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 subtly 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.
The com chimed and the screen cleared, allowing communications specialist Keri Holen an unobstructed view of Channa slumped at the base of Simeon's column. "Oh! What's hap… I mean, Ms. Hap! Simeon, is she all right?"