"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 black 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.