Killashandra

Chapter 2

Killashandra pushed herself back from thc terminal and, balancing on the base of her spine, stretched arms and legs as far from her body as bone and tendon permitted. She had spent the morning immersed in the Optherian entry of the Encyclopedia Galactica.

Once she had got past the initial exploration and evaluation report to the release of the Ophiuchine planet for colonization, and the high-flown language of its charter – “to establish a colony of Mankind in complete harmony with the ecological balance of his adopted planet: to ensure the propagation thereon of the Species in its pure, unadulterated Form.” She kept waiting for the fly to appear in the syrupy ointment of Optheria’s honey pot.

Optheria was an old planet in geological terms. A near-circular orbit about an aging sun produced a temperate clime. There was little seasonal change since the axial “wobble” was negligible, and modest glaciers capped both poles. Optheria was inordinately proud of its self-sufficiency in a civilization where many planets were so deeply in debt to mercantile satellites that they were almost charged for the atmosphere that encapsulated them. Optherian imports were minimal . . . with the exception of tourists seeking to “enjoy the gentler pleasures of old Terra in a Totally Natural World.”

Killashandra, reading with an eye to hidden significance’s, paused to consider the implications. Although her experience with planets had been limited to two – Fuerte, her planet of origin, and Ballybran, she knew enough of how worlds wagged to sense the iron idealism that probably supported the Optherian propaganda. She tapped a question and frowned at the negative answer: Optheria’s Charter Signers were not proselytizers of a religious sect nor did Optheria recognize a federal church. As many worlds had been colonized for idealist forms of government, religiously or secularly oriented, as for purely commercial considerations. The guiding principle of foundation could not yet be considered the necessary criterion for a successful subculture. The variables involved were too numerous.

But the entry made it clear that Optheria was considered efficiently organized and, with its substantial positive galactic balance of payments, a creditably administered world. The entry concluded with a statement that Optheria was well worth a visit during its annual Summer Festival. She detected a certain hint of irony in that bland comment. While she would have preferred to sample some of the exotic and sophisticated pleasures available to those with credit enough, she felt she could tolerate Optheria’s “natural” pastimes in return for the sizeable fee and a long vacation from Ballybran.

She considered Lanzecki’s diffidence about the assignment. Could he be charged with favoritism if he gave her another choice off-world assignment? Who would remember that she had been away during the horrendous Passover Storms, much less where? She’d been peremptorily snatched away by Trag, shoved onto the moon shuttle, and without a shred of background data about the vagaries of the Trundomoux, delivered willy-nilly to a naval autocracy to cope with the exigencies of installing millions of credits’ worth of black communication crystal for a bunch of skeptical spartan pioneers. The assignment had been no sinecure. As Trag was the only other person who had known of it, was he the objector? He very easily could be, as Administration Officer, yet Killashandra did not think that Trag could, or did, influence Guild Master Lanzecki.

A second wild notion followed quickly on the heels of that one. Were there any Optherians on the roster of the Heptite Guild to whom such a job might be assigned? . . . The Heptite Guild had no Optherian members.

From her ten years in the Music Department of Fuerte’s Culture Center, Killashandra was familiar with the intricacies of Optherian sensory organ instruments. The encyclopedia enlarged the picture by stating that music was a planetwide mania on Optheria, with citizens competing on a planetary scale for opportunities to perform on the sensory organs. With that sort of environment, Killashandra thought it very odd indeed that Optheria produced no candidates with the perfect pitch that was the Heptite Guild’s essential entry requirement. And, with competitions on a worldwide scale, there would be thousands disappointed. Killashandra smiled in sour sympathy. Surely some would look for off-world alternatives.

Her curiosity titillated, Killashandra checked other Guilds. Optherians did not go into the Space Services or into galactic mercantile enterprises, nor were embassies, consulates or legates of Optheria listed in the Diplomatic Registers. There she lucked out by discovering a qualifier: As the planet was nearly self-sufficient and no Optherians left their home world, there was no need for such services. All normal inquiries about Optheria had to be directed to the Office of External Trade and Commerce on Optheria.

Killashandra paused in perplexity. A planet so perfect, so beloved by its citizens that no one chose to leave its surface? She found that very hard to believe. She recalled the encyclopedia’s entry on the planet, searching for the code on Naturalization. Yes, well, citizenship was readily available for those interested but could not be rescinded. She checked the Penal Code and discovered that, unlike many worlds, Optheria did not deport its criminal element: any recidivists were accommodated at a rehabilitation center.

Killashandra shivered. So even perfect Optheria had to resort to rehabilitation.

Having delved sufficiently into Optheria’s history and background to satisfy her basic curiosity, she turned to research the procedure necessary to replace a fractured manual. The installation posed no overt problems as the bracketing was remarkably similar to that required by the black communications crystal. The tuning would be more complex because of the broad-frequency variable output of the Optherian organ. The instrument was similar to early Terran pipe organs, with four manuals and a terminal with hundreds of stops, but a performer on the Optherian organ read a score containing olfactory, neural, visual, and aural notes. The crystal manual was in permanent handshake with the multiplex demodulator, the synapse carrier encoder, and the transducer terminal networks. Or so the manual said; no schematic was included in the entry. Nor could she remember one from her days at the Fuerte Music Center.

Dedicated Optherian players spent lifetimes arranging music embellished and ornamented for reception by many senses. A skilled Optherian organist could be mass-psychologist and politician as well as musician, and the effect of any composition played on the fully augmented instruments had such far-reaching consequences that performances and practitioners were subject to Federal as well as artistic discipline.

Bearing that in mind, Killashandra wondered how the manual could have been fractured – let alone have killed the performer at the same time, especially as that person had also been the only one on the planet capable of repairing it. Was there perhaps a spot of rot on the Optherian apple of Eden? This assignment could be interesting.

Killashandra pulled her chair back to the console and asked for visual contact with the Travel Officer. Bajorn was a long, thin man, with a thin face and a thin nose with pinched nostrils. He had preternaturally long, thin fingers, too, but much was redeemed by the cheerful smile that broke across his narrow face, and his complete willingness to sort out the most difficult itinerary. He seemed to be on the most congenial terms with every transport or freight captain who had ever touched down at or veered close to the Shanganagh Moon base.

“Is it difficult to get to the Optherian System, Bajorn?”

“Long old journey right now – out of season for the cruise ships on that route. Summer Festival won’t be for another six months galactic. So, traveling now, you’d have to make four exchanges – Rappahoe, Kunjab, Melorica, and Bernard’s World – all on freighters before getting passage on a proper liner.”

“You’re sure up to date.”

Bajorn grinned, his thin lips almost touching his droopy ears. “Should be. You’re the fifth inquiry I’ve had about that system. What’s up? Didn’t know the Optherians went in for the sort of kicks singers like.”

“Who’re the other four?”

“Well, there’s no regulation against telling. “Bajorn paused discreetly, “and as they’ve all asked, no reason why you shouldn’t be told. You,” and he ticked names off on his fingers, “Borella Seal, Concera, Gobbain Tekla, and Rimbol.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Bajorn, that’s real considerate of you.”

“That’s what Rimbol said, too.” Bajorn’s face sagged mournfully. “I do try to satisfy the Guild’s travel requirements, but it is so depressing when my efforts are criticized or belittled. I can’t help it if singers lose their memories . . . and every shred of common courtesy.”

“I’ll program eternal courtesy to you on my personal tape, Bajorn.”

“I’d appreciate it. Only do it now, would you, Killashandra, before you forget?”

Promising faithfully, Killashandra rang off. Lanzecki had said there was a list. Were there only five names! Borella Seal and Concera she knew and she wouldn’t have minded doing them out of the assignment; Gobbain Tekla was a total stranger. Rimbol had been cutting successfully, and in the darker shades just as Lanzecki had predicted. Why would he want such an assignment? So, four people had been interested enough to check Travel. Were there more?

She asked for a list of unassigned singers in residence and it was depressingly long. After some names, including her own, the capital I – for Inactive – flashed. Perhaps unwisely, she deleted those and still had thirty-seven possible rivals. She twirled idly about in the gimbaled chair, wondering exactly what criterion was vital for the Optherian assignment. Lanzecki hadn’t mentioned such minor details in the little he had disclosed. From what she had already learned of the planet and the mechanics of installation, any competent singer could do the job. So what would weigh the balance in favor of one singer?

Killashandra reexamined the list of her known rivals: Borella and Concera had both been cutting a long time. Gobbain Tekla, when she found his position on the Main Roster, was a relative newcomer; Rimbol, like Killashandra, was a rank tyro. When she inquired, she discovered that each of the others had been a redundant or a failed musician. Perhaps that was the necessary requirement. It certainly made sense for the installer to have an instrumental background. She rephrased her question to apply to all thirty-seven available singers. Nineteen fit that category.

Lanzecki appeared reluctant to offer her the assignment but she oughtn’t to fault him. She was acutely aware of past concessions from her Guildmaster. She had no right to expect an interrupted flow of benefits simply because he chose to share his bed with her. Nor, she decided, would she jeopardize their relationship by referring to the assignment again. Lanzecki might well be doing her a favor by not recommending her. She must keep that aspect of the situation firmly in mind. She might not be thrilled to vacation on the four systems to which her available credit would take her, but that was another string in her deplorable luck. She would get a rest from crystal and that was the essential requirement.

Her reawakened appetite reminded her that it had been some hours since breakfast. During lunch, she’d decide where to take herself. When, refreshed and revitalized, she returned to her labors for the Heptite Guild, she’d find a fresh vein of black crystal and then she’d get to the planet Maxim.

Before she could plan her vacation in any detail, Antona rang her from the Infirmary. “Have you eaten, Killa?”

“Is that an invitation or a professional query? Because I just finished a very hearty lunch.”

Antona sighed. “I should have liked your company for lunch. There’s not much doing right now down here. Fortunately.”

“If it’s just the company you want while you eat . . . .”

Antona smiled with genuine pleasure. “I do. I don’t enjoy eating by myself all the time. Could you drop down here first? You’re still listed as inactive and you’ll want that status amended.”

On her way down to the Infirmary level, Killashandra first worried then chided herself for fearing there was more to Antona’s request than a simple record up-date. It might have nothing to do with her fitness to take on the Optherian job. Nor would it be discreet to imply that she knew such an assignment was available. On the other hand, Antona would know more about the amenities of the nearby worlds.

The medical formality took little time and then the two women proceeded to the catering section of the main singer’s floor of the Guild Complex.

“It’s so depressingly empty,” Antona said in a subdued voice as she glanced about the dimly lit portions of the facility.

“I found it a lot more depressing when everyone else was celebrating a good haul,” Killashandra said in a glum tone.

“Yes, yes, it would be, I suppose. Oh, fardles!” Antona quickly diverted Killashandra toward the shadowy side. “Borella, Concera, and that simp, Gobbain,” she murmured as she made a hasty detour.

“You don’t like them?” Killashandra was amused.

Antona shrugged. “One establishes a friendship by sharing events and opinions. They remember nothing and consequently have nothing to share. And less to talk about.”

Without warning, Antona caught Killashandra by the arm, turning to face her. “Do yourself a sterling favor, Killa. Put everything you’ve experienced so far in your life, every detail you can recall from cutting expeditions, every conversation you’ve had, every joke you’ve heard, put everything” – when Killashandra affected surprise, Antona gave her arm a painful squeeze – “and yes, I do mean ‘everything,’ into your personal retrieval file. What you did. what you said, what you felt” – and Antona’s fierce gaze challenged Privacy – “how you’ve loved. Then, when your mind is as blank as theirs, you can refresh your memory and have something with which to reestablish you!” Her expression became intensely sad. “Oh, Killa. Be different! Do as I ask! Now! Before it’s too late!”

Then, her customary composure restored, she released the arm and seemed to draw the intensity back into her straight, slim body. “Because I assure you,” she said as she took the last few steps into the catering area, “that once your brilliant wit and repartee become as banal and malicious as theirs,” she jerked her thumb at the silent trio, “I’ll seek other company at lunch. Now,” she said, her fingers poised over the catering terminal, “what are you having?”

“Yarran beer.” Killashandra said the first thing that came to mind, being slightly dazed by Antona’s unexpected outburst.

Antona raised her eyebrows in mock surprise, then rapidly dialed their orders.

They were served quickly and took their trays to the nearest banquette. As Antona tackled her meal with good appetite, Killashandra sipped her beer, digesting Antona’s remarkable advice. Till then, Killashandra had had no opportunity to appreciate the viewpoint of a colleague who would not lose her memory as an occupational hazard. Stubbornly, Killashandra preferred to forget certain scenes in her life. Like failure.

“Well, you don’t have long to wait for a fresh supply of cluttered minds,” Killashandra said at last, blotting the beer foam from her upper lip and deferring conversation on Antona’s unsettling advice.

“A new class? How did that privileged information seep out? You are only just out of an Infirmary tank. Well, you won’t be allowed to brief them if that’s what you had in mind, Killa.”

“Why not?”

Antona shrugged and daintily sampled her nicely browned casserole before replying. “You’ve no injury to display. That’s an important part of the briefing, you see – the visible, undeniable proof of the rapid tissue regeneration enjoyed by residents of Ballybran.”

“Irresistible!” Antona gave Killashandra a sharp glance. “Oh, no complaints from me, Antona. The Guild can be proud of its adroit recruiting program.”

Antona fastened a searching glance on her face and put down her fork. “Killashandra Ree, the Heptite Guild is not permitted by the Federated Sentient Planets to ‘recruit’ free citizens for such a hazardous profession. Only volunteers – ”

“Only volunteers insist on presenting themselves, and so many of these have exceedingly useful skills . . . .” She broke off, momentarily disconcerted by Antona’s almost fierce glance.

“What concern is that of yours, Killashandra Ree? You have benefited immensely from the . . . selection process.”

“Despite my unexpected inclusion.”

“A few odd ones slip through no matter how careful we are,” Antona said all too sweetly, her eyes sparkling.

“Don’t fret, Antona. It’s not a subject that I would discuss with anyone else.”

“Particularly Lanzecki.”

“I’m not likely to get that sort of an opportunity,” she said, wondering if Antona knew or suspected their relationship. Or if her advice to remember loves and emotions had merely been a general warning to include all experience. Would Killashandra want to remember, decades from now, that she and Lanzecki had briefly been lovers? “Advise me, Antona, on which of our nearer spatial neighbors I should plan a brief vacation?”

Antona grimaced. “You might just as well pick the name at random for all the difference there is among them. Their only advantage is that they are far enough away from Ballybran to give your nerves the rest they need.”

Just then a cheerful voice hailed them.

“Killa! Antona! Am I glad to see someone else alive!” Rimbol exclaimed, hobbling out of the shadows. He grinned as he saw the pitcher of beer. “May I join you?”

“By all means,” Antona said graciously.

“What happened to you?” Killashandra asked. Rimbol’s cheek and forehead were liberally decorated by newly healed scars.

“Mine was the sled that did a nose dive over the baffle.”

“It did?”

“You didn’t know it was me?” Rimbol’s mouth twisted in mock chagrin. “The way Malaine carried on you’d’ve thought I’d placed half the incoming singers in jeopardy by that flip.”

“Did you rearrange the sled as creatively as your face?”

Rimbol shook his head ruefully. “It broke its nose, mine was only bloody. At that it’ll take longer to fix the sled than for my leg to heal. Say, Killa, have you heard about the Optherian contract?”

“For the fractured manual? That could pay for a lot of repairs.”

“Oh, I don’t want it,” and he flicked his hand in dismissal.

“Why ever not?”

Rimbol took a long pull of his beer. “Well, I’ve got a claim that was cutting real well right now. Optheria’s a long way away from here and I’ve been warned that I could lose the guiding resonance being gone so long.”

“And because you remembered that I haven’t cut anything worth packing – ”

“No.” Rimbol held up a hand, protesting Killashandra’s accusation. “I mean, yes, I knew you’ve been unlucky lately – ”

“Who do you think cut the white crystal to replace the fractured Optherian manual?”

“You did!” Rimbol’s face brightened with relief. “Then you don’t need to go either.” He raised his beaker in a cheerful toast. “Where d’you plan to go off-world?”

“I hadn’t exactly made up my mind . . . .” Killashandra saw that Antona was busy serving up the last of her casserole.

“Why don’t you try Maxim in the Barderi system.” Rimbol leaned eagerly across the table to her. “I’ve heard it’s something sensational. I’ll get there sometime but I’d sure like to hear your opinion of it. I don’t half believe the reports. I’d trust you.”

“That’s something to remember,” Killashandra murmured, glancing sideways at Antona. Then, taking note of Rimbol’s querying look, she asked smoothly, “What’ve you been cutting lately?”

“Greens,” Rimbol replied with considerable satisfaction. He held up crossed fingers. “Now, if only the storm damage is minimal, and it could be because the vein’s in a protected spot, I might even catch up with you on Maxim. You see . . .” and he proceeded to elaborate on his prospects.

As Rimbol rattled on in his amusing fashion, Killashandra wondered if crystal would dull the Scartine’s infectious good-nature along with his memory. Would Antona give him the same urgent advice? Surely each of the newest crystal singers had some unique quality to be cherished and sustained throughout a lifetime. Antona’s outburst had been sparked by a long frustration. To how many singers over her decades in the Guild had she tendered the same advice and found it ignored?

“. . . So I came in with forty greens,” Rimbol was saying with an air of achievement.

“That’s damned good cutting!” Killashandra replied with suitable fervor.

“You have no trouble releasing crystal?” Antona asked.

“Well, I did the first time out,” Rimbol admitted candidly, “but I remembered what you’d said, Killa, about packing as soon as you cut. I’ll never forget the sight of you locked in crystal thrall, right here in a noisy crowded hall. A kindly and timely word of wisdom!”

“Oh, you’d have caught on soon enough,” Killashandra said, feeling a trifle embarrassed by his gratitude.

“Some never do, you know,” Antona remarked.

“What happens? Do they stand in statuesque paralysis until night comes? Or a loud storm?”

“The inability to release crystal is no joke, Rimbol.”

Rimbol stared at Antona, his mobile face losing its amused expression. “You mean, they can be so enthralled, nothing breaks the spell?” Antona nodded slowly. “That could be fatal. Has it been?”

“There have been instances.”

“Then I’m doubly indebted to you, Killa,” Rimbol said, rising, “so this round’s on me.”

They finished that round, refreshed by food, drink, and conversation.

“Of the four, I think you’d prefer Rani in the Punjabi system,” Antona told Killashandra in parting. “The food’s better and the climate less severe. They have marvelous mineral hot springs, too. Not as efficacious as our radiant fluid but it’ll help reduce crystal resonance. You need that. After just an hour in your company, the sound off you makes the hairs on my arm stand up. See?”

Killashandra exchanged glances with Rimbol, before they examined the proof on Antona’s extended arm.

Antona laughed reassuringly, laying gentle fingers on Killashandra’s forearm.

“A perfectly normal phenomenon for a singer who’s been out in the Rangers steadily for over a year. Neither of you would be affected but, as I don’t sing crystal, I am. Get used to it. That’s what identifies a singer anywhere in the Galaxy But the Rani hot springs will diminish the effect considerably. So does time away from here. See you.”

As Killashandra watched Antona enter the lift, she felt Rimbol’s hand sliding up her arm affectionately.

“You feel all right to me,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Then he felt her stiffen and suppress a movement of withdrawal. He dropped his hand. “Privacy – sorry, Killa.” He stepped back.

“Not half as sorry as I am, Rimbol. You didn’t deserve that. Chalk it up to another side effect of singing crystal that they don’t include in that full disclosure.” She managed an apologetic smile. “I’m so wired I could broadcast.”

“Not to worry, Killa. I understand. See you when you get back.” Then he made his wobbly way into the yellow quadrant to his quarters.

Killashandra stared after him, irritated with herself for her reaction to a casual caress. She’d had no such reaction to Lanzecki. Or was that the problem? She was very thoughtful as she walked slowly to her quarters. Fidelity was an unlikely disease for her to catch. She certainly enjoyed making love with Lanzecki, and definitely he exerted an intense fascination on her. Lanzecki had unequivocally separated his professional life from his private one.

“Rani, huh,” she murmured to herself as she put her thumb to the door lock. She entered the room, closing the door behind her, and then leaned against it.

Now, in the absence of background sounds, she could hear the resonance in her body, feel it cascading up and down her bones, throbbing in her arteries. The noise between her ears was like a gushing river in full flood. She held out her arms but the static apparently did not affect her, the carrier, or she had exhausted that phenomenon in herself. “Mineral baths! Probably stink of sulfur or something worse.”

Immediately she heard the initial phluggg as radiant fluid began to flow into the tank in the hygiene room. Wondering why the room computer was on, she opened her mouth to abort the process, when her name issued from the speakers.

“Killashandra Ree?” The bass voice was unmistakably Trag’s.

“Yes, Trag?” She switched on vision.

“You have been restored to the active list.”

“I’m going off-world as soon as I can arrange transport, Trag.”

Expressionless as ever, Trag regarded her. “A lucrative assignment is available to a singer of your status.”

“The Optherian manual?” As Trag inclined his head once, Killashandra controlled her surprise. Why was Trag approaching her when Lanzecki had definitely not wanted her to take it?

“You‘re aware of the details?” For the first time Trag evinced a flicker of surprise.

“Rimbol told me. He also said he wasn’t taking it. Was he your first choice?”

Trag regarded her steadily for a moment. “You were the logical first choice, Killashandra Ree, but until an hour ago you were an Inactive.”

“I was the first choice?”

“Firstly, you are going off-world in any event and do not have sufficient credit to take you past the nearer inhabited systems. Secondly, an extended leave of absence is recommended by Medical. Thirdly, you have already acquired the necessary skills to place white crystal brackets. In the fourth place, your curriculum vitae indicates latent teaching abilities so that training replacement technicians on Optheria is well within your scope.”

“Nothing was said about training technicians. Borella and Concera both have considerably more instructional experience than I.”

“Borella, Concera, and Gobbain Tekla have not exhibited either the tact or diplomacy requisite to this assignment.”

Killashandra was amused that Trag added Gobbain to the list. Had Bajorn told Trag who had inquired about transport to Optheria?

“There are thirty-seven other active Guild members who qualify!”

Trag shook his head slowly twice. “No, Killashandra Ree, it must be you who goes. The Guild needs some information about Optheria – ”

“Tactfully and diplomatically extracted? On what subject?”

Why the Optherian government prohibits interstellar travel to its citizens.”

Killashandra let out a whoop of delight. “You mean, why, with their obsession for music, there isn’t a single Optherian in the Heptite Guild?”

“That is not the relevant issue, Killashandra. The Federated Sentient Council would be obliged if the Guild’s representative would act as an impartial observer, to determine if this restriction is popularly accepted – ”

“A Freedom of Choice infringement? But wouldn’t that be a matter for – ”

Trag held up his hand. “The request asks for an impartial opinion on the popular acceptance of the restriction. The FSC acknowledges that isolated individuals might express dissatisfaction, but a complaint has been issued by the Executive Council of the Federated Artists Association.”

Killashandra let out a low whistle. The Stellars themselves protested? Well, if Optherian composers and performers were involved, of course the Executive Council would protest. Even if it had taken them decades to do so.

“And since the Guild’s representative would certainly come in contact with composers and performers during the course of the assignment, yes, I’d be more than willing to volunteer for that facet.” Was that why Lanzecki had been against her going? To protect her from the iron idealism of a parochial Optherian Council? But, as a member of the Heptite Guild, which guaranteed her immunity to local law and restrictions, she could not be detained on any charges. She could be disciplined only by her Guild. That any form of artistry might be limited by law was anathema. “There’ve been Optherian organs a long time . . .”

“Popular acceptance is the matter under investigation.”

Trag was not going to be deflected from the official wording of the request.

“All right, I copy!”

“You’ll accept this assignment?”

Killashandra blinked. Did she imagine the eagerness in Trag’s voice, the sudden release of tension from his face.

“Trag, there’s something you’ve not told me about this assignment. I warn you, if this turns out to be like the Trundie – ”

“Your familiarity with elements of this assignment suggests that you have already done considerable background investigation. I have informed you of the FSC request – ”

“Why don’t you leave it with me for a little while, Trag,” she said, studying his face, “and I’ll consider it. Lanzecki gave me the distinct impression that I shouldn’t apply for it.”

There. She hadn’t imagined that reaction. Trag was perturbed. He’d been deliberately tempting her, with as subtle a brand of flattery as she’d ever been subjected to. Her respect for the Administration Officer reached a new level for she would never have thought him so devious. He was so completely devoted to Guild and Lanzecki.

“You’re asking me without Lanzecki’s knowledge?” She did not miss the sudden flare of Trag’s nostrils nor the tightening of his jaw muscles. “Why, Trag?”

“Your name was first on the list of qualified available singers.”

“Stuff it, Trag. Why me?”

“The interests of the Heptite Guild are best served by your acceptance.” A hint of desperation edged Trag’s voice.

“You object to the relationship between Lanzecki and me?” She had no way of knowing in what way Trag had adapted to Ballybran’s symbiont or in what way he expressed thought that such respect required additional outlets. If jealously prompted Trag to remove a rival . . .

“No.” Trag’s denial was accompanied by a ripple of his facial muscles. “Up till now, he has not allowed personal consideration to interfere with his judgment.”

“How has he done that?” Killashandra was genuinely perplexed. Trag was not complaining that Lanzecki had awarded her another valuable assignment. He was perturbed because he hadn’t. “I don’t follow you.”

Trag stared at her for such a long moment she wondered if the screen had malfunctioned.

“Even if you just go to Rani, it will not be far enough away or long enough. Lanzecki is long overdue for a field trip, Killashandra Ree. Because of you. Your body is so full of resonance he’s been able to delay. But your resonance is not enough. If you’re not available, he will be forced to cut crystal again and rejuvenate his body and his symbiont. If you have a real regard for the man, go. Now. Before it’s too late for him.”

Killashandra stared back at Trag, trying to absorb the various implications-foremost was the realization that Lanzecki was genuinely attached to her. She felt a wave of exultation and tenderness that quite overwhelmed her for a moment. She’d never considered that possibility. Nor its corollary: that Lanzecki would be reluctant to cut crystal because he might forget his attachment. A man who’d been in the Guild as long as he had would be subject to considerable memory loss in the Ranges. Had he learned his duties as Guild Master so thoroughly that the knowledge was as ingrained in him as the rules and regulations in a crystal-mad brain like Moksoon’s? It was not Lanzecki’s face that suddenly dominated her thoughts, but the crisscross tracings of old crystal scars on his body, the inexplicable pain that occasionally darkened his eyes. Antona’s cryptic admission about singers who could not break crystal thrall echoed in her head. She puzzled at the assortment of impressions and suddenly understood. She sagged against the back and arms of her chair for support. Dully she wondered if Trag and Antona had been in collusion. Would the subject of crystal thrall have come up at that lunch hour even if Kimbol had not arrived?

There was little doubt in Killashandra’s mind that Antona knew of Lanzecki’s circumstances. And she did doubt that the woman knew about their relationship. She also doubted that Trag would mention so personal an aspect of the Guild Master’s business. Why couldn’t Lanzecki have been just another singer, like herself? Why did he have to be Guild Master and far too valuable, too essential to be placed in jeopardy by unruly affection?

Why, the situation has all the trappings of an operatic tragedy! A genuine one-solution tragedy, where hero and heroine both lose out. For she could now admit to herself that she was as deeply attached to Lanzecki as he was to her. She covered her face with both hands, clasping them to cheeks gone chill.

She thought of Antona’s advice, to put down everything – including love – Killashandra writhed in her chair. Antona couldn’t have known that Killashandra would so shortly be faced with such an emotional decision. Which, Killashandra realized with a flicker of ironic amusement, was one to be as deeply and quickly interred and forgotten as possible.

One thing was sure – no matter how long the journey to Optheria, it wouldn’t be long enough to forget all the wonderful moments she had enjoyed with Lanzecki the man. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of encountering him when she returned, and, perhaps, finding no recollection of her in his dark eyes. Nor feel his lips again on her hand . . .

“Killashandra?” Trag’s voice recalled her to his watching presence on the viewscreen.

“Now that I know the ramifications of the assignment, Trag, I can hardly refuse it.” Her flippant tone was belied by the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Do you go with him to break the thrall?” she asked when her throat opened enough to speak again.

At any other time, she would have counted Tag’s startled look as a signal of victory. Maybe if she found someone to sing with. she would also find such a passionate and unswerving loyalty. She must remember that.

“When’s the next shuttle to Shanganagh, Trag?” She rubbed her cheeks dry with an urgent impatience. “Tell Lanzecki – tell him . . . crystal resonance drove me to it.” As she spun off her chair, she heard herself give a laugh that verged on the hysterical. “That’s no more than the truth, isn’t it?” Driven by the need just to do something, she began to cram clothes into her carisak.

“The shuttle leaves in ten minutes, Killashandra Ree.”

“That s great.” She struggled to secure the fastenings on the bulging sak. “Will you see me aboard again, Trag? That seems to be your especial duty, rushing me onto shuttles to Shanganagh for unusual assignments all over the galaxy.” She was unable to resist taunting Trag. He was the author of her misery and she was being strong and purposeful in a moment of deep personal sacrifice and loss. She glanced up at the screen and saw that it was dark. “Coward!”

She hauled open her door. She decided that slamming it was a waste of a grand gesture. She had just enough time to get to the shuttle.

“Exit Killashandra. Quietly. Up stage!”