Her body was rigid, though her shoulders twitched and her lips opened several time. He’d better say something to stem the acid eruption.
Using as casual and complimentary tone as he could manage, he said, “You have very romantic tastes, Channa,” which seemed to reduce her blazing eyes a degree or two. He’d never know why he continued: perhaps sheer mischief to get a little of his own back. “Though your bed looks amazingly like an ice cube.”
She blinked in astonishment and he thought, A hit! A very palpable hit! But then she took a deep breath.
“I did not think,” she said, every word precise and polished, “that it would be necessary to actually say this, but since I must, I shall. Because we got off on the wrong foot and I did not trust you, I swept my quarters for active scanners.” She crossed her arms. “You will please,” she went on with careful emphasis, “not ever enter my quarters without knocking and requesting admittance, and waiting for my express permission to enter. Is that clear, Simeon?”
“I apologize, Channa. Of course you’re right. I got careless, all those years with Tell.”
“As to the quality of my taste . . .” she said in a voice even more brittle than before.
Oh please, he thought, for once, just once, shut up and let it go.
“ . . . it’s none of your business.” She glared at him. “Given your own preference for interior decoration,” she said indicating his sword and dagger collection, “I’d say you have titanium gall to make snarky remarks about mine.”
“But I like it. I said I liked it!”
“And what,” she continued unheeding, “would someone with such a morbid fascination with humanity’s lapses into ritualized slaughter know about romance anyway?”
Simeon was dumbstruck. “I’ve never . . . thought of my interest in military history as a ‘morbid fascination.’ I am genuinely fascinated by strategy and military tactics. But to call it morbid, well, romance and morbidity have a long and interesting relationship.”
She sighed with exasperation. “Let’s just say that while both can be morbid, romance and militarism make uncomfortable . . .” and she winced “ . . . bedfellows.”
“Channa, some of the most romantic people in history have been military personnel. Doesn’t the very word ‘warrior’ conjure up romantic images?”
She shook her head discouragingly. “Not to me!”
“Not even ‘knights in shining armor?’ ”
She groaned. “Look, Simeon, it’s late and I’m tired. Let’s just say that I don’t like my privacy invaded at any time, by anyone.” Her lips curled in a slight rueful grin. “But I think I overreacted a tad. Especially when you made fun of my decor.”
“Well, you might wait till you’re actually being made fun of before you start clawing pieces out of people.”
“Sorry.”
“Romance has its place,” he murmured.
She smiled sardonically and raised one eyebrow. “With all due respect, Simeon, I doubt that romance has crossed your mind. Real, genuine romance, with its aspects of tenderness and sentiment are, if you’ll excuse me, beyond your ken.”
There was more challenge than honest regret in her voice, and he took offense. “Because I’m a shellperson?” he asked, fairly purring with suppressed anger.
Channa’s jaw dropped. “N-no, of course not!” she said, stammering slightly. Then she caught herself and shook her hairbrush at him. “What a nasty, evil, slimy debater’s trick! You know perfectly well that I never even thought of that! What I meant was that so far in our acquaintance, you have yet to demonstrate that you are sensitive, or idealistic or . . . well, tender. Passion, now—I think you’ve very effectively conceptualized raw, basic, animal passion. Which does not exist in the same universe as romance.”
“Let me tell you something, Ms. Hap. I’m well aware that romance happens in the mind and the soul and the heart. I know that it isn’t necessarily a physical thing. Remember Heloise and Abelard . . .”
“Great warrior couple, were they?” she asked smiling.
He sighed to himself. What do they teach them in university these days? “Not they, milady. I see I must persuade you beyond any measure of doubt. You’ve put me on my mettle.” She cocked her head at him. “I shall court you, belle dame sans merci, and win your heart.”
She laughed aloud in astonishment. “You’ve got your work cut out for you. I may like the romantical—as decor—but I’m no dewy-eyed sentimentalist and not at all susceptible.”
“Oh, so you’re seduction-proof, are you?”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Goodnight, Simeon.”
“Goodnight, Channa,” he said quietly as she left without another word.
Not susceptible, eh, Happy baby? Well, get ready for it, sweetheart—you’re in for the time of your life! You want romance? I’ll give you romance, little lady, in such subtle and clever portions, you won’t realize that you’re being wooed by a very personal phantom lover.
He settled down to consider his strategy. Softshells could rely on physical attraction for starters; that was impossible for him, of course.
How to begin, he wondered. Well, with Channa, I suppose I could start with deft cooperation and nineteenth-century manners. I’d better look into the mores of Hawking Alpha Proxima Station and see what their courting customs are. Nothing so blatant as gifts right off, hmmm. Ah-ha! Music! After all, it hath charms to soothe the savage beast, or breast. Both apply in this case. Now, I’ll just access her musical repertoire—which doesn’t invade her privacy, merely her overt records . . .
“Hey, Simeon, what’s going on?” Joat said, turning from her breakfast to stare at his column.
“Going on, my dear?” Simeon said.
“Yeah, going on. All of a sudden you’re so smooth you’d make a wombat puke, and Channa looks as if she’d just found a dead body, a long-time dead body.”
Channa snorted suddenly. Since she was in the middle of a mouthful of coffee, the results were spectacular. Joat silently offered her a napkin as she coughed and sputtered.
“You’re imagining things,” Simeon replied, with a touch of asperity. He shifted into a mellow tone: “Are you all right, Channa?”
“What’s wrong with Simeon?” Patsy asked, sotto voce. They were in the shadow of an impeller pump, and the vibration would make voice-pickup difficult.
“Wrong?” Channa said, frowning.
“Yeah, he’s agreein‘ all the time.”
“Now that you mention it . . .”
The woman from Larabie shrugged. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Chan. But, if you do, check the teeth fer file-marks.”
Chief Administrator Claren gave a final keystroke.
“That’s the projections matched against the past five years,” he said. “You’ll note turnover is a little high, but on a transit station, it’s difficult to keep people.”
Channa frowned. “I’d think it would be easier here,” she said. “More big-city facilities.”
“Also easier to leave,” Claren pointed out, nodding towards the large passenger terminal.
“We should do more in the way of social and cultural activities,” Channa said. “The contingency fund would cover it, and in the long run, such amenities pay for themselves and then some. There are a lot of mining and exploration sectors around here”—which was exactly why SSS-900-C had been established in the middle of the cluster of mineral-rich fifth-generation suns—“and their people need leisure activities just as much as their equipment and ships need servicing. The Perimeter’s a gold mine for its owners and for the station, to name your only real star attraction. If the outposters could get entertainment and commissary supplies in a range from cheap to expensive, they wouldn’t need to travel further in towards Center. This whole area would take a big step further toward being part of the Central Worlds and not just a primitive frontier zone.”
“Exactly, Ms. Hap,” Claren said. He was a mousy-looking little man, with thinning bl
ack hair combed back over his head. He dressed like a humorist’s caricature of a bureaucrat, down to the keypad holder on his belt. “It’s what I’ve been saying for years.”
“What do you think, Simeon?” Channa asked.
“Sounds good to me,” the affable city manager replied.
Claren coughed violently; one of his hovering assistants scurried forward with a glass of water.
Channa waited until he had recovered. “Surprise you, did he?”
“Surprise me? Me? No, no, something caught in my throat. Air’s dry, I think.” He hastily swallowed another sip of water to reinforce that interpretation. “Now, here,” and his fingers flew over the key of his terminal, “are some plans we’ve had pending, with the projected—”
“Answer the question, please, Administrator Claren,” she said firmly but quietly. She might be new, but she could recognize “sign now, please,” when she heard it.
“Well, ah, this isn’t the first time these specific projects have been put forward,” Claren said. “But, ah, there has never been a sufficiently positive reaction to implement the schemes. Until now, that is. It’s a pleasure to work with someone who can appreciate planning ahead and is so naturally decisive. Ahhhhh, oh dear.” His voice trailed off.
Channa’s took on a steely note. “Changed our mind, have we, Simeon?”
“This station wasn’t in a position to plunge into such an ambitious project. Much less have the incentive,” Simeon replied smoothly. “Tell was a roughneck like me. Neither of us had the background for coordinating such enterprises. Here, anyway.”
Channa turned, subliminally aware of something moving through the air behind her. It was a message tray, floating at elbow height. The domed top folded back, revealing chilled glasses and a frosted, uncorked bottle of a fine vintage. A single red rose lay on the white napery. Her lips grew thin but, as she saw Claren watching her closely and knew that she must be flushing, she controlled her impulse to sling the bottle at the sensor that linked Simeon to this office.
“Yes, by all means let us drink to the success of this undertaking, Claren,” she said and began to pour.
Facetiously, she lifted her glass towards the sensor and sipped, mildly surprised at the dry crisp taste. “Hmm. Not a bad white! Didn’t know you had it in you, Simeon.”
“I’m not without a few talents of mine own,” he replied, wishing there was an imager in Claren’s office so he could project the suave smile he was feeling.
She downed the rest of the glass, replacing it on the float. “If you’d just transfer the plans to my terminal, Administrator Claren, I can peruse them at my leisure.” Then she strode purposefully out of the office.
She was storming by the time she got to their lounge. “I bet you think you were being subtle! Subtle like colliding with an asteroid, you—” She swung around to the screen which he had prudently left blank, giving her anger no focus. Then she began to hear the sounds filling the room.
Simeon delightedly watched her expression gradually alter from livid to astonished and finally to enchanted as the lilting sounds of the Reticulan mating croon filled the lounge. The sounds were long, low, dreamy. There was no formal melody, but somehow the theme suggested the stillness of deep forest and dew falling like liquid diamond in streaks of sunlight dazzling through the leaves.
Channa stood still for a moment. She winced slightly as the door closed with an audible swoosh, annoyed that any other sound marred the perfection of what she was hearing. Then, stepping carefully, as though fearful that cloth brushing against cloth or shoe against carpet might cause her to lose a precious second of the complex music that surrounded her, she walked to a chair. She sat down so slowly she seemed to float down to it, scarcely seemed to breathe as she absorbed the music.
My first impression of her was correct, Simeon thought, watching Channa. She is a fox! Then, peering more closely, he wasn’t so sure, for her eyes were half-closed, starred with tears, and his acute vision let him see the skin of her face relaxing, smoothing out. She doesn’t look that foxy now! In fact, she looks kinda . . . sweet.
When the croon had drifted off into a serene silence, she sat without moving. Then she closed her eyes and slowly leaned back, clasping her hands before her. When she opened her eyes, they shone and her voice was husky.
“Oh, Simeon . . . I can forgive you a lot of tricks for that! I might even kiss you. In appreciation, of course. That was so beautiful. Thank you,” and she smiled.
Simeon modulated his voice so that there was a “smile” in his tones when he answered her. “You’re welcome. Do you happen to know what that was?” He didn’t think she was likely to, but he kept that out of his tone.
She wiped an eye and said, “I’ve never had the opportunity to hear one, but that has to be a Reticulan croon.”
“You’re right about that,” Simeon said with satisfaction. “But I’ll bet you’ll never guess who performed it.” He tried hard to keep any smugness out of his voice.
“Now, how would I know who sang, much less who could, beside Reticulans, and they’re on the other side of this galaxy. Oh! It couldn’t be . . .” Her eyes went round in awed surprise. “Not Helva? She’s supposed to be able to sing them. But . . . you . . . and Helva, the ship who sings?”
“None other.” Simeon was gratified by her reaction.
“You know her?”
“Indeed I do,” and Simeon allowed himself to speak with considerable pride. “She drops by every now and then to visit—” he couldn’t resist a little pause for effect “—me. We discuss and exchange contemporary music from all parts of the galaxy. Since there are so few recordings of Reticulan croons—which we shellpeople enjoy so much—she herself made me a gift of this one.” The memory of his thrill at receiving such a prize colored his tone.
Channa smiled in response. “Finally read my personnel tape, did you?”
“Well, I’d love to say that I’m just terribly perceptive, but music’s mentioned as a significant interest. I just thought this particular recording might please, too.”
“Oooh,” she said with a quaver in her laugh, “music hath charms department? As you said not long ago,” and there was an edge of combined sarcasm and chagrin, “you have a few talents.” Then she added brightly, “Do you sing, too? That’s not mentioned in your personals.”
Simeon made a throat-clearing, clearly self-deprecating sound. “I am not like Helva and make no claims to musical discrimination. I listen to what I like, but I don’t know if I’ll like something until I hear it.”
“So what else have you heard and liked?” she asked, relaxed in the afterglow of the beautiful croon. “Besides rockjack, that is?”
His tone was embarrassed. “I really don’t like Rant much. I just got used to it, you know. The guys on those early mining belt assignments I had didn’t play anything else. Most of what I like turns out to be classical or operatic.”
“Me, too,” she said, smiling towards his column with a kindliness he had not seen in her before. “Well, if Helva liked you enough to give you that superb Reticulan recording, and you actually admit to a preference for classical and operatic, perhaps we should call a truce?”
“A truce? Do we need one?”
She narrowed her eyes. “In a manner of speaking, we do. We have struck a few sparks.” She grinned. “A mutual appreciation of music is so far probably the firmest common ground between us. Halfway through secondary school, I realized that my best friends were also my choirmates.” She leaned toward the column, with the first intimacy she had so far shown him. “We used to produce and cast ghost operas.”
“You did what?”
“We’d choose a subject or theme, and a composer, then select a cast. The rules said that composer and cast have to be dead.”
“Really? How bizarre!” Simeon paused to consider the notion. “Do go on.”
“We’d start with . . . the name of this opera. Say, ‘Rasputin.’ Have you heard of him?” The merry tone of her voice was su
btly teasing, challenging him.
“Of course, I have. He’s often credited with being the indirect cause of a successful revolution.”
She regarded his column with a wry expression. “You would know about him if he caused a war, wouldn’t you?”
“Do we, or don’t we have a truce?”
“We do,” she said, holding up both hands in surrender.
“Who writes this ‘Rasputin’ opera?”
“Oh, Verdi,” she said instantly. “Such a grand theme as well as that particular time would appeal to him. Don’t you think? Now, you tell me who should play the lead.”
Simeon accessed the necessary historical information from his files. “In the available likenesses of him, Rasputin has enormous eyes and a riveting gaze, so we want a singer who’s physically powerful and dramatically able to do justice to such a role. How about !Tlac Suc, the Sendee tenor?”
“Eh . . . he does have a compelling gaze, I grant you, and his eyes are large. But don’t you think he has a few too many of them? Besides he’s only retired, not dead.”
Simeon flipped back a massive leap in the research file. “Um, Placido Domingo?”
“I know of him! He lived in a time blessed with great tenors. He’s perfect! Tall, lean, big brown eyes and what a voice. Nice choice, Simeon.”
“And he’s dead, too.”
“I can see it now,” she said, standing suddenly and clutching histrionically at her throat. “They poison him, you see,” and then she flung her arms wide, “and he sings! They stab him,” she mimed a thrust to the bosom, before flinging her arms wide again, “and he sings! They drown him,” she flapped her arms as though splashing frantically, then placed both hands on her heart, “and he sings! They shoot him,” she staggered to Simeon’s column and leaned her back against it.
“Channa, he’s got to stop singing sometime.”
She raised a finger, “Sotto voce, he sings, ‘it is over.’ ” She slid down the column into a graceful art-deco position, “And he dies.” Her head flopped forward and her hands dangled loosely from her wrists.