The Crystal Singer

CHAPTER 3

Captain Andurs alerted Killashandra when the ship emerged from hyper-space and Ballybran was fully visible.

“Good view,” he told her, pointing to the two inner moons, positioned at 10 and 5, but Killashandra only had eyes for the mysterious planet.

She had heard enough to expect just about anything from her first glimpse. Consequently she experienced an initial disappointment – until she caught sight of the first crystal glare: a piercing stab of light as the sun's rays reflected from an open crystal on one of the three visible continents. Cloud cover swirled across most of the ocean area, occluded two subcontinents in the Southern Hemisphere, but where the sun shone, occasional pinpoints of blinding light were visible – light that was all color, yet white and clear.

“How can they stand the intensity down there?” she demanded, squinting to reduce the keen glare.

“According to what I hear, you don't notice it on the surface.”

“According to what I hear” had prefaced most of Captain Andurs' statements about Ballybran, a sour comment on the restriction against his landing on one of the richest planets in the galaxy.

From fellow passengers and garrulous crew members, Killashandra had gleaned additional information about Crystal Singers and Ballybran, a lot of which she discounted since most merely paraphrased Maestro Valdi's comments. Andurs, despite his limited first-hand knowledge, had proved to be the most informative. He had been on the space run from Regulus to Ballybran for nine standard years and was always listening, so he had heard more than anyone else – certainly more than she had been able to extract from the cryptic vidifax of the three ships she had traveled on during the voyage. There was something mysterious about Ballybran and the Heptite Guild and its members – a mystery that she deduced from what wasn't said about those three subjects. Individuals had privacy; so did certain aspects of any interstellar mercantile company, and one understood that references to certain planetary resources were understated or omitted. But the lack of routinely available printout on Ballybran, the Guild, and its select members doubled her suspicions.

Conversely, she had been tremendously impressed by the Guild's tacit power: high-rank medicorps men had awaited Carrik at the three intermediary ports. She herself had been accorded the most deferential treatment. She'd had very little to do other than check the life-support cradle that carried Carrik. The cradle was programmed for IV feedings, therapy, bathing, and the necessary drugs. The apparatus was checked by technicians at each port. Nothing, apparently, was too good for a Heptite Guild member. Or his escort. She'd had open credit in the ships' stores, was a member of the captain's private mess on all three ships. Except for the fact that she was left strictly alone, she thoroughly enjoyed the excitement of her first interstellar journey.

Possibly because the trip was nearly over, she had received most of her information from Andurs the previous night as he judiciously nursed a Sarvonian brandy through the evening.

“I hear it often enough to begin to believe it's possible . . . but they say crystal gets into your blood.”

That'd kill you," Killashandra replied though Carrik had used the same phrase.

«I can't tell whether they mean that the credits are so good,» Andurs continued, ignoring her comment. «Crystal Singers really whoop it up – big spenders, fun people – until the shakes start. Funny about that, too, because Crystal Singers are supposed to heal faster than other humans, and they're not supposed to be as susceptible to the planetary goolies and fevers that catch you no matter what immunization you've got. And they stay younger.» That capability annoyed Andurs. «I asked one of 'em about that. He was drunk at the time, and he said it's just part of singing crystal.»

“Then there'd be a lot of people willing to sing crystal . . .”

“Yeah but you also risk the shakes or . . .” Andurs jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Carrik in his cabin, “I'd rather grow old.”

“That doesn't happen often, does it?” Killashandra asked startled. She'd had the impression that Carrik's collapse was unusual.

"He's the first I've seen that bad," Andurs admitted. "Oh, they get the fevers, sometimes bad enough to be packed out in freezebags but not – " and he touched his forehead with one finger. "Not my business, but how did he get that way?"

His question, though an obvious one, startled Killashandra because no one else throughout the journey had asked, as if they were afraid of the answer.

“He was fine until we got to Fuerte Spaceport. Then a shuttle came in with a badly resonating drive. It exploded, and he got caught in the sonic backlash.”

“Good of you to escort him back.”

“I owed him that.” Killashandra meant it. “You said the Guild maintains offices on the moon? Is that where you apply for membership as well?”

He looked at her in amazement. “Oh, you don't want to be a Singer.”

“Why not?”

Andurs leaned toward her, staring hard into her eyes. "You weren't forced to come with him, were you?" I mean, he didn't do anything to you?"

Killashandra didn't know whether to laugh or become angry. “I don't know where you come from, Captain Andurs, but on Fuerte privacy is respected.”

“I didn't mean to imply that it wasn't . . .” Andurs responded hastily, raising his hand to fend off her outrage.

“Do I look as if I've been conditioned?”

«No, actually you don't. It's just that you strike me as a sensible woman, and crystal singing isn't sensible. Oh, I know. I've heard all the fardling rumors, but that's space-flot because all the Singers I've seen – and I've seen a lot in nine years on this run – never bother anyone. They keep to themselves, really. But there is something very peculiar indeed about Ballybran and crystal singing. I do know» – and he glanced over his shoulder, a needless caution since they were alone in the lounge – «that not every one who applies and gets accepted makes it as a Singer. Whoever goes down to that planet» – he pointed toward the floor – «stays there. Only Singers leave. And they always return.»

“How many people apply for entry into the Guild?” Killashandra was remembering the 20,007 technicians as well as the 4,425 Singers, and she wondered what the gross was if the net was so small.

“I can't answer that precisely.” Andurs seemed perplexed as he scratched his head. “Never thought about it. Oh, I get a few applicants almost every trip. Think we've got eight, possibly nine on this flight. You get to know who's commercial traveling, and who's hoping.” Andurs grinned at her. “We do have four Guild-vouched passages besides yours. That means these people have been screened at a Guild center somewhere. You know that tall, thin, black-haired fellow?”

Killashandra nodded, remembering the man who had boarded the ship at the last transfer point. He'd stared at her inquisitively, and once she had found him standing outside her cabin, a strange wild look on his face.

“He's come on his own. I wouldn't say he'd be accepted.”

“Oh?”

Andurs twirled his brandy glass for a long moment before he answered. “Yeah, I don't think he's the type they want.”

“What is the type they want?”

“I don't really know,” Andurs replied after a moment, “but he's not it. The Guild will pay your way back to the nearest transfer point,” he added as if this would be sufficient compensation for rejection. “I'll let you know when we emerge, Killa. Ballybran's one of the more interesting planets to see a moon's eye view of especially if there's a storm in progress.”

Killashandra remained at the view screen until Ballybran was eclipsed by the bulk of its largest moon, Shankill. If you've seen one moon installation, you've seen them all, she thought as she watched the domes and blackened landing pits swivel past. Her attention was briefly arrested by the sight of a second vessel swinging up over the horizon, a shuttle craft from the side of it, small enough to make no work of the landing. She thought she caught a flash of the Heptite Guild dodecahedron on the nose, but the shuttle moved into shadow too quickly for her to check.

Whatever reception she had subconsciously hoped for was vastly different from the one she received from Lanzecki, the Resident Master of the Heptite Guild. He was standing at the portal when the ship opened its airlock: a dour man, with a swarthy complexion and a squat figure clothed in dull colors. The only things bright and active about him were his wide-set piercing brown eyes, which moved incessantly, seeming to catch more in one darting glance than they ought.

He gestured to the two men accompanying him who were dun garbed as well. They silently entered the ship and paced down the corridor, Killashandra in the lead. She had never felt more superfluous. In Carrik's stateroom, Lanzecki used that moment's hesitation to press the panel plate open. He glanced once at the still figure on the carrier, his face expressionless. He motioned the others to enter and take the carrier.

“Thank you, Killashandra Ree. You have an open ticket to whatever destination you desire and a credit of one thousand galactic units.” He proffered two vouchers, each emblazoned with the Heptite Guild dodecahedron black-quartz crystal. He accorded her a deferential bow, and then, as the men guided Carrik past, he followed them down the corridor.

For a moment, Killashandra stared at the departing trio, the two metallic voucher slips clinging with static attraction to her fingers. "Guild Master? Lanzecki? Sir? Wait . . ." The stately progress continued without pause. "Of all the ungrateful – "

“I'd not call them ungrateful.” said Captain Andurs, who had approached from the other end of the corridor. He craned his head to glance at the Vouchers. “Not at all.”

“I didn't expect praise,” Killashandra exclaimed, though that indeed was what she had expected. “Just a word or two.”

"You've got the important ones," Andurs reminded her with a wry smile. "One thousand. They're an odd lot at best," he went on as the Guildsmen turned toward the accordioned portal maw. "Like I said, there's all kinds of spaceflot about that Guild. I see strange things banging this old can from system to system, and I pretend not to see half of them." Suddenly, he slid his arm about her shoulders. "Now that the dead meat's gone, how about you and me – "

“Not now,” Killashandra irritably pushed his arm away. “I want a word with that Guild Master first.” She strode rapidly down the corridor toward the portal.

She never saw Carrik again, though he was listed among the inactive membership for a good many years. Not that she glanced at the lists, active or inactive, very often once the thrill of seeing her own name inscribed had passed.

She came to a halt at the opaque force screen of the debarkation arch, which blinked readiness to receive her credentials and reason for business on Shankill. She ignored it, watching in frustration at the Guild Master's figure disappeared through one of the five irised exits from the small lobby beyond the arch. She raced back to her cabin to jam her belongings into the carisak. By the time she had returned to debarkation, much to her disgust, she had to join the queue of passengers. As she waited, fighting her impatience, Captain Andurs emerged from the ship's forward section and made for the secondary gate by the debarkation arch. He caught a glimpse of her and turned back, a quizzical smile on his face.

“Going through with it, Killa?” he asked. He slid a hand up her arm to grip her elbow. Andurs' eyes had the sort of intensity she had begun to associate with desire, a pleasing response considering her abrupt manner with him earlier.

“Why not? I've been given no reason to stop and a very good one to try?”

Andurs grinned. “Well, you'll find the process takes time. I'll be in the transients' hostel for at least five days.” He made a grimace of resigned distaste and shrugged. “I'll be seeing you,” he added with a half note of questioning, though his smile was inviting.

It irked Killashandra to see him jauntily present his wrist to the plate on the smaller arc and watch the entrance dilate immediately. When she finally submitted her wrist to the identity plate at debarkation control, she had become somewhat resigned to delay.

She was asked for her reason to land on Shankill.

“I wish to apply for membership in the Heptite Guild. I have perfect pitch,” she added.

The display requested her credit rating, and Killashandra disdainfully slipped in the Guild voucher. It was instantly accepted, and the substantial credit balance displayed. The unit purred, clicked, and then, as a fax sheet rolled from the print slot, the arch dilated to permit access to the Shankill moon base. She was advised to read and conform to all rules and regulations of the Shankill Authority, which were included in the printout as were directions to Transient accommodations, catering facilities, and the public areas of the installation.

She passed through the arch and into the lobby with the five exits. The third iris swirled open, and Killashandra, taking the hint, proceeded down that corridor to the hostel. She was surprised to emerge into a large open area, high-ceilinged and lined with holograms of trees lightly stirring in an absent breeze. A glow radiating from the plasglassed skylight simulated sunlight. She wondered, as she crossed the floor to the reception area if the mock light also followed Ballybran's rotational period.

Her second surprise was to find a human attendant behind the reception counter. “Killashandra Ree?” he asked politely, unsmiling. She suppressed a desire to ask “Who else?” and nodded,

“You will not have had time to read the rules and regulations pertaining to Shankill Moon Base, therefore, it is my duty to request that you do so immediately upon settling in your accommodation. Failure to comply will result in restriction of personal liberty to prevent endangering the lives of others through ignorance. Please synch your digital to Ballybran's rotation with which all base times are synchronized. If you do not understand anything in the instructions, I am at your service to explain. Place your wrist unit on the plate. Thank you.”

More accustomed to the monotone of machine-issued instructions, Killashandra could only stare at the man, wondering if he was some sort of android, though she'd never heard of such life like replicas of humans. Then he smiled slightly and tapped the plate.

“Been on a moon base before?” the man asked in a tone remarkably informal after his mechanical speech.

“No,” she said as she placed her wrist to the plate and her thumb in the depression.

«This is my tenth. I'm an apprentice in satellite security. We get to do the routine work, you see. Not that anything's ever gone wrong here» – he pointed his forefinger firmly toward the floor to indicate the entire base – «though there's always a first time. Like our training programmer says, there's always a first time, and we're supposed to make sure that first times don't occur. That's why you'll find human specialists like me on moon bases. People get so used to machines and displays and automatic cautionary signs that they don't sink in» – he tapped his forehead – «and that's how accidents can happen.»

“Seems like good psychology,” Killashandra agreed absently, for she was noting with pleasure the winking green credit balance. A key poked above the flush counter. The man handed it to her,

«My name's Ford. You'll read that your room has its own life-support system that comes on-line automatically in case of failure of the base system. Only, by Brennan's left ear, don't get caught in a hostel room during a leak-out or a break – that's a sure way to go berk.»

Killashandra wanted to tell him that his psychology had a flaw if this was how he was supposed to reassure her. But she refrained, smiled, and promised she'd read the instructions. Then she glanced about her.

“Your key's tuned to your room. It'll find you your way back from any point in the base,” Ford said jovially. “Just go through that door,” he added, leaning across his counter and pointing to the left.

Killashandra felt the tug of the key in that direction, and giving Ford another smile, she set off.

The key plate of the door frame was glowing in welcome as she approached her assigned room. She inserted the key, and the door panel retracted with a whoosh. As she walked in, she could see why Ford didn't recommend a protracted stay on the premises; the compact room would give anyone claustrophobia. All the bodily comforts compacted into a space 3 1/2 meters long, 2 meters wide, and 3 high. A three-drawer captain's bed occupied most of the space. Above it was shelving, from the base of which projected the angled audiovisual unit, obviously usable only to the occupant of the bed. Any esthetics of space or decor had been waived in considerations of safety and survival. To be sure, one wasn't compelled to remain in this room. In fact, from the authority's viewpoint, it was probably advisable that the room be occupied only for sleep.

Killashandra flipped the carisak to the foot of the bed and plopped down on it, noticing for the first time the row of labeled switches and buttons along the wall and the wall slots from which, according to the labels, table, reading lamp, and an individual catering unit would emerge. She grimaced. Everything at finger-tip control. She wondered if Ford's presence was to reassure the transients that they were indeed human rather than extensions of some computer. Ford certainly exhibited humanity.

Sighing, she dutifully pulled the rules and regulations to her. She had promised. Besides, forewarning herself seemed wise even if – as Ford had averred, nothing had ever happened on Shankill Station.

According to the fax sheet, he was correct. The Shankill Moon Base had been functioning safely for 334 years, Standard Galactic. The original installation had been considerably expanded when Federated Sentient Planets restricted habitation of Ballybran because of the planet's dangers.

Killashandra had to reread that part twice. So the planet itself was dangerous, though obviously that danger had been overcome since people were now working and living on the surface.

The following paragraphs blithely changed subject and began enumerating safety hazards, regulations, and individual responsibilities. Killashandra dutifully read on, hearing an echo of Ford's warning: «There's always a first time.» As a transient, her main responsibilities were first to seek the red-striped areas of whatever corridor or public place she inhabited on hearing either rapid hoots (oxygen leak) or sharp short whistles (penetration) or intermittent siren (internal fire or emergency) and then to stay out of everyone's way. Sustained hoots, whistles, or siren indicated the end of the emergency. If she was in her quarters, she was to lie on the bed – not that there was anywhere else in the room to be comfortable during enforced incarceration. In all crises, helmeted personnel were authorized to command unhelmeted individuals to any task required to end the emergency.

She turned the sheet over and studied the map of the base, which, comparing the total with the part she had already seen, must be immense. Some units were composed of nine sprawling levels, most subsurface; each one could be sealed for all had backup life-support systems. The largest areas were cargo and maintenance facilities, the Guild and administration. Diagrams of the two smaller bases on the moons, Shilmore and Shanganagh, decorated the bottom of the sheet. These were both meteorological stations and Shanganagh seemed to be completely automated.

Meteorology seemed to be the preoccupation of Ballybran, Killashandra thought – was that the danger on the planet? Its weather? Carrik had mentioned the incredible mach storms. That the winds of Ballybran were ferocious enough to merit such a nickname was frightening enough.

She scanned the map again, noting the proximity of the Guild complex to the transients' quarters. Two tunnels/corridors/avenues – whatever – over and the small unit between was the debarkation facility. She grinned at the convenient juxtaposition. Could it be completely fortuitous? Could she just walk over and present herself as an aspirant?

She suddenly experienced an unexpected diffidence and studied her digital. She was well within the normal working hours of most commercial establishments. She had read the important safety regulations, and she would certainly look for the red-striped area in any corridor and public place she entered. With a twitch of her shoulders, she strengthened her resolve and pressed the wall stud to activate the speech-recognition system.

“Request details for applying to Heptite Guild for membership.”

The display rippled on.

APPLICATION FOR CONSIDERATION OF MEMBERSHIP IN HEPTITE GUILD REQUIRES PHYSICAL FITNESS TEST SG-l, PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE SG-l, EDUCATION LEVEL 3 PREFERRED BUT EXCEPTIONS CONSIDERED, 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 HUMANOID, ORIGIN SOL III. MUTANTS NEED NOT APPLY.

APPLICATION MADE ONLY THROUGH HEPTITE GUILD OFFICES: SHANKILL MOON BASE, MAIN RECEPTION FACILITY.

FEDERATED SENTIENT PLANETS REQUIRE PULL DISCLOSURE OF ALL DANGERS INHERENT IN PROFESSION TO PROSPECTIVE CANDIDATES ONCE PHYSICAL, PSYCHOLOGICAL, AND APTITUDE TESTS HAVE BEEN PASSED TO THE SATISFACTION OF THE GUILD EXAMINING BOARD.

BALLYBRAN IS AN INTERDICTED WORLD, SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78-90. FOR DETAILS, CONSULT HEPTITE GUILD.

“Well,” Killashandra murmured, “information received by dribs and drabs. Heptite Guild, please.”

The screen resolved around a woman's face.

“Heptite Guild, Shankill Moon base. May I assist you?”

“Killashandra Ree,” she managed, mindful of courtesy, for she hadn't expected a personal answer. “I'd like to know if your member, Carrik, is all right?”

“He made the journey safely to the surface.”

“I mean, will he recover?”

“That is possible but not predictable.”

The woman's face was composed and obviously expectant.

“How do I get to be a Guild member?” Her query was blurted out. “I did tap data retrieval.”

The woman smiled politely. "I am permitted to release additional information to interested persons. Your room designation?" Killashandra gave her the information. "You will have access to the relevant data until 0800 tomorrow.

If you desire the preliminary examinations, you may present yourself to the Guild during normal working hours."

The image faded, which was just as well because Killashandra was consumed with curiosity as to what more of Ballybran's mysteries would be revealed by the promised additional data. Not all, she was certain.

The display began with a historical summary of the planet. Furious, she was about to cancel the program when it occurred to her that the wise performer studied the role and the composer, to understand his intent, before any audition. If the Guild had released this data to her, they would also know if she had availed herself of the courtesy. Joining the Heptite Guild might not depend alone on perfect pitch, good physical condition, and the right psychological adjustment or why were there so few members?

She settled herself to study the material, though the preliminary paragraphs on "man's ever-pressing need for material resources in his search of the galaxies – reminded her depressingly of secondary school's orientation propaganda. She didn't have to wade through much of that but got quickly to the section on Spican quartz.

In a routine explore and evaluate search, Scoria's planets were probed. Ballybran, the only one with suitable atmosphere and gravity, gave happy evidence of crystal and quartz formations in its inverted ranges. A team was dispatched, Barry Milekey of Trace its leader. The initial findings of the geologists indicated a planet of immense potential, and samples were rushed back to Sector Research division. The E and E of Ballybran had lucked out. The first crystal sample to be analyzed properly, a blue porphyry type, proved, due to peculiarities of its composition, a marvelous optical storage device, allowing computers virtually instantaneous access to improbably large volumes of data stored in matrixes of exceptionally small dimensions. The crystal's fine-grain synapse structure enabled even a smallish (1 cm3) segment to serve as a gigaword memory.

However, it was Milekey's discovery of the so-called black quartz – under normal conditions neither black quartz – that led to the complete revolution of interstellar communications. Owing to its thermal characteristics, Black Ballybran is a pigmented rock crystal, translucent in natural light.

Under certain types of magnetic stress, Black Ballybran, for lack of any better description, absorbs all light and seems to become matte black. Milekey had observed this phenomenon when he chipped the first lump from the black crystal face.

Again by accident, while being examined by the crystallographers, the substance's true properties were discovered. If two identical segments of black quartz were subjected to synchronized magnetic induction, a two-way communication link was established between the crystal segments. When investigators increased the distance between the samples, it was discovered that, unlike other electromagnetic phenomena, black quartz eliminated the time lag.

Concurrent with the laboratory discoveries and proposed applications of the new crystals came the first of several problems to be solved in the mining of this rich source. The first E and E team had only gathered up loose chips of the various types of crystal, or such larger chunks as had already been fractured from the mother lode. In attempts to cut with ordinary carbon-10 blades, the crystal had shattered. Laser cutters were tried, but they shattered, melted, or damaged the crystal.

The habit of one of the crystallographers of singing as he worked led to an unexpected solution. The man noticed that some crystal faces would resonate to his voice, and he suggested the use of a subsonic cutter. Though not completely successful, experiments along this line finally produced the sophisticated audio pickup that resonated, amplified, and reduced the required note to set the sub-sonic diamond blade.

Once the problem of wresting unblemished crystals from the face was solved, Ballybran was opened to private miners. During the next spate of storms, those miners who heeded the warnings promptly and reached the sheltered valley sustained no injury. The imprudent were discovered in the storm's wake, dead or mad. Storm winds blowing across the resonant crystal range coaxed enough sonics from the sensitive rock to shatter unprotected minds.

Keenly aware of the unexplained deaths of the nine miners, everyone became conscious of previously ignored physical discomforts. The meditechs began filing reports of disorientation, hypo– and hyperthermic spells, erratic sense perceptions, muscular spasm and weakness. No one in the several base camps escaped the minor ailments. Most symptoms passed, but some victims found one sense or another – in most cases hearing – to be affected. The medical team was hastily augmented, and everyone was put through exhaustive tests. At first, crystal was suspected of inducing the symptoms. However, those handling the crystal off-planet appeared unharmed by contact, while meteorologists and support technicians who never touched the stuff on Ballybran, were also affected. Crystal was absolved. The planet's ecology then became the prime target for intensive examination, and this area of investigation proved positive. The spore producing the symptoms was soon isolated, and the planet Ballybran was placed on Code 4 as a preventive measure.

Killashandra turned off the display to ponder that. Anything below Code 15 was a stern prohibition against landing. Ballybran's spore produced complicated reactions sometimes fatal – in the human body. Yet the culprit had been isolated, but the planet was still on a Code 41

Evasion! Killashandra thought, irritated. She started the display again, but the text now cited the formation of the Heptite Guild. She halted it.

What was it Andurs had said? “Only Singers leave the planet?” Obviously, the handicapped remained on Ballybran. Twenty-thousand-odd staff and technicians as opposed to Singers. Killashandra snorted. Those were better odds, actually, than the ones against achieving stellar rank in the performing arts. She rather liked that. Yes, but what happened if you weren't one of the one-in-five? What sort of technical workers were employed?

She queried the vidifax.

“Technicians: Ballybran crystal workers, tuners, artificers of crystal drive components and interstellar resonating units, meditechs, programmers, mechanics, therapists, agronomists, caterers . . .” the list continued down to menial functions.

So, once committed to Ballybran, only Singers left. Well, she'd be a Singer. Killashandra pushed aside the console and, knitting her fingers behind her head, leaned back on the narrow bolster.

What contributed to that subtle difference between Singer and support staff? Particularly if perfect pitch was a prerequisite to leaving the planet. If infrasonic cutters were used to extract the crystal from the rock face, sheer strength wasn't the second requisite. Attitude? Aptitude?

The spore disease? Killashandra drew the console back to her and tapped out a recall.

“This area of investigation proved positive, and the spore producing the illness was isolated . . .”

“Isolated,” Killashandra muttered under her breath. “Isolated but not negated, or cured, and the planet Code 4.”

So it had to be immunity to the spore itself that determined who sang crystal?

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she thought, and tapped out a query on the spore. She chuckled as the display announced a restricted subject. Only so much information then was vouchsafed the candidate. Fair enough. Privacy was as much the right of a Guild as an individual, and the FSP required full disclosure before a candidate took the final irrevocable plunge.

She pushed back the console and swung off the bed. Pausing just long enough to brush her hair and check the fall of her tunic, she slid aside the door panel. It closed quietly behind her.

When she reached the ramp connecting levels, she studied the wall map mounted there. She was two levels below and to one side of the Guild and there was but one access to that part of the base. She hurried up the ramp with an aggressive stride. It felt good to walk about. After confinement for nine days in shuttles and spaceships, even a moon base seemed spacious. The amenities of Shankill reflected its use as a commercial as well as resident scientific facility. Considerable thought and care had been taken to approximate planetary surroundings, to make residents and transients forget the hostile conditions outside. Holograms on the outside of the ramp-way depicted a pleasant mountain scene that, Killashandra was sure, would change in lighting to coincide with the base's diurnal pattern. It was close to midday “outside,” but she ignored the faint complaints from her stomach.

Through a lock, past the red-hatched area she had promised herself to seek out, the corridor widened into a broad foyer. Set around the wall were holograms of trees and flowers, nodding and dipping among the banked bright leafed shrubs. She thought the decorator had mixed the flora of several planets in the display, but with holograms that scarcely caused botanical problems. Besides, the effect was colorful.

The catering facility below her was set out on several levels, the first one a wide corridor between two beverage areas, one with a human attendant. She bore left, entering another short corridor that bridged the catering and Guild areas.

Though it crossed her mind that the Guild offices were closed for midday meals, she was surprised to gain instant admission to the reception area. There, she stopped in wonder.

Moon base or not, the twelve-sided hall was immense, the ceiling at least 5, possibly 6 meters high. An immense crystal art form, multicolored and faintly luminous, hung from the center of the arches that supported the ceiling. A curved console was the only furnishing in the open chamber, but Killashandra noted the lights of display niches set at random levels on the sidewalls.

“Well,” she uttered in soft amazement, then heard the chandelier chime in response. It was not, as she'd initially thought, a lighting fixture. It also seemed to incorporate a variety of crystal forms and colors: some masterpieces of crystal artifice. Surely a waste. Suddenly she realized the mass was slowly rotating, its luminous ends sending motes of light about the room, changing patterns as it turned and always accompanied by the soft, almost subliminal chiming.

If the noise didn't twist you, thought Killashandra, the light would mesmerize. She declined the subtle hypnosis and began to prowl about the enormous reception hall. The first niche held a fan of minute shards of a pale-pink crystal, the sort probably utilized as computer chips or transducers. She wondered how sharp their edges might be. The next display provided magnification to show crystal line threads of various hues and diameters. Surely, one didn't “cut” those. Perhaps the yellowish crystal fractured into such strands.

The porcupine of a crystal drive unit dominated the next showcase, but the largest area was devoted to the black crystal, which, indeed, was neither black nor, apparently, a crystal. When she moved on to the next wall of the dodecahedron and squinted through one of the eyeholes, she saw another piece, very definitely black in the special lighting.

Suddenly, the chandelier chimed, and, startled, Killashandra turned to find the tall, thin, nervous man from the spaceship standing at the entrance. He had cleared his throat noisily, and the chandelier was responding to the harsh sound. He now looked as if he were going to dash from the hall in terror.

“Yes?” she asked, forestalling his flight. She might as well find out what was haunting him.

“No mean to break privacy,” he blurted out in a hoarse whisper. He obviously had encountered the peculiar reaction of the chandelier before. “But the man with you on the ship? He was a Singer?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to him? That spore get him?”

“No,” Killashandra replied. The poor man's eyes threatened to pop out of his head he was so worried. “He was caught in the sonic backlash when a shuttle blew up. Sensory overload.”

The relief brightened his face, and he mopped at his forehead and cheeks with a film.

"They tell you only so much and not enough. So when I saw him – "

“You want to become a Crystal Singer?”

He gulped, his larynx cartilage bobbing up and down in his nervousness.

“Are you a Singer?” There was awe in his voice. “I thought you must be from the way the captain was treating you.” He wasn't so certain of that now, obviously.

“No, I'm not.”

His attitude changed instantly as he straightened up and thrust his shoulders back.

“Well, I'm going to be,” he stated firmly, and the chandelier echoed him. He glanced nervously above and seemed to draw his head protectively into his shoulders.

“If that's what you want,” Killashandra said equably, and then strode past him. She'd seen all of the hall she wanted and could do with some food.

“You mean, you won't try to argue me out of it?” he asked, following her.

“Why should I?”

“Everyone else does.”

“I'm not everyone else.”

“It's supposed to be very dangerous.”

“I'm not worried.”

“Are you going to apply, too?”

She stopped and turned on him so swiftly that he nearly walked into her.

"You're invading my privacy – "

“Oh, no, no.” He fended off such an accusation with raised arms and a startled expression. “But why else would you be in the Heptite Hall?”

“To buy crystal.”

"You're not a buyer – "

“You're invading my privacy!” She stalked off as fast as she could, half tempted to press the close button on the panel that separated the linking corridor with the catering foyer.

“I just wanted to talk . . .” His voice followed her but he at least had remained behind.

The energy generated by her irritation carried her past the bar area to a T-junction of aisles leading to business stalls and cubicles, some closed by privacy screens. Broadleafed plants lined a short flight of steps into the dining area. Service slots and bright-orange menu panels were positioned against the walls, and she was making her way to the nearest when she heard herself called.

“Over here, Killashandra Ree.” Captain Andurs rose from a group of spacemen to beckon her. “C'mon. Join us.”

Well, he'd at least be protection against that imbecile if he followed her, so she waved back and stepped up to scan the menufax. She was overwhelmed by the selections scrolling on display. When she spotted the seafood casserole she'd eaten that momentous evening at Fuerte, she ordered it.

“Brew's good, too,” Andurs said, coming to assist her. He deftly punched a sequence, paused and tapped again. “Goes down better with some of these.”

She was about to protest his abruptness, all too familiar with the vagaries of over programmed and stubborn student hall catering units, when the service panel slid open to reveal all three orders. Efficiency was a pleasure.

«Here, have a sip of the brew and see if you like it,» Andurs suggested, offering her the liter glass. «No sense making unnecessary trips. Spoils conversations. See, I told you it was good. It's not processed: allowed to age normally, and that means a good brew. They know how here.» Then he dialed up not only a liter glass for her but a large beaker as well. «I'd stick to the brews here or your own planet's ferment or distillations if they stock 'em – and I'd be surprised if they didn't. You could really turn off on some drinks if you have the wrong metabolism, you know.»

“I appreciate the advice,” she said as they made their way back to the others.

“Do you?” Andurs sounded cynical. “We've been scheduled. We'll be on our way tomorrow, 1000 base time. Rush cargo. Bound for Regulus Exchange. You can use that Guild voucher and cross the Milky Way if you've a mind to.”

“I've a mind to stay here and see how it goes.”

“Done any checking?” he asked, lowering his voice, for they were nearly to the table now.

“Enough.”

“No matter what prints out, it wouldn't be enough or all the truth.” Andurs' tone was dourly repressive.

“By FSP law, they have to make full disclosure of the dangers.”

Andurs snorted, but they had reached the table by then and he was disinclined to continue that discussion.

She had only just been introduced to the flight engineer, whom she hadn't met during the journey, when she noticed tension on the faces of the supercargo and the second officer. Curious, she glanced over her shoulder to see what caused their dislike and then half turned in her chair to get a clear look.

Two men and a woman stood there observing the seated diners. It was not their rough, stained garments, the scarred boots, or unkempt hair that caught Killashandra's eye – though these were unusual enough in a society that respected cleanliness – but the trio's imperious bearing, a sort of lofty disdain that excluded everyone else, and the brilliance of their eyes. The tableau, briefly held during the trio's survey, broke up as the three moved purposefully toward a corner table where, as Killashandra followed their progress, two other similarly attired people sat.

«And who do they think they are?» Killashandra asked, as annoyed by their manner as the second officer and supercargo. Even as she spoke, she knew the answer, for she had seen that hauteur, that inner luminosity before – in Carrik.

“Singers, are they?”

“Yes,” said the super flatly.

“Are they always like that?”

“Wasn't your friend Carrik?” Andurs countered.

“Not exactly like that.”

«Then he was most unusual,» the super replied in a daunting tone. «They're at their worst just in from the ranges – as those are. Lucky for us, Andurs, there are two Monasterian ships in. They'll ship out on those.»

Andurs nodded curtly and then, as if to make certain Killashandra did not continue the sore subject of Singers, began a volley of questions about supplies and cargo waybills. Taking the hint, she applied herself to her food but did cast surreptitious glances toward the fascinating group of Singers. Killashandra was all the more surprised that they seemed not to have much to say to each other, though the trio had deliberately sought out the pair. Nor did they leave their table longer than it took one of them to dial and collect several wine beakers at a time. They paid no attention to others in the now – crowded dining area.

Since there was considerable traffic, greeting of friends, and good-natured teasing from table to table, Killashandra could make some discreet evaluations. A good relationship seemed to exist between base residents – Guild members or not – and transients. She recognized the various professions and skills by the distinctive uniform colors and hatchings of coding and rate. The travelers were garbed in whatever suited their fancies, the styles and fashions of two or three dozen cultures and disciplines. Ship personnel always wore the space-dark uniforms, sober counterpoint to the riot of civilian dress. Several life-supported aliens appeared briefly in the main foyer but they quickly retired to the catering level that accommodated their exotic requirements.

Having leisurely finished their meal, the supercargo and engineer excused themselves, claiming duties before lift off. Andurs waved them a genial go-ahead and then turned to Killashandra.

“D'you see what would happen if you become a Singer?”

“What?” she asked guilelessly.

Andurs flicked his fingers impatiently at the aloof quintet. “You'd be alone. Wherever you went.”

“I wasn't alone with Carrik. He was very good company.”

“For a specific reason, I've no doubt, and don't spout Privacy at me.”

Killashandra laughed at his sour reply. “The reason was mutual, my friend. And I still don't see why the Crystal Singers are at fault.”

“And who do they think they are?”' he mimicked in a fair imitation of her instinctive reaction to the Singers.

"Well, I also didn't notice anyone making them welcome the way everyone else – "

“Nor will you. Disagreeable bastards, that's what they are. And they always act that superior.”

"Carrik – " she began, remembering how much fun he had been.

«He might have been halfway gone by the time you met him. They change – and not for the better.»

“They would have to, wouldn't they?” she said, somewhat abruptly, for Andurs' irrational insistence on generalities annoyed her. “The fax said they take rigorous physical, psychological, and aptitude tests. Only the best are taken, so they would be above the ploddies you have to put up with everywhere else in the galaxy.”

“You don't understand. They are very different!” Andurs was becoming agitated in his effort to explain.

“I'll never understand if you won't be specific.”

«Well, I can.» Andurs almost leaped at her offer. «The Singer in the brown tunic – how old would you say he is? And don't stare at them too hard. They can be offensive if irritated. Especially when they're just off the Ranges like that set.»

Killashandra had noticed the brown-clad man; he was the tallest one and exuded some of the same magnetic quality that had distinguished Carrik.

“I'd say about second half of his third decade, perhaps beginning of his fourth.”

“I'm in my fourth and have been making this run for nine years standard. I know he's been a Singer for at least nine decades because his name's appeared on the passenger lists for my ship for that long.”

Killashandra glanced discreetly over at the subject in question. It was hard to believe the man was well over his first hundred years. Modern science delayed the worst ravages of physical degeneration but —

“So eternal youth is your gripe?”

«No, not mine. Frankly I wouldn't want to have more than ten or twelve decades. It's not just that Singers look young longer, though that does get at some, it's – it's other differences . . .»

“Psychological? Professional? Physical? Or financial?”

“Look, the point is, there are differences that the rest of us note, sense, feel, and resent in Singers!” Andurs was vehement now, pounding one fist into the other palm to emphasize his points. “Whatever it is separates you forever from the rest of mankind. Is that what you want?”

Killashandra gave the question due consideration before she looked Andurs in the eye and said, “Yes. Crystal Singers are a rigidly selected, highly trained professional minority. And I want to be a member of that sort of group. I've had some training in that direction already,” she added with a sour smile.

“Then your bringing Carrik back . . .” Andurs' nostrils flared with suspicion, and he leaned away from her.

"Was what I owed the man," she added hastily, for she didn't like that expression to appear so soon, and for no cause, on Andurs' face. She honestly had been motivated by regret for Carrik's condition. "Who knows? I may not pass the requirements. It harms no one for me to try, does it?" She gave Andurs a sweet, somewhat tremulous smile. "I was not motivated toward any goal when I encountered Carrik, you see – "

«Then ship out with me – or on any of the other ships. This» – Andurs' forefinger pointed at the door – «is a dead end.»

Killashandra sneaked one more look at the Crystal Singers – proud, aloof, and curiously radiant. She contrived a thoughtful frown for Andurs' benefit, but the group, remote and inaccessible, were indeed people apart, clearly marked by a subtle difference that set them above humans otherwise no less physically attractive or intelligent. This distinction would cause Singers to be singled out no matter where they were. Forever, Killashandra thought, as Stellar performers when basking in the applause of adoring audiences. Since she was deprived of the one, she would try for this.

"There is something about them . . ." she said aloud with a diffident lift of her shoulders and a wry smile. "You know, you're right about the brew – " and she turned a more winning smile at Andurs.

“I'll get more.”

She spent a pleasant evening with the captain, though

she was glad that it was just an evening, for his limitations soon became apparent. Carrik had had many revelations for her. But when Andurs left for his ship at date change, it was only with expressions of regret and additional urgings for her to be on board. Though he was only going as far as Regulus Exchange, Killashandra could pick up a ship bound anywhere in the galaxy with her Guild voucher.

She thanked him, affecting more drowsiness than she felt, and left him with the notion that she had been swayed by his persuasions and person.

She didn't learn until much later that his ship, the Rag Blue Swan Delta, had delayed departure until peremptorily forced to leave by an aggravated landing officer. By that time she was already in the Guild block of the base.