The Crystal Singer

CHAPTER 11

It was a relief to be back in her quarters. Somehow the absurdity of the bizarre, tri-atmospheric wall-screen restored to her a sense of the absurd. Her attempt to verbalize her experience of crystal cutting to her friends and its aftermath disturbed her. How could memory, even of such an ecstatic moment, dominate mind and body so? She had broken that first communion with the crystal block by packing it. Or had she? And whom could she ask? Was addiction why it was so easy for a Singer to lose the data retrieval function of the mind?

Had she hesitated over Lanzecki's offer because she actually didn't want to be far from the ranges? She remembered then the longing in Borella's voice to return to the ranges when her wound had healed. On the other hand, Borella could now not wait to get off the planet.

The ambivalence, Killashandra decided, could be explained. Oddly enough, it was analogous to having the starring role in a large company. The applause could be the crystal singing in your hand, fresh from the vein, stimulating, ecstatic. The same emotional high every time you cut, until body and mind were exhausted by the clamor, the concentration. The thrall of crystal confounded by the urgent need of rest and relief.

She had seated herself by the computer keyboard, motivated to record some of her reflections. The automatic time display winked the change of hour. Even thinking about crystal took enormous hunks of time. She'd been back in her room more than two hours.

Briskly sitting upright, she keyed for the original entry she had made and listened dispassionately to her voice rehearsing the few facts she had entered. Then she tapped the record tab.

“I found an abandoned black crystal vein and cut with success. The trick with crystal is to pack it away before the song gets to you in the sun. I lost my sled trying to save old Moksoon. A waste of a good sled. Lanzecki is generous, and I shall be installing the five interlocking segments I cut in the Trundimoux System. That way I avoid Passover storms which are expected to be unusually violent.”

She played back the terse synopsis of her last two weeks. Would the bones of experience remind her of the degree and emotional heights at some later time? She sniggered at her own pretentiousness. Well, she never had considered herself any sort of a playwright.

As she leaned back in the console chair, she became aware of rumbling in her belly.

“Not again!”

To deny the stimulus of hunger, she determinedly dialed a furniture catalog though she had nothing to put on tables or shelves since she had hung her lute on the wall. She thought of playing the instrument which she hadn't done in a long time, but the E string broke the moment she turned the pin. Very carefully, she replaced the lute. Then, clenching her teeth, she made for the caterer in angry strides to assuage her unacceptable appetite.

She was dialing vigorously when the communit buzzed.

“Lanzecki here.”

“Are you linked to my catering dial?”

“It is not coincidence. Guild Masters are allowed to eat when their daily duties permit. May I join you?”

“Yes, of course.” She sounded as genuinely welcoming as she could after her facetious greeting.

Lanzecki was, she supposed, as much a victim to pre-Passover appetite as anyone else. Nor did she suppose him to be exploiting her by conveniently dispatching her off world. Or . . . taking the cup of protein broth she had dialed as Lanzecki's call came through, she went to the console and checked with Marketing. The display confirmed that the Trundimoux order for a five-place communications system utilizing black-crystal components had been received five days before. The order was priority rated by the FSP sector chief. She returned to the caterer and dialed enticing food for a tired, hungry man.

And it was Lanzecki the man who entered her apartments as she was vainly trying to squeeze plates, platters and pitchers onto the limited surface of her table. She really ought to have got in more furniture.

“I started,” she said, waving her soup. “I didn't think you'd mind.” She handed him a steaming cup.

“Nor do I.” As he smiled, the tension lines around his eyes and mouth eased.

“I had a morning snack with Antona after hunger over came me during the storm scan,” she said as he seated himself, stretching out his legs.

“She undoubtedly reassured you that we're all eating heartily at this moment.”

“She ate a lot, too.”

Lanzecki laughed. “Don't worry. You'll have no appetite during Passover.”

“But I won't be here.”

“The instinct operates independently of your physical where abouts. Especially, I regret to inform you, when your transition was so recent.”

“So long as I'm not gorging like this while I'm installing the crystals.” Some planets, particularly new ones like the Trundimoux system with limited food supplies, might consider a hearty appetite unbecoming.

“No, more likely you'll be sleeping it all off.” He finished his soup and seemed more interested in picking out his next item. “Tomorrow, Trag will instruct you in installation procedures. We had a secondary communication from the Trundimoux giving us the disposition of the five units. I understand that the kindly call them Trundies; the informed style them the Moux.”

“The what?” Killashandra demanded on a laugh, for she couldn't see herself using either nickname.

«Two crystals will be installed on mobile mining stations. Trundimoux has three asteroid belts. That's how they can afford black crystal.» Lanzecki snorted. «They've fortunes in ore whirling about, waiting to be grappled. The third unit is to be on the one habitable planet and one each on the large satellites of the gas and the ice planets. Trundimoux mining operations have been seriously hampered by lack of real-time communications, so they mortgaged half a belt and, I expect, will discharge that indebtedness in short order. Originally, the system was exploited merely for the asteroid ores, with several multihulks hauling the metal to the nearest manufacturing system – Balisdel, I think it is. The Balisdelians got greedy, Trundimoux miners rebelled, settled the better planet and one of the outer moons. In less than seventy-five years, they're a going concern.»

“With money enough for black-crystal communications.”

“They'd already a linkage with Balisdel and two other systems, but this will be their own internal link. Yarran beer?” Lanzecki rose to dial the order.

Killashandra laughed. “Who drank Yarran beer before Rimbol got here? Besides you.”

“The discovery was by no means original with me, either. Yarran beer is as close to addictive as anything can be for us.”

There was a heaviness about Lanzecki this evening, Killashandra thought. It wasn't fatigue, for he moved as easily as ever for a man of his build.

“I'd forgotten how pleasant the taste is,” he went on, returning with a pitcher and two beakers.

“Is this Passover going to be that bad?” she asked. Lanzecki took a long draught of the beer before he answered, but his eyes were twinkling, and his mouth fell into an easier line.

“We always plan for the worst and generally are not disappointed. The challenge thus presented by each new Passover configuration is irresistible, forces that are changeless and changing, as unpredictable as such natural phenomena are.”

Killashandra was startled by his unexpected philosophizing and wondered if she had been wrong about his mood.

“You actually enjoy this!”

«Hmmm. No – 'enjoy' is not the appropriate word. Stimulated, I think, would be more accurate.» He was teasing her. His lips told her that. Teasing, but something more, something deeper, the element that caused the heaviness about him. «Stop thinking and eat. I've ordered up a particular delicacy which I hope you'll enjoy, too. Catering goes to great pains at this time of Ballybran's cycle, and we must respond.»

Tonight, his appetite equaled hers as they sampled the marvels of taste and texture that had been conjured from the cuisine's of all the elegant and exotic worlds in the Federation. Lanzecki knew a great deal about food and promised her that one day he would personally prepare a meal for her from raw produce to finished dish.

“When eating is not a necessity, as it is now, but can be enjoyed,” and his eyes twinkled at the repetition of that word “in complete leisure.”

“We're not at leisure now?”

“Not completely. As soon as I have satisfied my symbiotic self, I must meet with the storm technicians again.”

She suppressed an irrational disappointment that their dinner was not a prelude to another loving night.

“Thank you, dear heart,” he said.

“Thank me? For what?”

“For being . . . aware.”

She stared at Lanzecki for a long moment.

“You're certain telepathy is not in the symbiotic . . .”

“Absolutely not!” Lanzecki's assurance was solemn, but she wasn't sure about his mouth.

Killashandra rapidly catalogued some of her responses to him and sighed.

“Well, I am sorry you're not staying!”

Lanzecki laughed as he reached for her hand and kissed it lightly. Not light enough so that she didn't respond to his touch.

«I have never intended to invade your privacy, Killashandra, by watching the shift and flow of your thoughts and emotions. I enjoy them. I enjoy you. Now» – and he rose purposefully – «if it were anything but storm tactics . . .» He kissed her palm again and then strode swiftly from the room.

She let her hand fall back to her lap, Lanzecki's graceful compliment echoing through her mind. Quite one of the nicest she had ever been paid.

Oddly enough, that he had been invading a Fuertan's treasured privacy, once her most defended possession, did not distress Killashandra. If Lanzecki continued to «enjoy» what he saw – She took a long swallow of beer. How much she had changed since that aimless, aching ride on the pedestrian way to Fuerte's spaceport! How much of the change was due to her «symbiotic self?» That, too, had been an invasion of privacy to which she had, before officialdom of the FSP, agreed.

Now that she had held crystal, vibrant in the palm of her hand, light and sound coruscating off the sun-warmed quartz, she felt no regrets for loss of privacy, no regrets for an invasion that had been entrance into a new dimension of experience.

She laughed softly at her whimsy. She finished the beer. She was sleepy and satiated, and tomorrow would be a wearying day. She hoped that Trag did not get reports from Enthor on the raggedness of her first cuttings.

The next morning, after a sturdy breakfast, she reported to Trag in the cutting room. Other members of Class 895 were already busy under the supervision of Concera and another Guild member. Killashandra greeted Concera and smiled at the others.

Trag jerked his head to a side door, and she followed him. She experienced a double shock, for there on the work table amid installation brackets and pads were five black crystals. And she didn't respond to their presence at all!

“Don't worry!” Trag picked up the nearest one and tossed it negligently at her.

She opened her mouth to scald him with an oath when the object reached her hands and she knew it wasn't black crystal.

“Don't you ever frighten me that way again!” Fury was acid in her belly and throat.

“Surely you didn't think we'd risk the black in practice.” Trag had enjoyed startling her.

“I'm too new at this game to know what is risked,” she replied, getting her anger under control. She hefted the block in her hand, wanting more than anything else to loft it right back at Trag.

“Easy now, Killashandra,” he said, raising a protective hand. “You knew it wasn't black crystal the moment you walked into the room!”

The coolness in Trag's voice reminded her that he was a senior Guild member.

“I've had enough surprises in the ranges without having to encounter them here, too, Trag.” As she controlled panic and rage, she also reminded herself that Trag had always been impersonal! Her relations with Lanzecki were clouding other judgments.

«Coping with the unexpected must become automatic for a Singer. Some people never learn how.» Trag's eyes shifted slightly to indicate the room behind them. «You proved just now that your instinct for the blacks is reliable. Now» – and he reached out to take the block from her hand – «let us to the purpose for which these were simulated.» He put the block among its mates.

Only then did she realize that the five mock crystals had been cast in the image of those she had cut, wiggles, improper angles and size.

“This substance has the same tensile strength and expansion ratio as black crystal but no other of its properties. You must learn today to install crystal properly in its bracketing with enough pressure to secure it against vibration but not enough to interfere with intermolecular flow.” He showed her a printed diagram. “This will be the order and the configuration of the Trundimoux link.” He tapped the corresponding block as he pointed out its position, repeating what Lanzecki had rattled through. “Number one and two, the smallest, will be on mining stations, number three on the gas planet satellite, number four on the ice planet satellite, and number five, the largest crystal, will be installed on the habitable planet. You and you alone will handle the crystals.”

“Is that Guild policy?” How much more did she have to learn about this complex profession?

“Among other considerations, no one in the Trundimoux System is technically capable.” Trag's voice was heavy with disapproval.

Killashandra wondered if he considered them “Trundies” or “Moux.”

“I would have thought Marketing would handle installation.”

“Generally.” His stiff tone warned her off further questions.

“Well, I don't suppose I'd've been saddled with the job if I hadn't lost my sled and if Passover weren't so near.”

She got no visible reaction from her rueful comment.

“Remember that,” Trag advised, and added with an unexpected wryness, “if you can.”

Installing crystal in padded clamps was not as simple as it had sounded, but then, as Killashandra was learning, nothing in the Heptite Guild was as simple as it sounded. Nevertheless, by evening, with arm, neck, and back muscles tense and hands that trembled from the effort of small, strong movements, eyes hot from concentration on surface tension readings, she believed she understood the process.

She was philosophical when Trag said they would repeat the day's exercise on the morrow, for she knew she must be motion perfect during the actual installations. Guild members had a reputation to maintain, and she would be up to Trag's standard of performance even if this was the only installation she ever made. Since her notion tallied with Trag's, she was undaunted by his perfectionism.

Lanzecki joined her again for her evening “gorge,” but he excused himself as soon as he'd finished. She didn't mind so much that night because she was very tired.

By meal time the following day, she had secured Trag's grudging approval for a deft, quick, and competent installation within a time limit he had arbitrarily set.

“Why not take more time?” she'd asked reasonably. “Installing a link between people ought to be an occasion.”

“You won't have time,” Trag said. “You'll be on an inbound gravity deflection course. There'll be no time to spare.”

He gave her no chance to query his emphasis on time. With a curt nod, he left the room. Maybe Lanzecki would be in an expansive mood. If, she qualified to herself, he joined her for dinner.

Dinner? She was starving for her midday meal. As she passed through the main training room, Rimbol had just finished making a diagonal cut under Concera's tutelage.

“Are you eating soon?” she asked Rimbol and the Older Singer.

“I'm always eating!” Rimbol's reply was half groan, half belch, and Concera laughed.

“Finish the last cut,” Concera told him.

“Go save us a table.” Rimbol shooed her off, then turned his attention to his cutting.

Killashandra went directly to the Commons and found the dining area well occupied, tables stacked with a variety of dishes that bore witness to the problem of symbiotic instinct. She was about to order something to sustain her during the search for a free table when a large group vacated one of the booths. She ordered hastily, dialing for beer in a pitcher and beaker and setting them about the table to prevent occupation. She had retrieved her first order and was already eating as Rimbol, Concera, and two others of Class 895 joined her.

The meal became a convivial occasion, and all made suggestions of this or that favored delicacy they'd discovered during what Concera styled “the hunger.”

“It's so good to have new members,” she said in a giddy voice, waving her beaker of beer, “to remind us of things we've forgotten. I can't think, of course, who it was the last time, but Yarran beer is so satisfying.”

Rimbol rose, bowed to the entire table. «Be upstanding all. Let us toast to the brewers of Yarran beer. May they always be remembered – by somebody!»

As the company hastily stood, the table was knocked askew, and before the toast could be made, the surface had to be mopped and more beer dialed.

Killashandra was suffused by a sense of camaraderie that she had often observed in the Music Center but had never been part of. She supposed it was Rimbol's special gift that, given half a chance, he could make an occasion of any gathering. She said little, smiled much, and ate with a heartier appetite for such good company.

As she sat facing the dispensing area, she found herself identifying high-ranking Guild members as well as Singers obviously just in from the ranges, some of whom were gaunt, nervous, and confused by the throng of diners. Others, despite the same noise-pollution discomfiture, appeared in very good spirits. The nervous ones hadn't cut enough crystal to get off-planet, Killashandra thought, and the relaxed ones had. Certainly, when Borella entered with Olin and another pair of Singers, they were a vivacious group. Obstreperously so, Killashandra thought, for they would whisper among themselves, then burst into laughter as they looked with mock surreptitiousness at silent diners.

Though Rimbol was joking with Concera and Celee, he had noticed Borella's table.

“D'you know?” he said in an undertone to Killashandra, “she doesn't remember any of us.”

“I know. She has been out in the ranges since we were recruited.” Killashandra knew she wasn't excusing Borella, and she didn't need to explain to Rimbol.

“I know, I know, but that was only a few months ago.” Rimbol's blue eyes were clouded with worry. “Do we lose our memories that quickly?”

“Borella's sung a long time, Rimbol.” Killashandra could not reassure herself, either. “Have you started your personal file? Good. That's the way to remember what's important.”

“I wonder what she considers important.” Rimbol looked at Borella with narrowed eyes.

“Getting off this planet during Passover!” Even to herself, Killashandra sounded sharp. Rimbol threw her a startled look, and then he laughed. “I only know because I heard her talking to that tall fellow, Olin.” Killashandra added in an easier manner. “Say, have you been in contact with Shillawn at all?”

“Sure have. In fact, we're meeting here tomorrow. Join us?”

Killashandra met Rimbol's mildly challenging stare.

“If I'm free. I'm scheduled to take some crystals to the Trundimoux system. Evidently, having cut crystal, I'd be particularly susceptible to Passover, so they're whipping me off the planet.”

“Once I thought I'd have no trouble keeping up with you, Killa.” Rimbol's expression was rueful.

“What D'you mean by that?” Killashandra was aware of a flurry of unexpected feelings: anxiety, surprise, irritation, and a sense of loss. She didn't want to lose her friendship with Rimbol. She put her hand on his arm. “We're friends, remember. Class 895.”

“If we remember.”

"What is the matter with you, Rimbol? I've been having such a good time." Killashandra gestured at the others laughing and chatting, and the evidences of a hearty meal. "I haven't had a chance to see much of anyone because of that wretched Milekey transition and being shepherded out by that sonic-shorted Moksoon – "

“Not to mention finding black crystal.”

She took a deep breath against her seething reaction to Rimbol's implicit accusation.

«When» – she began slowly and in a taut voice – «you have been in the ranges looking for crystal, then you will know what I can not possibly explain to you now.» She rose, the tenuous sensation of comradeship abruptly severed. «Give my regards to Shillawn if you'd be so good as to remember.»

She excused herself and stalked past a startled Concera, who tried to protest Killashandra's exit.

“Let her go, Concera. She has matters of great importance to attend.”

Striding quickly into the main aisle, Killashandra nearly ran into Trag just entering the dining area

“Killashandra? Don't you ever watch the call display?” Trag pointed to the moving line above the catering area, and she saw her name flashing. Trag took her arm and hurried her toward the lifts. “The Trundimoux ship is at Shankill. We've been holding the shuttle for you.”

“The Trundimoux ship? Leave?” Killashandra glanced back at the table she had so hurriedly left. Only Concera was looking in her direction. She gave Killashandra a little wave for reassurance.

“They made time around their last sun and are here ahead of schedule and can not hold at slow much longer or they'll lose momentum.”

“I'll only need a few things . . .”

Trag shook his head impatiently and pushed her into a waiting lift.

“A Carisak is being prepared for you on the Base. Anything else you require, your accommodations and expenses are to be met by the Trundimoux. There's no time to lose now!”

Killashandra's protests waned. Her initial confusion turned quickly to resentment. Not only was she leaving without a chance to vindicate herself in Rimbol's opinion, she wasn't to see Lanzecki either. Or perhaps he had planned so hasty a departure to prevent her from embarrassing him? Soured as she was by Rimbol's accusations, it was easy to include Lanzecki.

That Milekey transition might have appeared to be a blessing, but that bit of “luck” had alienated her from the few friends she had ever made and left her vulnerable to speculations and subtly accused of harsh and indefensible suspicions.

«We were not expecting the Trundimoux to arrive so soon,» Trag said, «but that may be fortuitous with Passover not long away.» He thrust a sheaf of print out at her as she was puzzling that cryptic remark. «Antona said you were to read this. Medical advice on symbiotic adjustment and replenishment, so examine it carefully. The crystals are already on board the shuttle and locked in the supercargo's security hold. This is your Guild identification» – he offered her a slim folder like the one Carrik had carried «and the Guild band,» which he clasped around her right wrist. «With these, you have access to planetary governing organizations, including the Session of the Federated Sentient Planets. Though they're a boring lot, and I can not see this assignment leading to a meeting, it's wise to be prepared for all contingencies.»

Access to the Session of the Federated Sentient Planets? Killashandra did not think Trag would joke about such a privilege. The stimulation of such prestige and surprise lifted her depression.

They had reached the hangar level, and Trag's hand under her arm propelled her forward at a good pace toward the waiting shuttle. At the ramp, the boarding officer was gesturing them urgently to hurry. Trag increased his pace, and every inch of Killashandra wanted to resist as she glanced around the immense hangar area for one glimpse of Lanzecki.

“C'mon! C'mon!” the boarding officer exhorted. “Stragglers can be left for tomorrow's shuttle!”

“Quiet!” Trag turned Killashandra just as she put her foot on the ramp. “The Guild Master has considerable confidence in your abilities. I do not think it is misplaced Lanzecki wishes you a good voyage and a safe return! Remember!”

With that, Trag whirled, leaving Killashandra staring after him, his last words echoing in her mind.

“I can NOT close the ramp if you are standing on it,” the boarding officer exclaimed petulantly.

Obedient in her confusion, Killashandra hastened into the shuttle. The ramp retracted, and the shuttle's door slid with a ponderous whoosh and hiss across the aperture.

“Don't just stand there. Get a seat.” The boarding officer gave Killashandra a little push toward the rear of the shuttle craft.

She strapped herself into a seat without thinking, holding her identification folder and Antona's instructions with both hands resting on her thighs. She let her body relax to the motion of the shuttle as it lifted on air cushions and glided from the hangar. Having no viewport, she endured what seemed hours before she felt the power surge as the crystal drive was engaged. She was thrust back into the cushioning of her seat as the shuttle took off. The pressure was welcome as a source of minor discomfort. She wished that the gravity drag pushing flesh and muscles against resisting bone might squeeze unwelcome thoughts from her head.

Then the shuttle was free of Ballybran's pull, and the relief of weightlessness was accompanied by the return of common sense to Killashandra's tumultuous thoughts. She had built into a personal tragedy two totally unrelated incidents: Rimbol's curiously aggressive attitude during an otherwise convivial occasion when she had felt particularly relaxed, and Lanzecki's apparent dismissal. She'd muddled these about with her tendency to dramatize and a subconscious guilt about her easy transition, the Keborgen incident, Lanzecki's unexpected friendship, her first over charged trip into the ranges, and pre-Passover sensitivity.

So. Deep breath and rationalize. Rimbol was also feeling pre-Passover sensitivity. Not only had Trag personally escorted her to the shuttle, but he had given her three different messages: the Guild Master had confidence in her. So, unexpectedly, had Trag, whom Killashandra knew to be harder to please than any other instructor she had ever studied with. And Lanzecki wished her a good voyage and a safe return.

Killashandra smiled to herself and began to relax. With the unstated import as reassurance, she ceased to regard the precipitous departure as more than coincidence. Still she'd been on the handy end of coincidence rather much recently. From the moment the sorters recruited her class to help with crystal and Enthor had chosen her; her sensitivity to black crystal; a Milekey transition that, according to Antona, no one could predict. Chance had been on Killashandra's side when she'd gone with the rescue team to Keborgen. True, an application of deduction and fact had helped her determine Keborgen's flight path. Her premature introduction to the ranges had occurred at Lanzecki's direction, governed by the Guild's necessity to keep Keborgen's claim operative. She might not have found it, might have been deterred by the fresh claimer paint. She wondered about the effect of Passover storms on paint.

Then she remembered Antona's message, and shoving the Guild ident into a hip pocket, she unfolded the print sheet.

Antona had researched the foods available in the Trundimoux system and listed the best for Killashandra's needs. The list was ominously short. Antona reminded the new Singer that her hunger would slacken but that she might also encounter considerable drowsiness as Passover point was reached. This effect most frequently occurred when symbiont and host were adjusting. Antona advised her to complete the installations as quickly as possible and gave her a mild stimulant to over come lethargy. Antona ended by advising Killashandra not to return to Ballybran's surface until Passover was completed, and the farther away from the system she stayed, the better.

The message, typed by voice-printer, sounded like Antona in a cheerful way, and Killashandra was extremely grateful for the thoughtfulness that prompted it. Her uncertainties allayed, she mentally reviewed the installation procedures in which Trag had drilled her. Both he and Lanzecki had confidence in her. So be it.

The retrodrive and the swaying, dropping motion of the shuttle indicated it was maneuvering to the base docks. She felt the impact as the maneuver was successful.

“Clumsy!” a familiar voice commented several rows up from Killashandra.

“No doubt, one of your recruits showing off,” the drawling voice of Olin replied.

She must really have been in a daze when she boarded the shuttle, Killashandra thought, if she hadn't noticed Borella and her companion. Killashandra had just unstrapped when she was surprised to hear her own name in Borella's unmistakably scornful voice.

“Killashandra Ree? Now how should I know whether she's on board or not. I don't know her.”

The calculated indifference to what must have been a courteous query infuriated Killashandra. No wonder Crystal Singers had such bad reputations.

She made her way to the shuttle door, coming to an abrupt halt as her augmented vision was assaulted by the garishly uniformed pair standing to one side of the dock port. On the chests of each man, emblazoned in vivid, iridescent, and inharmonious colors, was a stylized symbol, a planet, two moons lined by three whirling asteroid belts. The movement, Killashandra decided as she closed her eyes for a moment, must be due to the men's normal breathing and some special quality of the material.

“I'm Killashandra Ree,” she said politely, but she could almost understand Borella's curt arrogance. To the more sensitive eyes of an altered human, the Trundimoux uniform was visually unbearable.

"Star Captain Francu of the Trundimoux Navy, at your service, Guild Member Ree." A stiff gesture introduced his companion. Senior Lieutenant Engineer Tallaf."

By narrowing her eyes, Killashandra could filter out the appalling color and appreciate that these were very attractive men, lean as most spacers were, and equally obvious, uncomfortable. Nervous?

The shuttle pilot, his casual coverall a complete contrast to the Trundimoux officers', emerged from the lock.

“You're from the Trundy ship? Cargo's unloaded on the lower deck.”

Killashandra noted Captain Francu's wince at the nickname and thought that the lieutenant was amused.

“Senior Lieutenant Supercargo Pendel is attending to that matter, Captain . . .”

“Senior Captain Amon, Francu. Pendel has been thoroughly briefed on the crystal?”

Francu stiffened.

“Where's your ship docked?” Amon continued, looking at his wrist-unit.

«Our cruiser» – and Francu emphasized the type of vessel in such a pompous tone that Killashandra had a presentiment that her voyage companions might be very dull – «is in hyperbolic.»

“Oh, your system did get the 78 then.” Amon replied with such genial condescension that Killashandra nearly laughed aloud. The two officers exchanged startled glances.

“Well, you'd hardly have got here so fast in any of your old 59s. Quite a compliment to you, Killa, for them to send their newest.”

To her knowledge, Killashandra had never met Amon, but she didn't miss the slight wink that accompanied the abbreviated form of her name.

«I don't think the compliment is to me, Amon» – and she smiled understandingly at the officers – «but rather to the black crystals.»

“You Trundies are lucky to get the quintet,” Amon went on; he, too, had caught Francu's disapproval of the nickname.

“After all, there is an FSP priority for the Trundimoux system,” Killashandra interjected diplomatically. Amon might be getting some pleasure out of antagonizing Francu, but she was the one who had to travel with the man.

“True,” Amon replied, and smiled affably. “Now, Killa, there are a few details . . .” and he began to shepherd her toward the Guild exit.

"Captain Amon, we were assured that there would be no delays as soon as the Guild – " Francu's wrist-unit blurted a noise. "Yes? They are? Secured? We'll be in the cutter – "

«Not until Killashandra has cleared Shankill authority, Captain. If you'll just wait at – which port is your cutter at?»

“Level 4, port 18.” Francu yielded the information with a look compounded of anger and apprehension. “We are hyperbolic.”

“This won't take long.”

Amon hustled her through the Guild door, and she smiled back reassuringly at the startled officers.

“What's all this nonsense about?” she demanded, breaking Amon's grip as the panel slid behind them. “If they're on hyperbolic, we've only so much time to catch up with their cruiser.”

“Over here!” He grabbed her hand again and pulled her into a side room. The odors of food that assailed her aroused an instant appetite. She groaned.

“Eat!” Amon exhorted her. “You've got to cram as much as you can into your belly.” He shoved some pepper fingers into her mouth. “You won't get a chance to eat while that cruiser is on interplanetary drive. Those 78s don't carry luxurious catering devices, and the mess will be closed while they build speed. You'd starve. I got the ship to fix up a necessaries kit for you. I know the Trundies have females on board, but it isn't right for a Singer to wear their uniforms. Your eyes'd bleed. There're lenses in this kit to filter the color intensities to the bearable level.” Amon rattled through the inventory as he checked the items in the small bag. “Not much variety in clothing but good quality. I'll put in some of this food, too. We really have to hop if they're on hyperbolic. Bells and bollux, they must be separating some expensive rocks in their asteroid belts if they could buy a 78.” He whistled. “I saw the length of the drone string they brought. However, if they traded with the Guild, I know who came out best. Here, try these nut meats. Heard you liked Yarran beer. Have a gulp to wash the meats down. Good. Now, another word of advice. Play Crystal Singer to the hilt with those belt knockers. That captain's a bad print, and I've seen enough to know. Eat! I can't hold you up much longer.” He was covering the remaining uneaten dishes and stowing them in the kit. His wrist-unit bleeped. “Yes? Yes, I know. Mere formalities? Fardles, she was starving to death, shaft head. It is rising Passover and you know cruisers. We'll be off in a pico.” Amon slung her kit bag over her shoulder, thrust a bowl of small crispy fried squares in one hand, took up another dish and her beer in the other. “You can eat as we go, but Francu's cutting up stiff with Authority about the delay. Bells and bollux! Did anyone remember to warn you about the sleepies?” Amon was guiding her down the corridor to the peripheral lifts.

"Antona mentioned them. I've instructions and a stimulant.

“I put a strip of pink tablets in your stuff. Bollux! And you've only just been in the ranges. It just isn't fair on you, you know.”

“Trag trained me on installations.”

“Trag? Oh, Lanzecki's shadow,” and Amon appeared impressed. “It's not so much what you have to do as where and with what. The Trundies being a prime example of Problem. Here we go. Take a deep breath, girl, and you're on stage as Heptite Guild Member from now on. Good luck!”

Amon whipped the dish from her hand as she faced the door panel, motioned for her to wipe her mouth, and then the door slid apart.

Killashandra blinked as the raucous colors on the stiffly attentive escort of six men half blinded her. The haste with which she was then propelled into the cutter was indicative of the tension she sensed in the atmosphere. She barely had time to mumble thanks to Amon before the cutter airlock closed. Killashandra nearly fell over the crystal container, cross-tied in the center of the narrow aisle. She noticed the familiar Heptite dodecahedron and the rather astonishing large Trundimoux symbol. Even the stamp radiated offensive color. The captain indicated the seat she should take, and the lieutenant tested her seat webbing.

Rather to her surprise, the captain took the control seat, Tallaf sitting second in the traditional left-hand place. The release formalities were completed with Shankill Authority, and the lock coupling to the cutter was released.

Francu was a competent driver, but Killashandra had the distinct notion that cruiser captains rarely lifted lowly cutters from moon bases. Or was this a Trundie tradition? She must NOT fall into the habit of their nickname.

The cutter was equipped with external video cameras, so Killashandra rather enjoyed the spectacular views of Ballybran, little Shilmore, and the dazzling array of small and large merchant craft attached to the locks of the base or in synchronous orbit. Probably everyone was getting in for what crystal was available before Passover. She wondered if Andurs's ship was in a berth. As the cutter wended its way through the orbiting traffic, she didn't see Rag Delta Blue Swan.

The cruiser became visible early in the short trip. It was planet lit on its long axis, which made it seem larger. She had half expected it to be decorated in wild patterns, but the hull was the usual space orange. The drones tethered to it were much patched and dented. As the cutter was matching speed for contact, she could not judge the cruiser's forward motion, but it had that inevitable, inexorable, military look – «I am going in this direction, and nothing is stopping me.» Which, Killashandra mused, was fair enough since the vessel was traveling on a hyperbolic trajectory utilizing the gravitational pull of whatever suns or planets that deflected it.

The captain made a clean insertion into the cruiser's dock, and a moment later the airlock bumped gently against the hull. The crewmen jumped to their feet. The captain, with Tallaf a half step behind, stopped abruptly at Killashandra's seat. Hastily, she unbuckled her webbing, realizing that she was holding up the landing drill.

With a hiss, the hatch swung open, and an incredibly high pitched whine pierced her skull. The noise stopped as quickly as it had started. Outside, two rows of stiffly attentive men formed an aisle from the cutter to a larger hatch. There, more officers, including two whose outlines were female, awaited her.

A snap and scuff behind her, and from the corner of her eye, Killashandra saw crewmen lifting the crystal container. She felt another twinge of apprehension about this assignment. Even if getting off-planet during Passover was vital to her, was this fuss and formality the right environment?

She took a deep breath and moved forward, head high, and stepped on to the cruiser's deck with the dignity of a reigning queen of ancient times.

The two female subordinate officers, Tic and Tac, for she never could get them to repeat their proper names above a mumble, escorted her to quarters, which made her student's cubicle at the Music Center seem spacious. However, she told herself firmly as she was shown the ingenious disposition of the tiny cabin's conveniences, that Ballybran had given her delusions of grandeur. The cramped accommodation would deflate her sense of self-importance to a manageable level. Tic and Tac demonstrated how the bunk could be converted to a table, where the jug of water – one per cabin – was stored, the panel behind which the tri-d was located and the ship's library code; they reminded her five times about water rationing. A toilet facility was cleverly tucked away but easily located by the chemical odor.

The hum of crystal through the deck plates gave Killashandra a chance to suggest that they must have flight duties. She waited to place the lenses in her aching eyes to tone down the revolting color around her. Also, in the close confines of the room, the odors of her unfinished meal were apparent to her, if not to them, and she wasn't about to share. The few mouthfuls she'd been able to bolt on Shankill had only sharpened her appetite.

Tic and Tac did respond to another ear-piercing sound, promising to return to satisfy her smallest wish, once full drive had been established.

Closing the cabin door with one hand and kicking down the bunk were simultaneously possible in her new accommodations. As Killashandra stoked her symbiont's craving, she read the instructions on the lenses, pausing long enough in her eating to slip them over her irises. The demonic shades of the cabin settled into a bland wash. Ballybran had looked so dull to her at first! She finished the food Amon had packed, then tried to calculate how long it would be before her next meal.

She felt the drive taking hold, but the crystals were well tuned and caused her no twinges. She could do nothing more at this stage of the cruiser's journey, so she made herself as comfortable as possible on the narrow bunk and fell asleep.

Another ear-shattering whine brought her bolt upright on the bunk and very wide awake. Would there be any way for her to block that dreadful noise in her quarters?

«Journey speed achieved. Cruising drill is effective as of – now! All officers to the mess. Will Guild Member Killashandra Ree do us the honor of joining the assembly?»

She would also have to do something about receiving such ship-wide announcements.

“Guild Member Ree? Are you in hearing?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the Guild Member replied, hastily depressing the toggle so quaintly placed at eye level by her bunk. “Honored to join the officers' mess.”

She emptied the carisak on the bed, sorted through the tunics and caftans, found the "sleep!' pills Amon had mentioned, and secured them in the arm pocket of her coverall. Then she changed into the more elaborately decorated caftan and was wondering where the officers' mess would be located on a 78 when a brief rap on her door was followed by its being opened by Tic or Tac.

“Privacy, sub, privacy. Never open my door until I have acknowledged.”

"Aye, aye, ma'am, sorry, ma'am, I mean – " The girl had recoiled at Killashandra's severity.

“Isn't there a Privacy light on this cabin?” Killashandra could not contemplate easy access to her quarters with any equanimity either as a Fuertan or a Guild Member.

“No light, ma'am. This is an official vessel.” The subordinate officer regarded her with anxious trepidation.

“Yes, of the Trundimoux system. But I am of the Heptite Guild and expect the courtesy of Privacy wherever I am.”

“I'll pass the word, ma'am. None of us will forget.”

Killashandra did not doubt that, but she must contrive the same respect from the officers. Francu would be no threat, but Tallaf . . . As Killashandra followed Tic to the officers' mess, she decided that she would retrieve a deck plan from the library as soon as she had the opportunity. The cruiser was obviously being refitted to Trundimoux requirements en route, for work parties were busy at various corridors and levels, all pausing to inspect her as she passed.

The officers' mess might have been a pleasant room but was poorly furnished, its walls hung with diagrams and hard copy, suggesting that it served a dual purpose. Francu formally introduced her to the numerous officers, some of whom immediately excused themselves to take up their watch duties. Those who remained were served a tiny cup of an inferior wine that the captain enjoined them to take to the mess table.

In Killashandra's estimation, the occasion rapidly deteriorated into a very bad comic opera in which no one had studied lines or recognized cues. Francu and his executive officer would never have advanced past preliminary auditions. The other flight deck officers seemed to take turns asking her conventionally stupid questions to which, piqued, she gave outrageous and contradictory answers. Only Tallaf, seated at the other end of the table, appeared to have a sense of humor. The supercargo, also placed at an inconvenient distance from her, was the only extraplanetarian. Since he seemed as bored as she was, she made a note to cultivate him as soon as possible.

The food served was dreadful, although from the appetites of the younger officers, it was evidently a feast. Killashandra could find nothing on the table that matched the items on Antona's list and, with great difficulty, chewed and swallowed the unappealing stodge.

Dinner ended with everyone's jumping to their feet and dedicating themselves to the further ambitions of Trundimoux System, against all natural obstacles and phenomena.

Killashandra managed to keep her expression composed during this unexpected outburst, especially when she realized that the younger subs were emotionally involved in their statement. When Killashandra considered that the system had managed to purchase a 78 as well as five black crystals, there might be some merit to unswerving dedication. The Guild inspired its members, too, but toward selfish rather than selfless aims. Well, the Trundimoux system's results were very good, but it was from the Guild that they made their most prestigious purchases.

The table was cleared efficiently by the mess crew, and Killashandra watched them, there being nothing else to do. She could think of nothing to say in the silence and dreaded the prospect of more evenings like this.

“Would you care for a drink, Guild Member?” the supercargo asked as he appeared at her side.

“Why, yes, a Yarran beer would top off that meal,” she said with considerable irony, for beer would more likely bring the stodge back up.

To her utter amazement, the super gave her a bright smile.

«You» – and his emphasis implied that she should have been the last person in the galaxy to have such tastes «like Yarran beer!»

“Yes, it's my favorite beverage. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course, I've heard of it,” and the man's good humored chuckle included those standing nearby. “I'm Yarran. Pendel's the name, ma'am. You shall have a beaker from my own keg!” He signaled to one of the mess crew, mimed the careful pouring of beer into a beaker, and held up two fingers.

"Guild Member," the captain said, stepping in, "we have wines – "

"Actually, Captain Francu, the Heptite Guild is partial to Yarran beer," she said, knowing that she was irritating the man, yet unable to resist. "If I'm not depriving you, super – "

“Depriving me?” Lieutenant Supercargo Pendel was enormously amused by the suggestion. Nor did Killashandra miss his quick glance at Francu or Francu's displeasure. “Not at all. My pleasure, I assure you I keep telling 'em how satisfying a good Yarran brew is, far and above the ordinary since Terran malt and hops adapted well to our soil, but to each his own, I always say.”

The beakers were served, and Francu's disapproval grew as Killashandra sipped with overt delight, though the beer was slightly flat, and she wondered how long it had been in Pendel's keg. Perhaps the Guild brewmasters excelled Yarra's own.

Pendel chattered away to her about different brews from different planets. Killashandra was relieved to find at least one traveled person among the Trundie belt-knockers. As long as they could stay on the subject of food and drink, Killashandra could give Pendel the impression of being widely – traveled herself.

“Do you remember much about Yarra?” he asked, as he signaled for another round of beer.

The phrasing of that question startled Killashandra, though she wasn't certain why, since Pendel's manner posed no threat.

“Of all the planets I have visited, it has the best brew and the most affable population. I wonder if the two are related? Have you been long away?”

“Too long and not long enough,” the Yarran replied, his jolly face lengthening into sadness. He sighed heavily, taking the fresh beaker and sipping at it slowly. How the man could become homesick on one glass of flat beer, Killashandra wasn't certain. “However, it was of my choosing, and we Yarrans make the best of everything, and everything of the best.”

Unexpectedly the harsh buzzer that announced watch changes penetrated the room. Killashandra took that opportunity to excuse herself from the mess.

Tac, for she'd seen Tic go off with the duty crew, guided Killashandra through the maze of companionways to her cell. As she slipped out of her caftan, she wondered how she was going to endure six days of this. And how was she going to replenish her symbiont on the gundge that was served? She was thinking that flat Yarran beer had a more soporific effect than the proper stuff as she fell asleep.

The next morning, it abruptly occurred to her that if Pendel had Yarran beer in his private supplies, he might have other delicacies, so she asked Tic, then on duty, to lead her to the supercargo's office.

She felt crystal as she passed a sealed and barred hatch, grinning over the useless precautions. For who could steal crystal in space? Or were the Trundies afraid of crystal's ensnaring the unwary? She experienced a start of amazement as Tic, after merely rapping on the panel, pulled it aside and entered. Presumably, Yarrans did not object to casual invasions of their privacy. Pendel was on his feet and full of genial welcomes in a cabin only slighter larger than hers. All three had to stand in close proximity to fit beside the bunk table. There were, however, a basket of fruit and a half-finished beaker of Yarran beer on the shelf.

“How may I serve you?” Pendel asked, smiling at Tic as he waved her out and closed the panel behind her.

Killashandra explained, giving him the list of Antona's suggested diet.

"Ah, I can supply you with these and more. What they choose to eat" – and he waved his hand in the general direction of the control section amidships – "is well enough if one is not used to better. But you, Guild Member – "

“Killashandra, please . . .”

"Yes? Well, thank you, Killashandra. You have been accustomed to the very best that the galaxy has to offer – "

«So long as my immediate dietary requirements are met» – and Killashandra pointed to Antona's list – «I will have no complaint.» She could not help eyeing the fruit basket wistfully.

“Haven't you eaten yet this morning?” Appalled, Pendel deposited the basket in her hands, turning past her to haul back the panel and roaring at Tic, standing on guard. “Breakfast, immediately, and none of the glop.” He glanced at the list. “Rations twenty-three and forty-eight and a second issue of fruit.”

Consternation at having to relay such an order warred with fear in Tic's face.

“Go on, girl. Go on. I've given the order!” Pendel assured her.

“And I have seconded it!” Killashandra added firmly. Then she bit into a red fruit to ease the gnawing in her belly.

Pendel slid the panel closed and smiled with anticipatory glee. “Of course, we'll have Chasurt down in a pico . . .” The super rubbed his hands together. “Those rations are his. He's the medic,” Pendel grimaced as he added, “with far more experience in space-freeze and laser burn. The rations contain just what your list specifies, high in trace minerals, potassium, calcium and such like.”

The food and the medic arrived at the same time. But for Pendel's smooth intervention, Killashandra's breakfast would have been confiscated from Tic's nerveless hands by the irate Chasurt.

“Who gave orders to release my rations?” Chasurt, a stolidly built, blank-faced man of the late middle decades, reminded Killashandra of Maestro Valdi in his outraged indignation.

“I did!” said Pendel and Killashandra in chorus. Pendel took the tray from Tic's shaking hands and smoothly transferred it to Killashandra, who, moving herself and Chasurt's rations to the farthest corner of the cabin, left Pendel to impede Chasurt's effort at retrieval.

Eating with a speed not entirely generated by hunger, Killashandra consumed the hot cereal and nutmeat compound. Pendel was trying to get Chasurt to examine Antona's list, and Chasurt was demanding to know what he was to do if a real emergency were to occur, one in which sick people would need the rations that this – this – obviously healthy woman was devouring. The medic did not approve of Killashandra's haste. That Pendel had the right to order such rations seemed to infuriate Chasurt even more, and by the time Killashandra had finished the second dish, she felt obliged to interfere.

"Lieutenant Chasurt – "

“Captain! Guild Member,” and, puce with the added insult, the man pointed to the rank emblem at his neck.

“All right, Captain.” Killashandra accorded him an apologetic inclination of her head, “Pendel is acting on my behalf, obeying my instructions, which were firmly impressed on me by Chief Medical Research Officer Antona of the Heptite Guild Ballybran. It was understood by my Guild Master and myself that my requirements would be met on this voyage. If I am physically unfit to complete the installations, all your efforts will have been an expensive waste, and your system still incommunicado. I am given to understand that the journey to your system is not a long one, so I cannot think that my modest dietary needs will seriously deplete the resources of a newly commissioned 78. Will they?”

Chasurt's face had reflected several emotions as she spoke, and Killashandra, though not as adept as Lanzecki in reading body language, received the impression that Chasurt would have preferred the system to lose the interplanetary link. But that was an irrational premise, and she decided that Chasurt must be one of those officious people who must constantly be deferred to and flattered. She remembered Amon's advice and realized its merit with this sort of personality.

“Not wishing to remind you, Captain Chasurt, that in the Federated Sentient Planets' hierarchy, as a Guild Member traveling on Heptite Guild business, I outrank everyone on this ship, including Captain Francu, I will suggest that you check your data retrieval under Crystal Singers and be thus reassured in your dealings with me on this journey. Now, just pass me the fruit.”

Chasurt had intercepted that basket, delivered during Killashandra's reply.

“Trace minerals are especially important for us!” she said, smoothly reaching out to take the basket. She had to secure it with a bit of a jerk. Chasurt was livid. Killashandra nodded pleasantly at Tic and dismissed her before closing the panel on Chasurt's fury.

Pendel raised his Yarran beer in salute to Killashandra as he leaned against the wall.

“We'll have the captain next, you know.”

“You seem to manage them rather well,” Killashandra said between bites of the tangy redfruit.

“They can't get rid of me.” Pendel chuckled, pressing the side of his nose and winking at her. “I'm employed by the Mining Consortium, not the Trundie Council. The MC is still keying the priorities. Oh, they're not bad sorts for parochial chaps with metal on the mind. They'll change. They'll change now for sure.” Pendel swept his beaker from her to the sealed cabin where the crystal was secured.

“Do I have the suspicion that not all concerned wish to change?”

Pendel gave a laugh. “And when has that been news?”

A peculiar squawk was emitted by the communit, and Pendel winked at Killashandra.

“Captain here, super. What's this about special rations being issued without consultation?”

"Captain Francu" – Pendel's tone was a drawl, just short of insult – "I believe the orders read that Guild Member Ree's requirements are to be met by the – "

“They told me she didn't require anything special.”

“Guild Member Ree doesn't require anything special, but as I've been telling you, the mess served on this ship isn't universally nourishing or satisfying. Chasurt has more than enough in stores. I should know. I buy for him.”

There wasn't an audible click at the end of the exchange, but the captain's complaint had been dismissed. Killashandra regarded Pendel with more respect.

“Hard worker, that Francu. Runs a tight ship. Never lost a person. Just the sort of man to trust the newest ship to.” Pendel rubbed the side of his nose, his broad grin implying all the negative facets of Captain Francu that he did not voice.

“I appreciate your cooperation and support, Pendel, almost as much as the beer. One more favor, if it's possible. Do I have to listen to all the ship's business?” Another harsh buzz punctuated her request.

“Just leave it with me, Killashandra,” Pendel said comfortably. “I'll send round some handy rations for you in the meantime.” He gestured apologetically at the plates and chips piled on the printouts on his desk, and she took the hint. She also took the second bowl of fruit, winking at Pendel as she left.

The man contrived well and shortly after Tic led her back to her dinky cabin, the unnerving sounds of command were muted.

Tic arrived, tapping politely and waiting for Killashandra's acknowledgment, with parcels of plain plastic in both hands. One was a variety of the special rations, the other an array of food. Tic kept her eyes averted from that luxury, but Killashandra perceived that any generosity from her would be ill advised. She thanked Tic and dismissed her until evening mess. Killashandra knew that she had to put in at least one appearance a day and sighed at the thought of such boredom. While she munched on Chasurt's prized packages, she occupied herself by studying the deck plan of the 78. Even as she watched, certain sections were updated and changed for purposes that escaped her. Was this to be a cargo ship, a passenger liner, or a trading vessel? Its specifications meant nothing to her, but the length of the numericals was impressive.

She was duly escorted to the officers' mess, Chasurt and Prancu mercifully absent, so she chatted with Tallaf, an agreeable enough young man without his captain's presence to inhibit him, though when he got flustered, his neck had the tendency to puff out. He admitted to being planet-bred, educated for his duties as executive in theoretics rather than the practical. Most of the other officers and crew members were space or station born. His tone was a shade wistful, as if he regretted the difference between himself and his shipmates.

“I understand that your system has been isolated due to poor communications,” Killashandra said conversationally.

Tallaf looked anxiously around him.

I also understand that a step forward is not generally popular."

Tallaf regarded her with awe.

“Oh, come now, Tallaf,” Killashandra said in a teasing voice “that's been obvious to me since I boarded. I assure you, it's not an unusual phenomenon.”

“Crystal Singers get to go everywhere, don't they?” An ingenuous envy flickered across his face.

«Not necessarily. This is an unusual assignment for an unusual world and unusual circumstances.» Tallaf preened a little at the implied compliment to his system. «Quite an achievement for an emergent political unit» – Killashandra was a little awed by her own eloquence – «to purchase a 78 and black crystals.»

She watched Tallaf keenly as she spoke and decided that the young engineer was evidently for instant interstellar communications. She wondered briefly how the split of support went – spacers against planetaries or parochials against galactics. She sighed, wishing someone had given her more data on the Trundies. Perhaps there just wasn't much in the galactography.

Pendel arrived, smiling pleasantly to the small groups of officers standing around. It was then that Killashandra realized that she and Tallaf had formed a solitary pair. She smiled more graciously at Tallaf for his fortitude as a crewman appeared from the galley with two beakers of Yarran ale. Tallaf drifted away discreetly, and Killashandra toasted Pendel, whose jolly self evidently masked considerable prestige.

Pendel chuckled. “Good boy, that Tallaf.”

“He's for crystal?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. That's why he's exec this trip. His first.” Pendel's affable smile was truly in place as he glanced around the messroom. Killashandra was certain he knew exactly who should be there and who wasn't. “Not bad at all for a shake down crew.” Killashandra wondered what the deficiencies were. “A man looks for certain goals at certain times of his life,” and his eyes caught hers over the rim of the Yarran beer glass. “Adventure brought me to this system two and a half decades ago. My timing was right. They urgently needed an experienced supercargo. They were being done out of their sockets on cargo rates.” Pendel's tone was laden with remembered indignation. Then he smiled. “Can't do business properly without proper communication.”

“Which is why crystal and this 78 are so important!” She tilted her glass toward him as if Pendel had single-handedly accomplished all. “You Yarrans are known for your perspicacity. Quite a few from your system have become Crystal Singers . . .” She was subtly aware of Pendel's reaction. “Oh, come now, Pendel,” she continued smoothly, for if she couldn't have this man's support, she might well be left in Chasurt's hands, and that wouldn't suit. “Surely you don't believe the spaceflot about Crystal Singers?” She contrived a very amused gurgle of laughter.

“Of course not,” and Pendel shrugged negligently, though his smile was not quite as assured.

«Especially now you've met and talked with me and discovered a Crystal Singer is as human as anyone on board this ship. Or» – and Killashandra glanced about the messroom and its subdued occupants – «perhaps a bit more so.»

Pendel surveyed his fellow officers and grimaced.

“At least I can appreciate a proper brew,” Killashandra continued, inwardly suppressing both apprehension and amusement. Pendel was nowhere near as cosmopolitan as he liked to appear, though in contrast to the other Trundies, he was tolerably informed about the galaxy. Somehow Killashandra must contrive to keep a friendly distance from him. “I do give them credit,” and she glanced around her with an air of compliment.

“So evidently does the Heptite Guild.” Pendel had recovered his basic optimism. “But none of us expected a Crystal Singer would install the things.”

“The Federated Sentient Planets have their own schedule of priorities. Ours not to reason why.” Killashandra couldn't remember where that line came from, but it seemed to apply.

Fortunately, the steaming platters and trays of their evening meal arrived, and Killashandra noted that only she and Pendel were served the one appetizing selection.

Without the repressive presence of Captain Francu and Chasurt, Killashandra managed to draw into conversation most of the older officers. Though the youngsters were far too shy to speak, she could sense that they were listening very closely and storing every word exchanged. The subs were still malleable, and if she could influence them favorably and maintain Pendel's good will by judicious flattery, she'd have done more than she'd been contracted to do. And the Trundies would need more crystal.

That night, as she stretched out on the appallingly hard bunk, she reviewed her extravagant performance of that evening. “Crystalline cuckoo” and “silicate spider,” Maestro Valdi had called Crystal Singers. She thought she knew why now: the survival instincts of the symbiont. And judging from Pendel's subconscious reaction to her, she knew why the symbiont remained a trade secret. There were, she decided, more invidious threats than giving space and survival to a species that paid good value with the rent.