The Crystal Singer

CHAPTER 4

Arriving punctually at the beginning of business hours, Killashandra was not the only one so prompt. Some of the dozen or so milling about the large reception area were quite obviously buyers, peering at the displays and jotting entries on their wrist units. The tall, thin young man was there. He looked startled to see Killashandra and swerved away from her. Just as Killashandra noted two men and a woman emerge from a panel in the far side of the dodecahedron, someone stamped in from the base entrance. Killashandra glimpsed a set, hard, angry face and the close-cropped hair of a space worker as the bone-thin figure of a female swept past her.

The chandelier responded to the vibrations of her passage and picked up the tone of her voice. From the resonance of the chiming art form, Killashandra knew the woman was making demands. What surprised Killashandra more was that the Guild woman did not pay any attention, her head remaining bent over the module. The angry space worker repeated her question, sharp enough now for Killashandra to hear that the woman was demanding to be taken immediately for testing as a Guild candidate.

Suddenly, one of the Guildsmen, excusing himself from his conversation with a buyer, touched the programmer on her arm, directing her gaze to the now irate space worker. Another angry spate of words jarred the crystal drops, although the Guild programmer seemed not the least disturbed either by her discourtesy or the space worker's ire. In the next moment, the panel at the back of the room opened again, and the space worker moved toward it, her head set at an aggressive angle, her stride jarring her slender frame. The panel closed behind her.

A sigh attracted Killashandra's attention, and she turned to find a young man standing beside her. He would have deserved a second look anywhere, for he possessed close curled red hair, a recessive trait rarer now than the true blond. He had evidently watched the interchange between the space worker and the Guild programmer as if he had anticipated such a confrontation. His sigh had been one of relief.

“She made it,” he murmured under his breath, and then, noticing Killashandra, smiled at her. His unusually light green eyes twinkled in mischief. The antipathy Killashandra had instinctively felt for the space worker was replaced by an instant affinity to the young man. “She's been in a snit, that one, the whole journey here. Thought she'd go through the debarkation arch like a projectile when it started laying on the formality. And after all that . . .” He spread his hands wide to express his astonishment at her ease.

“There's more to it than going through a doorway,” Killashandra said.

«Don't I just know it, but there was no telling Carigana. For starters, she was annoyed that I got to do the prelim at Yarro on Beta VI. As if it were a personal affront to her that she had to come all the way here.» He stepped closer to Killashandra as a knot of people, buyers from their varied manner of dress, entered. «Have you taken the plunge yet?» And then he held up his hand, grinning so winningly when Killashandra stiffened at such a flagrant breach of privacy that she couldn't, after all, take offense. «I'm from Scartine, you know, and I keep forgetting manners. Besides, you don't look like a buyer» – his comment was complimentary for he gestured with good-humored contempt at the finery of most of the other occupants of the hall – «and transients would never venture further than the catering area, so you must be interested in crystal singing . . .» He raised his eyebrows as well as the tone of his voice in question.

It would have taken a far more punctilious person than Killashandra to depress his ingenuous manner, but she answered with the briefest of smiles and a nod.

“Well, because I've been through the prelim, I've only to report my presence, but if I were you, though I'm not, and it's certainly not my wish to invade your privacy, I'd give Carigana a chance to get organized before I followed her in.” Then he cocked his head, grinning with a sparkle at odds with his guilelessness. “Unless you're hanging back with second thoughts.”

“I've thoughts but none of them second.” Killashandra said. “You did the prelim at Yarro?”

“Yes, you know the tests.”

“SG-1's, I hear.”

He shrugged diffidently. “Medigear feels the same for all levels, and if you're adjusted, the psych is nothing. Aptitude's aptitude and a fast one, but you look like you've done tertiary studies, so what's to knot your hair over?” His expression was sharp as his eyes flicked to the wall through which Carigana had passed. “If you've got hair!”

«Those tests – they're not complicated, or painful, or anything?. . .» The tall nervous young man had sidled up to them without either noticing his approach.

Killashandra frowned slightly with displeasure, but the other young man grinned encouragingly.

“No sweat, no stress, no strength exerted, man. A breeze,” and he planed his hand in a smooth gesture indicating ease. “All I got to do now is go up to the panel, knock on the door, and I'm in.” He snapped the shoulder strap of his carisak.

“You've been given the full disclosure?” the dark-haired man asked.

“Not yet.” The red-head grinned again. “That's the next step and only done here.”

“Shillawn Agus Vartry,” the other said formally, raising his right hand, fingers spread in the galactic gesture that indicated cooperation without weapon.

“Rimbol C-hen-stal-az” was the red-head's rejoinder.

Killashandra wasn't in the mood to be drawn into further conversation about applying for Guild membership, not with this Shillawn swallowing and stammering his way to a decision. She accorded Rimbol a smile and the salute as she backed away courteously before veering toward the module with more assurance than she felt. Once there, she spread her fingers wide where the movement would catch the woman's eye.

“I'd like to apply for membership to the Heptite Guild,” she said when the woman raised her head. Killashandra had meant to say she wanted to become a Crystal Singer, but the words had shifted in her mind and mouth with uncharacteristic discretion. Perhaps Carigana's very bad example had tempered her approach.

The programmer inclined her head in acknowledgment of the request, her fingers flashing across the terminal keys. “If you will proceed through that entrance.” She motioned toward the opening panel in the wall.

Killashandra could just imagine how anti-climactic that mild phrase must have been for the storming Carigana. She smiled to herself as the panel closed behind her without so much as a sigh. Exit Killashandra Ree softly and with no fanfare.

She found herself in a short corridor, with a series of color-coded and design-patched doors on either side, and made for one that opened quietly. Just as she entered the room from one door, a man with an odd crook to one shoulder entered from another. He gave her such a quick searching look that she felt certain he had had to greet Carigana.

“You agree to submit to SG-1 examinations of physical, psychological, and aptitudinal readiness? Please state your name, planet of origin, and whatever rank you hold. This information is being processed under the Federated Sentient Planets' conditions regarding admission into the Heptite Guild of Ballybran.” He ran through the speech in two breaths, staring expectantly at her while her mind caught up with his rote comments.

“Yes, I, Killashandra Ree of Fuerte, agree to the examinations. Rank, tertiary student in performing arts, released.”

“This way, please, Killashandra Ree.” She followed him into an anteroom, the usual examination facility. The panel on one door blazed red, and Killashandra supposed that Carigana was within, being subjected to the same tests she was about to undergo.

She was shown to the next cubicle, which held the couch and hood that were standard physical diagnostic equipment for her species. Without a word, she settled herself on the couch as comfortably as possible, inured since childhood to the procedures, to the slightly claustrophobic sensation as the upper half of the diagnostic unit swung down over her. She didn't mind the almost comforting pressure of the torso unit or the tight grip across one thigh and the hard weight on her left shin, but she never could get used to the constricting headpiece and the pressures against eyes, temple, and jaw. But cerebral and retinal scanning were painless, and one never felt the acupuncture that deadened the leg for the blood, bone marrow, and tissue samples. The other pressures for organ readings, muscle tone, heat and cold tolerances, sound sensitivity, were as nothing to the final pain-threshold jolt. She had heard about but never experienced the pain-threshold gamut – and hoped never to have to do so again.

Just as she was about to scream from the stimuli applied to her nerve centers the apparatus abruptly retracted. As her nervous system tingled with the after effect, she did groan and massaged the back of her neck to ease muscles that had tensed in that split second of measurable agony.

“Take this restorative now, please,” the meditech said, entering the room. He gave her a glass of carbonated green liquid. “Set you right. And if you'll just sit here,” he added as a comfortable padded chair rolled to the center of the room while the medigear slid to the left. “When you are recovered, press the button on the right chair arm, and the psychological test will begin. A verbal address system is used. Responses are, of course, recorded, but I'm sure you're familiar with the procedures by now.”

The drink did clear the last miasma of the threshold test from her senses, making her feel incredibly alert. All the better preparation for psychological testing.

Killashandra had always had mixed feelings about that sort of evaluation – so much might depend on one's frame of mind at that particular hour, day, and year. She experienced her usual half hearted desire to give all the wrong answers, but this was coupled with the keen awareness of self-competition. Too much depended on the exams. She had no need to play any of the games she might have risked at other levels and times. She could not, however, comprehend the purpose of some questions that had never been asked during any other evaluation session. Of course, she'd never applied to the Heptite Guild before, so their criteria were bound to be different. Nor had she under gone a computerized verbal address psych test before, which was generally conducted face to face with a human examiner.

Toward the last few moments of the session, the speed of questioning increased to the point where she was actually sweating to produce answers to the displayed questions in an effort to keep up the pace.

She could still feel her heart racing when the Guild man returned, this time bearing a tray with steaming food packs.

“Your aptitude tests will be presented after you've eaten and rested. You may request entertainment from the fax or sleep.” At his words, a contour couch appeared from a storage area. “When you are ready, inform the computer and the final examination will begin.”

Killashandra was ravenous and found the nutritious meal delicious. She sipped the hot beverage slowly and asked for soothing Optherian “balances” to clear her mind of the tensions caused by the last portion of the psych tests.

In her previous evaluation sessions, the manner of the human attendants had often indicated the level of her performance – and she was accustomed to scoring high. But the Guild tech had been so impersonal, she couldn't guess how she was doing.

After she'd finished her meal, she elected to continue and signaled her readiness. Whereupon she was tested for pitch, the severest evaluation of that faculty she'd ever endured, including estimates of vibrational errors and unnerving subliminal noises below 50 and above 18,000 cycles. That recorded, the testing moved on to deceptively complete hand-eye coordination's that again left her drenched with sweat. She was run through a series of depth perception exams and spatial relationships. The latter had always been one of her strong points, but by the time the session was over, she was wrung out with fatigue and was shaking.

Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but when the meditech returned, she fancied something of respect in his glance.

“Killashandra Ree, since you have completed the first day's examinations up to standard, you are now the guest of the Guild. We have taken the liberty of transferring your personal effects to more comfortable quarters in the Guild block. If you will follow me . . .”

Ordinarily, such an action, taken without her consent, would have constituted an invasion of privacy, but her energies were too depleted for her to summon up a protest. She was led deeper into the Guild block, down three levels from the main and the only entrance, or exit, to the rest of Shankill Base. Her easy penetration of the hallowed precinct amused rather than alarmed her. There was really no need for her to be isolated from the rest of the base population after what were very standard examinations. Except for the pain-threshold test, she had nothing to warn any other prospective applicant about. Unsuccessful applicants would be more dangerous to the Guild because of their disappointment. What happened to them, she wondered? What, for instance, had become of the angry Carigana? She'd be glad to be out of that one's vicinity in the event of her failure. And where were Rimbol and that irritating, twitchy young man, that Shillawn something?

How far into the Guild did she have to go to get this free room and board, she wondered, fatigue irritating her. She desired nothing more than to stretch out and sleep. She felt as drained as she had the night of the final student concert. How long ago was that now? In terms of distance or time? She had no patience with her own conundrums. How much farther now?

The Guild man had paused at a door, which slid open.

“If you'll put your print on file, you will find your belongings within. At the end of this corridor is a common lounge, although you will also find catering facilities in your room. Tomorrow you will be summoned for the final phase.”

A bleep from the man's wrist-unit curtailed any questions she might have asked; for he acknowledged the reminder, inclined his head politely to her and retraced his steps.

She placed her thumb in the depression for the print lock and entered her new accommodation. It was not only larger – spacious in comparison to the hostel room – it was also more luxuriously appointed. A chair was drawn up to a small table, already set with a beaker of brew from the catering panel, which was lit. Killashandra gratefully sampled the drink, noting that the menufax was set to fish selections. She wondered just how much information the Guild had already had programmed about her since she had given her name, planet of origin, and rank. Deliberately, she spun the display to other proteins and ordered what was described as a hearty casserole of assorted legumes and a light wine.

She had just finished her meal when the door announced a visitor. She hesitated a long moment, unable to imagine who would be calling; then the door added that the visitor's name was Rimbol, who required a word with her. She pressed the door release.

Rimbol leaned in, grinning. “C'mon out for bit. Just for a drink. It's free.” Then he winked. “Neither Carigana nor Shillawn are present. Just some others who've already passed their prelims. C'mon.”

The amusement in his wheedling voice was the deciding factor. Killashandra knew herself well enough to realize that even if she tried to sleep, she'd only play back the tests and become so depressed over omissions and commissions that she'd never achieve a true rest. A few drinks and a bit of relaxation in Rimbol's infectious company would do her much more good, especially if both Carigana and that nervous Shillawn were absent.

She was a bit taken aback, however, when 'just some others' numbered twenty-nine. Rimbol, sensing her surprise, grinned and gestured at the catering area. “A brew's what you need. This is Killashandra,” he announced in a slightly raised voice to the room in general. Her presence was acknowledged by slight nods or smiles or a brief hand gesture. A certain degree of informal companionship was already enjoyed by the others. The group, involved in some sort of four-player card game, didn't even look up as she and Rimbol collected their drinks.

“You make thirty, you know,” Rimbol said as he guided her to a seat on the one unoccupied lounger. “Shillawn and Carigana thirty-two, and there's supposed to be one more going through prelim today. If that's a pass, it means we'll all go down to Ballybran tomorrow.”

“That is, if no one gets scared after disclosure,” said a girl who wandered over to join them. “I'm Jezerey, late of Salonika in the Antares group.”

“I didn't think they canceled after disclosure,” Rimbol said, frowning in surprise.

"You may well be right, but I do know that thirty is the smallest group they'll train," Jezerey went on, settling herself on the couch with a long sigh. "I've been waiting seven weeks standard." She sounded disgusted. "But Borton" – and she gestured toward the card players – "has been here nine. He'd just missed a class. Nothing will make him decline. I'm not so sure about one or two of the others and we've got a few to spare. Rimbol says that nothing would unpersuade that Carigana, and from the look on her face when old Crookback brought her in, I'm as glad she decided she didn't like us either and stayed in her room. Space workers are odd lots, but she's – she's – "

«She's just intense,» Rimbol noted when Jezerey faltered. «I don't think she trusts space stations any more than spaceships. She was tranked to her brows on the trip here. Shillawn» – and Rimbol favored Killashandra with a wry expression – «was knackered out of his bones, so I invaded Privacy and put a knockout in his brew. Got him to bed.»

“Why would someone like him want to be a Crystal Singer?” Killashandra asked.

“Why do any of us?” Rimbol answered, amused.

“All right, why would you?” Killashandra fired the question right back at him.

“Wasn't allowed to continue as an instrumentalist. Not enough openings on my mudball for a string player. Crystal singing's the next best thing.”

Killashandra nodded, looking to Jezerey.

“Curiously enough,” the girl said with a bemused expression, “I was redundant in my profession, too. Limb replacement therapist. And the Dear knows there're enough accidents on Salonika.” She wrinkled her nose and then caught the puzzled expressions of Rimbol and Killashandra. “Mining world, asteroid belts around us and the next planet out. Next to mining, you might say replacement was our biggest industry.”

“Space workers aren't apt to be redundant, either,” Killashandra commented, looking at Rimbol.

«Carigana wasn't. Psyched out when her safety cable snapped – I get the impression she was deep-spaced a long time before they found her. She didn't say» – and Rimbol emphasized the last word – «but she's probably unstable for such employment.»

Jezerey nodded sympathetically.

“Shillawn?” Killashandra asked.

"Told me he was a chemotech," Rimbol replied. "His project was finished up, and he was given an assignment he didn't like. Underground. He's a touch claustro! I think that's what makes him so nervous.

“And we all have perfect pitch,” Killashandra said more to herself than the others because the phrases Maestro Valdi had spat accusingly, particularly the one about a 'silicate spider,' came appropriately to mind. She dismissed the niggling suspicion as invalid.

An explosive curse burst from one of the card players, and his earnest request for arbitration from any and all in the room interrupted their private conversation.

Although Killashandra took no part in the intense discussion that followed, she deemed it good sense to lend her presence to a group with whom she might be spending considerable time. She also saw them as a group with no other common factor – aside from the invisible prerequisite of perfect pitch – than age. All seemed to be within their third decade; most apparently just finished with tertiary education, no two from the same system or planet.

Killashandra remained on the fringes of the good humored but volatile game discussion until she had finished another glass of the very good brew. Then she quietly retired, wondering as she prepared for sleep just how thirty plus people from so many different planets had all heard of the Crystal Singers.

She had just finished her morning meal when a soft, deep chime brought her attention to the screen. She was requested to go to the lounge room.

“You sneaked away nice and early,” a cheerful tenor said behind her. She turned to find Rimbol approaching, the awkward figure of Shillawn just behind him. “Missed the fun, you did.”

“Who won the argument?” she asked after a courteous nod to Shillawn.

“No one and everyone. It was the arguing that was fun!” The red-headed lad grinned.

They had reached the lounge by then, and from the other corridors the rest of the successful filed, some re-forming the groups she'd noticed the previous evening. Only Carigana seemed apart; she sat on the back of one of the loungers glowering at everyone. Something about the angry girl was familiar to Killashandra, but she couldn't place what.

Just then, from the fourth entrance, limped a tall woman holding the left side of her long gown slightly away from her thigh. Her gaze swiftly scanned the room, counting, Killashandra thought, and made her own tally. Thirty-three. Out of what gross number of applicants, she wondered again, over the nine weeks Jezerey had said Borton had waited?

“I am Borella Seal,” the woman announced in the clear, rich voice of a trained contralto. Killashandra regarded her with closer interest. “I am a miner of crystal, a Crystal Singer. Since I am recovering from an injury sustained in the ranges, I have been asked to disclose to you the dangers of this profession.” She pulled aside the long gown and revealed wounds so ugly and vividly contused that several people recoiled. As if this was the very reaction she had wanted, Borella smiled slightly. “I will expose the wound again for a specific purpose other than arousing nausea or sympathy. Take a good look now.”

Shillawn's elbow nudged Killashandra, and she was about to give him a severe reprimand for such a private insult when she realized he was drawing her attention to Carigana. The girl was the only one who approached Borella Seal and bent for the close inspection of the long gashes scoring the upper leg.

They appear to be healing properly, though you ought to have had them bonded. How'd you get 'em?" Carigana was clinically impersonal.

“Two days ago I slipped on crystal shale and fell fifteen meters down an old worked face.”

“Two days?” Anger colored Carigana's voice. “I don't believe you. I've seen enough lacerations to know ones as deep as these don't heal that much in two days. Why the color of the bruising and the state of the tissue already healed show you were injured weeks ago.”

“Two days. Singers heal quickly.”

“Not that quick.” Carigana would have said more, but Borella Seal gestured dismissal and turned to the others.

«By order of the Federated Sentient Planets, full disclosure of the dangers peculiar to and inherent in this profession must be revealed to all applicants who have satisfactorily completed the initial examinations.» She accorded them a slight nod of approval. «However, as is also permissible by FSP law, professional – problems – may be protected by erasure. Those to whom this practice is unacceptable may withdraw.»

“How much is erased?” Carigana asked.

“Precisely one hour and twenty minutes, replaced by a recollection of over sleeping and a leisurely breakfast.”

“On record.”

“If requested, the Guild supplies the information that a minor but inadmissible physical defect has been discovered. Few question the Heptite Guild.” For some reason Killashandra thought that fact amused Borella. Carigana's frown had deepened. “Any objectors?” Borella asked, looking straight at the space worker.

When no other voice was raised, she asked them to file before the screen she then activated, giving their name and stating their willingness to comply with erasure. The process didn't take long, but Killashandra felt that she had taken an irrevocable step as her acceptance was officially and indisputably recorded.

Borella then led them down a short hall to a door, Carigana the first to follow. Her gasp and half halt as she passed the entrance forewarned the others but in no way prepared anyone for the display in that short corridor. On either side were bodies in clear fluid – all but one glinted as if coated with a silicon. The planes of the faces looked rock hard; limbs, fingers, and toes were extended as if solidified, and not by the rigor of death. The crystalline sheen couldn't be some trick of the light, Killashandra thought, for her own skin showed no change. What roiled her stomach were the facial expressions: three looked as if death had over taken them in a state of insanity; two appeared mildly surprised, and the sixth angry, her hands raised toward some object she had been trying to grasp. The last was the most grisly: a charred body forever in the position of a runner, consumed by a conflagration that had melted flesh from bone.

"This is what happens to the unprotected on Ballybran. It could also happen to you, though every effort is made to reduce such risks to a minimum. If you wish to retire now, you are completely at liberty to do so.'

“External danger does not constitute a Code 4 classification,” Carigana said, her tone accusatory.

“No, it doesn't. But these are representative of two of the dangers of Ballybran which the Heptite Guild is required by Federated Sentient Planets to reveal to you.”

“Is that the worst that can happen?” Carigana asked scornfully.

“Isn't being dead enough?” someone asked from the group.

«Dead's dead – crystal, char, or carrion,» Carigana replied, shrugging her shoulders, her tone so subtly offensive that Killashandra was not the only one who frowned with irritation.

“Yes, but it is the manner of dying that can be the worst,” said Borella in such a thoughtful way that she had everyone's attention. She accorded them the slightest smile. “Follow me.”

The grim corridor opened on to a small semicircular lecture hall. Borella proceeded to a small raised platform, gesturing for the group to take the seats, which would have accommodated three times their number. As she turned to face them, a large hologram lit behind her, a view of the Scorian system, homing quickly on Ballybran and its three moons. The planet and its satellites moved with sufficient velocity to demonstrate the peculiar Passover of the moons, when all three briefly synchronized orbits – a synchronization that evidently took place over different parts of the parent world.

“The crystallization displayed in the corridor is the most prevalent danger on Ballybran. It occurs when the spore symbiont, a carbon silicate occurring in an unorthodox environment peculiar to Ballybran, does not form a proper bridge between our own carbon-based biological system and the silicon-based ecology of this planet. Such a bridge is essential for working on Ballybran. If the human host adapts properly to the spore symbiont, and I assure you it is not the other way round, the human experiences a significant improvement in visual acuity, tactile perceptions, nerve conduction, and cellular adaptation. The first adaptations are of immense importance to those who become miners of crystal, the Crystal Singers. Yes, Carigana?”

“What part of the body does the symbiont invade? Is it crystalline or biological?”

"Neither, and the symbiont invades cellular nuclei in successful adaptations – "

“What happens to the unsuccessful ones?”

“I shall discuss that shortly if you will be patient. As part of the cell nucleus, the symbiont affects the DNA/RNA pattern of the body, extending the life span considerably. The rumor that Crystal Singers are immortal is exaggerated, but functional longevity is definitely increased by fifty or more decades beyond actuarial norms. The adaptation provides an immunization to ordinary biological disease, enormously increasing the recuperative ability. Broken bones and wounds such as mine are, I warn you, part of the daily world of a Crystal Singer. Tolerance to extremes of heat and cold are also increased.”

And pain, no doubt, Killashandra thought, remembering not only the test but Borella's lack of discomfort with her deep wounds.

Behind the Singer, the holograms were now views of Ballybran's rugged terrain, quickly replaced by a time lapse over view from one of the moons, so that the planet's twelve continents were visible in seconds.

«On the negative side, once acclimated to Ballybran and adapted to the symbiont, the Singer is irreversibly sterile. The genetic code is altered by the intrusion of the symbiont into the nuclei, and those parts of the DNA spiral dealing with heredity and propagation are chemically altered, increasing personal survival traits as opposed to racial survival – a chemical alteration of instinct, if you will.»

Carigana gave a pleased sound like a feline expression of enjoyment.

«The other, and basically the most important negative factor, is that a Singer can not remain too long away from Ballybran's peculiar ecology. The symbiont must recharge itself from its native place. Its death means the death of the host – a rather unpleasant one, for death from extreme old age occurs within a period inversely related to the host's elapsed life span.»

“How long can a Singer stay away from Ballybran without ill effect?” Killashandra asked, thinking of Carrik and his reluctance to return.

“Depending on the strength of the initial adaptation, and that varies, for periods of up to four hundred days. A Singer is not required to be absent for longer than two hundred days on assignment off-planet. Two hundred and fifty days is suitable for leisure. Sufficient, I assure you, for most purposes.”

Killashandra, seated behind the space worker, saw Carigana draw breath for another question, but Borella had changed the hologram to show a human writhing in the grip of a shaking fever, all too reminiscent of the hypothermia that had affected Carrik. The man was seized by massive convulsions. As the focus tightened first to his hands, then his chest and face, he aged from an athletic person in his third, possibly fourth decade, to a wrinkled and dehydrated, hairless, shrunken corpse in the time it took viewers to gasp.

“He was one of the first Singers to make a successful symbiotic adaptation. He died, regrettably, at Weasust while setting up the black quartz relay station for that sector of the FSP. It was the first time a Singer had been absent for a prolonged period, but that particular danger had not yet been recognized.”

“Did you know him?” Shillawn asked with a perception that surprised Killashandra, for she had wondered the same thing.

“Yes, I did. He trained me in the field,” Borella replied, dispassionately.

Killashandra made some mental calculations and regarded the flawless complexion and erect figure of their mentor with surprise.

“Is that Milekey man still alive?” Carigana asked.

“No. He died during a major fault in the range which bears his name.”

“I thought this symbiont kept you from broken bones and wounds?”

The symbiont provides increased recuperative ability but cannot replace a severed head on a body whose wounds have resulted in complete blood loss. For less drastic injuries and she pulled the gown aside from her left leg.

Rimbol's soft whistle of astonishment summed up Killashandra's amazement, too. They had all seen the purple bruising and lacerations: now the contusions were faintly yellow splotches, and the wounds were visibly closing.

“What about those for whom the symbiont doesn't work?” asked the undaunted Carigana.

"The main purpose of the intensive physical examination was to evaluate rejection and blood factors, tissue health, and chromosome patterns against those of the known successful adaptations." A graph appeared on the screen, the line indicating success rising triumphantly over the past three decades where it had hovered in minor peaks over a span of three hundred or more years. "Your tests indicate no undesirable factors evaluated against records now dating back over three hundred twenty-seven standard years. You all have as good a chance as possible of achieving complete acceptance by the symbiont – " "The odds are five to one against."

Killashandra wondered if Carigana gave even the time of day in that same hostile tone.

“No longer,” Borella replied, and a light appeared on the upward swing of the graph line. “It's now better than one out of three. There are still factors not yet computed which cause only partial adaptation. I am compelled by FSP law to emphasize that.”

“And then?”

“That person obviously becomes one of the 20,007 technicians,” Shillawn said.

“I asked her.” Carigana gave Shillawn a scathing glance.

“The young man is, however, right.”

“And technicians never leave Ballybran.” Carigana's glance slid from Borella to Shillawn, and it was obvious what her assessment of Shillawn's chances were.

"Not without severe risk of further impairment. The facilities on Ballybran, however, are as complete as – "

“Except you can't ever leave.”

"As you are not yet there," Borella continued imperturbably, though Killashandra had the notion the Singer enjoyed sparring with the space worker, "the problem is academic and can remain so." She turned to the others. "As I was about to point out, the odds have been reduced to three out of five. And improving constantly. The last class produced thirty-three Singers from thirty-five candidates.

"Besides the problem of symbiont adaptation required for existence on Ballybran, there is an additional danger, of the more conventional type." She went on less briskly, allowing her comments on the odds to be absorbed. "Ballybran's weather." The screen erupted into scenes of seas lashed into titanic waves, landscapes where ground cover had been pulped. "Each of the three moons contains weather stations, and sixteen permanent satellites scan the surface constantly.

“Scoria, our primary, has a high incidence of sun-spot activity.” A view of the sun in eclipse supported that statement as flares leaped dramatically from behind the eclipsing moon's disk. A second occluded view showed the primary's dark blotches. “This high activity, plus the frequent conjunction of the moons' orbits, a triple conjunction being the most dangerous obviously, ensure that Ballybran has interesting weather.”

A bark of laughter for such understatement briefly interrupted Borella, but her patient smile suggested that the reaction was expected. Then the screen showed breath taking conjunction of the moons' orbits.

"When the meteorological situation becomes unstable, even in terms of Ballybran's norms, the planet is subjected to storms which have rated the euphemism, mach storm. As the crystal ranges of Ballybran extend downward rather than up," – the screen obediently provided a view from a surface vehicle traversing the down ranges at speed – "one might assume that one need only descend far enough below the planet's surface to avoid the full brunt of wind and weather. A fatal assumption. The ranges constitute the worst danger." The view changed to a rapid series of photographs of people, their expressions ranging from passive imbecility to wild-eyed violence. "The winds of the mach storm stroke the crystal to such sonic violence that a human, even one perfectly adapted to his symbiont, can be driven insane by sound.

"The vehicles provided by the Guild for Singers' use have every known warning device, although the most effective one is lodged in the bodies of the Singers themselves; the symbiont, which is more sensitive to the meteorological changes than any instrument man can create. Sometimes the human element over comes the keen senses of the symbiont, and a Singer is impervious to warnings.

“Such injury is the main reason for the tithe levied by the Guild on the active members. You may be certain of the best possible care should such an accident befall you.”

“You said the symbiont increased recuperative ability for structural damage.” the irrepressible Carigana began.

“A broken mind is scarcely a physiological problem. Within its scope, the symbiont is a powerful protector. It is not in itself sentient, so though it could restore damaged brain tissue, it cannot affect what man chooses to designate 'soul'.”

Somehow Borella's tone managed to convey the notion that Carigana might not possess that commodity. Killashandra was not the only one to catch that nuance, which apparently eluded its intended target.

“How was the symbiont first discovered?” Killashandra asked, determined that Carigana was not going to dominate the session.

“By the first prospector, Milekey. He made a successful adaptation with the spore, considering the transition illness to be only some irritating infection.”

“He wasn't the only one on that mission, according to the fax,” Shillawn said.

"No, he wasn't, though the deaths of the other members of his geology team were not at first linked to Ballybran. Milekey made several excursions into the ranges to examine crystal faces and cut new types for evaluation. He also helped develop the first effective cutter. His personal tapes indicate that he felt a strong compulsion to return to Ballybran frequently, but, at the time, it was thought that this was merely due to his interest in the crystal and the increasing uses to which it could be put. He also did not connect his ability to avoid the storms to the presence of the symbiont.

“This aspect was discovered when the transition disease struck Cutter after Cutter, leaving crystallized bodies similar to those in the hall.”

“There's one that was charred,” Rimbol said, swallowing against nausea.

“And that is the third danger of Ballybran. Fortunately not as prevalent these days since common sense and education in the use of equipment decrease the probability. The crystal ranges can build up localized high-voltage and sonic charges near which ordinary communits do not operate properly, nor do other types of electrical equipment, some of which are necessary to the operation of sleds and conveniences. Fireballs can occur. And, despite all the precautions, a Singer can be volatilized. It is a danger we must mention.”

«You say that those who do not make a good adaptation to the symbiont specialize in technical work – but what constitutes a poor adaptation?» Jezerey asked, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

“Some impairment of one or more of the normal physical senses. But this is often coupled with an extension to the other senses not impaired.”

“What senses?” Shillawn asked, his thin throat muscles working as if he had trouble getting the words out.

“Generally hearing is impaired.” Borella gave a slight smile. “That's considered a blessing. No shielding has ever been invented to silence the full fury of a mach storm. Often eyesight increases into the ultraviolet or infrared spectra, with an ability in some to sense magnetic fields. Increased tactile sensitivity has enabled artistically inclined Guildsmen to produce some of the most treasured art of modern times. There is, however, no way of predicting what form the impairment will take, nor what compensation will be effected.”

“Have you pretty pictures of the victims?”

“The handicaps are rarely visible, Carigana.”

“The handicap plus sterility plus immolation on a storm lashed planet in exchange for a greatly increased life span? That constitutes the Code 4?”

“It does. You have thus been duly informed of the risks and the permanent alteration to your chemistry and physical abilities. Any further pertinent questions?”

“Yes. If you say there are more Singers these days, how does that affect individual profit with so many cutting in the ranges?” asked Carigana.

“It doesn't,” Borella replied, “not with the expanding galactic need for the communications link provided only by black quartz from Ballybran, not when Singers are capable, quick and cautious; not when there are people, like yourself, motivated to succeed in joining our select band.”

Attuned as her ear was to nuances in vocal tone, Killashandra did not quite perceive how Borella could deliver such a scathing reprimand with no variation in the pitch or timbre of her voice. Yet a sudden flush of humiliation colored Carigana's space-tan skin.

“How often are there injuries like yours?” a girl asked from the back of the theater.

«Frequently,» Borella replied with cheerful unconcern. «But I'll be back in the ranges» – Killashandra caught the note of longing, for it was the first time emotion had shown in the Singer's contained voice «in a day or two.»

“Singing crystal is worth such risks, then?” Killashandra heard herself ask.

Borella's eyes sought hers and held them as a slow smile crossed her lips.

“Yes, singing crystal is worth any risk.” The force of that quiet statement caused a silence. “I shall leave you to discuss the matter among yourselves. When you have made your decision, just follow me.” She moved toward the door at the side of the platform. It opened and closed with a soft whoosh behind her.

Killashandra looked over at Shillawn and Rimbol, noticed that the others were seeking emotional support from their nearest neighbors. Carigana, deep in a sullen mood, was pointedly ignored. Killashandra rose to her feet with an energy that attracted all eyes.

“I made up my mind before I ever arrived,” she said. “And I don't scare easily, anyhow!”

She strode down the steps toward the exit, hearing the movement of others behind her, though she didn't turn her head. A curious elation, tinged with apprehension and a certain fearfulness, seized her as she passed the portal. Then it was too late.

Killashandra wasn't sure what she had expected to find on the other side of the door panel. She half thought Borella might be present to see how many had not been deterred. Instead, she was surprised to find uniformed members of the FSP Civil Service, their faces and attitudes as grave as if they were at a disintegration or interment. The senior officer motioned her to follow the first person in line, a male who, in turn, gestured Killashandra toward another of the cubicles that seemed to infest all levels of the moon base. Behind her, she heard the surprised intake of breath of whichever candidate had directly followed her.

A slab table and two chairs occupied the small room. She moved toward one seat, but the officer's gesture stopped her.

“Bontel Aba Gray, Rank 10, FSP Civil Service, Shankill Moon Base, Ballybran, date 23/4/3308: applicant will present identity to the outlet, stating aloud name, rank, and planet of origin.”

Only after Killashandra had disgustedly complied with the formality was she allowed to seat herself opposite Bontel Gray.

“Is it true that you have received physical, psychological, and aptitude tests under the auspices of the Heptite Guild?”

“Yes.”

“You have been informed of the hazards involved in the Code 4 classification of the planet Ballybran?”

“Yes.” She wondered how Carigana was accepting the additional aggravation. That is, if Carigana had passed through the door.

Gray then questioned her in depth on Borella's lecture. Each of Killashandra's answers was recorded – but for whose protection, Killashandra wondered. She was reaching her aggravation point when he stopped.

“Do you swear, aver, and affirm that you are here of your own free will, without let or hindrance, conditioning or bribery, by any person or persons connected with the Heptite Guild?”

“I certainly do so swear, aver, and affirm.”

He glanced at the ident slot, which suddenly glowed green. Placing both hands on the table as if wearied by this duty, Gray pushed himself to his feet. “The formalities are now concluded,” he said with a tight smile. “May you sing well and profitably.”

The man remained standing as she rose and left. She had the impression, a sideways glance, that he unfastened his tunic collar, his expression sliding into regret as he watched her leave.

Borella was in the main hall, her eyes focused on each cubicle door as it opened and a recruit appeared. Killashandra noticed that just the faintest hint of satisfaction appeared on the woman's face as her entire “class” reassembled.

“A shuttle waits,” she said, once more leading the way.

“When do we get this spore business done?” Carigana asked, striding ahead of two others to reach Borella.

«On Ballybran. We did, at one point, use an artificial exposure, but the effects were no less successful than the natural process. Generally, infection occurs within ten days of reaching the surface,» she added before Carigana could inquire. «The adaptation process can vary – from no more than mildly uncomfortable all the way to dangerously febrile. You will all be monitored, naturally.»

“But haven't you discovered which physical types are more apt to react severely?” Carigana seemed annoyed.

“No,” Borella replied mildly.

Further questions from Carigana were forestalled by their arrival at the shuttle lock. Nor were they the only passengers – in fact, the applicants were apparently the least important, a fact that obviously caused Carigana to seethe. Borella casually motioned them all to seating in the rear of the vessel and slipped in beside a striking man whose garb of violently colored, loosely sewn patches suggested he might be a Singer returned from holiday.

“Much of a catch?” His drawled question caught Killashandra's ear as she passed. It was almost as much of an insult as the expression in his eyes as he observed the recruits filing to seats.

“The usual,” Borella replied. “One can never tell at this stage, you know.”

The tone of Borella's voice made Killashandra stare over her shoulder at the woman. The depth and resonance was gone, replaced by a sharper, shrewish, yet smug note. So the impressing and impressive detachment of the successful Singer, condescending to interpret the hazards of her profession to the eager but uninformed, was a role played very well by Borella. Killashandra shook her head against that assumption. The terrible lacerations on Borella's leg had been no sham.

“Crystal cuckoo?” “Silicate spider?” Had Maestro Valdi some measure of truth in his accusations?

Well, too late now – having sworn, averred, and affirmed, every opportunity to renege was behind her. Killashandra fixed her seat buckle for the weightless disengagement of the shuttle from moonlock.