“Most proper,” said Lady Kareen and turned to say a word to her son.

* * *

VAL CON PULLED on gloves as he surveyed the competition. Each craft hovered over its assigned colored oval; from the stands it looked as if eighteen frictionless pucks sat upon eighteen glass disks. The slightest gust of breeze could push a craft off-center, as might the careless lean of a copilot, though once underway the powerful force of the airblasts would nullify all but the strongest wind.

The razzing from the other crews subsided into grumbling and catcalls, though Val con had had a bad few minutes just as Araceli took its place. Tolanda’s Terran pilot gave vent to an exquisite wolfwhistle while her Liaden partner called out reprovingly.

“Come now, Captain, you needn’t give up as easily as that! You’ve paid the entrance fee; why not try to race?”

Kelti had taken up the assault then: “That orange could blind somebody!”

And so on.

Through it all Shan sat silent in the pilot’s slot; and Araceli alone of the eighteen craft stayed precisely centered above her disk of color.

The starting cannon boomed, masking the whir and whine of the skimmers’ starting blasts, wind whipped Val Con’s face as he leaned back into his niche, clinging to the molded handgrips. At Shan’s nod, he shifted left and Araceli veered sharply: now they were in the second row and building speed.

Across the course, skimmers were setting up for the first sickle-shaped curve, and Araceli’s position on the outside was bad. Unexpectedly, speed helped them through the first bunch-up at the base of the turn; they slid away half-a-second before the craft to their left lost control and broadsided the skimmer immediately behind.

A short straight and then—the hill.

Most of the field was slowing; pilots gauging the approach, waiting for the exact moment to gun the jets.