He dutifully kept his eyes on the black skimmer with the bright-orange copilot as it rushed past the stands, seventh in the field—gaining perhaps half-a-length on the number six position. Val Con was hunched down in back, using his cloak as a fairing—not too bad a notion, Pat Rin admitted, grudgingly.

Araceli passed number six and was gaining on the leaders, who were starting to bunch up into the braking zone for the curve. Pat Rin tensed. Korval’s entry was hurtling on—deeper and deeper into the braking zone! Madness to take the corner at that speed—He came to his feet, Nova beside him, Anthora hanging on her arm, as a burst of orange exploded from the back of Araceli, which could only be Val Con, jumping—

The crowd’s groan turned to a cheer, under which Pat Rin heard Anthora’s voice, repeating urgently, “He’s all right, sister. They’re both all right. Sit down.

They’re—”

Pat Rin sat slowly, staring at Val Con, who was standing like an orange balloon in the back of the skimmer, his astonishing cloak hauling the craft’s speed down from the absurd to the reasonable.

And entering the sickle-curve Korval was fourth, approaching third.

* * *

TOLANDA’S PILOT glanced back, disbelief on her face; shouted to her teammate and fishtailed for the nerf—the intentional glancing collision which would push the upstarts off the course.

Val Con snapped half-erect, cloak billowing over one arm, air-braking and tipping Araceli and Tolanda was fourth, fighting rotation. Shan was laughing.

The hill loomed. Val Con ducked into his cocoon to preserve speed; snapped out at the crest, catching an over-the-shoulder grin from Shan. They charged downhill neck-and-neck with Tolanda; and left them in the dust as the Terran began braking for the corner.