Partnership by Anne McCaffrey, Margaret Ball Page A
Authors: Anne McCaffrey, Margaret Ball
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Courier Service," she said, "and so does my time."
"What about your soul?" inquired Simeon, returning to a normal-intensity beam. "Oh, never mind. I keep forgetting how new you are, XN. Wait till you've been around the subspaces a few hundred years.
You'll start understanding how the rules have to be bent to accommodate people."
80
Anne McCaffrey 6f Margaret BaU
"You mean, to accommodate softpersons," Nancia corrected proudly. "I've never asked for an exception or a favor in my life, and I'm not about to start now."
Simeon's responding burst of discordant waves and clashing colors was the electronic equivalent of an extremely rude word. "I can see why Psych thought you and Caleb would be a good match," he said. Infuriatingly, he shut down transmissions on that comment, leaving Nancia to wonder all the way to Vega 3.3. Why did Psych see fit to match her with a brawn whose major accomplishment so far had been the loss of his first brainship? Was there something wrong in her profile, some instability that made it appropriate to assign her an incompetent brawn? This Caleb softperson was probably going to be stuck doing interplanetary hops and minor errands—like picking up Governor Thrixtopple—for the rest of his Service.
And Central Psych wanted to stick her with him and his flawed record! It wasn't/air. Nancia brooded about it all the way to Vega 3.3.
Her first sight of Caleb did nothing to restore her confidence in this assignment. Courier Service records said that he was only twenty-eight — young for a softperson — but he walked slowly and carefully, as if he were already old and tired. His Service uniform looked as if it had been designed for a larger man; the tunic hung loosely from broad but bony shoulders, the trousers flapped about his shins. Short, scraumy and sour-faced, Nancia mentally catalogued as he made his halting way up the stairs. And why couldn't he use the toft, if he's too out of shape to walk up one/light of stairs?
His greeting to her was correct but lifeless. Nancia responded in the same tone. Listlessly, they went through the Service formulas until Nancia displayed the orders beamed from Vega Base.
Caleb exploded. "Detouring to pick up that lard-bottomed junketer and his family? That's not a Courier PARTNERSHIP
81
Service job. Why can't Thrixtopple wait for the next scheduled passenger transport Uke anyone else?"
Nancia sent a ripple of muddy brown rings across the screen where their orders were displayed.
"Nobody told me anything," she responded verbally for Caleb's benefit. "Stop here, go there, take these kids to the Nyota system, collect a stranded brawn on Vega 3.3, pick up the governor of 4.2 and take him back to Central. / don't know why he rates a special deal; he's not even High Families."
"No, but he's been working this subspace for a long time," Caleb told her. "Probably has more pull than half a dozen empty-headed aristos with their double-barreled names."
"We are not all," Nancia said, "empty-headed. Perhaps you failed to read your orders in detail?" She flashed her full name on the screen to get his attention.
"Oh, well, you can't help your birth," Caleb said absent-mindedly, "and I suppose a good Lab Schools training will make up for a lot. Are you ready for liftoff? We can't waste time gossiping if we have to fit this extra stop into the itinerary."
I give him ten minutes after we reach Central to get himself and his bags off me and make room for a brawn with some manners, Nancia vowed to herself as she drove her engines through a harder and faster takeoff than she would normally have imposed on a softperson passenger. No, that's too generous. Five minutes.
She felt slighdy regretful when she peeked through Caleb's cabin sensors and saw him struggling to sit up after the takeoff, white and shaken. But she wasn't sorry enough to change her basic position on brawn assignments.
"There's one thing we should have settled before liftoff," she announced
"What about your soul?" inquired Simeon, returning to a normal-intensity beam. "Oh, never mind. I keep forgetting how new you are, XN. Wait till you've been around the subspaces a few hundred years.
You'll start understanding how the rules have to be bent to accommodate people."
80
Anne McCaffrey 6f Margaret BaU
"You mean, to accommodate softpersons," Nancia corrected proudly. "I've never asked for an exception or a favor in my life, and I'm not about to start now."
Simeon's responding burst of discordant waves and clashing colors was the electronic equivalent of an extremely rude word. "I can see why Psych thought you and Caleb would be a good match," he said. Infuriatingly, he shut down transmissions on that comment, leaving Nancia to wonder all the way to Vega 3.3. Why did Psych see fit to match her with a brawn whose major accomplishment so far had been the loss of his first brainship? Was there something wrong in her profile, some instability that made it appropriate to assign her an incompetent brawn? This Caleb softperson was probably going to be stuck doing interplanetary hops and minor errands—like picking up Governor Thrixtopple—for the rest of his Service.
And Central Psych wanted to stick her with him and his flawed record! It wasn't/air. Nancia brooded about it all the way to Vega 3.3.
Her first sight of Caleb did nothing to restore her confidence in this assignment. Courier Service records said that he was only twenty-eight — young for a softperson — but he walked slowly and carefully, as if he were already old and tired. His Service uniform looked as if it had been designed for a larger man; the tunic hung loosely from broad but bony shoulders, the trousers flapped about his shins. Short, scraumy and sour-faced, Nancia mentally catalogued as he made his halting way up the stairs. And why couldn't he use the toft, if he's too out of shape to walk up one/light of stairs?
His greeting to her was correct but lifeless. Nancia responded in the same tone. Listlessly, they went through the Service formulas until Nancia displayed the orders beamed from Vega Base.
Caleb exploded. "Detouring to pick up that lard-bottomed junketer and his family? That's not a Courier PARTNERSHIP
81
Service job. Why can't Thrixtopple wait for the next scheduled passenger transport Uke anyone else?"
Nancia sent a ripple of muddy brown rings across the screen where their orders were displayed.
"Nobody told me anything," she responded verbally for Caleb's benefit. "Stop here, go there, take these kids to the Nyota system, collect a stranded brawn on Vega 3.3, pick up the governor of 4.2 and take him back to Central. / don't know why he rates a special deal; he's not even High Families."
"No, but he's been working this subspace for a long time," Caleb told her. "Probably has more pull than half a dozen empty-headed aristos with their double-barreled names."
"We are not all," Nancia said, "empty-headed. Perhaps you failed to read your orders in detail?" She flashed her full name on the screen to get his attention.
"Oh, well, you can't help your birth," Caleb said absent-mindedly, "and I suppose a good Lab Schools training will make up for a lot. Are you ready for liftoff? We can't waste time gossiping if we have to fit this extra stop into the itinerary."
I give him ten minutes after we reach Central to get himself and his bags off me and make room for a brawn with some manners, Nancia vowed to herself as she drove her engines through a harder and faster takeoff than she would normally have imposed on a softperson passenger. No, that's too generous. Five minutes.
She felt slighdy regretful when she peeked through Caleb's cabin sensors and saw him struggling to sit up after the takeoff, white and shaken. But she wasn't sorry enough to change her basic position on brawn assignments.
"There's one thing we should have settled before liftoff," she announced
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