The Crystal Singer

CHAPTER 10

Killashandra stayed with Enthor while he tallied her four cartons, though she was hardly aware of what the old Sorter was saying to her. She kept glancing toward the far door where Lanzecki had made his dramatic exit, aware of the surreptitious looks in her direction from other Sorters, aware of an emotion more intense than hatred, emptier than fear.

“Now that'll buy you your two sleds.” Enthor's words penetrated her self-absorption.

“What?”

“Those black crystals brought you a total of twenty-three thousand credits.”

“How much?” Killashandra stared incredulously at the displayed figures, blinking green. “But a sled only costs eight thousand.”

“There's the tithe, my dear. Thirty percent does eat a hole in the total. Actually, you have to pay for two sleds, the one you lost and the replacement. Still, 16,100 clear does help.”

“Yes, it does.” Killashandra tried to sound grateful.

Enthor patted her arm. “You'd best take a good long radiant bath, m'dear. Always helps. And eat.” Then he began to package her beautiful black crystal.

She turned away, unexpectedly feeling the separation from her first experience of crystal. The weight of the cutter made her sag as she slung it to her back. She would take it to be checked in the morning. She estimated she had just enough strength left to get her body back to her quarters and into the radiant bath. She took the nearest door out of the Sorting room, aware marginally that people were still rushing cartons in to Storage, that the howl of the wind was loud at this level even inside the complex. She should be grateful! She was too weary to laugh or snort at her inappropriate choice of word. She got into the lift and its descent, though smooth, made her sink toward the floor. She was able to prevent complete collapse only by hanging on to the support rail.

She wobbled to her room, oblivious to the gaze of those in the Commons. As she walked, the drag of the cutter pulled her to the right, and once she caromed numbly from a doorway.

When she finally raised her hand to her own door plate, she realized that she still wore the ident wristband. She wouldn't need that anymore, but she hadn't the strength to remove it. As she passed a chair, she dropped her right shoulder, and the cutter slid onto the cushioning. She continued to the tankroom where she stared in dazed surprise at the filling tank. Did her entry into the room trigger the thing? No, it was almost full. Someone must have programmed it. Enthor? Rimbol? Her mind refused to work. She tore at her coverall, then her sweat liner, pulling her boots off with the legs of her coverall, and crawled up the three steps to the platform around the tank. She slid gratefully – that word again – into the viscous liquid, right up to her throat, her weight supported by the radiant fluid. Fatigue and the ache of crystal drained from her body and nerves. In that suspension, she remained, her mind withdrawn, her body buoyed.

Sometime later, the room announced a visitor, and she roused sufficiently to deny entrance. She didn't want to see Rimbol. But the intrusion and the necessity of making a decision aroused her from her passivity. The fluid had provided the necessary anodyne, and she was acutely aware of hunger. She had pulled herself from the tank, the radiant liquid dripping from her body, and was reaching for a wrap when a hand extended the garment to her. Lanzecki stood there.

“I will not be denied twice!” he said, “though I will allow you couldn't know that it was I at your door.”

Surprised at his presence, Killashandra wavered on the edge of the tank, and he immediately held out a steadying hand.

“You can fill tanks and open doors?”

“One can be programmed, and the other was not locked.”

“It is now!”

“It is,” he said smoothly; his mouth, she quickly noticed, was amused. “But that can be changed.”

For a picosecond, she wanted to call his bluff. Then she remembered that he had said she might he luckier than she deserved as Enthor tallied her cut. He had implied she had enough credit not only to buy a new sled but pay off what she already owed the Guild. Lanzecki had remembered the vouchers she still held. With those, she would have just enough. What mattered was that Lanzecki had remembered that margin at a time when he was rightfully infuriated by her disregard of her Guild Master's summons.

''I'm much too tired to change anything." She gathered the toweling about her and extended her hand to him, palm up, summoning a weary smile.

He looked from her smile to her palm, and his lips curved upward. Now he took a step forward. Placing both hands on her slender waist, he swung her down from the tank platform. She expected to be set on her feet. Instead Lanzecki carried her into the lounge. The spicy aroma of a freshly cooked meal was heady, and she exclaimed with pleasure at the steaming dishes on the table.

“I expected you might be hungry.”

Killashandra laughed as Lanzecki deposited her in the chair, and she gestured with the over blown gentility of an opera heroine for him to assume the other seat.

Not that evening or ever did Lanzecki ask her if she had found Keborgen's black crystal, though he had occasions later to refer to her claim. Neither did he ask her any details of her first trip to the Milekey Ranges. Nor was she disposed to volunteer any comment. Except one.

Having teased her adroitly, Lanzecki finally gave her the caress she had been anticipating so long, and the sensation was almost unbearable.

“Crystal touches that way, too,” she said when she could talk.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice oddly rough, and as if to forestall her reply, he began to kiss her in a fashion that excluded opportunity.

She awoke alone, as she had expected, and much later than she had planned, for the time was late evening. She yawned prodigiously, stretched, and wondered if another radiant bath would further her restoration. Then her belly rumbled, and she decided food was the more immediate concern. No sooner had she dialed for a hot drink than a message was displayed on her screen for her to contact the Guild Master when convenient.

She did so promptly before she considered convenience, expedience, or opportunity.

Her reply was cleared immediately, and her screen produced a visual contact with the Guild Master. He was surrounded by printout sheets and looked tired.

“Have you rested?” Lanzecki asked. Belatedly, Killashandra activated her own screen. “Yes, you look considerably improved.”

“Improved?”

A slight smile tugged at his lips. “From the stress and fatigue of your dramatic return.” Then his expression changed, and Lanzecki became Guild Master. “Will you please come to my office to discuss an extra-planetary assignment?”

“Will,” not “would,” Killashandra thought, sensitive to key words.

“I'll be there as soon as I've eaten and gotten dressed.” He nodded and broke contact.

As she sipped the last of the drink, she took a long look at herself in the mirrors of the tank room. She'd never been vain about her appearance. She had good strong face bones, wide cheeks, a high forehead, and thick, well-arched eyebrows, which she had not narrowed, as the natural emphasis made a good stage effect. Her jaw was strong, and she was losing the jowl muscles formed by singing. She slapped at the sides of her chin. No flab. Whatever produced the gaunt aspect of her face was reflected in her body. She noticed how prominent her collarbones were. If her appearance was now an improvement, according to Lanzecki, whatever had she looked like the previous day? Right now, she wouldn't have needed face paint to play Space Hag or Warp Widow.

She found something loose and filmy to wear, with ends that tied about her neck and wrists and a long full skirt. She stood back from the mirrors and did a half turn, startled by her full-length reflection. Something had changed. Just what she couldn't puzzle out; she had to see the Guild Master.

She was almost to the lift shaft when a group emerged from the Commons.

“Killashandra?”

“Rimbol?” Killashandra mocked his surprised query with a light laugh. “You ought to know me!”

Rimbol gave her an odd grin that relaxed into his usual ingenuous smile. Jezerey, Mistra, and Borton were with him.

“Well, you're more like yourself this evening than you were yesterday,” Rimbol replied. He scratched his head in embarrassment, grinning ruefully at the others. “I didn't believe Concera when she kept saying singing crystal makes a big change, but now I do.”

“I don't think I've changed,” Killashandra replied stiffly, annoyed that Rimbol and, by their expressions, the others could perceive what eluded her.

Rimbol laughed. «Well, you've used your mirror» – and he indicated her careful grooming – «but you haven't seen.»

“No, I haven't.”

Rimbol made a grimace of apology for her sharp tone.

“Singers are notorious for their irritability,” Jezerey said with an uncordial look.

“Oh, pack that in, Jez,” Rimbol said. “Killa is just in off the ranges. Is it as bad as it's made out, Killa?” He couched that question in a quiet tone.

“I would have been fine if I hadn't had to deal with Moksoon.”

“Or the Guild Master.” Rimbol was sympathetic.

“Oh, you stayed on?” Killashandra decided to brazen through that episode. “He was quite right, of course. And I pass on that hard-learned lesson. Save your own sled and skin in the ranges. Will you be around later, Rimbol? I've got to see Lanzecki now.” She allowed her voice to drop, expressing dread and looking for sympathy in their expressions. “I'd like to join you later if you're in the lounge.”

“Good luck!” Rimbol said, and he meant it. The others waved encouragingly as she entered the lift.

She had much to think about during the short drop, and none of it about her interview with Lanzecki. How could she have changed so much in the past few days just by cutting crystal? Jezerey had never been overly friendly, but she had never been antagonistic. She was annoyed with herself, too, for that off handed reassurance to Rimbol. “I would have been fine without Moksoon.” Yet how could she possibly have explained the experience that had annealed her, confirmed her as a Crystal Singer? Maybe, alone with Rimbol, she would try to explain, forewarn him that once past the curious unpainful agony of the initial cut, there was an elevation to a totally bizarre ecstasy that could only be savored briefly or it overwhelmed mind, nerve, and senses.

She sighed, standing before the door to the Guild Master's office. In the second between the announcement of her presence and the panel's smooth retraction, she remembered how hard Concera had tried to explain some facets of crystal singing. She recalled the odd harsh tone in which Lanzecki had admitted knowledge of the tactile feel of crystal.

“Killashandra Ree.” Lanzecki's voice came from the corner of his large office, and she saw him bent over a spotlighted work surface, layers of printout in front of him. He did not look up from his research until she reached him. “Did you have enough to eat?” he asked with more than ordinary courtesy and a close scrutiny of her face.

"I had a high-protein and glucose cereal – " she began because, as soon as he mentioned eating, she felt hungry again.

“Hmmm. A bowl was all you had time for, I'm sure. You've slept sixteen hours, so you've missed considerable nourishment already.”

“I did eat in the ranges. Really I did,” she protested as he took her hand and led her to the catering console.

“You've still wit enough to feed yourself, but you can't know how immensely important it is to replenish reserves at this point.”

“I won't be able to eat all that.” She was appalled at the number and variety of dishes he was dialing.

“I get peckish myself, you know,” he said, grinning.

“What happens that I need to eat myself gross?” she asked, but she helped him clear the catering slot of its first deposit, sniffing appreciatively at the enticing mixture of aromas from the platters.

“You'll never see a plump Singer,” he assured her. “In your particular case, the symbiont is only just settled into cell tissue. A Milekey transition may be easier on the host, but the spore still requires time to multiply, differentiate, and become systematically absorbed. Here, start with this soup. Weather and other considerations compelled me to direct you into the ranges prematurely as far as the process of your adaptation is concerned.” He gave her a sardonic glance. “You may one day be grateful that you had only two days on your claim.”

“Actually three. I didn't spend two with that twithead Moksoon. He's utterly paranoid!”

“He's alive,” Lanzecki replied succinctly, with sufficient undertone to make the statement both accusation and indictment. “Three days! In ordinary training, you would not have gone out into the ranges until the others were also prepared.”

“They won't make it out before the Passover storms now.” Killashandra was dismayed. If she had had to wait that long . . .

“Precisely. You were trained, eager and clever enough to precipitate the event.”

“And you wanted that black crystal.”

“So, my dearling, did you.”

The caterer chimed urgently to remind them to clear the slot for additional selections. Lanzecki slapped a hold on the remainder of the programmed order.

“Even with your help, I'll never eat all this,” Killashandra said after they had filled the small table and three more dishes remained in the slot.

“Listen to me while you eat. The symbiont will be attenuated after intense cutting. I could see that in your face. Don't talk. Eat! I had to be sure you ate last night once the radiant fluid had eased your nerves. Your metabolism must be efficient. I would have thought you'd been awakened by hunger a good four hours ago.”

“I was eating when I got your message.”

He grinned as he inserted a steaming, seeded appetizer into his mouth. He licked his fingers as he chewed, then said, “My message was programmed the moment your caterer was used.” He stuffed another piece of appetizer into her mouth. “Don't talk. Eat.”

Whatever it was he fed her was exceedingly tasty. She speared another.

«Now, several unexpected elements are in display. One» – and he ate a spoonful of small brilliant green spheres – «you brought in five medium black crystals for which we have received an urgent request.» He waved his empty spoon at the printout layers on his desk. «Two, you have no sled, nor can Manufacturing produce a replacement before the Passover storms. Which, by the way, were heralded by that unpredicted blow in the Bay area. Short, hard, but destructive. Even though conjunction occurs over the seas north and east of this continent, Passover is going to be particularly nasty, as it coincides with spring solstice. Weather is generally cyclical on Ballybran, and the pattern which has been emerging coincides with '63 . . . 2863GY, that is – eat, don't gawk. Surely you have wandered through data retrieval, Killashandra, and discovered how long I've been a member. Fuerte cannot have eradicated human curiosity, or you wouldn't be here.»

She swallowed as the significance of his qualifying the century occurred to her.

“But not how long you've been Guild Master.”

He chuckled at her quick reply, passing a dish of stewed orange-and-green milsi stalks to her. “Excellent for trace minerals. The Passover turbulence will be phenomenal even in terms of Ballybran's meteorological history. Which, I might add, goes back further than I do. Don't choke now!” he rose to give her a deft thump between her shoulder blades. “Even the Infirmary level will shake. You, so recently exposed to crystal for the first time, will be severely affected by the stress. I can, as Guild Master, order you off Ballybran,” and his face fell into harsh immobile lines, impersonal and implacable. But his mouth softened when he saw her determined expression. “However, I would prefer that you cooperate. The five blacks you brought in are currently, if you'll forgive the pun, being tuned and should be ready for shipment. I would like to assign you to take them to the Trundimoux System and install them.”

“This duty will provide me with the margin of credit for my future foolishness?”

Lanzecki chuckled appreciatively.

“Think about the assignment while you eat some fried steakbean.”

“It is, then, a suggestion?” she asked around a large mouthful of tasty legume.

«It is – now – a suggestion.» His face, mouth, and tone were bland. «The storms will soon be hammering the ranges and forcing Singers in. Others would undertake the assignment happily, especially those who haven't cut enough crystal to get off-world at Passover.»

“I thought Passover was an incredible spectacle.”

“It is. Raw natural forces at their most destructive.” A lift to his shoulders suggested that it was a spectacle to which he was inured and yet . . .

“Do you leave during Passover?”

He gave her a keen glance, his dark eyes reflecting the spotlights over his work desk.

“The Guild Master is always accessible during Passover.” He offered her some lemon-yellow cubes. “A sharpish cheese, but it complements the steakbean.”

“Hmmm. Yes, it does.”

“Help yourself.” He rose and took the next dishes from the catering slot, which had been maintaining them at the appropriate heat. “Will you have something to drink?”

“Yarran beer, please.” She had a sudden craving for the taste of hops.

“Good choice. I'll join you.”

She glanced at him, arrested by some slight alteration of tone, but his back was to her.

“Rimbol's from Scartine, isn't he?” Lanzecki asked, returning with a pitcher and two beakers. He poured with a proper respect for the head of foam. “He should cut well in the darker shades. Perhaps black, if he can find a vein.”

“How could you tell?”

“A question of resonance, also of the degree of adaptation. Jezerey will do lighter blues, pinks, paler greens. Borton will also tend to cut well in the darker. I hope they team up.”

“Do you know who will cut what?”

“I am not in a position to imply anything, merely venture an informed guess. After all, the Guild has been operating for over four hundred years galactic, all that time collecting and collating information on its members. It would show a scandalous want of probity not to attempt more than merely a determination of probability of adjustment to Ballybran spore symbiosis.”

“You sound like Borella's come-all-ye pitch,” Killashandra replied.

Lanzecki's lips twitched in an amusement that was echoed by the sparkle in his brilliant eyes. «I do believe I'm quoting – but whom, I've forgotten. How about some pepper fruit? Goes with the beer. I've ordered some ices to clear the palate. A very old and civilized course but not one taken with beer.» As he passed her the plate, the tangy scent of the long, thin furry fingers did tempt her to try one. «As I was saying, by the time candidates are through the Shankill checkpoint, as many variables as can be resolved have been.» He began to pile empty plates and dishes into one untidy stack, and she realized that while he had sampled everything, she had eaten far more. Yet she didn't feel uncomfortably full. «You ought to have been shown the probability graph,» he said, frowning as he rose. He tossed the discards deftly into the waste chute before pausing yet again at the catering slot.

“We were.” She nibbled at another pepper fruit while wondering why his face showed no trace of aging. He wasn't singing crystal anymore, but that was the ostensible reason for the specious youthfulness. “We were told nothing about individual capabilities or forecasts.”

''Why should you be? That would create all sorts of unnecessary problems." He set two dishes of varicolor sherbets, two wine glasses, and a frosty bottle on the table.

“I couldn't eat another thing.”

“No? Try a spoonful of the green. Very settling to the stomach and clears the mouth.” He seated himself and poured the wine. “The one critical point is still adaptation. The psychological attitude, Antona feels, rather than the physical. That space worker, Carigana, should not have died.” Lanzecki's expression was one of impersonal regret. “We can generally gauge the severity of transition and are prepared for contingencies.”

Killashandra thought of the smooth disappearances of Rimbol and Mistra during the night, of meditechs collecting Jezerey before she had fallen to the plascrete. She also recalled her indignation over "condition satisfactory.

“How do you like the wine?”

“Does it have to be so mechanical?”

“The wine?”

“The whole process.”

“Every care is taken, my dear Killashandra,” and Lanzecki's tone reminded her incontrovertibly that he was Guild Master and that the procedure she wished to protest was probably of his institution.

“The wine's fine.”

“I thought you'd appreciate it.” His response was as dry as the wine. “Not much is left to chance in recruiting. Tukolom may be a prosy bore, but he has a curious sensitivity to illness which makes him especially effective in his role as tutor.”

"Then it was known that I – "

“You were not predicted.” He used the slightest pause between each word for emphasis, and raising his glass to her, took a sip.

“And . . .” It was not coquetry in Killashandra that caused her to prompt him but the strongest feeling that he had been about to add a rider to that surprise comment.

«And certainly not a Milekey, nor resonant to black crystal. Perhaps» – and his quick reply did, she was positive, mask thoughts unspoken – «we should initiate handling crystal with recruits as soon as possible. But» – and he shrugged – «we can't program convenient storms which require all-member participation.»

“Rimbol said you couldn't have planned that storm.”

“Perceptive of him. How did those ices go down?”

“They went.” She was surprised to find dish, bottle, and wine glasses empty.

“Fine. Than we can start on more.”

“More?” But already a pungent spicy odor emanating from the caterer had sharpened her appetite. “I'll bloat.”

“Very unlikely. Had you gone out with your class, this is exactly what would have been served on your return from the ranges. Yarran beer, since you have cultivated a taste for it, would be appropriate to wash down the spicefish.” He dialed for more. “Beer has also, for millennia, had another normal effect on the alimentary system.”

His comment, delivered in a slightly pompous tone, made her laugh. So she ate the spicefish, drank the beer, responded to certain natural effects of it, and, at one point, realized that Lanzecki had coaxed, diverted, bullied her into continuously consuming food for nearly three hours. By then, her satiation was such that when Lanzecki casually repeated his suggestion that she install the black crystal, she agreed to consider it.

“Is that why you've stuffed and drunken me?” she demanded, sitting erect to feign indignation.

«Not entirely. I have given you sufficient food to restore your symbiont and enough drink to relax you.» He smiled away her defective grammar and any accusation of coercion. «I do not wish you to endure Passover's mach storms. You might be ten levels underground, buffered by plascrete a meter thick, but the resonances cannot be» – he paused, averted his face, searching for the precise word – «escaped.» He turned back to her, and his eyes, dark and subtly pained, held hers, his petition heightened by the uncharacteristic difficulty in expressing his concern.

“Do you ever . . . escape?”

The delicate bond of perception between them lasted some time, and then, leaning across the table, he kissed her question away.

He escorted her back to her quarters, made certain she was comfortable in the bedroom, and suggested that in the morning she take her cutter down to be checked and stored, that if she was interested in weather history, she could review other phenomenal Passover storms in the met control the next day at eleven and see something of Storm Control tactics.

The next morning, she reflected during her shower and notably hearty breakfast on Lanzecki's extraordinary attentions to her, sensual as well as Guild. She could see why Lanzecki, as Guild Master, would exploit her eagerness to get into the ranges and secure Keborgen's priceless claim. She'd succeeded. Now, in an inexplicable reverse, Lanzecki wanted her off-planet. Well, she could decide this morning when she watched the weather history, whether that was the man or the Guild Master talking. She rather hoped it was the former, for she did like Lanzecki the man and admired the Guild Master more than any man she had so far encountered.

What had he meant when he said she was unpredicted? Had that been flattery? The Guild Master indulging a whimsy? Not after he had assisted her in getting out into the ranges; not after she had successfully cut black crystal? Especially, not after Lanzecki had very forcefully defined to her in the Sorting Room the difference between the man and the Guild Master.

She winced at the memory. She had deserved that reprimand. She could also accept his solicitousness for her health and well-being. He wanted more black crystal – if that was his motive. All right, Killashandra Ree, she told herself firmly, no section or paragraph of the Charter of the Heptite Guild requires the Master to explain himself to a member. Her ten years at Fuerte Music Center had taught Killashandra that no one ever does a favor without expecting a return. Lanzecki had also underscored self-preservation and self-interest with every object lesson that was presented.

She didn't really want to leave Ballybran, though it was probably true that she could use the credit margin of an off world assignment. She looked up the payment scale: the credit offered was substantial. Perhaps it would be better to take the assignment. But that would mean leaving Lanzecki, too. She stared grimly at her reflection in the mirror as she dressed. Departing for that reason might also be wise. Only she'd better mend her fences with Rimbol.

Grateful that she would not have the additional expense of replacing the cutter or facing the Fisher with that request, she brought the device up to Engineering and Training. As she entered the small outer office, she saw two familiar figures.

“I'm not going to be caught here again during Passover,” Borella was saying to the Singer Killashandra remembered from the shuttle.

“Doing your bit again on recruits, Borella?” the man asked, negligently shoving his cutter across the counter and ignoring the technician's sour exclamation.

“Recruits?” Borella stared blankly.

«Remember, dear» – and the man's voice rippled with mockery – «occasionally, you pass the time briefing the young hopefuls at Shankill station.»

“Of course, I remember,” Borella said irritably. “I can do better than that this time, Olin,” she went on smugly. “I cut greens in octave groups. Five of them. Enough for an Optherian organ. Small one, of course, but you know that that addiction will last a while.”

“I'm rather well off, too, as it happens.” Olin spoke over her last sentence.

Borella murmured something reassuring to him as she handed over her cutter to the technician, but showed a shade more concern for the device. Then she linked her arm through Olin's. As they turned to leave, Killashandra nodded politely to Borella, but the woman, giving Killashandra's cutter a hard stare, walked past with no more sign of recognition than tightening her clasp on Olin's forearm.

“Of course, there are those unfortunate enough to have to stay here.” Her drawl insinuated that Killashandra would be of that number. “Have you seen Lanzecki lately, Olin?” she asked as they left the room.

For a moment, Killashandra was stunned by the double insult, though how Borella would have known where the Guild Master spent his time was unclear. She resisted the insane urge to demand satisfaction from Borella.

“Are you turning that cutter in or wealing it?” A sour voice broke through her resentment.

“Turning it in.” She handed the cutter to the Fisher carefully, wishing she didn't have to encounter him as well.

“Killashandra Ree? Right?” He wasn't looking at her but inspecting the cutter. “You can't have used this much,” and he peered suspiciously at handle and blade casing. “Where'd you damage it?”

"I didn't. I'm turning it in.

The Fisher was more daunting than Borella and her rudeness.

“You could have left it in your sled, you know,” he said, his tone not quite so acerbic now that he had assured himself that one of his newest cutters had not been misused. “No one else can use it, you know,” he added, obviously making allowance for her ignorance.

She was not about to admit to anyone that she had lost the sled.

“I'm going off-planet for Passover,” she said and belatedly realized that he had no such option.

“Go while you can, when you can,” he said gruffly but not unkindly. Then he turned and disappeared into his workroom.

As she made her way back to the lift, Killashandra supposed she ought to be relieved that someone remembered her. Possibly the Fisher was able to associate her with a device he had so recently crafted. Or perhaps it was common knowledge through the Guild that Lanzecki had berated a new Singer.

She shouldn't let the encounter with Borella rankle her. The woman had inadvertently confirmed Lanzecki's advice. Furthermore, if Moksoon could not remember Killashandra from moment to moment, how could she fault Borella? How long did it take for a Singer's memory to disintegrate? Killashandra must learn to overcome habits and values acquired on Fuerte in the Music Center. There one sought to put people under obligation so they could be called in as support for this role or that rehearsal room, to form a trio or quartet, throw a party on limited credit, all the myriad arrangements that require cooperation, good will! and . . . memory of favors past. As Lanzecki had pointed out, «Gratitude depends on memory.» The corollary being «memory lasts a finite time with a Singer.» The only common bond for Crystal Singers was the Guild Charter and its regulations, rules, and restrictions – and the desire to get off Ballybran whenever one could afford that privilege.

Carigana shouldn't have died? Now why did that come to mind, Killashandra wondered as she stepped out of the lift at Meteorology. According to the ceiling-border message panel, the viewing was already in progress in the theater. As she hesitated, another lift, this one full of people, opened its door, and she accompanied the group to their mutual destination.

The theater was semidark and crowded, people standing along the walls when all seating was occupied. On the wide angle screen, cloud patterns formed and reformed with incredible speed. At one point, Killashandra saw Rimbol's face illumined; beside him were Borton and Jezerey. She recognized other members of Class 895 and the weather man who had taken them to the sensor station. The turbulence of the storm was not audible. Instead a commentator droned on about pressure, mach-wind velocities, damage, rain fall, snow, sleet, dust density, and previous Passover tempests while a print display under the screen kept pace with his monologue. Killashandra managed to find space against the far wall and looked over the engrossed audience for Lanzecki's face. She hoped he hadn't made his offer of the off-planet trip to anyone else. If he was being magnanimous, surely he would also give her first refusal.

Then she became caught up in the storm visuals, thinking at first they must have been accelerated – until she compared wind velocities and decibel readings. She was aghast at the fury of the storm.

“The major Passover storm of 2898,” voice and print informed viewers, “while not as severe or as damaging as that of 2863, also formed in the northeast, during spring solstice, and when Shilmore was over the Great Ocean in advance of Shanganagh and Shankill. The inauspicious opposition of the two nearest planets will emphasize the violence of this year's storm. Seeding, improved emulsions, and the new wave disrupter off the coasts of Buland and Hoyland should prevent the tsunami drive across the ocean which caused such widespread havoc on the South Durian continent.”

The screen switched frequently from satellite pictures to planetary weather stations where the wind shifts were marked by waves of debris flung in vertical sheets. Killashandra fell into that mesmerized state that can befuddle the mind, and for one hideous second she almost heard windshriek. A particularly frenzied cross-current of detritus shattered the trance by inducing motion nausea. She hastily left the theater, looking for a toilet. The moment she reached the soundproof stability of the quiet corridor, her nausea waned, only to be replaced by the gnawing of severe hunger.

“I had breakfast,” she said through clenched teeth “I had plenty of breakfast.”

She entered a lift, wondering just how long the postrange appetite remained critical. She punched for the infirmary level and swung into the same anteroom she had entered barely four weeks before.

No one was on duty.

“Is anyone here?” she demanded acidly.

“Yes,” the verbal address system responded.

"I don't want you. I'd like to see – "

“Killashandra Ree?” Antona walked through the right hand door panel, an expression of surprise on her face. “You can't have been injured?” The chief medic took a small diagnostic unit from her thigh pocket and advanced toward Killashandra.

“No, but I'm starving of the hunger.”

Antona laughed, slipping the instrument back into her pocket. «Oh, I do apologize, Killashandra. It's not the least bit funny! For you.» She tried to compose her face into a more severe expression. «But you put it aptly. You're «starving of the hunger» for several reasons. While the others were convalescing from the fever, we could administer nutritional assists. You had no fever, and then you were sent out to cut. The appalling hunger, you realize, is quite normal. No, I see you don't, and you look hungry. I'm just about to have a morning snack. The lounge will be deserted, as everyone's peering at last year's storms. Join me? I can think of nothing more boring than to be compelled to eat mountains and gulp them down in solitary confinement. You did remember, of course» – and by this time Antona had guided her back to the lift and, at their destination, down the length of the lounge to a catering area as she talked – «that the symbiont takes twenty weeks to establish itself thoroughly. We have never managed to find out the average spore intake per diem since so much depends on the individual's metabolism. Now, let's see . . .» Antona pressed menu review. «You don't mind if I order for you? I know exactly how to reduce that hunger and restore the symbiont.» Antona waited for Killashandra's agreement and then toured the catering area, dialing several selections at each post before signaling Killashandra to take a tray and start collecting the items delivered.

Food enough for the entire final year student complement of the Music Center presently covered two large tables, and Killashandra ravenously started to eat.

«If it's any encouragement, your appetite will slack off especially after the symbiont has prepared for Passover.» She smiled at Killashandra's groan. «Don't worry. You'll have no appetite at all during the height of Passover – the spore buries itself in crevices.» Antona smiled. «In the Life lab, we have rock crabs and burrow worms over four hundred years old.» Antona's grin became wry. «I don't suppose that aspect of Ballybran's ecology figured in your orientation. There isn't much life on this mudball, but what there is lives in symbiotic relation to the spore. That's how it keeps itself alive, by increasing the survival mechanisms of whatever host it finds. It behooves Us, the new dominant life form, to study the indigenous.»

As she ate, Killashandra found Antona's ramblings more interesting than Tukolom's lectures. It did cross her mind that Antona might just be indulging in the luxury of a captive audience. Antona was not lazy with fork and spoon, so her “morning snack” must have answered a real need if not as urgent as Killashandra's.

"I keep trying" – and Antona emphasized that word "to correlate some factor, or factors, which would once and for all allow us to recruit without anxiety." She paused and looked with unfocused eyes to one corner of the dining area. "I mean, I knew what I was to do before I came here, but if I had made the complete adjustment, I'd've been required to sing crystal." Antona made a grimace of dislike, then smiled radiantly. "The prospect of having all the time in the world to delve into a life form and carry through a research program was such a gift – "

“You didn't want to be a Crystal Singer?”

“Shards and shades, girl, of course not. There's more to life here than that.”

“I had the impression, that crystal singing was the function of this planet.”

“Oh, it is,” and Antona's agreement rippled with laughter. “But the Crystal Singers could scarcely function without support personnel. More of us than you, you know. Takes five and three-quarters support staff to keep a Singer in the ranges. Furthermore, the Guild doesn't have the time or the facilities to train up members in every skill needed. There are plenty of people from the Federated Sentient Planets quite willing to risk adaptation and the possibility of having to sing crystal to come here in other capacities.”

“I'm a little confused . . .”

"I shouldn't wonder, Killashandra. You do come from Fuerte, and that conservative government had off notions about self-determination. I did wonder how you came to be recruited, though you are one of our nicer surprises." Antona patted Killashandra's arm reassuringly. "The Fuertans we've had in previous decades also made good hosts." Suddenly, Antona frowned, eyeing Killashandra speculatively. "I really must run your scans again. I've developed five separate evaluation tests, two at the primary level, which, if I say so myself – and Antona smiled modestly – "have increased the probability figures by 35%."

“I didn't think the Guild was permitted active recruiting,” Killashandra said, doggedly returning to that blithe comment.

Antona looked startled. “Oh, nothing active. Certainly less blatant than service programs. The FSP definitely frowns on any sort of conditioning or coercion due to the specific adaptation, you see. That's a direct contradiction of the freedom of movement in the FSP Charter. Of course, when FSP recruits, no one dares complain but it's common knowledge what Service people do.” She emitted a sort of giggle. “Freedom of movement, indeed. Most good citizens of the FSP never leave or want to leave their home worlds, but they have to be able to do so according to FSP, and that forces us to use the Shankill clearing point.”

“Don't you mind being restricted to this planet?”

“Why should I?” Antona did not appear to be resigned.

“Singers seem very keen to get off Ballybran,” Killashandra said, but her mind was chaotic, remembering Carigana's intransigence, the farce of the Shankill Moon Recruitment, Rimbol's passing his “preliminaries,” Carigana and her “trap,” the way Killashandra found herself reacting to the suspicion that Antona had confirmed.

“Singers should leave Ballybran whenever possible,” she said, completely sincere and much at her ease. “It's a tense, demanding profession, and one should be able to . . . escape . . . from one's work to completely different surroundings.”

“Escape.” That was the verb Lanzecki had used. “Do you escape your work Antona?”

“Me? Of course. My work is in the infirmary and the labs. I have the whole planet to roam and the moons if I wish a change of view.”

“Even at Passover?”

Antona chuckled indulgently at Killashandra's jibe. “Well, everyone holes up during Passover. Or gets off the planet if possible.” She leaned over to touch Killashandra's arm. “For your own sake, I wish you hadn't cut so near to Passover, but you can be sure I'll help you all I can.”

“Why should I need help?” Killashandra had no trouble affecting innocent surprise. “I've only cut once.”

“The most dangerous cut of them all. I'm really surprised that Lanzecki permitted it. He's so careful about his new Singers. I had to pass you over to training, my dear. No point at all in keeping you with sick people. But this Passover is the most inconvenient one, and it will be ages before the weather settles and damage can be cleared. I suppose Lanzecki wanted to get as much crystal cut as possible when he could. Of course, repair won't concern you as a Singer. You'll be sent out as soon as possible to check your claims for storm alteration.”

“What will happen because I have cut crystal once?”

“Oh, dear.” Antona inhaled deeply and then exhaled on a short, exasperated breath. “I will blather on. Very well, then, I'd have to tell you soon, anyhow. It's only I don't like to alarm people unnecessarily.”

“You have unless you come to the point.”

«You've been told that storms in the Crystal Ranges are lethal because the winds whip resonance out of the mountains that produce sensory overload. During Passover, the entire place, right down to its core, I sometimes feel, quivers – a noise, a vibration, multiple sonics are formed and transmitted which cannot be» – Antona gave another shrug of helplessness – «escaped. We'll sedate you, and you can be harnessed safely in a radiant tub in the infirmary, which has special shielding. Every possible care will be taken.»

“I see.”

“No, you'll hear. That's worse. Now eat. Actually, at your stage, a surfeit of food is the best cushion I could prescribe. Think of the sedation as hibernation; the food is protection.”

Killashandra applied herself to the untouched dishes, while Antona silently and slowly finished her last portion.

“Do the others go through this, too?” Killashandra flicked her hand at the array of plates.

“Oh, we all start eating quantities now.”

"Will the others have to be sedated and – "

“They'll be uncomfortable, but so will anyone with hearing and quite a number who are in other respects clinically deaf hear storm resonance. We provide maskers. The white noise relieves the temporary tinnitus caused by turbulence. We really do try to help.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“Small comfort, you may think, but all things are relative. Just read the early history of the Guild and the members' comments. Oh, dear, I don't want to be caught here.”

Antona's hasty rising caused Killashandra to look around. People were streaming in from the lifts. “I'll just slip out the back. You finish your meal!” She pointed imperatively at the remaining dishes and then retreated into a dimmer area of the Commons.

Killashandra finished the milsi stalks and regarded the final dish of nut-covered cubes. People were lining up at the catering areas, the first serving themselves with generous trays. So she wasn't the only hungry one.

“Here she is!” Rimbol's delighted cry startled her. She twisted in the chair and saw the Scartine. Mistra, Jezerey, Borton, and Celee were close behind him. “I told you I saw her at the storm scan. You get hungry or something?” His eyes bright with mischief, Rimbol began to count the empty plates.

“You must have cut a lot of crystal to afford all that,” Jezerey commented. Her eyes were unfriendly.

“Antona's orders. I didn't have a convalescence like you lot, so I'm eating for two now.”

“Yes, but you got out into the ranges, and we're stuck here!” Jezerey was almost savage. Borton shook her arm.

“Cut that, Jez. Killa didn't do it to spite you, you know.” Borton looked across to Killa, his eyes entreating.

“Yes, you did get out into the ranges,” Mistra said in her soft voice, “and I'd very much appreciate it, Killashandra, if you'd tell us what actually does happen when you cut. I've got the awfulest notion that they don't tell us all, for all they do tell.”

«Here, get rid of the debris» – Rimbol was shoveling dishes and plates together – «and someone order beer and things. Then Killashandra can divulge trade secrets.»

Killashandra was not in a confessional mood, but the mute appeal in Mistra's brown eyes, the wary concern in Rimbol's, and Borton's stiff, blank expression could not be denied by a classmate, no matter what doctrine of self preservation Lanzecki was preaching. Jezerey would find her own level; that was certain. Rimbol, Mistra, and Borton were a different matter.

Celee returned then with pitchers and beakers. “Look, since singing isn't my trade, why don't I just shuttle food for you?” he asked good-natured]y. He winked at Killashandra to emphasize his indifference to the outcome of his adaptation.

Orders were given him, and as he left, complaining that his back would be broken, the others settled at the table and looked expectantly at Killashandra.

"Most of what happens is explained, Killashandra began, not knowing precisely how to describe the phenomenon.

“Theory is one thing. Where does it differ from practice?” Mistra asked gently.

“She doesn't say much but she gets to the point,” Rimbol noted while raising his eyes in comic dismay.

Killashandra smiled gratefully at Mistra.

«Those storm simulation flights – the real thing can be worse. I didn't cut squarely for all the practice I had retuning soured crystal. I suppose your hands get stronger, but don't be surprised if your first block has a reptilian outline.» She was rewarded with a chuckle from Rimbol, who clowned with an exaggerated wriggle of his torso. «You know you've got to be shepherded into the ranges by some experienced Singer? Well, keep one fact perfectly clear: he or she is liable to forget from moment to moment that you are legally supposed to be with him. Mine damned near sliced my leg off. Just keep the tape playing on repeat so he can't forget it. Talk to him all the time, keep yourself in his sight, especially after he's just cut crystal . . .»

“Yes, yes, we've been told that. But when you find crystal . . .” Jezerey interrupted abruptly.

Killashandra looked at her coolly. "When" the girl said. "It's if, not when – "

“But you found crystal. Black crystal,” Jezerey began indignantly.

“Shut up, Jez.” Borton pressed his fingers warningly into her shoulder, but she shrugged off his hold.

“The unexpected starts when you cut your own crystal. You tap for the note on the face and then tune the cutter and then . . .” Killashandra was back in the fault, the first black segment, uneven cut line and all, weighing in her palms, dazzling her with its slow change in sunlight from transparency to the black matte of the thermally responsive crystal, losing herself in the memory of that shimmering resonance, feeling the incredible music in her blood and bones . . .

An insistent tugging on her sleeve finally broke her trance.

"Killa, are you all right? Shall I get Antona? Killa?" Rimbol's urgent and anxious questions brought her to dazed awareness of her present position. "You've been away for – "

“Six minutes, four seconds,” Borton added, tipping his wrist to see the display.

“What?”

«What? she says» – Rimbol turned to the others with a teasing manner – «when she's been visiting her claim on the sly. Look, friends, no visible means of contact and yet our fair lady – Does it truly take that kind of a hold on you, Killa?» He dropped his antic pose and touched her gently on the arm, his face concerned.

“Well, I didn't think it could get me sitting here with my friends, but this advice I will freely give you, having just demonstrated. Cut, and pack! If you don't, you may stand there like I just was and commune with your crystal until the storm breaks over you.”

“Communing with crystal!” Jezerey was impatient, skeptical.

“Well, it might not happen to you.” Killashandra tried to speak mildly, but Jezerey aggravated her. “Got your sled yet?” she asked Rimbol.

“Yes . . .” Rimbol said.

“But we're not allowed to use them,” Jezerey finished, glaring at Killashandra.

“Which might be just as well, considering your performance on the simulator,” Borton said.

“So crystal singing is really addictive? How fast is the habit formed?” Rimbol was off in a seriocomic vein to lighten the tension that was developing. “Can it be broken? Is it profitable?”

“Yes, fast, no, and yes,” Killashandra responded. “Don't let me inhibit your enjoyment of your meal.” She rose quickly, keeping Rimbol from rising by a restraining hand on his shoulder. “See you tonight here?”

She hardly waited for his answer, for she had seen a figure entering the Commons at the far end, moving with Lanzecki's unmistakable stride. She walked to intercept him.

He was Guild Master, she realized, as he scanned the faces in the lounge. He barely paused as she reached him.

“I'd like that assignment.”

“I thought you would.”

No more than that and they had passed each other, he for the catering area and she for the lifts.