‘Furthermore, if I opted,’ Amon went on sourly, ‘I’d have to take whoever is up next for assignment with no refusal right.’
‘That’s too true.’
‘I’m not fat with double bonuses from grateful Nekkarese.’
Helva swallowed a fast retort to such an unfair remark and meekly said she hoped that things would soon look up. Amon wanted a sympathetic listener, not an adviser.
‘You take the advice of one who’s been around, Helva,’ Amon went on, mollified by her contrition, ‘and take every solo assignment you can get. Rack up bonuses while you can. Then you’ll be in a position to bargain. I’m not. Oh, here he comes!’
‘He’s in a hurry, too.’
‘Wonder what lit his jets.’ Amon sounded so disagreeable that Helva began to wonder just how much the brawn was at fault. Brain ships were people, too.
Just then, Helva could hear the brawn’s excited greeting over the open ship-to-ship band.
‘Amon, man, get us cleared and lifted. We got to get back to Regulus Base on the double. I just heard . . .’
The band went dead.
It was so like Amon to be selfish with good news, too, that Helva did not take offense. Good luck to him, she thought as she turned on the outside scanners and watched him lift off. If he did get a good assignment and the delivery bonus, he could pay off his debt. He might even resolve most of his problems with his brawn. The man had seemed nice enough when he’d paid a courtesy call on Kira and herself the day they arrived at Nekkar. But it was petty of him Helva thought . . . if the brawn had heard, the news could not come via tight beam.
‘Nekkar Control, XH-834 calling.’
‘Helva? Had my hand on the switch to call you. Our ground crew treating you right? Anything you want them to do, you just let ’em know,’ answered the affable com man.
Considering Nekkar’s recent disaster, you’d think they’d be as sour as Amon.
‘I was wondering if you could tell me why the TA-618 left in such a hurry.’
‘Say, yes, that’s something, isn’t it? Never know who’s around in the next system over, do you? I always said, a galaxy’s got room for all kinds. But who’d ever think people . . . I guess you could call ’em people . . . would want any old archaic plays. Can you imagine that?’ and infuriatingly the com man chuckled.
Amon had problems knowing ahead of time what his man’d say? Helva thought, impatiently waiting for this jovial soul to say anything worth listening to.
‘Well, not really, because you haven’t told me what you heard yet,’ Helva cut in as the man seemed likely to continue editorializing.
‘Oh, sorry. Thought you ships’d all have your ears . . . oh, pardon the slip . . . to the rumor-block. Well, now, generally my sources are very reliable and this came to me from two sources, as I was telling Pilot Trace. A survey ship out Beta Corvi way registered some regulated-energy emissions. Pin-pointed them to the sixth planet which had . . . of all improbabilities . . . a methane-ammonia atmosphere. Never heard of any sentients before developing in that kind of environment, have you?’
‘No. Please go on.’
‘Well, before the crew could get an exploratory probe treated to withstand that kind of air; ha, ha, air, that’s good.’
‘Consider that what we breathe might be poisonous to them,’ Helva suggested.
‘Oh, true, too true. Any rate, before the crew could shake a leg, the Corviki had probed them. What do you think of that?’
‘Fascinating. I’m hanging on your words.’
‘Well, those Survey men are on their toes, I’ll tell you. Didn’t let an opportunity like this slip from their grasp. Offered to exchange scientific information with the Beta Corviki and invited ’em to join the Central Worlds Federation. Say,’ and the man paused to think, ‘how’d the survey know they were high enough on the Civ-scale to qualify right off if they hadn’t even got a probe down to the surface of the planet?’
‘If the Beta Corviki could contact our survey ship, and if they are fooling around with regulated-energy emissions detectable outside their solar system, we might not qualify on their Civ-scale.’
‘Oh. Hadn’t looked at it from that angle.’ The man’s resilience was incredible, for he paused only briefly before taking up again. ‘Well, we have something they want badly,’ and he sounded as pleased as if he had himself invented this commodity. ‘Plays!’
‘Plays?’
‘That’s right. Guess it’d be hard to develop any art forms on a methane-ammonia planet. At any rate, the story is that they will exchange some energy-process of theirs that we need for our old plays.’
‘New lamps for old?’ Helva murmured.
‘How’s that?’
‘That doesn’t explain why the TA shot out of here so fast.’
‘Oh, well, that’s easy. Calls are going out all over the sector for you ships to report in. Say, you being the ship who sings and all, this ought to be right up your alley.’
‘Possibly,’ Helva temporized. ‘But I’m due to be assigned a new brawn partner and they wouldn’t send a green team out on a mission of this importance.’
‘You mean, you don’t want it? Trace said there was a triple bonus attached that any ship in its right mind would fight for.’
‘I am in my right mind but there is something else more important to me than a triple bonus.’
The com man’s silence was more eloquent than any cliché he could utter. Fortunately the tight-beam channel warmed up and Helva excused herself to open her end of it.
The transmission began with a mission code, so she flipped on the recorder and monitored the message.
She was directed to proceed immediately to Duhr III, en route to Regulus Base. She was to receive four official passengers at the University Spaceport, Lock No 24, and proceed with no further delay to base.
‘If those were orders, ma’am,’ the com man said when she returned to his channel, ‘I can give you instant clearance.’
‘Not quite yet, pal. I’ve got to pick up some passengers and I’m not going to go looking like a tramp ship. You did say that if there was anything I wanted . . .’
‘Yes, yes, and we mean it,’ the Nekkarese assured her.
So Helva flashed toward Duhr III, at speeds no human passenger could have endured, with holds and cabins gleaming and fresh, and bunks for full-sized humans placed where cradles for hundreds of embryos had recently swung.
She had borne in mind Amon’s sour comments and prevailed upon the willing foreman to make certain judicious chemical additions to the standard paints. The soft greens in the pilot’s cabin had been impregnated with pumice from Thuban, so that by changing light-tones, she could alter the shade enough to suit any personality. She’d had the galley done in a good strong orange, a thirsty color but one calculated to make people eat fast and leave. The main cabin was an off-white with blue tones and the others blues and beige. Trouble with Amon was, Helva reflected, he didn’t use his wits. Or maybe, she amended tolerantly, he simply hadn’t thought of using color-psychology on his brawn. The burden of adjustment, she’d been told, rested with the resident partner.
It hadn’t taken long to refurbish her interior once the finishes were mixed, for the foreman and his crew were efficient. The neat, clean interior would have been worth a far longer delay in her estimation, and made her unashamed to be carting passengers to Regulus. In fact, she looked forward to the trip. It was always stimulating to meet new people. And new brawns, she added firmly to herself. However, the carrier fee of these official passengers would pay for the spray job, so erase Amon’s advice.
And he wanted Pay-off, huh? Helva mused as she hurtled through space toward the far wink of Duhr. Well, even a brain ship had to have some incentive. Idly she ran a check on her own indebtedness and was agreeably surprised at its rapid reduction.
How extraordinary! If she could keep going at even half her present rate as a brawnless ship, presumably she could buy herself back from Central Worlds within 3 st
andard years. Her own mistress after 10 years of service? It didn’t seem possible. Why, Amon had been in service close to 150 years and he complained bitterly about the size of his debt. Of course, he was the complaining type, so she could discount a lot of his statements as exaggeration. And there were ‘free’ ships. The YG-635, in Amon’s class, was free. He did general work for the Scorpii Federation and had been modified to handle their environment.
Then, too, she’d had some lucky breaks. The bonus for that fateful Ravel mission was blood money, even if it was charged on the credit side of her ledger. She’d drawn full salary for the Antigone plague assignment, plus an efficiency bonus. And, while she and Kira had been partnered on the RCA Nekkarese stork-run, she’d drawn double pay because Kira was hired by RCA. The Alioth incident had carried a finders’ credit on the 732 and now the staggering Nekkarese gratuity. She’d had no major repairs – not that she ought to, being recently commissioned – so her financial position was very rosy, in spite of the unbelievable expenditures for her early care and maintenance.
Even if Helva did clear the backlog of debt, she would undoubtedly contract herself back to Central Worlds service, for she enjoyed the work. Of course, it would be rather soul-satisfying to be able to tell Central Worlds to go into a tight orbit once in a while. And then, she could hire or fire a brawn as she chose.
Yes, it would be worthwhile to Pay-off for such indulgences.
She still couldn’t see why Amon didn’t just take the penalty if Trace was such an irritant. It wasn’t as if Central Worlds would disown a deeply indebted ship . . . Well, not her problem. But there’d better be a brawn for her when she touched down at Regulus with her passengers. She had rights, indebted or not.
Despite her speed, having no need to keep day separate from night, the run seemed endless: she never slept and the chronos measured off meaningless hours. She was conditioned for a partner, for someone to take care of, to do for, to live with. She liked emotional involvement with other humans: the interchange of ideas, yes, even the irritation of contemptuous familiarity. These were all experiences she wanted first-hand, not sourly from a disenchanted old brain.
The spaceport of Duhr was partly hidden in an imposing mountain range in the northeastern hemisphere. On the other side and within the mountain itself was the tremendous administration complex of the university planet.
Landing at Lock No 24, Helva identified herself, and the extendible worm-maw of lock facility unerringly sought her passenger hatch. Two men waited for the connection to be made: one lounging against the trundlecart stacked with baggage, the other occupied solely with twitching at various parts of his tunic or glancing at his wrist unit.
‘No time to waste, now. You know which luggage goes where?’
The porthand didn’t bother to confirm, but smartly guided the trundler onto the ship, across the main cabin and down the corridor.
‘Why, it looks freshly commissioned,’ the official-type murmured, looking about him in considerable surprise and grudging approval. He paused in his inspection at the galley and peered around, looking into closets and drawers. ‘Where’s the supply key on this class ship?’ he asked the porthand, who was stowing the cases in the cabin.
‘Ask the ship,’ the porthand said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed this is a BB?’
‘Oh, good heavens,’ the official gasped. ‘I beg your pardon, sir or madam.’
Helva noticed tolerantly he still didn’t know where she was actually located, for he did a kind of circular bow, designed to catch every corner of the main cabin.
‘Are you provisioned to serve four normal humans all the way to Regulus Base?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. We’d no idea what transport would be coming, this has all happened so fast. And a BB ship! Well, that is flattering. You can adjust internal gravity in flight, can’t you?’ he asked, glancing up from the notations on his wrist unit.
‘Yes. What are the requirements? I have had no briefing.’
‘None?’ This concerned him deeply. ‘Oh, but you should have. You really should have. No, that’s wrong. Cancel that. Although the Solar did request . . . well, as you can adjust that’s no problem then, is it?’
Not another scatterwit, Helva groaned to herself. ‘If you will indicate the gravity required . . .’
There was an eruption of applause and cheers at the top of the lock tunnel. The official glanced apprehensively towards it. ‘They’re coming now. The Solar will tell you, or Miss Ster, his medical attendant. You must be prepared to take off immediately you know.’
The porthand jauntily crossed back through the main cabin, flipping Helva’s column a cheery salute as he exited. ‘Gear’s all stowed for takeoff.’
‘Very good,’ his superior mumbled absently as he followed him to the lock. The slight frown was immediately replaced by a fixed smirk just as the noisy party started down the corridor.
The four people in the front rank must be her passengers; they wore shipsuits. Helva enlarged the pictures and it was easy to see which one needed controlled gravity. Half-grav, at least, she decided. The man walked with that terrible exertion of someone unused to and uncomfortable in full grav, whose muscles strained to work against the heavy drag. Helva could see that even his face muscles sagged: a pity, for he was a handsome man. Yet he kept his shoulders erect, his head high, too proud to permit physical disability to rob him of dignity.
She was so interested in him that she got only a glance at the other man and the two women before everyone had swept up to the lock.
The port official stepped hastily out of the way as a very distinguished older man with a cluster of academic knots on his tunic held out his hand to the striking woman beside him.
‘Here’s your personal magic carpet, to carry you to Regulus Base. May I say that it has been a great personal pleasure, Ansra Colmer, to meet you? Officially, the University of Duhr appreciated your willingness to interrupt a personal visit with Solar Prane to give our students the benefit of your art. Your Antigone was inspired: your Phorus II monologue made me appreciate for the first time the vital interplay of color, odor, and rhythm. You’re an amazingly versatile exponent of your art and one, I trust, soon to receive the accolade, Solara.’
The smile on Ansra Colmer’s carefully composed face seemed to stiffen slightly and there was absolutely no echo of humor in her glittering eyes.
‘You are too kind, Director, particularly since Duhr has its own Solar,’ and she made a half turn towards the grav-sufferer. ‘How can you bear to part with him?’ And, not waiting for an answer, she strode past the lock and into the main cabin. With her back to the noisy well-wishers, Helva could see that her expression was now one of suppressed anger and hatred.
The Director cleared his throat as if understanding all too well her innuendo. He bowed gravely toward the Solar.
‘You can’t be dissuaded, Prane?’
‘Central Worlds has made too strong a representation of its needs, Director. It is my duty to my profession to accept, hoping that any honor merited in the undertaking reflects on you for your many kindnesses.’ Prane’s voice was rich, resonant, the voice of the trained professional performer. If Helva noticed the odd hollowness, the occasional wispiness as if the tone were half-supported, her sensors were keener than the ears of the adoring crowd of young students and patient officials.
‘Solar Prane will be back in triumph before the term is ended,’ said the other male passenger, ‘preserved by the skill of Miss Ster.’
‘Truly spoken, Davo Fillanaser,’ the Director agreed heartily, turning now to shake the hand of the young woman beside Solar Prane.
Helva was fascinated by the various undertones in this farewell scene. It ought not be a boring trip, at any rate.
‘We must not hold up the pilot any longer,’ Solar Prane said. With a charmingly apologetic smile, he waved broadly to the crowd, which sighed of its sorrow and murmured regrets, even shed a few tears, as he stepped backward into the
lock, his arm hooked through Miss Ster’s.
The man addressed as Davo Fillanaser ranged himself beside them, smiling and waving, too.
Solar Prane turned his head toward the young woman and Helva saw him mouth a quick sentence.
‘I can’t stand much longer, Kurla. Tell the pilot to close the lock.’
Immediately Helva activated the lock portal.
‘Help me, Davo,’ Kurla cried, as the crowd was shut from view. She threw her arm around the Solar’s waist as the man’s large frame seemed to collapse against her.
‘Damn fool,’ Davo muttered, but he used extreme care in assisting . . . as if he were concerned about hurting Prane.
‘I’m all right. I’m all right,’ Prane insisted in a hoarse whisper.
‘That farewell party was madness in your condition and in full grav,’ Kurla said.
‘The hero must have a hero’s farewell,’ drawled Ansra Colmer. The smile on her face as she turned toward them was sincere now, sincerely vicious; and her eyes sparkled with intense pleasure at Prane’s debility.
‘The hero is not yet on his shield, Ansra,’ the Solar replied, almost as if he relished the notion of defying her. He put Kurla from him, touched Davo’s supporting hand, which fell away, and slowly, carefully crossed the cabin.
‘Misfire, Ansra?’ Davo asked, following the Solar at a discreet interval.
‘Ansra’s steel gives me backbone,’ the Solar chuckled, and Helva could have sworn, again, that these bitter undercurrents were therapeutic. The Solar’s medical attendant evidently did not agree.
‘That is quite enough,’ she said with a professional impersonality and, disregarding Prane’s independence, threw an arm around his waist and supported him the rest of the way toward the couch. ‘This ought to be a shock-mattress,’ she said, flipping back the mesh blanket. ‘Good.’ Deftly, she turned the Solar, easing him down to the bed. She then extracted a medical recorder from the pouch at her side. Her expression was detached and her eyes intent as she ran a check on him.
The Ship Who Sang Page 10
