprisingly well.  I begin to suspect that he will surprise us all
with his showing.  He seems to have an uncanny ability to read
air flow."

"Natural, I'd wager....and I have," Turlon remarked.  "Know much about
Nightloft?"

"Just what's in the news these days," said Allan, "Dargon Sector, just
recently joined the TUFP.  Provisional, actually.  Low tech, but
being acculturated."

Turlon commented "Looks as if this representative is doing his duty for
diplomacy. I hope no one takes offense at his prowess."  He looked around
the area, "I've already seen quite a few who take this sport a bit too
seriously."

"Welcome to Sardis.  Anything you can gamble on is taken seriously."

"Blue hair and body paint notwithstanding, I guess," Turlon said as he
watched a Johnny Clash fan sharing a holocube of the racer with some other
equally rabid fans.  "Do you now live on Sardis?" he asked.

"Yes, Allan here is a native, and I retired here to paint," said
Wing-Davies.  "Beautiful sunsets."

Turlon whistled through his teeth looking at the opulence of the planet,
"Must have been some career,"

"You can live here a lot more cheaply than you might think," said
Wing-Davies.  "We just come to the hotel for the HoloChamber." A flick
of a finger upward showed what he meant.

"Don't be so modest, Admiral," said Allan teasingly. "You've got
a pension, and the lecture fees help out."

"I'd rather paint," growled Wing-Davies.

Turlon expected that he was in the presence of officers, but the term
Admiral gave him a chill.  "Sir, forgive me.  I've taken up too much of
your time."

"Not at all, son," said Wing-Davies. "Pardon my saying so, but this
doesn't look like your usual scene."

"No sir," Turlon answered.  "Came here on business and am looking forward
to a little R&R back home."  Turlon smiled at the irony of Sardis seeming
like work and one needing to leave it to find relaxation.

The other men seemed to find the irony as well and smiled.

Turlon had found some kindred spirits and settled in to talk,
drink, keep tabs on the race and watch the chess.  The careers
of the men hadn't overlapped by much, but there were some acquaintances
in common -- or at least names that they all recognized.

As the race day drew to a close, the standings had a few surprises:
Ashmovia was in the lead just very slightly ahead of Clash.
VonHoch was third a little distance back, with K'll'Klick'Caw
behind him a fair ways, with Jones and Galatia trailing Caw by
a short measure.   Denisov was out with an injury.  Bringing up
the rear were Lacy Lounge, Polee and Bluefang.

Turlon commented, "Looks like StarForce is showing well," as he rose.
"I've enjoyed our conversation, sirs, but I should be getting back."

"Nice talking with you trooper, let me beam you my card," said Wing-Davie
pulling out his MiniComp.  A moment later, his contact info was safely
secured in Turlon's own MiniC.

Turlon wandered about for a while longer and then retired for the evening.

The next day Turlon again drifted down to the lounge to watch the race.
He kept his eye open for the Nightlofter, for he was guessing the
avian he had seen the day before was from there.

It wasn't until just after noon, that the alien put in an
appearence.  Since he was now looking for them, he saw the
attache and the bodyguard who were attached to him.  He also
saw a few nosies on the fringe trying to get interviews or photos
for their faxsheets.

The alien him (or her) self was tall and had a build that Turlon
associated with low-gee natives. It was dressed in a tight-fitting
tunic, with a cloak over it and an abundance of metal jewelry. Hanging
from the belt was a bolo of odd design. The overall effect was
striking and barbaric.

Turlon watched the entourage observing  their interactions with the massed
media drones.  He tried not to get caught up in the swarm, but close enough
to listen to whatever questions were shouted and the responses given.

The nosies lived down to his expectations; "How do you like it here?"
"What do you think of the TUFP?" and so forth made up the bulk of
the questions.  The avian him/herself made no answer; the attache,
who also clearly served as translator, brushed aside most questions,
but Turlon did overhear enough to learn that this one was female and
had some relationship to the flier -- familial, he though, but that
was still unclear to him.

Turlon muscled his way through the sea of nosies and out shouted them, "Do
you find the odds placed on K'll'Klick'Caw winning as insulting as I do?"

The attache cocked his ear and made a few clicking noises in his throat.
The avian clicked back, and then attache spoke.  "The odds seem high,
but he is unknown." With a smile, "Rrr'Caw'K'k'k' expects to make
quite a bit from 'the foolish bookmakers of Sardis'."

"As do I," commented Turlon as he turned to walk through the crowd.   Once
through the group Turlon drifted on the outskirts looking for a reporter
who didn't appear too obnoxious, preferably female.

Female was easy, obnoxious less so.  Finally, he settled on a target
and circled in.

Turlon casually made his way over to her, and asked "So what's all the fuss
about?"

"Are you for real?  How often does a new planet and a new alien
race show up and join the TUFP?  This is news, boy," came the reply.

"I think the bigger question is, 'why'?" came the reply.  Turlon craned his
neck over the crowd and continued.  "That, is a warrior.  Warriors rarely
give up their independence out of the goodness of their heart.  Why now,
and why is her brother in the race.  You find those things out, then THAT
would be news."

"Look buddy, don't tell me my job," snapped the woman before heading
back off to the swirl around the alien.

Turlon snickered as she left, "Don't forget to ask about what they eat for
breakfast!" he shouted.

Turlon began to think about what he said.  Now he was intrigued about these
new visitors, and why they chose to join now and enter this race started to
gnaw at him.

He found himself back with Wing-Davies and Attewell.  The men greeted
him cordially and invited him to sit.  He watched the game for
a while, then found an opportunity to broach the subject.

"Permission to ask a question, sir" Turlon began.

"Permission gra...," started Wing-Davies, then caught himself,
"Old habits die hard.  We're neither one of us on active duty, son.
You don't need that here.  What's on your mind?"

Turlon couldn't catch himself in time and replied, "Thank you sir," as a
reflex action.  "Yesterday I saw the representative from Nightloft and
something has been bothering me," he began.  Turlon went on to expand on
his observations, the bolo, the warrior demeanor which he knew too well,
the air of authority and pride, and the response to his question.  "It
could have been in jest, but the contempt for humans may have been
intentional as well," he remarked.  Turlon presented his case for concern
and wanted the wizened veterans to either confirm them or allay his
worries.  Their years of service in hostile situations could shed some
light on Nightloft's reasons for joining TUFP and presence on Sardis.

"I don't know much about the Nightloft situation," said Wing-Davies,
"but Allan might."

"A bit," said the other man.  "TUFP policy, as you know, is to leave
a culture untouched until they've advanced sufficiently to be ready
to join the interstellar community.  Nightloft had reached the point,
and pressure was coming in from the Mek'Purr aristocracy to open
the planet to exploration.  Contact was made and embassys landed.
My understanding is that the planet has no central government, but that
a coalition of major tribes petitioned to join the TUFP."

"A coalition, you say," Turlon thought about the nomadic tribes of his home
world and failed to see how anything as important as this could spark an
agreement.  "They seem to have taken to the opportunity quite nicely.  Do
you think the Mek'Purr pressure was self-serving?"

"Hard to say.  I mean, certainly, on some level it was.  The Mek'Purr
are always looking for planets to exploit. So's the TUFP, for that
matter.  It backfired a little on them.  If the TUFP can
make the case that the coalition of tribes that wants into the TUFP
is the real planetary government, then the Mek'Purr's will be more
or less frozen out.  However, the Mek'Purr will dispute that
claim.  Diplomatically, it could be a real mess."

"Who among the Mek'Purr is pushing this?" Turlon asked.

"Who can say?  At a guess,  Rek'Or of Avator, but that's only
because he's nearby."

Turlon wasn't that familiar with the Mek'Purr aristocracy but made a note
to himself to ask Red what she knew about Rek'Or of Avator.  Something
struck Turlon with the risk involved, "So with Rek'Or of Avator, or
whoever, having a vested interest in however the Nightloft government gets
recognized then it could be a prime opportunity for someone to tip the
scales here on Sardis?"

"Hmm. I guess.  My impression was that getting the Nightloftian into
the race was simply a diplomatic sop to the faction already in the TUFP
corner.  But who knows?" said Attewell.

"According to the to right hand, but what about the left?" asked Turlon
rhetorically holding up each hand as a scale.  "What would happen to the
coalition if a certain Nightloftian failed to bring honor home?  One act of
sabotage could throw the coalition into turmoil," Turlon thought aloud.
Suddenly he snapped back from a far-off stare to the smiling faces of
Wing-Davies and Attewell.

"And if that is the case, then I better be going to keep an eye on things,"
he said rising.  Midway to his feet he asked with a grin, "Permission to be
excused, sir."

"Son, just who are you to be keeping an eye on things?  And how are you
going to do it?  Not that it's any skin off my nose, but did they train
you boys to go off without adequate intel?" said Wing-Davies.

"Any intel is gravy, sir.  Besides, if there is nothing to it, it'll keep
me out of trouble," answered Turlon.

"Have fun, then.  But don't get in the way of the professionals,"
smiled Wing-Davies.

By the end of the day, he hadn't seen anything that he thought merited
further investigation. Racewise, Clash had pulled ahead of Ashmovia,
VonHoch was all alone in third, with Jones, Galatia and K'll'Klick'Caw
neck and neck behind him. Lacy Lounge had dropped out and would
instead be singing at major nightclubs for the next few nights.

It did him good to get out and do some surveillance, it kept him sharp even
though nothing appeared to cause him any heartburn.  More importantly, of
course, was it kept him out of the casinos where his cold streak was
rapidly approaching the desert chill back home.  Turlon shuffled around
town a bit taking in the chatter on the street regarding the race and soon
found himself back at the hotel.  He decided to check in with Red.

She answered his call on the third pulse.  "Hey Van, what's up?"

"Just checking in with the boss," he joked.  "Are we still on schedule for
our departure time?  Trying to avoid the casinos is driving me crazy."

"You could always take me out to dinner again, or a show.  Or dancing,"
she said.  "But yes, we're on track.  I was just napping for a minute
while the latest run computes.  I'm estimating another 40 hours or so
till our launch window."

Turlon winced at the thought of dancing, nevermind the unceasing ridicule
he was sure to face from Red once she saw him on the dance floor.  He
needed to act and act quickly with the least noxious of the choices,
"Dinner sounds good, and maybe we can catch a show."

"Done," she said.  "Let me see, I can be there in an hour and three
quarters.  You make reservations.  Bye."

Turlon easily made dinner reservations at a nearby restaurant specializing
in ethnic dishes, he figured Red would like the adventure.  The show was a
bit more difficult as he mercilessly grilled the hotel guest services
attendant about each production.  Turlon didn't really care about what was
showing, his chief concern was that actual females were used in the
production.  It was a painful lesson he learned on shore leave years back,
and a long story he hoped he'd never have to tell Red.  Finally, he settled
on an adaption of Junius Ceaseri which had been receiving good reviews for
its set design and authenticity.

At the appointed hour, Red showed up dressed more for a quiet evening
than a wild night on the dance floor.  She heartily approved of both
the restaurant and the show choice.

At dinner, Turlon was reminded of Red's ancestry as she ordered her meat
dishes as nearly raw as the cook could be persuaded to prepare them.
The menu was long on seafood, and so Red indulged in a course of
a sushi like preparation of raw fish as well.

The show also got good reviews from Red, although she did show a
tendency to want to overanalyze the stage combat.

Turlon disagreed with Red and attempted to prove his point by reenacting a
scene as soon as they got outside.  It caused a bit of a spectacle as
Turlon leapt about brandishing an imaginary blade.

Red got into the spirit of it as well, and soon a few of the theatregoers
were gathered around cheering them on.  The melee soon dissolved into
laughter and Red and Turlon, as well, as some of their new friends
retired to a nearby bar before calling it a night.

Turlon settled into his bed and sat back gazing at the ceiling, unable to
sleep.  The last year had been a whirlwind and looked to only get more
exciting and turbulent.  He rolled over and hit the touch panel for news
updates and went to sleep.

     *         *         *         *

The next  day, the third of the race was traditionally moving day.
Turlon slept late, and by the time he rolled out of bed and
checked the standings, another four racers from the back
of the pack had dropped out.  VonHoch and K'll'Klick'Caw were
neck and neck and were both making up ground on Clash and Ashmovia.
Jones and Galatia had stumbled, and all the talk in the lounge was about
how this was now just a four man race.

Turlon listened to the "experts" backtrack on previous picks and felt
comfortable that his racers were still alive.  He decided to enter the
fray, approaching a group of four "VonHoch is a lead-pipe lock, Clash is
overrated."

"What do you mean," snapped a thin, overbred looking man.  "Clash is
just hitting his stride."

"Nigel, that's just not so," said a robust looking woman next to him,
"Clash is played out.  He'll start losing ground any minute."

Turlon piped up, "Yeah Nigel.  Clash is fading, I'd expect the Nightloftian
to pass him within the hour."

"The birdman? He's doing surprisingly well, but he won't last. He
won't finish higher than sixth." This was said with authority by the
robust woman.

Turlon cracked a smile at the confidence with which some people spoke of
athletics, "Why do you say that?"

There was a long pause during which no one spoke, then, "It's obvious,"
she said waving vaguely at the screen.  "Come, Ian."  She and one
of the men, the one that wasn't Nigel, set off through the crowd.

"Excuse us," said Nigel and the others set off in pursuit.

Turlon gave a friendly wave as the man scurried off after woman.  Scanning
the crowd, Turlon decided to head back to the hotel and study some more.

	*		*		*		*

The next few days fell into the same basic pattern.  Red called in
and said the course was plotted and they could lift anytime.
Turlon put her off for a day since the race wasn't quite finished.

The crowds began to gather in the viewing room as the last leg
of the race began to draw near completion.  Wing-Davies and Attewell
had saved Red and Turlon seats and the foursome settled in.
Against all odds, the Nightloftian had stayed the course. Coming in
the last fifty klicks, the three leaders were Clash, Ashmovia and
K'll'Klick'Caw.  Von Hoch was all alone a few klicks back and
barring divine intervention was a lock for fourth.

The other three were within a few hundred meters of each other and
all working hard.  As Red and Turlon sat, the videoroof was showing a
split screen of the three leaders and ... a weather forecast?
It was so, a storm was brewing around the finish line.  With the low
humidity across the planet, the storms on the planet were primarily
comprised of high winds with some electrical activity.  The fliers
were adequately shielded from the lightning, but nothing could shield
them from the winds.

In the course of the next twenty minutes, the lead switched back and forth
a dozen times as each flier found a current they could ride, or at least
a quiet zone, only to suddenly run into headwinds and drop back.

Then K'll'Klick'Caw fell back.  The announcers wrote him off, then a few
minutes later commented that he was trying to gain some altitude.
Five minutes after that, pandemonium erupted!  K'll'Klick'Caw was gaining
on the leaders, then passing them, then pulling away from them. He had
found what appeared to be a straight jet stream toward the finish line.
Clash and Ashmovia fought to climb into it themselves, but by the
time they did so it was too late.

K'll'Klick'Caw finished first with a good half a klick lead.  Ashmovia
edged out Clash for second by less than ten meters.  Von Hoch came
in fourth, but only a klick or so behind.  He had followed K'll'Klick'Caw's
lead in gaining altitude and had made up the distance in the last half hour.

Just like that, Turlon was 15K to the good.


Turlon leaped out of his seat with a thundering "OOO-RAH" which brought a
smile to his veteran tablemates.  Collecting himself, he turned to Red,
"Dinner is on me, tonight.  It would be a pleasure to have you join us,
sirs."


"I take it you had money on K'll'Klick'Caw," said Wing-Davies.  "Then
it would be my pleasure.  Allan?"

"Delighted."

Wing-Davies withdrew his MiniComp from it's case, "If you would allow
me to make the reservation?  I can recommend a place, The Diamond
Age, excellent food and exquisite service, but they keep two sets
of menus, one for tourists and one for locals.  Still not cheap,
but the 'tourist surchange' can be avoided."

Turlon looked to Red, hoping that his invite hadn't raised her ire.  He
knew she'd probably look at this as another way to avoid dancing, but hoped
the company would make up for it.


Red seemed as excited as the next cat by the idea.

	*		*		*		*

Two days later, Red and Turlon were on their way home.  The boost
was routine, as was the FTL insertion.  As soon as they were under
way, Red began running the calculations for the next jump leaving
Turlon to his own devices.