“To the Horsehead Nebula and back, we shall make beautiful music,” said Helva, chuckling.
“Together,” Jennan said. “Only you’d better make the music and, with my voice, I’d better listen.”
“I rather imagined it would be I who listened,” suggested Helva.
Jennan executed a stately bow with an intricate flourish of his crush-brimmed hat. He directed his bow toward the central control pillar where Helva was. Her own personal preference crystallized at that precise moment and for that particular reason. Jennan, alone of the men, had addressed his remarks directly at her physical presence, regardless of the fact that he knew she could pick up his image wherever he was in the ship and regardless of the fact that her body was behind massive metal walls. Throughout their partnership, Jennan never failed to turn his head in her direction no matter where he was in relation to her. In response to this personalization, Helva at that moment and from then on always spoke to Jennan only through her central mike, even though that was not always the most efficient method.
Helva didn’t know that she fell in love with Jennan that evening. As she had never been exposed to love or affection, only the drier cousins, respect and admiration, she could scarcely have recognized her reaction to the warmth of his personality and thoughtfulness. As a shell-person, she considered herself remote from emotions largely connected with physical desires.
“Well, Helva, it’s been swell meeting you,” said Tanner suddenly as she and Jennan were arguing about the baroque quality of ‘Come All Ye Sons of Art’. “See you in space some time, you lucky dog, Jennan. Thanks for the party, Helva.”
“You don’t have to go so soon?” asked Helva, realizing belatedly that she and Jennan had been excluding the others from this discussion.
“Best man won,” Tanner said, wryly. “Guess I’d better go get a tape on love ditties. Might need ‘em for the next ship, if there’re any more at home like you.”
Helva and Jennan watched them leave, both a little confused.
“Perhaps Tanner’s jumping to conclusions?” Jennan asked.
Helva regarded him as he slouched against the console, facing her shell directly. His arms were crossed on his chest and the glass he held had been empty for some time. He was handsome, they all were; but his watchful eyes were unwary, his mouth assumed a smile easily, his voice (to which Helva was particularly drawn) was resonant, deep, and without unpleasant overtones or accent.
“Sleep on it, at any rate, Helva. Call me in the morning if it’s your opt.”
She called him at breakfast, after she had checked her choice through Central. Jennan moved his things aboard, received their joint commission, had his personality and experience file locked into her reviewer, gave her the coordinates of their first mission. The XH834 officially became the JH-834.
Their first mission was a dull but necessary crash priority (Medical got Helva), rushing a vaccine to a distant system plagued with a virulent spore disease. They had only to get to Spica as fast as possible.
After the initial, thrilling forward surge at her maximum speed, Helva realized her muscles were to be given less of a workout than her brawn on this tedious mission. But they did have plenty of time for exploring each other’s personalities. Jennan, of course, knew what Helva was capable of as a ship and partner, just as she knew what she could expect from him. But these were only facts and Helva looked forward eagerly to learning that human side of her partner which could not be reduced to a series of symbols. Nor could the give and take of two personalities be learned from a book. It had to be experienced.
“My father was a scout, too, or is that programmed?” began Jennan their third day out.
“Naturally.”
“Unfair, you know. You’ve got all my family history and I don’t know one blamed thing about yours.”
“I’ve never known either,” Helva said. “Until I read yours, it hadn’t occurred to me I must have one, too, someplace in Central’s files.”
Jennan snorted. “Shell psychology!”
Helva laughed. “Yes, and I’m even programmed against curiosity about it. You’d better be, too.”
Jennan ordered a drink, slouched into the gravity couch opposite her, put his feet on the bumpers, turning himself idly from side to side on the gimbals.
“Helva, a made-up name…”
“With a Scandinavian sound.”
“You aren’t blonde,” Jennan said positively.
“Well, then, there’re dark Swedes.”
“And blonde Turks and this one’s harem is limited to one.”
“Your woman in purdah, yes, but you can comb the pleasure houses, “ Helva found herself aghast at the edge to her carefully trained voice.
“You know,” Jennan interrupted her, deep in some thought of his own, “my father gave me the impression he was a lot more married to his ship, the Silvia, than to my mother. I know I used to think Silvia was my grandmother. She was a low number so she must have been… a great-great-grandmother at least, I used to talk to her for hours.”
“Her registry?” asked Helva, unwittingly jealous of everyone and anyone who had shared his hours.
“422. I think she’s TS now. I ran into Tom Burgess once.”
Jennan’s father had died of a planetary disease, the vaccine for which his ship had used up in curing the local citizens.
“Tom said she’d got mighty tough and salty. You lose your sweetness and I’ll come back and haunt you, girl,” Jennan threatened.
Helva laughed. He startled her by stamping up to the column panel, touching it with light, tender fingers.
“I wonder what you look like,” he said softly, wistfully.
Helva had been briefed about this natural curiosity of scouts. She didn’t know anything about herself and neither of them ever would or could.
“Pick any form, shape, and shade and I’ll be yours obliging,” she countered, as training suggested.
“Iron Maiden, I fancy blondes with long tresses,” and Jennan pantomined Lady Godiva-like tresses. “Since you’re immolated in titanium, I’ll call you Brunehilde, my dear,” and he made his bow.
With a chortle, Helva launched into the appropriate aria just as Spica made contact.
“What’n’ Hell’s that yelling about? Who are you? And unless you’re Central Worlds Medical go away. We’ve got a plague. No visiting privileges.”
“My ship is singing, we’re the JH-834 of Worlds and we’ve got your vaccine. What are our landing coordinates?”
“Your ship is singing?”
“The greatest S.A.T.B. in organized space. Any request?”
The JH-834 delivered the vaccine but no more arias and received immediate orders to proceed to Leviticus IV. By the time they got there, Jennan found a reputation awaiting him and was forced to defend the 834’s virgin honor.
“I’ll stop singing,” murmured Helva contritely as she ordered up poultices for this third black eye in a week.
“You will not,” Jennan said through gritted teeth. “If I have to black eyes from here to the Horsehead to keep the snicker out of the title, we’ll be the ship who sings.”
After the ‘ship who sings’ tangled with a minor but vicious narcotic ring in the Lesser Magellanics, the title became definitely respectful. Central was aware of each episode and punched out a ‘special interest’ key on JH-834’s file. A first-rate team was shaking down well.
Jennan and Helva considered themselves a first-rate team, too, after their tidy arrest.
“Of all the vices in the universe, I hate drug addiction,” Jennan remarked as they headed back to Central Base. “People can go to hell quick enough without that kind of help.”
“Is that why you volunteered for Scout Service? To redirect traffic?”
“I’ll bet my official answer’s on your review.”