"I can promise you company," Cencom grudgingly admitted and cut off.
Helva waited, her circuits open, her passenger lift invitingly grounded. And waited. She was beginning to experience justifiable irritation when she received a boarding request. Activating the lift eagerly, she was disappointed to scan only one figure gliding up to her lock.
"You're not a brawn."
"Thanks, pal," the wiry small man said in an all-too-familiar voice.
"You're. . ."
"Niall Parollan, of Regulus, your coordinating communications officer, Planet Grade, Section Supervisor, Central Worlds BB Ship Division."
"You've got your nerve."
He grinned amiably at her, not the least bit intimidated by her booming. "You've enough for four of me, dear." He used the manual switch to close the lock and sauntered over to the couch that faced her column. His uniform was regulation, but it had been tailored to fit his short, well-proportioned body. The boots he wore were Mizar gray lizard and molded the calf of his leg.
"Make yourself at home."
"I intend to. Feel I ought to get to know you better now I'm your supervisor."
"Why?"
He gave her a wicked stare and smiled, showing very white even teeth.
"I wanted to see just why such a storm is raging over the possession of one Helva, the XH-834."
"Among brawns?" She was gratified.
"You sound hungry. Need your nutrients checked?"
"I don't trust you, Parollan," Helva announced after a pause. "There is nothing to see. . . of Helva."
"Now, there's where you're wrong, girl," and he rubbed one short-fingered, broad-palmed hand across his mouth and chin. "Yes, there is something about you. . ."
"I had a new spray job at Nekkar."
"I know. I checked accounting."
"The ingrates. Thought I got that free." Then, as he chuckled at her surprise, she added, "If you've been checking my standing, you know I'm well able to afford any penalties for refusing assignment."
"Oh ho, you bite, too," crowed Niall, rocking back and forth in an excess of delight. "Don't fool you, do I?"
"Not for a microsecond. I want a brawn, Parollan, not a snippy little mouthpiece like you."
He roared with delight.
"Now I see why." Then suddenly he was completely serious. He leaned forward, his eyes on her panel in an attitude so familiar it gave her a frightful wrench. Then he was talking and she listened.
"Item: the Beta Corvi assignment will require an unusual exercise of diplomacy on the part of both partners, as brain and brawn will be in direct contact with the Corviki throughout the mission. The shell person has the additional responsibility of direct and discretionary control over the Corviki psyche transfer mechanisms, a control which will necessitate the use of an additional synapse connection."
Helva made a whistling sound. At the least, it meant opening the titanium column, a difficult experience for any shell person, at the worst, actual penetration of the shell that would be traumatic to most.
"Ships of the two most recent classes would require no shell penetration. They were already fitted with supplemental leads, placed in the cerebral areas required by this connection, in case future modifications might be needed."
"That would leave Amon out," Helva said.
"He's out anyhow," Niall affirmed. "He never heard of Shakespeare and his brawn couldn't act his way out of a saloon brawl."
"The brawn has to act, too? Well, that obviously lets me out as I have no brawn at the moment, do I?"
"God spare me your tongue when you're really mad. Actually Chadress Turo has been called back on active duty. . ."
"Another temporary? No, absolutely not."
"For this assignment, some ships would change brawns in a flash. Blast it all, Helva," Parollan shouted, "don't be such an ass. Listen to me. You've never before been stubborn for the wrong reasons."
Helva digested that unpalatable charge in silence.
"I'll listen."
*That's more like my Helva,"
"I'm not your Helva."
"You sound like Ansra Colmer."
Helva sputtered indignantly.
"You do, throwing your weight around. . ." Niall insisted.
"She hasn't been trying to scratch Solar Prane from the mission, has she? Because if she has. . ."
"She's got very influential backing," Niall said, but something in his attitude, a certain tenseness, a sly gleam in his eye, warned Helva.
She chuckled softly, watching the effect on him. He reacted.
"I thought so," she laughed aloud. "Her backing won't mean anything if the probability curve still favors Prane. And nothing's occurred to change that, has it?"
"Trust actors to blab all over the place," Niall growled, his features screwed up into a sour expression. "You must have stayed up all night listening to their nightmares."
"I told you there had been some real interesting lifelike dramatic interludes. Let me know if she leans too hard on Prane."
Niall's head shot up, his face cleared of disappointment.
"Look, Helva, can't you see how valuable you'd be? You're on to Ansra. Do you realize she's gone from ship to ship, sounding out brains and brawn? That she's recommending the properly sympathetic partnership to Chief Railly which will aid and abet the success of the mission?"
"Wouldn't put it past her. If I were you, I'd get Davo Fillanaser to cite the jeopardy clause on her. She means to upstage Romeo."
"I know it!" Niall exploded from the couch, pacing the cabin. "And you know it. But she does have pull and the probability profile still favors her as Juliet. We can't shake it. We need you!"
Pointedly, Helva said nothing.
"Prane asked if you were available."
"Is this an official notice of mission, supervisor?"
"It carries a triple bonus, Helva." He was not capitulating.
"I wouldn't care if it carried a free maintenance ticket for my operable lifetime, Parollan. I know my rights. Is this an official notice of mission?"
"You stubborn, fardling jackass of a titanium-coated virgin!" shouted Parollan. He turned on his heel and pounded out of the cabin, slapped up the lock release and jammed down the lift control, descending without another look in her direction.
Helva glared at him, infuriated to the core by his compound insults, arrogant manners, twisted arguments, veiled blackmail and outright bribery. How he had ever got to be a supervisor she didn't know, but she had her rights and one of them was to choose her directing personnel and. . .
Someone was requesting permission to board.
"If you've come to apologize, Niall Parollan. . ."
"Apologize? Are we late or something? They just now gave us the A-O," a baritone voice shouted into her audios.
She paused long enough to distinguish half a dozen chattering voices.
"Who wants to board?" she demanded.
"She sounds mad about something," came a hoarse whisper.
"We're from brawn barracks and we'd very much like to. . . to. . ."
"Court her, that's the term, brasshead," prompted the hoarse whisperer.
"Permission granted," Helva said, trying not to sound as sour as she unaccountably felt.
Seven persons, five men and two women, crowded onto the lift, arguing and hollering about bruised feet and ribs all the way up. Helva could feel the strain on the lift mechanism, then bodies exploded into the lock as if in free-fall, all scrambling, to be the first to salute her. Helva stared down at the handsome, grinning faces; strong, tall people all eager to please her, to court her, to be her brawn.
Others arrived as the news circulated that the XH-834 was being courted. In fact, Helva sent the lift back down as soon as the newest arrival stepped into the lock. So it wasn't surprising that Kurla Ster could step into the lock without advance notice.