The Crystal Singer

CHAPTER 2

Killashandra was halfway to the spaceport before she consciously decided that that was where she ought to go – «ought» this time not in an obligatory but in an investigative sense. Fuerte held nothing but distressing memories for her. She'd leave the planet and erase the painful associations. Good thing she had taken the lute. She had sufficient credentials to be taken on as a casual entertainer on some liner at the best or as a ship attendant at the worst. She might as well travel about a bit to see what else she ought to do with her life.

As the speedway slowed to curve into the spaceport terminal, Killashandra was aware of externals – people and things – for the first time since she'd left Maestro Valdi's studio. She had never been to the spaceport before and had never been on any of the welcoming committees for off planet stellars. Just then, a shuttle launched from its bay, powerful engines making the port building tremble. There was, however, a very disconcerting whine of which she was almost subliminally aware, sensing it from the mastoid bone right down to her heel. She shook her head. The whine intensified – it had to be coming from the shuttle – until she was forced to clamp her hands over her ears. The sonics abated, and she forgot the incident as she wandered around the immense, domed reception hall of the port facility. Vidifax were ranked across the inner segment, each labeled with the name of a particular freight or passenger service, each with its own screen plate. Faraway places with strange sounding names – a fragment from an ancient song obtruded and was instantly suppressed. No more music.

She paused at a portal to watch a shuttle off-loading cargo, the loading attendants using pneumatic pallets to shift odd-sized packages that did not fit the automatic cargo-handling ramp. A supercargo was scurrying about, portentously examining strip codes, juggling weight units, and arguing with the stevedores. Killashandra snorted. She'd soon have more than such trivia to occupy her energies. Suddenly, she caught the scent of appetizing odors.

She realized she was hungry! Hungry? When her whole life had been shattered? How banal! But the odors made her mouth water. Well, her credit ought to be good for a meal, but she'd better check her balance rather than be embarrassed at the restaurant. At a public outlet, she inserted her digital wristunit and applied her right thumb to the print plate. She was agreeably surprised to note that a credit had been added that very day – a student credit, she read. Her last. That the total represented a bonus did not please her. A bonus to solemnize the fact that she could never be a soloist?

She walked quickly to the nearest restaurant, observing only that it was not the economy service. The old, dutiful Killashandra would have backed out hastily. The new Killashandra entered imperiously. So early in the day, the dining rooms were not crowded, so she chose a booth on the upper level for its unobstructed view of the flow of shuttles and small spacecraft. She had never realized how much traffic passed through the spaceport of her not very important planet, though she vaguely knew that Fuerte was a transfer point. The vidifax menu was long and varied, and she was tempted several times to indulge in the exotic foods temptingly described therein. But she settled for a casserole, purportedly composed of off-world fish, unusual but not too highly spiced for a students untutored palate. An off-world wine included in the selection pleased her so much that she ordered a second carafe just as dusk closed in.

She thought, at first, that it was the unfamiliar wine that made her nerves jangle so. But the discomfort increased so rapidly that she sensed it couldn't be just the effect of alcohol. Rubbing her neck and frowning, she looked around for the source of irritation. Finally, the appearance of a descending shuttle's retroblasts made her realize that her discomfort must be the result of a sonic disturbance, though how it could penetrate the shielded restaurant she didn't know. She covered her ears, pressing as hard as she could to ease that piercing pain. Suddenly, it ceased.

“I tell you, that shuttle's drive is about to explode. Now connect me to the control supervisor,” a baritone voice cried in the ensuing silence.

Startled, Killashandra looked around.

“How do I know? I know!” At the screen of the restaurant's service console, a tall man was demanding: “Put me through to the control tower. Is everyone up there deaf? Do you want a shuttle explosion the next time that one is used? Didn't you hear it?”

“I heard it,” Killashandra said, rushing over to plant herself in the view of the console.

“You heard it?” The spaceport official seemed genuinely surprised.

«I certainly did. All but cracked my skull. My ears still hurt. What was it?» she asked the tall man, who had an air of command about him, frustrated though he was by officious stupidity. He carried his overlean body with an arrogance that suited the fine fabric of his clothes – obviously of off-world design and cloth.

“She heard it too, man. Now, get the control tower.”

“Really, sir. . .”

“Don't be a complete subbie,” Killashandra snapped.

That she was obviously a Fuertan like himself disturbed the official more than the insult. Then the stranger, ripping off an oath as colorful as it was descriptive of idiocy, flipped open a card case drawn from his belt. Whatever identification he showed made the official's eyes bulge.

“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize, Sir.”

Killashandra watched as the man pressed out a code, then his image dissolved into a view of the control tower. The off-worlder stepped squarely before the screen, and Killashandra politely moved back.

"Control? The shuttle that just landed can't be permitted to take off; it's resonating so badly half the crystals in the drive must be overheating. Didn't anyone up there hear the beat frequency? It's broadcasting secondary sonics. No, this is not a drunk and not a threat. This is a fact. Is your entire control staff tone deaf? Don't you take efficiency readings for your shuttles? Can't you tell from the ejection velocity monitor? What does a drive check cost in comparison to a new port facility? Is this shuttle stop world too poor to employ a crystal tuner or a stoker?

“Well, now that's a more reasonable attitude,” said the stranger after a moment. “As to my credentials, I'm Carrik of the Heptite Guild, Ballybran. Yes, that's what I said. I could hear the secondary sonics right through the walls, so I damn well know there's over heating. I'm glad the uneven drive thrust has registered on your monitors, so get that shuttle decoked and retuned.” Another pause. “Thanks, but I've paid my bill already. No, that's all right. Yes . . .” and Killashandra observed that the gratitude irritated Carrik. “Oh, as you will.” He glanced at Killashandra. “Make that for two,” he added, grinning at her as he turned from the console. “After all, you heard it as well.” He cupped his hand under Killashandra's elbow and steered her toward a secluded booth.

“I've a bottle of wine over there,” she said, half protesting, half laughing at his peremptory escort.

“You'll have better shortly. I'm Carrik and you're . . . ?”

“Killashandra Ree.”

He smiled, gray eyes lighting briefly with surprise. “That's a lovely name.”

“Oh, come now. You can do better than that?”

He laughed, absently blotting the sweat on his forehead and upper lip as he slid into his place.

“I can and I will, but it is a lovely name. A musical one.”

She winced.

“What did I say wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

He glanced at her skeptically just as a chilled bottle slid from the service panel.

Carrik peered at the label. «A '72 – well, that's astonishing.» He flipped the menu vidifax. «I wonder if they stock Forellan biscuits and Aldebaran paste? – Oh, they do! Well, I might revise my opinion of Fuerte.»

"Really, I only just finished – "

"On the contrary, my dear Killashandra Ree, you've only just begun.

“Oh?” Any of Killashandra's associates would have modified his attitude instantly at that tone in her voice.

«Yes,» Carrik continued blithely, a sparkling challenge in his eyes, «for this is a night for feasting and frolicking – on the management, as it were. Having just saved the port from being leveled, my wish, and yours, is their command. They'll be even more grateful when they take the drive down and see the cracks in the transducer crystals. Off the true by a hundred vibes at least.»

Her half-formed intention of making a dignified exit died, and she stared at Carrik. It would take a highly trained ear to catch so small a variation in pitch.

“Off a hundred vibes? What do you mean? Are you a musician?”

Carrik stared at her as if she ought to know who or what he was. He looked around to see where the attendant had gone and then, leaning indolently back in the seat, smiled at her enigmatically.

“Yes, I'm a kind of musician. Are you?”

“Not anymore.” Killashandra replied in her most caustic tone. Her desire to leave returned immediately. She had managed very briefly to forget why she was at a spaceport. Now he had reminded her, and she wanted no more such reminders.

As she began to rise, his hand, fingers gripping firmly the flesh of her arm, held her in her seat. Just then, an official bustled into the restaurant, his eyes searching for Carrik. His countenance simulated relief and delight as he hurried to the table. Carrik smiled at Killashandra, daring her to contest his restraint in front of the witness. Despite her inclination, Killashandra realized she couldn't start a scene. Besides, she had no real grounds yet for charging personal-liberty infringement. Carrik, fully aware of her dilemma, had the audacity to offer her a toast as he took the traditional sample sip of the wine.

“Yes, sir, the '72. A very good choice. Surely, you'll . . .”

The serving panel opened on a slightly smoking dish of biscuits and a platter of a reddish-brown substance.

“But, of course, Forellan biscuits and Aldebaran paste. Served with warmed biscuits, I see. Your caterers do know their trade,” Carrik remarked with feigned surprise.

“We may be small at Fuerte in comparison to other ports you've seen,” the official began obsequiously.

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Carrik brusquely waved the man away.

Killashandra stared after the fellow, wondering that he hadn't claimed insult for such a careless dismissal.

“How do you get away with such behavior?”

Carrik smiled. “Try the wine, Killashandra.” His smile suggested that the evening would be long, and a prelude to a more intimate association.

“Who are you?” she demanded, angry now.

“I'm Carrik of the Heptite Guild,” he repeated cryptically.

“And that gives you the right to infringe on my personal freedom?”

“It does if you heard that crystal whine.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“Your opinion of the wine, Killashandra Ree? Surely your throat must be dry, and I imagine you've a skull ache from that subsonic torture, which would account for your shrewish temper.”

Actually, she did have a pain at the base of her neck. He was right, too, about the dryness of her throat – and about her shrewish temper. But he had modified his criticism by stroking her hand.

“I must apologize for my bad manners,” he began with no display of genuine remorse but with a charming smile. “Those shuttle drive-harmonics can be unnerving. It brings out the worst in us.”

She nodded agreement as she sipped the wine. It was a fine vintage. She looked up with delight and pleasure. He patted her arm and gestured her to drink up.

“Who are you, Carrik of the Heptite Guild, that port authorities listen and control towers order exorbitant delicacies in gratitude?”

“You really don't know?”

“I wouldn't ask if I did!”

“Where have you been all your life that you've never heard of the Heptite Guild?”

“I've been a music student on Fuerte,” she replied, spitting out the words.

“You wouldn't, by any chance, have perfect pitch?” The question, unexpected and too casually put forth, caught her halfway into a foul temper.

"Yes, I do, but I don't – "

"What fantastic luck!" His face, which was not unattractive, became radiant. "I shall have to tip the agent who ticketed me here! Why, our meeting is unbelievable luck – "

"Luck? If you knew why I'm here – "

“I don't care why. You are here, and so am I.” He took her hands and seemed to devour her face with his eyes grinning with such intense joy she found herself smiling back with embarrassment.

“Oh, luck indeed, my dear girl. Fate. Destiny. Karma. Lequoal. Pidalkoram. Whatever you care to name the coincidence of our life lines, I should order magnums of this fine wine for that lousy shuttle pilot for endangering this port terminal, in general, and us, in particular.”

“I don't understand what you're ranting about, Carrik of Heptite,” Killashandra said, but she was not impervious to his compliments or the charm he exuded. She knew that her self-assurance tended to put off men, but here a well-traveled off-worlder, a man of obvious rank and position, was inexplicably taken with her.

“You don't?” He teased her for the banality of her protest, and she closed her mouth on the rest of her rebuff. “Seriously,” he went on, stroking the palms of her hands with his fingers as if to soothe the anger from her, “have you never heard of Crystal Singers?”

“Crystal Singers? No. Crystal tuners, yes.”

He dismissed the mention of tuners with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. “Imagine singing a note, a pure, clear middle C, and hearing it answered across an entire mountain range?”

She stared at him.

"Go up a third or down; it makes no difference. Sing out and hear the harmony return to you. A whole mountainside pitched to a C and another sheer wall of pink quartz echoing back in a dominant. Night brings out the minors, like an ache in your chest. the most beautiful pain in the world because the music of the crystal is in your bones, Is your blood – "

“You're mad!” Killashandra dug her fingers into his hands to shut off his words. They conjured too many painful associations. She had to forget all that, “I hate music. I hate anything to do with music.”

He regarded her with disbelief for a moment, but then, with an unexpected tenderness and concern reflected in his expression, he moved an arm around her shoulders and, despite her initial resistance, drew himself against her.

“My dear girl, what happened to you today?”

A moment before, she would have swallowed glass shards rather than confide in anyone. But the warmth in his voice, his solicitude, were so timely and unexpected that the whole of her personal disaster came tumbling out. He listened to every word, occasionally squeezing her hand in sympathy. But at the end of the recital, she was amazed to see the fullness in his eyes as tears threatened to embarrass her.

"My dear Killashandra, what can I say? There's no possible consolation for such a personal catastrophe as that! And there you were" – his eyes shone with what Killashandra chose to interpret as admiration – "having a bottle of wine as coolly as a queen. Or" – and he leaned over her, grinning maliciously – "were you just gathering enough courage to step under a shuttle?" He kept hold of her hand which, at his outrageous suggestion, she tried to free. "No, I can see that suicide was furthest from your mind." She subsided at the implicit compliment. "Although" – and his expression altered thoughtfully – "you might inadvertently have succeeded if that shuttle had been allowed to take off again. If I hadn't been here to stop it – " He flashed her his charmingly reprehensible smile.

“You're full of yourself, aren't you?” Her accusation was said in jest, for she found his autocratic manner an irresistible contrast to anyone of her previous acquaintance.

He grinned unrepentantly and nodded toward the remains of their exotic snack. “Not without justification, dear girl. But look, you're free of commitments right now, aren't you?” She hesitantly nodded. “Or is there someone you've been seeing?” He asked that question almost savagely, as if he'd eliminate any rival.

Later, Killashandra might remember how adroitly Carrik had handled her, preying on her unsettled state of mind, on her essential femininity, but that tinge of jealousy was highly complimentary, and the eagerness in his eyes, in his hands, was not feigned.

“No one to matter or miss me.”

Carrik looked so skeptical that she reminded him that she'd devoted all her energies to singing.

“Surely not all?” He mocked her dedication.

“No one to matter,” she repeated firmly.

«Then I will make an honest invitation to you. I'm an off-worlder on holiday. I don't have to be back to the Guild till – well» – and he gave a nonchalant shrug – «when I wish. I've all the credits I need. Help me spend them. It'll purge you of the music college.»

She looked squarely at him, for their acquaintanceship was so brief and hectic that she simply hadn't had time to consider him a possible companion. Nor did she quite trust him. She was both attracted to and repelled by his domineering, high-handed manner, and yet he represented a challenge to her. He was certainly the exact opposite of the young men she had thus far encountered on Fuerte.

“We don't have to stay on this mudball, either.”

“Then why did you come?”

He laughed. “I'm told I haven't been on Fuerte before. I can't say that it lives up to its name, or maybe you'll live up to the name for it? Oh come now, Killashandra,” he said when she bridled. “Surely you've been flirted with before? Or have music students changed so much since my day?”

“You studied music?”

An odd shadow flickered through his eyes. “Probably. I don't rightly remember. Another time, another life perhaps.” Then his charming smile deepened, and a warmth entered his expression that she found rather unsettling. “Tell me, what's on this planet that's fun to do?”

Killashandra considered for a moment and then blinked. “You know, I haven't an earthly?”

“Then we'll find out together.”

What with the wine, his adept cajolery, and her own recklessness, Killashandra could not withstand the temptation. She ought to do many things, she knew, but “ought” had been exiled someplace during the second bottle of that classic vintage. After spending the rest of the night nestled in Carrik's arms in the most expensive accommodation of the spaceport hostelry, Killashandra decided she would suspend duty for a few days and be kind to the charming visitor.

The vidifax printout chattered as it popped out dozens of cards on the resorts of Fuerte, more than she had ever suspected. She had never water skied, so Carrik decided they'd both try that. He ordered a private skimmer to be ready within the hour. As he sang cheerily at the top of a good, rich bass voice, floundering about in the elegant sunken bathtub of the suite, Killashandra recalled some vestige of self-preserving shrewdness and tapped out a few discreet inquiries on the console.

1234/AZ . . .

CRYSTAL SINGER . . . A COLLOQUIAL GALACTIC EUPHEMISM REFERRING TO MEMBERS OF THE HEPTITE GUILD, BALLYBRAN, WHO MINE CRYSTAL RANGES UNIQUE TO THAT PLANET. REF: BALLYBRAN, REGULUS SYSTEM, A-S-F/ 128/ 4. ALSO CRYSTAL MINING, CRYSTAL TECHNOLOGY, 'BLACK QUARTZ' COMMUNICATIONS.

WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED LANDING ON BALLYBRAN INTERDICTED BY FEDERATED SENTIENT PLANETS, SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78-90.

The landing prohibition surprised Killashandra. She tried to recall details from her obligatory secondary school course on FSP Rights and Responsibilities. The 900 Section had to do with life forms, she thought, and the Code 4 suggested considerable danger.

She tapped out the section, code, and paragraphs and was awarded a request for Need to Know? As she couldn't think of one at the moment, she went to the planetary reference, and the display rippled across the screen.

BALLYBRAN: FIFTH PLANET OF THE SUN, 'SCORIA, REGULUS SECTOR: THREE SATELLITES; AUTHORIZED LANDING POINT, FIRST MOON, SHANKILL; STANDARD LIFE-SUPPORT BASE, COMMERCIAL AND TRANSIENT ACCOMMODATIONS. NO UNAUTHORIZED PLANETARY LANDINGS: SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78-90.

SOLE AUTHORITY: HEPTITE GUILD, MOON BASE, SHANKILL.

Then she followed dense lines of data on the spectral analysis of Scoria and its satellites, Ballybran being the only one that rated considerable print-out, which Killashandra could, in part, interpret Ballybran had a gravity slightly lower than galactic norm for human adaptability, a breathable atmosphere, more oceans than land mass, tidal complications caused by three moons, as well as an exotic meteorology stimulated by sunspot activity on the primary.

PRINCIPAL INDUSTRIES: (1) BALLYBRAN CRYSTALS

(2) THERAPEUTIC WATERS.

(1) BALLYBRAN LIVING CRYSTAL VARIES IN DENSITY, COLOR, AND LONGEVITY AND IS UNIQUE TO THE PLANET. VITAL TO THE PRODUCTION OF CONTROL ELEMENTS IN LASERS; AS A MATERIAL FOR INTEGRATED-CIRCUIT SUBSTRATES (OF THE LADDER HIERARCHY); POSITRONIC ROBOTICS; AS TRANSDUCERS FOR ELECTRO-MAGNETIC RADIATION (FUNDAMENTALS OF 20 KHZ AND 500 KHZ WITH AUDIO SECONDARIES AND HARMONICS IN THE LOWER FREQUENCIES) AND HEAT TRANSDUCERS, AS OPTHERIAN SOUND RELAYS AND MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS; BLUE TETRAHEDRONS ARE A CRUCIAL PART IN TACHYON DRIVE SYSTEMS.

“BLACK” QUARTZ, A PHENOMENON LIMITED TO BALLYBRAN, IS THE CRITICAL ELEMENT OF INSTANTANEOUS INTERSTELLAR COMMUNICATION, HAVING THE ABILITY TO FOLD SPACE, OVER ANY DISTANCE, SO THAT MAGNETICALLY, ELECTRICALLY, AND, AS FAR AS IS KNOWN, OPTICALLY, THERE IS NO EFFECTIVE SEPARATION BETWEEN TWO COUPLED RESONATING SEGMENTS REGARDLESS OF THE ACTUAL DISTANCE BETWEEN THEM.

TIMING ACCURACY OVER A DISTANCE OF 500 LIGHT-YEARS HAS PRODUCED CONSISTENT ACCURACY OF 1 X 10-6 OF THE CESIUM ATOM TIME STANDARD.

BLACK QUARTZ IS CAPABLE OF ACHIEVING SIMULTANEOUS SYNCHRONIZATION WITH TWO OTHER SEGMENTS AND SO PROVIDES A RING-LINK BACKUP SYSTEM. FOR EXAMPLE, WITH SIX QUARTZ SEGMENTS, A TO F, A IS LINKED TO C, D, & E; B IS LINKED TO C, E, & F . . .

That was more than she ever wanted to know about black quartz communications, Killashandra thought as diagrams and computations scrolled across the screen, so she pressed on to more interesting data. She slowed the display when she noticed the heading “Membership” and reversed to the start of that entry.

CURRENT MEMBERSHIP OF THE HEPTITE GUILD ON BALLYBRAN IS 4425, INCLUDING INACTIVE MEMBERS, BUT THE NUMBER FLUCTUATES CONSIDERABLY DUE TO OCCUPATIONAL HAZARDS. THE ANCILLARY STAFF AND TECHNICIANS ARE LISTED CURRENTLY AT 20,007. ASPIRANTS TO THE GUILD ARE ADVISED THAT THE PROFESSION IS HIGHLY DANGEROUS, AND THE HEPTITE GUILD IS REQUIRED BY FEDERATION LAW TO DISCLOSE FULL PARTICULARS OF ALL DANGERS INVOLVED BEFORE CONTRACTING NEW MEMBERS.

Four thousand four hundred and twenty-five seemed an absurdly small roster for a galaxy-wide Guild that supplied essential elements to so many industries. Most galaxy-wide guilds ran to the hundreds of millions. What were those ancillary staff and technicians? The notation of “full particulars of dangers involved” didn't dissuade Killashandra at all. Danger was relative.

THE CUTTING OF BALLYBRAN CRYSTAL IS A HIGHLY SKILLED AND PHYSICALLY SELECTIVE CRAFT, WHICH, AMONG IT'S OTHER EXACTING DISCIPLINES, REQUIRES THAT PRACTITIONERS HAVE PERFECT AND ABSOLUTE PITCH BOTH IN PERCEPTION AND REPRODUCTION OF THE TONAL QUALITY AND TIMBRE TO BE FOUND ONLY IN TYPE IV THROUGH VIII BIPEDAL HUMANOIDS – ORIGIN: SOL III.

CRYSTAL CUTTERS MUST BE MEMBERS OF THE HEPTITE GUILD, WHICH TRAINS, EQUIPS, AND SUPPLIES GUILD MEDICAL SERVICES FOR WHICH THE GUILD EXACTS A 30 PERCENT TITHE FROM ALL ACTIVE MEMBERS.

Killashandra whistled softly – 30 percent was quite a whack. Yet Carrik seemed to have no lack of credit, so 70 percent of his earnings as a Cutter must be very respectable.

Thinking of Carrik, she tapped out a query. Anyone could pose as a member of a Guild; chancers often produced exquisitely forged documentation and talked a very good line of their assumed profession, but a computer check could not be forged. She got affirmation that Carrik was indeed a member in good standing of the Heptite Guild, currently on leave of absence. A hologram of Carrik, taken when he used his credit plate for spaceflight to Fuerte five days before, flowed across the viewplate.

Well, the man was undeniably who he said he was and doing what he said he was doing. His being a card-tuned Guild member was a safeguard for her so she could relax in his offer of an “honest” invitation to share his holiday. He would not leave her to pay the charges if he decided to skip off-world precipitously.

She smiled to herself, suddenly feeling sensuous. Carrik thought himself lucky, did he? Well, so did she. The last vestige of “ought” was the fleeting thought that she “ought to” register herself with the Fuertan Central Computer as a transient, but since she was by no means obligated to do so as long as she didn't require subsistence, she did nothing.

As she was beginning to enjoy her new found freedom, several of her classmates began to experience twinges of anxiety about Killashandra. Everyone realized that Killashandra must have been terribly upset by the examiners' verdict. Though some felt she deserved the lesson, for her overbearing conceit, the kinder of heart were disquieted about her disappearance. So was Maestro Esmond Valdi.

They probably would not have recognized the Killashandra who was sluicing about on water skis on the southern seas of the Western Hemisphere or swathed in elegant gowns, escorted by a tall, distinguished-looking man to whom even the most supercilious hoteliers deferred.

It was a glorious feeling to have unlimited funds. Carrik encouraged Killashandra to spend, and practice permitted her to suspend what few scruples remained from years of eking necessities out of student allotments. She did have the grace to protest his extravagance, at least at the outset.

"Not to worry, pet. I've credit to spend," Carrik reassured her. ·'I made a killing in dominant thirds in the Blue Range about the time some idiot revolutionists blew half a planet's communications out of existence." He paused; his eyes narrowed as he recalled something not quite pleasant. "I was lucky on shape, too. It's not enough, you see, to catch the resonances on what you're cutting. You've got to hope you remember which shape to cut, and that's where you're made or broken as a Crystal Singer. You've got to remember what's high on the market or remember something like that revolution on Hardesty." He pounded the table in emphasis, pleased with that particular memory. "I did remember that all right when it mattered."

“I don't understand.”

He gave her a quick look. “Not to worry, pet.” His standard phrase of evasion. “Come, give me a kiss and get the crystal out of my blood.”

There was nothing crystalline about his lovemaking or the enjoyment he derived from her body, so Killashandra elected to forget how often he avoided answering her questions about crystal singing. At first, she felt that since the man was on holiday, he probably wouldn't want to talk about his work. Then she sensed that he resented her questions as if they were distasteful to him and that he wanted, above all, to forget crystal singing, which did not forward her plan. But Carrik was not a malleable adolescent, imploring her grace and favor. So she helped him forget crystal singing, which he was patently able to do until the night he awakened her with his groans.

“Carrik, what's the matter? Those shellfish from dinner? Shall I get the medic?”

“No, no!” He twisted about frantically and took her hand from the communit. “Don't leave me. This'll pass.”

She held him in her arms as he cried out, clenching his teeth against some internal agony. Sweat oozed from his pores, yet he refused to let her summon help. The spasms racked him for almost an hour before they passed, leaving him spent and weak. Somehow, in that hour, she realized how much he had come to mean to her, how much fun he was, how much she had missed by denying herself any intimate relationships before. After he had slept and rested, she asked what had possessed him.

“Crystal, my girl crystal.” His sullen manner and the haggard expression on his face made her drop the subject.

By the afternoon he was almost himself. But some of his spontaneity was gone. He went through the motions of enjoying himself, of encouraging her to more daring exercises on the water skis while he only splashed about in the shallows. They were finishing a leisurely meal at a seaside restaurant when he finally mentioned that he must return to work.

“I can't say so soon!” Killashandra remarked with a light laugh. “But isn't the decision rather sudden?”

He gave her an odd smile. “Yes, but most of my decisions are, aren't they? Like showing you another side of fusty, fogey Fuerte.”

“And now our idyll is over?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but an edge crept into her tone.

“I must return to Ballybran. Ha! That sounds like one of those fisherfolk songs, doesn't it?” He hummed a banal tune, the melody so predictable that she could join in firm harmony.

“We do make beautiful music together,” he said, his eyes mocking her. “I suppose you'll return to your studies now.”

“Studies? For what? Lead soprano in a chorus of annotated, orchestrated grunts and groans by Fififidipidi of the planet Grnch?”

“You could tune crystals. They obviously need a competent tuner at Fuerte spaceport.”

She made a rude noise and looked at him expectantly. He smiled back, turning his head politely, awaiting a verbal answer.

“Or,” she drawled, watching him obliquely, “I could apply to the Heptite Guild as a Crystal Singer.”

His expression went blank. “You don't want to be a Crystal Singer.”

The vehemence in his voice startled her for a moment.

«How do you know what I want?» She flared up in spite of herself, in spite of a gnawing uncertainty about his feelings for her. She might be the ideal partner for lolling about a sandy beach, but as a constant companion in a dangerous profession – that was different.

He smiled sadly. “You don't want to be a Crystal Singer.”

“Oh, fardles with that 'highly dangerous' nonsense.”

“It is true.”

“If I've perfect pitch, I can apply.”

“You don't know what you're letting yourself in for,” he said in a toneless voice, his expression at once wary and forbidding. “Singing crystal is a terrible, lonely life. You can't always find someone to sing with you; the tones don't always strike the right vibes for the crystal faces you find. Of course, you can make terrific cuts singing duo.” He seemed to vacillate.

“How do you find out?” She made her tone ingenuous.

He gave an amused snort. “The hard way, of course. But you don't want to be a Crystal Singer.” An almost frightening sadness tinged his voice. “Once you sing crystal, you don't stop. That's why I'm telling you, don't even think about it.”

“So . . . you've told me not to think about it.”

He caught her hand and gazed steadily into her eyes. “You've never been in a mach storm in the Milekeys.” His voice was rough with remembered anxiety. “They blow up out of nowhere and crash down on you like all hell let loose. That's what that phrase on Retrieval means, 'the Guild maintains its own.' A mach storm can reduce a man to a vegetable in one sonic crescendo.”

«There are other – perhaps less violent – ways of reducing a man to a vegetable,» she said, thinking of the space-port official of the supercargo worrying over drone-pod weights – of teachers apathetically reviewing the scales of novice students. «Surely there are instruments that warn you of approaching storms in a crystal range.»

He nodded absently, his gaze fixed above her head. “You get to cutting crystal and you're halfway through. You know the pitches will be changed once the storm has passed and you're losing your safety margin by the minute, but that last crystal might mean you'd get off-world . . .”

“You don't get off-world with every trip to the ranges?”

He shook his head, frowning irritably at her interruption. “You don't always clear the costs of the trip or past damages, or you might not have cut the right shape or tone. Sometimes the tone is more important than the shape, you know.”

“And you have to remember what'll be needed, don't you?” If she had perfect pitch, and she knew she had an excellent memory, crystal singing seemed an ideal profession for her.

“You have to remember the news,” he said, oddly emphasizing the verb.

Killashandra was contemptuous of the problem. Memory was only a matter of habit, of training, of mnemonic phrases that easily triggered vital information. She had plenty of practice in memorization.

“Is there any chance that I could accompany you back to Ballybran and apply?”

His hand had a vise grip on hers; even his breath seemed to halt for a moment. His eyes swept hers with an intense search. “You asked. Remember that!”

“Well, if my company?”

“Kiss me and don't say anything you'll regret,” he said, abruptly pulling her into his arms and covering her mouth so completely she couldn't have spoken.

The second convulsion caught him so soon after the climax of their lovemaking that she thought, guiltily, that over stimulation was the cause. This time, the spasms were more severe, and he dropped into a fevered, exhausted sleep when they finally eased. He looked old and drawn when he woke fourteen hours later. And he moved like an advanced geriatric case.

"I've got to get back to Ballybran, Killa – " His voice quavered, and he had lost his proud confidence.

“For treatment?”

He hesitated and then nodded. “Recharging, actually. Get the spaceport on the communit and book us.”

“Us?”

“You may accompany me,” he said with grave courtesy, though she was piqued at the phrasing of an invitation that was more plea than permission. “I don't care how often we have to reroute. Get us there as fast as possible.”

She reached the spaceport and routing, and after what seemed an age and considerable ineptitude on the part of the ticket clerk, they were passengers confirmed on a shuttle flight leaving Fuerte in four hours, with a four-hour satellite delay before the first liner in their direction.

He had an assortment of personal things to pack, but Killashandra was for just walking out and leaving everything.

“You can't get such goods on Ballybran, Killa,” Carrik told her as he slowly began to fold the gaudy grallie-fiber shirts. The stimulus of confirmed passage had given him a surge of energy. But Killashandra had been rather unnerved by the transformation of a charming, vital man into a quivering invalid. “Sometimes, even something as inconsequential as a shirt helps you remember so much.”

She was touched by the sentiment and his smile and vowed to be patient with his illness.

"There are hazards to every profession. And the hazards to crystal singing – "

“It depends what you're willing to consider a hazard,” Killashandra replied soothingly. She was glad for the filmy, luminous wraparounds, which were a far cry from the coarse, durable student issue. Any hazard seemed a fair price for bouts of such high living and spending. And only 4,425 in the Guild. She was confident she'd make it to the top there.

“Do you have any comprehension of what you'd be giving up, Killashandra?” His voice had a guilty edge.

She looked at his lined, aging face and experienced a twinge of honest apprehension. Anyone would look appalling after the convulsions that had wracked Carrik. She didn't much care for his philosophical mood and hoped that he wouldn't be so dreary all the way to Ballybran. Was that what he meant? A man on vacation often had a different personality than when working at his profession?

“What have I too look forward to on Fuerte?” she asked with a shrug of her shoulders. She wouldn't necessarily have to team up with Carrik when she got to Ballybran. “I'd rather take a chance, no matter what it entails, in preference to dragging about forever on Fuerte!”

He stroked her palm with his thumb, and for the first time his caress didn't send thrills up her spine. But then he was scarcely in a condition to make love, and his gesture reflected it.

"You've only seen the glamorous side of crystal singing – "

“You've told me the dangers, Carrik, as you're supposed to. The decision is mine, and I'm holding you to your offer.”

He gripped her hand tightly, and the pleasure in his eyes reassured her more thoroughly than any glib protestation."

“It's also one of the smallest Guilds in the galaxy,” she went on, freeing her hand to finish packing the remaining garments. “I prefer those odds.”

He raised his eyebrows, giving her a sardonic look more like his former self. “A two-cell in a one-cell pond?”

“If you please, I won't be second-rate anything.”

“A dead hero in preference to a live coward?” He was taunting her now.

“If you prefer. There! That's all our clothing. We'd better skim back to the spaceport. I've got to check with planetary regulations if I'm going off-world. I might even have some credit due me.”

She took the skimmer controls, as Carrik was content to doze in the passenger seat. The rest did him some good, or he was mindful of his public image. Either way, Killashandra's doubts of his reliability as a partner faded as he ordered the port officials about imperiously, badgering the routing agent to be certain that the man hadn't over looked a more direct flight or a more advantageous connection.

Killashandra left him to make final arrangements and began to clear her records with the Fuerte Central Computer. The moment she placed her wrist-unit and thumb in place, the console began to chatter wildly, flashing red light. She was startled. She had only programmed a credit check, keyed in the fact that she was going off-world, and asked what immunization she might require for the systems they were to encounter, but the supervisor leaped down the ramp from his console, two port officials converged on her, and the exits of the reception hall flashed red and hold-locks were engaged, to the consternation of passersby. Killashandra, too stunned to react, instead stared blankly at the men who had each seized an arm.

“Killashandra Ree?” the supervisor asked, still panting from his exertions.

“Yes?”

“You are to be detained.”

“Why?” Now she was angry. She had committed no crime, infringed no one's liberties. Failure to register change of status was not an offense so long as she had not used planetary resources without sufficient credit.

“Please come with us,” the port officials said in chorus.

“Why?”

“Ahh, Hmmmm,” the supervisor mumbled as both officers turned to him. “There's a hold out for you.”

“I've done nothing wrong.”

“Here, what's going on?” Carrik was once more completely himself as he pushed through to place a protecting arm around Killashandra. “This young lady is under my protection.”

At this announcement, the supervisor and officials exchanged stern and determined stares.

“This young lady is under the protection of her planet of origin,” the supervisor announced. “There is some doubt as to her mental stability.”

“Why? Because she accepted an honest invitation from a visitor? Do you know who I am?”

The supervisor flushed. “Indeed I do, sir,” and though the man spoke more respectfully, he left no doubt that his immediate aim was to extract Killashandra from Carrik's patronage.

“Well, then, accept my assurances that Miss Ree is in excellent health, mental and physical.” Carrik gestured for them to admire Killashandra's tanned and trim figure.

The supervisor was adamant. “If you'll both please come this way.” His officers straightened resolutely.

As there was nothing for it but to comply, Carrik reminded this unexpected escort that they had booked shuttle flights due to lift off in one hour. He had every intention of keeping that schedule – and with Killashandra Ree. Rather than give rise to further speculation about her mental state, Killashandra remained uncharacteristically quiet.

“I suspect,” she whispered to Carrik after they were shown into a small office, “that the music school may have thought me suicidal.” She giggled, then attempted to mask the noise behind her hand when the supervisor glanced up at her nervously. “I just walked out of the center and disappeared. I saw no one who knew me on the way here. So they did miss me! Well, that's gratifying.” She was inordinately pleased, but Carrik plainly did not agree. Well, she had only to reassure the authorities, and she was certain she could. “I think their reaction is rather complimentary, actually. And I'm going to make a dramatic exit from Fuerte, after all.”

Carrik awarded her a look of pure disgust and folded his arms solidly across his chest, his expression fading to one of boredom. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, which was scrolling through the departure information.

Killashandra half expected to see her father, though she found it difficult to imagine him bestirring himself on her behalf. But she did not expect Maestro Esmond Valdi to enter the small office, acting the outraged mentor, nor was she prepared for the attack he immediately launched on Carrik.

“You! You! I know what you are! A silicate spider paralyzing its prey, a crystal cuckoo pushing the promising fledglings from their nests.”

As stunned as everyone else, Killashandra stared at the usually dignified and imperturbable maestro and wondered what role he thought he was playing. He had to be acting. His dialogue was so – so extravagant. «Silicate spider!» «Crystal cuckoo!» If nothing else, his analogies were incorrect and uncalled for.

“Play on the emotions of an innocent young girl. Shower her with unaccustomed luxuries and pervert her until she's spoiled as a decent contributing citizen. Until she's so besotted, she has been brainwashed to enter that den of addled mentalities and shattered nerves!”

Carrik made no attempt to divert the flow of vituperation or to counter the accusations. He stood, head up, smiling tolerantly down at the jerky motions of Valdi.

“What lies has he been feeding you about crystal singing?” What glamorous tales has he used to lure you there?''

Valdi whirled toward Killashandra, his stocky figure trembling with outrage.

“I asked to go.”

Valdi's wild expression hardened into disbelief at her calm answer.

“You asked to go?”

“Yes. He didn't ask me.” She caught Carrik's smile.

“You heard her, Valdi,” Carrik said, then glanced at the officials witnessing the admission.

The maestro's shoulders sagged. “So, he's done his recruiting with a master's skill.” His tone registered resignation, he even managed to effect a slight break in his voice.

“I don't think so,” Killashandra said.

Maestro Valdi inhaled deeply, obviously to support one last attempt to dissuade the misguided girl. “Did he tell you about . . . the mach storms?”

She nodded, hiding her amusement at his theatricality.

“The storms that scramble the brain and reduce the mind to a vegetable existence?”

She nodded dutifully.

“Did he fill your mind with garbage about mountains returning symphonies of sound? Crystalline choruses? Valleys that echo arpeggios?” His body rippled upward in an effort to express the desired effect of ridicule.

“No,” she replied in a bored tone. “Nor did he feed me pap that all I needed was hard work and time.”

Esmond Valdi, maestro, drew himself up, more than ever in an exaggeration of a classical operatic pose.

“Did he also tell you that once you start cutting crystal, you can never stop? And that staying too long away from Ballybran produces disastrous convulsions?”

“I know that.”

«Do you also know» – Valdi rocked back on his heels – «that something in the water of Ballybran, in its very soil, in those crystals, affects your mind? That you don't re-mem-ber?» He separated the verb carefully into syllables.

“That could be a distinct advantage,” Killashandra replied, staring back at the little man until he broke eye contact.

She was the first of the three to feel a peculiar itch behind her ears in the mastoid bone; an itch that rapidly became a wrenching nauseating pain. She grabbed Carrik by the arm just as the subsonic noise touched him and as Esmond Valdi lifted protecting hands to his ears.

“The fools!” Carrik cried as panic contorted his features. He threw aside the door panel, running as fast as he could for the control-tower entrance. Killashandra scurried after him.

Carrik vaulted the decorative barrier and landed in a restricted area, where he was deterred by a hastily engaged force curtain. “Stop it! Stop it!” he screamed, rocking in anguish and clawing at the curtain, oblivious to the sparks flying from his fingers.

Though the pain was no less bearable for Killashandra, she had presence of mind enough to bang on the nearest communit, to strike the fire buttons, press the battery of emergency signals. «The shuttle coming in – something's wrong – it's dangerous!» she yelled at the top of her operatically trained lungs. She was barely conscious of the panic in the vast reception hall resulting from her all too audible warning.

The possibility of a stampede by a hysterical mob was evident to those in the control tower, where someone, in reflex action, slapped on the abort signal to warn off all intransit craft. Moments later, while the communit demanded an explanation from Killashandra or from anyone who could make himself heard over the bedlam in the reception area, a nova blossomed in the sky and rained molten fragments on the spaceport below. The control tower was unable to contain the destruction within the grappling field, and soon parts of the shuttle were scattered over several kilometers of the Port Authority and the heavily populated business district.

Apart from bruises, lacerations, and a broken arm, there were only two serious casualties. A technician on the tarmac was killed, and Carrik would have been better off dead. The final sonic blast knocked him unconscious, and he never did fully recover his senses After subspace consultation with Heptite Guild medics, it was decided to return him to Ballybran for treatment and care.

“He won't recover,” the medic told Killashandra, where-upon Maestro Valdi instantly assumed the role of her comforter. His manner provided Killashandra with a fine counter irritant to her shock over Carrik's condition.

She chose to disbelieve the medic's verdict. Surely, Carrik could be restored to mental health once he was returned to Ballybran. He had been away from crystal too long; he was weakened by the seizures. There'd been no mach storm to scramble his mind. She'd escort him back to Ballybran. She owed him that in any reckoning for showing her how to live fully.

She took a good look at the posturing Valdi and thanked her luck that Carrik had been there to awaken her senses. How could she have believed that such an artificial life as found in the theater was suitable for her?" Just look at Valdi! Present him with a situation, hand him the cue, and he was "on," in the appropriate role. None existed for these circumstances, so Valdi was endeavoring to come up with a suitable one.

“What will you do now, Killashandra?” he asked somberly, obviously settling for Dignified Elder Gentleman Consoling the Bereaved Innocent.

“I'll go with him to Ballybran, of course.”

Valdi nodded solemnly. “I mean, after you return.”

“I don't intend to return.”

Valdi stared at her, dropping out of character, and then gestured theatrically as the air-cushion stretcher to which Carrik was strapped drifted past them to the shuttle gate.

“After that?” Valdi cried, full of dramatic plight.

“That won't happen to me,” she said confidently.

“But it could! You, too, could be reduced to a thing with no mind and no memories.”

“I think,” Killashandra said slowly, regarding the posturing little man with thinly veiled contempt, “that everyone's brains get scrambled one way or another.”

"You'll rue this day – " Valdi began, raising his left arm in a classical gesture of rejection, fingers gracefully spread.

“That is, if I remember it!” she said. Her mocking laughter cut him off midscene.

Still laughing, Killashandra made her exit, stage center, through the shuttle gate.