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Chapter Two

HE still had the stupid note that he had written. What was he going to do with it? When he wrote the message to himself he had never thought there might be a problem disposing of the thing.

Swallow the page? The paper looked indigestible, but if all else failed . . . .

Divide it into little pieces and let the wind blow them wherever it chose? That was better. He tore the sheet into tiny squares, each no bigger than a fingernail, and carried them downstairs squashed in his fist. His bright idea seemed a lot less inspired when he went outside and found that the warm autumn day was flat calm. Anything thrown away would not blow anywhere.

The stables and riding rings were beyond the boundaries of the estate, nearly two miles away. Instead of taking one of the little electric go-carts used for general runabout, Jeff went on foot. Every few yards he scattered a few bits of paper. He felt like an idiot, an escapee from a children's fairy story.

As he walked he thought about what his mother had told him. The news that his father was dead was no surprise at all. As the months had passed, the chance of Nelson Kopal's survival had felt more and more remote. What was disturbing were the other statements that she had made. Apparently he, Jefferson Kopal, was all that stood between his uncles and aunts and their control of Kopal Transportation.

Nelson Kopal owned a majority of the stock. Jeff had always assumed that was all that mattered. But if Nelson were declared dead, and Jeff were to be disinherited, then the biggest block would belong to Jeff's uncle, Giles Lazenby. Mother's unstated plea was clear: Qualify for navy service, no matter how you do it. Don't give your father's cousin a reason to challenge your fitness to inherit.

She didn't realize that the afternoon's competition was the final qualifying requirement for Space Navy entrance. The entry rules made no sense to Jeff. The navy operated far off in space, where the only animals were small pets, and weapons were controlled by computers. But the training for the navy included marksmanship and horsemanship!

He had scraped through the first with the lowest acceptable marks. As for horse riding, how many horses were in low Earth orbit, in the E-K Belt, or out in the node network territories? Jeff didn't know the answer, but he was willing to make a bet: zero.

On the other hand, maybe he was trying to justify his own feelings. When he had been given his first lesson, ten years ago, he had been frightened by the huge animal in front of him.

Compared to his own size it had loomed enormous. When he was on its back, he felt miles off the ground.

Since then he had grown a lot. The trouble was, horses still seemed amazingly big. The idea that he could control such a large animal sounded implausible, and, perhaps because the horses sensed his nervousness, much of the time it was.

He was approaching the stands and the riding ring. Even from a hundred yards away he fancied he could see the flies and smell the dung, sun-warmed leather, and pungent liniment.

He had no watch on him, but he glanced up at the sun. He had taught himself to estimate the time from its position in the sky.

Close to noon; half an hour, then came the draw for first contestant; less than an hour to the first round. He had inspected the eight-fence jump course earlier in the day, and it didn't look too bad.

Predictably, Myron was already over by the horses. He was tightening girths and talking softly to his white-speckled stallion, Lysander. He saw Jeff approaching, stopped work, and strode in his direction.

"I'm almost done. Do you need a hand with Domino?"

Jeff shook his head, not sure of his voice. His problem wouldn't be with the saddling and grooming, he rather enjoyed doing that. As for Myron, as usual he was picture-perfect. His tunic was spotless and creaseless, its silver buttons and epaulets shining in the midday sun. His breeches fitted perfectly, and his knee-high riding boots were highly polished and free of scuff marks. Jeff's cousin was tall, blond, and decisive, every inch the Space Navy recruit most likely to succeed. His older sister, Myra, was already in the navy and doing marvelously.

Myron held out his hand. "Good luck. Though I'm sure neither of us will need it."

Jeff took the outstretched hand and mumbled his own words of encouragement. As usual with Myron, Jeff couldn't tell how much of what his cousin said was genuine, and how much was for appearances. It was certainly as important a day for Myron as it was for Jeff.

As for not needing luck, that was a joke. Myron had seen Jeff in the past. While Myron responded well to pressure and in a stress situation did better than usual, Jeff couldn't help imagining what might go wrong—and as a result, many times it did. He wished that, just once, Myron would miss a jump, or finish his round sprawled over the horse's neck.

As soon as he could, he escaped to prepare Domino. The brown mare turned her head as Jeff approached and nuzzled at his shoulder in a friendly way. When Jeff walked to where the saddles were draped over the saddle rack, Domino calmly followed. The horse cooperated as Jeff lifted her hooves to examine them. If anything does go wrong today, Jeff thought gloomily, it won't be her fault.

And what had his mother meant, when she said that Jeff had Drake's genes? Although Uncle Drake had been dead and gone for years and years, most of the family were still reluctant to talk about him. When they did talk, they didn't agree. His father had been the kindest.

"There was no holding Drake." Nelson Kopal's eyes took on a strange little smile when he spoke of his brother. "He had the oddest mind you can imagine, a new wild idea a minute. I could never keep up with him, even though I was three years older. If he had lived, and grown a bit more mature, he might have . . . ." The smile faded and was replaced with a look of sad reminiscence. "But he didn't. Didn't grow up when he was young, and he never had time after that. The idea that killed him, node-hopping without a defined destination—that was so typical, and so crazy. I tried to talk him out of it. I'd have managed to persuade most people." Nelson shook his head. "But not your uncle."

Except for Uncle Lory Lazenby, who was nice about everything, Jeff's other relatives had not been nearly as charitable. Aunt Willow, Father's cousin and a board member of Kopal Transportation, was the most direct.

"I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, Jefferson, but your uncle Drake was totally irresponsible, from the day that he was born. Irresponsible, and totally obstinate. All the family traditions, everything that your Great-grandfather Rollo"—you could hear the reverent capitals in Aunt Willow's voice—"worked so hard to establish, Drake ignored. He had no respect for family or military standards. He took no interest in our business, or in the company's finances. We could have gone bankrupt and all ended in the Pool for what he cared. He was worse than poor Lory! I tell you, Jefferson, I'm not one to speak ill of anyone." Aunt Willow drew in breath through her nose, and her nostrils pinched. "Not of anyone. But in my humble opinion it was a blessing in many ways when Drake was lost. That foolish space game he insisted on playing! Ridiculous, for a grown man. It's his own fault that he isn't around anymore to bring shame on his family."

Just as I'm bringing shame on the family, Jeff thought as he stood at Domino's side, cinching a girth. "You've got Drake's genes, Jeff." Sure. Not much doubt what that means. But I wish I'd been older when Uncle Drake had his accident, so I'd understand what they're all getting at.

Then there was Uncle Giles. He was always smiling, and he smiled when he spoke of Drake. But his words didn't match his grin. "Drake had everything a man could wish for, Jefferson—money, power, position, family. He was missing just one thing. Character, the big one, that's what he lacked. And without that, a man or woman has nothing. Drake would not get serious. He wanted to fiddle his life away, nothing but playing with machines and computers and those queer gadgets he'd build."

But did that mean you didn't have character? If it did, then Jeff had no character, either. What was so wrong with trying to make an old aircar fly again, without the tools and the manuals? Did the whole world have to be either military tradition or running a transportation company?

A shadow fell across Jeff's hands. He turned, half expecting to see Uncle Giles's white-toothed smile or Aunt Willow's tight-faced glower. Instead it was Myron again.

"I thought you might like to know the draw," he said. "Since you weren't there for it."

"Already?" Jeff wondered how long he had been daydreaming.

"Five minutes ago. You're fifth up—next to last. I go first." Myron grimaced. "If anything's wrong with the setup that we didn't notice on the walk-through, I'll be the one who finds out. But at least I'll get mine out of the way early, and that's a blessing."

Jeff nodded. He didn't believe for a moment that Myron was suffering from nerves. He was just saying that for Jeff's benefit, rubbing it in. Myron knew from past experience how twitchy Jeff became when it was close to contest time.

Like now.

Jeff glanced down and saw that the rein he held was shaking from the tremor in his hands. He stood up, placing it behind his back so that Myron couldn't see.

"How long before you do your round?"

"Ten minutes." Myron glanced toward the circuit. "I'd better get over there."

"Sure. I'll come watch you, as soon as I'm done here." And then—he couldn't help it—he asked, "Who's there?"

He didn't need to explain. His cousin was being judged, as well as Jeff himself.

"Pretty much the whole family." Myron grinned. "Plus, of course, the three navy representatives. Cross your fingers, Jeff. This is the big one. Think 'clear round.' "

He turned and walked away. Jeff looked after him, sure that Myron didn't need crossed fingers. Like his older sister, Myron was totally poised and assured.

Instinctively, Jeff looked down to see if he had mud on the knees of his breeches. He didn't—for a change. And the presence of representatives from the navy had one advantage. Since he was not supposed to try to influence their judgment, he wouldn't be allowed to go into the stand where they and senior members of the family were seated. His own awkwardness and lack of confidence would not be revealed.

He led Domino to a position where he could see all the jumps without being in sight of the judges' stand. The weather was changing. The sun was still bright, but the day was hotter and more humid. There was the weight of an afternoon thunderstorm in the air, and he could feel perspiration dampening the armpits of his tight uniform. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He should have brought a handkerchief.

Myron was ready and waiting. Jeff didn't see the signal, but suddenly his cousin was trotting Lysander in a circle, then cantering toward the first jump. They took it cleanly, and the next three. They turned, and Lysander changed lead leg smoothly for the second half of the course. The fifth fence offered no problem, but at the sixth Myron's horse clipped and dislodged the top rail. He recovered well, and they took the other two jumps rapidly and without a problem. There was hearty applause from the stand as Lysander walked past it. Myron removed his riding helmet and inclined his blond head to the judges. He had an excellent time, and he knew it.

Competitors were not supposed to speak to each other, but as Myron continued out of the ring and passed the waiting Jeff, he muttered out of the side of his mouth, "That sixth fence, it's a bitch. Doesn't look it, but it's out of alignment for a straight approach."

Jeff stared at the jump. From his angle it looked fine. There would be no adjustment unless Myron made a formal complaint, and from the look of him he was not about to do that. His round was not clean, but it was close.

The next competitor's effort didn't give Jeff any useful information. Her horse, a rawboned gelding three sizes too big for her, decided what it would jump and when. It meandered around the course and never went near the troublesome sixth fence. The rider was red-faced and would not look at the judges' stand when the round ended, but the spectators gave her a good round of applause. She was only eleven or twelve, and it was her first contest.

The third rider had problems with four fences, including the troublesome sixth, but struggled through. The one who came after him had obviously been watching closely. She turned unusually wide after the fifth fence, so that her mare could add a stride and pick up a little extra pace on the approach to the sixth. They went over cleanly, then finished the rest of the course smoothly and easily.

A clear round. But Jeff was hardly aware of the applause. If the previous rider could do it, why couldn't he? He had their experience of the course to build on.

He moved into position, waiting for the signal, concentrating all his attention on the first jump. His stomach was churning, and he could feel the sweat on his forehead.

Domino caught the start signal almost before he did. The mare trotted through the preliminary circle, then accelerated smoothly forward and glided over the first fence with almost no guidance from Jeff. He settled back in the saddle, shortened the reins, and took Domino through the second, third, and fourth jumps without a problem. The mare changed lead leg smoothly, and they began the second half of the course.

The fifth fence was easy, everyone had cleared it without trouble. As Domino approached the jump Jeff could see the hoof marks of other horses in the soft, powdery earth. He did not pay much attention to them. Already he was thinking ahead, to the difficult sixth. For a clean round it would be necessary to take it without an error.

Thinking beyond the present was a mistake. Jeff had pressed Domino a little too hard, so that the jump over the fifth fence was made too close to it. The mare went high but not far, catching the heavy top rail with her left hind leg. She landed off balance, and Jeff—never a great horseman—tilted far forward in the saddle instead of settling back. The change in weight distribution affected Domino, who came awkwardly to the sixth fence. At the last moment, knowing there was no chance of clearance, the mare refused.

Jeff went over Domino's neck and crashed headfirst into the heavy timber of the top rail. The helmet he was wearing saved his skull, but the blow was hard enough to knock him dizzy. He couldn't protect himself with his hands as he fell over the fence and tumbled down the other side.

His left shoulder hit the ground, then his head. He did not lose consciousness, not quite, but he was far enough gone that when he tried to stand up he had no idea where he was.

Domino, having refused the jump, had walked quietly around the fence and was standing head-down just a few feet away. Jeff had fallen off enough in past practices for his instincts to take over. He rose unsteadily, placed a foot in the stirrup, and climbed without thinking onto the mare's back.

He sat swaying, not sure what had happened. When Domino started forward it took all Jeff's strength to hold on. The horse went easily over the last two fences, then cantered to a halt by the judges' stand.

Jeff, head buzzing and stomach rolling, tried to dismount. He would have fallen flat on his face, but other people were suddenly there to help him. He was grabbed and lowered, until his feet met the ground. And finally he could obey the urge that had grown stronger and stronger as he lurched and rocked over those final fences. He leaned forward and threw up breakfast and lunch onto three pairs of polished riding boots.

When his swimming eyes at last cleared, he saw that the boots all bore at their top a little embossed pattern of silver stars. He peered at them.

Riding boots? No. Not riding boots at all. They were Space Navy boots.

Jeff decided that he was as far from a clean round as you could ever get.

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Framed