The Ship Who Sang (29 page)

‘Yes, yes, Parollan's very helpful,' Railly muttered. ‘So there's just the proper brawn left to be discussed. Right now . . .'

‘Hold it,' Helva interrupted him. ‘I thought I made it clear that I will only undertake the Beta Corvi run with the partner of my choice. Whether that man continues after Beta Corvi is not at issue.'

Railly turned to her, his eyes wary. ‘Yes, we'd agreed to that. But you also said you wanted a permanent brawn.'

‘I do. But I won't go to Beta Corvi unless Parollan goes with me.'

She ignored Railly's explosive protest and the astonished exclamations and congratulations from Dobrinon and Breslaw. Her eyes, her mind, her being were focused on Niall.

The wiry little man turned, his eyes seeking the exact spot on the column parallel to her head.

‘This is a bad time for jokes, Helva.'

‘I'm not joking, m'boy.'

‘By all that's holy, Parollan, Helva's a genius,' Dobrinon cried delightedly, clapping the unresisting shoulder. ‘And she's called your bluff.'

‘Indeed she has. You've always boasted you could outbrawn any man in the Service,' Railly said in a dry, cool voice. There'd been no vindictiveness in Helva's nomination, but there was in Railly's prompt ratification. ‘A little field work will make you a better supervisor.'

‘I think Helva can rectify that fluctuating gravity problem that bugged the test ship,' Breslaw assured Parollan. ‘And there's always the shockweb for added protection.'

Abruptly they left. Niall Parollan remained, troubled and dazed, reacting not at all in any of the ways she could understand.

‘You've got to be joking, Helva,' he said, his voice cracking despite an obvious effort to control himself.

‘Why? You know more about brawning than anyone in Service. You know the Corviki problem backward and forward, and you undoubtedly researched Breslaw's equations thoroughly before . . .'

‘Of course I did,' and the control was gone. His words tumbled out harsh and bitter. ‘Do you think I'd let you walk into something I hadn't checked thoroughly? But I rigged this farce.
I
did! Not Railly. I talked him into it. And Breslaw and Dobrinon, too, once I saw the possibility of hooking you.'

‘That was obvious!'

‘You didn't have a chance, Helva, because I knew every button to push on you and when. And I did, gods help me, I did!'

‘You are undoubtedly the most unscrupulous supervisor in the Service,' she agreed, countering his scathing self-contempt with unruffled humor. ‘And that was a fardling underhanded trick you just served me.'

‘You're not even listening to me, you stupid tinplated witch. Can't you understand what I did to you? I
made
you stay in the Service!'

‘No. I elected to stay. On my conditions.'

Niall stared wildly at her, his eyes dark with the conflict that was tearing him apart. All arrogance, all self-confidence had been stripped from him. This was too violent a reaction to finding himself momentarily outmaneuvered.

‘Your conditions? Your conditions! Now there's another real fine example of cosmic justice,' and he laughed hoarsely at an irony only he could see.

‘Maybe you'd better let me in on that joke, Niall. I could use a laugh, even if it's on me.'

There were tears in his eyes now and he held his clenched fists rigid against his thighs.

‘I rigged all this, Helva, because I, Niall Parollan, could not let you leave Central World Service. Oh, yes. I put every mission your way that would help you Pay-off. And when you actually had, I found I couldn't tolerate the prospect. So I set up all those clever nardy ploys to keep you in. Only when I saw you reacting just as I'd planned you should, I knew I'd used my position for the most despicable act in a long series of clever, shrewd, despicable
manipulations. And I couldn't stop what I'd started. I couldn't even think of a way to get you out of the mess. Then you – Helva – want me, Parollan, for your brawn.' His laugh was a cry of anguish.

‘That doesn't change my option, Parollan,' she said forcefully. She had to override that horrible laughing. ‘I want you for brawn as selfishly as you want me in Service. And it'll be safer to have you my brawn than my Supervisor. There isn't much else for me to do anyway but stay with Central Worlds,' she added in a gentler voice. ‘You did make it possible for me to stay on my terms, because they fardling well know that I'm the only ship to do this job. I want you as brawn, Niall Parollan, because you are clever, devious, despicable, unscrupulous, and demanding. Because you do know the right buttons to push on me. You're not much on looks and size, but I've been that road. I'll trust you to bring me back out of anything . . . even Beta Corvi.'

‘
Trust
me?' It was a scream starting from his guts. His body was shaking with effort. ‘Why, you fool, you freak-out, half-grown, wirehaired retard of a romantic, tin-assed fool. You trust me? Don't you realize that I know every single thing there is to know about you. I even had a chromosonal extrap made so I'd know what you
look
like. And I know the release syllables they coded into your panel not seven days ago! Trust me? I'm the last person you can trust. Choose me as brawn? God!'

Helva was staggered by his disclosure. Parollan had a brawn fixation on her? She wanted to sing hallelujahs, she wanted to scream with rage. She was exalted and full of panic. But she knew what to do. She'd better. A brawn's irrational desire to see the face of his ‘brain' partner was scarcely uncommon when there was a deep emotional attachment between partners. It was usually thwarted by the difficulty of removing the access panel. If Niall had those guarded syllables . . .

She had to deal with this fixation, one way or the other.

‘That's why I can't be your brawn, Helva,' Niall said in a broken voice. ‘And don't give me that assywarble about fixations are common and cured. I know the release syllables. And one day, it'd be too much for Niall boy. I'd have to open that coffin they've sealed you in. I'd have to look at your beautiful face, touch that god-lovely smile, and hold you . . .'

He'd moved, fighting the drive of his body every inch, until he was eaglespread against her column, his cheek pressed against the cold metal, his fingertips white with the effort to penetrate the unyielding surface. One hand slid slowly toward the access panel. Yet his face was oddly clear, serene, almost happy, his eyes closed as if he already held her against him.

‘Then say the syllables,' she cried passionately. ‘Open the panel, breach the shell, stare at my face and hold my twisted body. It would be better
for me to die at your hands than remain an inviolate virgin without you!'

With an inarticulate cry, he jumped back as if the metal had burned him. His face was contorted in a terrible grimace.

‘If you didn't then, Niall, you never will,' she said, keeping her voice gentle and soothing, suppressing the unexpected longing that threatened to rob her of sanity.

‘God, Helva. No!'

He whirled, running to the lock, jamming down the controls on the lift. He jumped from it before it reached ground level, and disappeared into the Tower.

And I can only wait, Helva thought bitterly. He's got to make this decision himself. He's got to want to come back because
he's
sure he can trust himself. My implicit trust in him is irrelevant.
He
must be the initiator, the manipulator, the schemer.

Why didn't I slam the lock shut? Why didn't I keep him here until he realized that he's all right now – that the critical moment had come and gone? All his defenses had been down: He'll never be that vulnerable again, either to himself or me. He's got to see that when he gets himself under control.

Surely he'll be back soon, all arrogance, jaunty, swaggering with self-assurance. If the fixation is so deep, he'll have to come back. He couldn't stay away. Only – a Niall Parollan could . . . if one Niall Parollan decided that was what
he had to do. He's that kind of man. He can rationalize away all the deceitful, collusive, unprincipled things he does, dismiss them from his mind once they'd accomplished their purpose. But set him up against pressure on his deepest integrity, touch him in the core of reluctant goodness and honesty, and Niall Parollan could make the noble gesture, the uncharacteristic sacrificial act. And foul them both up for the rest of their lives!

Should she call Railly? He'd act instanter. On what? Niall had gone into the Tower. To think, consider, decide; she sincerely hoped, to come back. After what they'd put Railly through, she'd better not roil him unnecessarily. Particularly against Niall.

And Helva was stuck again, waiting, with her lock wide open and the lift ground level, immobilized.

He'd said she was beautiful. When had he had an extrapolation made from her chromosome pattern? It cost a fortune to make even a solido. Before Beta Corvi? Or at Borealis? Oh, gods, had he got hold of her medical records? No, that would have revolted a man with Niall's predilection for the nubile. She felt like giggling; wasn't
she
nubile, and young? Of course, the easy knowing way in which he inferred startling sexual prowess might be delusive. No, small men were often compensated for their lack of stature by another more generous endowment. And the appetite to fit. But her face was beautiful, he'd
said. Even if it was only by way of an artificial extrapolation, it pleased her. He was unlikely to use that adjective lightly. She would have to be beautiful for him to say she was.

The concept of being beautiful was both reassuring and disturbing. Shell-people were conditioned not to think of their personal appearance, never saw any repros of themselves. These, too, were high security secrets. Evidently nothing was secret or sacred to the determined. Niall had managed to get the new release syllables, supposedly known only to Chief Railly and hypno-locked in to that mind as an added precaution.

She was beautiful. Niall had said so. Where was he?

‘Men have died, and worms have eaten them,

But not for love.'

She giggled unexpectedly at the ridiculous line that floated into her mind. Men had dared more for beauty, however, particularly beauty unattainable, than for any other single motivation.

For legendary Helen's beauty had Troy fallen. For the beauty of gold and gems others had risked life, superstition, and freedom. For the beauty of knowledge men had strained and died. For the beauty of a principle a host of fanatics of every moral persuasion had perished.

She didn't want Niall dying for her – beautiful or not. She wanted him at the pilot's console!

A channel opened.

‘Yes?'

‘What a charming welcome,' a familiar voice replied.

It was not Niall's and her surge of relief died.

‘Who is it?'

‘What an insulting change, my dear.'

‘Oh, hello, Broley. I was . . . expecting another call. But I'm always glad to hear from you.' It was impolitic to antagonize a city shell-person, particularly when it was Broley, and especially right now. She might need his help.

‘You sounded so glad! And I sincerely trust that your anticipated caller is not a rival.'

‘Rival?'

‘Yes, yes,' and a touch of asperity crept into Broley's voice. Helva brought herself up sharp. Broley wouldn't be so affable unless he wanted something. ‘I understand,' and his voice was suave again, ‘that you've reached Pay-off.'

‘Trust you to find that out.'

‘Ah, then you haven't made any commitments yet?'

‘Sorry, Broley. I extended my Central Worlds contract.'

‘You extended? With Central Worlds?' Broley's voice was an appalled whisper. ‘And I always thought you were a keen one. For the love of printed circuits, why did you have to do such an irrational, acid-headed, sour-phased, debasing thing like that? Don't you realize that I have four industrials and two planets lined up ready to bid themselves out of a decade of profits
to get a 6 month contract with a BB ship like you? Whatever possessed you to do it? I'm stunned! I'd better check my own acid-level. You've put me off with your folly. I'm speechless!'

Somehow Broley's exacerbations revived her. The grasping, greedy, gossiping, cynical city shell person reinforced her previous decision. There probably were six bidders waiting to cut each other's financial throats for her, but she was certain that she wouldn't enjoy working their contracts, whatever they were. There'd be all the unpleasantness with the losers. Despite every shortcoming, Central Worlds at least worked for the good of the total Federation, not for the aggrandisement of one isolated star system, or a mercenary monopoly.

‘Broley? Speechless?' Helva asked with a creditable laugh. ‘You don't sound it.'

‘Parollan conned you, didn't he?' Broley countered quickly.

Helva could almost see his mind correlating bits and pieces of eavesdropped comments and private assumptions to reach that conclusion. But how much had he guessed? How much was actual knowledge? She knew Broley prided himself on anticipating events. It made him an extraordinarily capable city manager. The sprawling Regulus metropolis, immense, complicated, catering to a dozen sub-races as well as the huge humanoid population, operated smoothly without transportation slowdowns, work crises or
material shortages – all under Broley's supervision. But he always had a circuit open for trouble and rumor. He loved trouble, and said it kept him young; but he relished rumor and was not above spreading some of his own simply to keep amused.

‘Parollan's my supervisor,' she replied airily, ‘but I'd a few changes of my own.'

‘You did bargain, then?'

‘Yes, I did and, to restore myself to your good opinion, if they don't produce, the extension is void.'

‘I do feel better. You wouldn't care to name the conditions?'