The Crystal Singer

CHAPTER 5

The journey was not long, and it was smooth, allowing Killashandra time for reflection. Was the shuttlecraft pilot a failed Singer recruit? How poor an adaptation still allowed rank and status within the Guild structure? She suppressed the nagging fear of failure by remembering the graph, indicating the recent upswing of the incidence of success in symbiosis. She distracted her grim thoughts by cataloging the other candidates, determining in advance to stay well away from Carigana, as if the irascible woman would welcome a friendly overture. Rimbol, on the other hand, reminded her pleasantly of one of the tenors at her Music Center, a lad who had always accepted the fact that his physical and vocal gifts would keep him a secondary singer and player. At one point, Killashandra had despised the boy for that acceptance: now she wished she had bothered to explore how he had achieved that mental attitude, one she might be forced to adopt. She wondered if the tenor might not have done better, attempting to become a Crystal Singer. Why had so little been said at the Music Center about this alternative application of perfect and absolute pitch? Maestro Valdi must have known, but his only suggestion had been to tune crystal, not sing it.

She wished for the distraction of views of nearing Ballybran, but the passenger section had no port, and the viewscreen set over the forward bulwark remained opaque. She felt the entry into the atmosphere. The familiar shuddering shook all the passengers, and Killashandra felt the drag nausea and disorientation and the impression of exterior sound. She tried to recall the screen print out of the planet. The image that was brightest in her memory was of the conjunction of the three moons, not the continental masses of Ballybran and the disposition of the crystal ranges.

Concentrate, concentrate, she told herself fiercely in an effort to over come entry side effects. She had memorized complicated music scores, which obediently rolled past her mind, but not the geography of her new home.

At this point, she could feel the retro blasts as the shuttle began to slow. Gravity increased, shoving her flesh against her bones, face, chest, abdomen, thighs: more a comforting pressure, like a heal suit. The shuttle continued to maneuver and decelerate.

The final portion of any journey always seems the longest, Killashandra thought as she grew impatient for the shuttle vibration to cease, signaling arrival. Suddenly, she realized that her journey had begun a long time before, with her passive trip on the walkway to the Fuertan space facility. Or had it begun the moment she had heard Maestro Valdi confirm the auditors' judgment of her career potential?

Forward motion ceased, and she felt the pressure pap in her ears as the entry was unsealed. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the fresher air of the planet.

“D'you think that's wise?” Shillawn asked from across the aisle. He had his hand over his nose.

“Why ever not? I've been on spacecraft and stations for too long not to appreciate fresh, planet-made air.”

“He means, about the symbiont and its natural acquisition,” Rimbol said, nudging her ribs with his elbow. He grinned with mischief.

Killashandra shrugged. «Now or later, we've got to get it over with. Me? I prefer to breathe deeply.» And she did, as a singer would, from deep in her belly – her back muscles tightening, her diaphragm thickening until her throat, too, showed the distension of breath support.

“Singer?” Rimbol asked, his eyes widening. Killashandra nodded, exhaling slowly.

"No openings for you, either." He made a sound of disgust Killashandra did not bother to contradict him. "You'd think, Rimbol went on. "that with all the computer analysis and forecasting, they'd know up front instead of wasting your time. When I think of what – "

“We can leave now,” Shillawn said, interrupting them with the peculiar tracheal gulp that characterized his speech

“I wonder how many musicians make their way into this Guild by default,” Killashandra muttered over her shoulder to Rimbol as they made their way out.

“Default? Or deliberately?” he asked, and prodded her to move forward when she faltered.

She had no time to think about “deliberately” then, for she had reached the disembarkation ramp and had her first glimpse of Ballybran's green-purple hills on one side and the uncompromising cubes of buildings on the other. Then she was inside the reception area where personal effects were being wafted up on a null-grav column.

"After recruits have collected their baggage, they will please follow the – ah – dark gray stripe." A voice issued from speaker grills. Room assignments will be given at the reception lounge. You are now designated as Class 895 and will answer to any announcements prefaced by that number. Again, recruits now arriving by shuttle from Shankill Moon Base are designated Class 895. Proceed, Class 895, along the corridor marked with the dark gray stripe for room assignments."

“Couldn't care less, could he?” Rimbol said to Killashandra as he slung a battered carisak over one shoulder.

“There's the guide line.” Killashandra pointed at the wall of the far left hand corridor. “And Carigana's ahead by half a light-year.” She watched as the girl's figure marched purposefully out of sight up the ascending ramp-way.

“Surprised?” Rimbol asked. “Hope we don't have to share accommodations.”

Killashandra shot him a startled look. Even as a lowly student on Fuerte, she had had privacy. What sort of a world was his Yarro?

The other shuttle passengers had quickly dispersed, Borella and her companion taking the far right ramp, while the center two received the bulk of the arrivals.

“You'd think with all the color available in the galaxy, they'd find brighter markers,” Shillawn remarked gloomily when he caught up with Rimbol and Killashandra.

“Distinctive, if not colorful,” Killashandra remarked, reaching the ramp. “Though there's a quality about this gray . . .” and she passed her hand across the painted line. “Textured, too. Hatch pattern.”

“Really?” Rimbol touched the stripe. “Strange.”

Carigana had already disappeared around the first curve of the ramp, but the three were other wise the vanguard of Class 895. How dull to be designated by a number, Killashandra thought, having considered herself out of classrooms forever a scant few weeks before. And if they were 895, and the Guild had been operating for 400 standard years, how many classes did that make a year? Just over two? And thirty-three in this one?

Now that the first excitement of landing on Ballybran had waned, Killashandra began to notice other details. The light, for instance, was subdued on the ramp-way but had a clarity she hadn't encountered before. Rimbol's sturdy boots and Shillawn's shoes made no sound on the thick springy material that carpeted the hallway, but her slippers produced a quiet shuffling. She felt the textured band again curious.

They passed several levels, each color coded in one of the dull chromatics, and Killashandra assumed there must be some reason for the use of such drab shades. Suddenly, the ramp ended in a large room, obviously the reception lounge for recruits – but it also held comfortable seating units, an entertainment complex, and across one end, audiovisual booths.

A dun-garbed man, of middle years with a sort of easily forgettable face rose from one of the seating units and walked toward them, “Class 895? Your adviser am I, Tukolom. With me you will remain until adaptation and training have ceased. To me your problems and complaints you will bring. All members of the Guild are we, but senior in rank to you am I to be obeyed, thought harsh or unjust am I not.”

His smile, meant to be reassuring, Killashandra knew, barely lighted his eyes and did not rouse any friendliness in her, though she saw Shillawn return the grin.

“Small class though this be, your quarters are here. Kindly to leave what you have brought in any room of your choosing and join in food and drink. To begin the work tomorrow. To orient yourselves in this facility today.”

He gestured to the left-hand corridor leading off the lounge where open doors left patches of light on the textured carpet.

“Is only to put thumb print in door lock to receive privacy.”

Others had arrived as Tukolom spoke, and while Killashandra gestured to her companions to proceed to the private rooms, he began his little speech all over again to the next batch. Rimbol pointed at the first door on the left, closed and red lighted to indicate the occupant did not wish to be disturbed. Carigana!

With a snort, Killashandra marched down the hall, almost to its end, before she indicated to Rimbol and Shillawn which room she intended to take. She saw them move for the rooms on either side of her. She pressed her thumb into the plate, felt the vibration as the print was recorded, and then entered the room, the door panel sliding soundlessly behind her.

“This facility has been programmed to responded to any change in your life signals,” announced a pleasant voice, rather more human than mechanical. “You may program the catering units and audiovisual units and change any furnishing not to your liking.”

“My liking is for privacy,” Killashandra said.

“Programmed,” the voice dispassionately replied. “Should your physical health alter on the monitors, you will be informed.”

“I'll probably inform you” Killashandra muttered under her breath, and was pleased to hear no reply. Just as well she thought. She tossed her carisak to the bed. Some people preferred to have a voice responding to their idle remarks: she preferred the sanctity of quiet.

Her quarters were as good as the guest facility in the Shankill Base, nothing gaudy but certainly substantial: bed, table, chairs, writing surface, tri-d screen, the customary audiovisual terminals, a catering slot convenient to the table, a storage closet. The hygienic unit was larger than expected, and it included a deep bath. She flipped on the small fax dispenser and watched as all varieties of bathing lotions, salts, fragrances, and oils were named as available.

More than pleased, Killashandra dialed for a foaming fragrant bath, at 35° C, and the tub obediently began to fill itself.

You never feel completely clean, Killashandra thought as she undressed, using the spray cabinets on ship and station. You really needed to soak in the hot water of a full immersion bath.

She was drying off in warm air jets when Tukolom announced it was his pleasure to meet Class 895 in the lounge for the evening meal.

Tukolom's curious syntax appeared to function only in spontaneous remarks. It was totally absent from the flood of information he imparted to them during that meal. He also refused to be deflected from his set passages by questions or to be diverted by Carigana when she anticipated his points.

Since it was obvious to everyone except Carigana that it was useless to interrupt Tukolom and since the food presented a variety of hot and cold dishes, protein, vegetable and fruit, the Class 895 listened and ate.

Tukolom discoursed first on the sequence of events to befall them. He stated the symptoms common to the onset of the symbiotic illness, occurring between ten and thirty days after exposure, beginning with headache, general muscular soreness, irritability, blurred vision, and impaired hearing. Such symptoms were to be reported to him immediately and the person afflicted to return to the room assigned, where the progress of the adaptation could be monitored. Any discomfort would be alleviated without affecting the course of the symbiotic intrusion.

“When rape is inevitable, huh?” whispered the irrepressible Rimbol in Killashandra's ear.

Meanwhile, Class 895 would have orientation courses on the history and geography of Ballybran, instruction in the piloting of ground-effects craft, meteorology lectures, and survival techniques. The class would also be requested to perform duties within the Guild relevant to the preservation of cut crystal and restoration of facilities after any Storm. Normal work hours and days were in effect, which would allow ample time for recreation. Members were encouraged to continue any hobbies or avocations that they had previously enjoyed. Once members had been cleared for use of surface vehicles, they might take whatever trips they wished as long as they filed and had had approved a flight plan with control center. Special clearance and a proficiency test were required for the use of water vessels.

As abruptly as he had started his lecture, Tukolom concluded. He looked expectantly around.

“Is this the main Guild installation?” Carigana asked, caught by surprise at the opening.

“The main training area, yes, this is. Situated on the largest continental mass which bears the largest of the productive crystal ranges, Milekey and Brerrerton. The facility is located on the Joslin plateau, sheltered by the Mansord upthrust on the north, the Joslin discontinuity on the south, to the west by the White Sea and the east by the Long Plain. Thus, the installation is generally sheltered from the worst of the mach storms by its felicitous situation.”

Tukolom had perfect recall, Killashandra decided: a walking data retrieval unit. Rimbol must have reached a similar conclusion, for as her eyes slid past his, she saw amusement twinkling. Shillawn, however, continued to look impressed by the man's encyclopedic manner.

“How many other settlements are there?” Borton asked.

“Learning tomorrow's lesson today a good idea is not,” Tukolom pronounced solemnly. He then neatly avoided further questions by leaving the lounge.

“Aurigans are impossible,” Carigana announced, frowning blackly at the departing figure. “Always dogmatic, authoritarian. Could they find no one else suitable as a mentor?”

“He's perfect,” Rimbol replied, cocking his head as he regarded Carigana. “He's got total recall. What more could you ask of a teacher?”

“I wonder . . .” began Shillawn, stammering slightly, “if he had it before he . . . got here.”

“Didn't you hear that Borella woman?” demanded Carigana. “Most handicaps are sensory . . .”

“At least his syntax improves when he recalls.”

“Every other human species in the galaxy, and some not so human,” Carigana continued undeterred, “can manage interlingual except the Aurigan group. It's a delusion on their part. Anyone can learn interlingual properly.” She was swinging one leg violently; all the while the corners of her mouth twitched with irritation, and her eyes blinked continually.

“Where are you from?” Rimbol asked guilelessly.

“Privacy.” She snapped the qualification curtly.

“As you will, citizen,” Rimbol replied, and turned his back on her.

That was also an insult but not an invasion of Privacy, so Carigana had to be content with glaring about her. Class 895 averted its eyes, and with a noise of disgust, Carigana took her leave. The space worker had had a dampening effect on the entire group because suddenly everyone began to talk. It was Rimbol who dialed the first drink, letting out a whoop.

“They've got Yarran beer! Hey, come try a real drink!” He exhorted all to join him and before long had everyone served, if not with the Yarran beer he touted, at least with some mild intoxicant. “We may never get off this planet again,” he said to Killashandra as he joined her, “but they sure make it comfortably homelike.”

“A restriction is only restricting because you know it exists,” Killashandra said. “Nor iron bars a prison make,” she added, dredging up an old quote unexpectedly.

“Prison? That's archaic,” said Rimbol with a snort. “Tonight let's enjoy!”

Rimbol's exuberance was hard to resist, and Killashandra didn't care to. She wanted to abandon her skeptical mood, as much because she didn't want to echo Carigana as to purge her mind of its depressions. There had been some small truth in the space worker's complaints, but blunt though Killashandra knew herself to be, even she could have made points more tactfully. Of course, the girl was probably on a psych-twist, from what Rimbol had learned of her. How had she passed that part of the Guild preliminary exams? More importantly, if Carigana was so contemptuous of the Guild, why had she applied for admission?

Conversations swirled pleasantly all around her, and she began to listen. The recruits came from varied backgrounds and training disciplines, but each and every one of them, geared to succeed in highly skilled work, had been denied their goals at the last moment. Was it not highly coincidental that all of them had hit upon the Heptite Guild as an alternative career?

Killashandra found that conclusion invalid. There were hundreds of human planets, moon bases, and space facilities offering alternative employment to everyone, that is, except herself and Rimbol. In fact, the two musicians could probably have taken on temporary assignments in their original fields. A second objection was that, thirty-three people were an infinitesimal factor among the vast multitudes who might not have jobs waiting for them in their immediate vicinities. Colonial quotas were always absorbing specialists, and one could always work a ship one-way to get to a better employment market. She found the reflections a trifle unsettling, yet how could such a subtle recruitment be accomplished? Certainly no probability curve could have anticipated her crossing Carrik's path in the Fuertan space port. His decision had been whimsical, and there could have been no way of knowing that her aimless wandering would take her to the space port. No, the coincidence factor was just too enormous.

She sat for a few moments longer, finishing the Yarran beer that Rimbol had talked her into trying. He was telling some involved joke to half a dozen listeners. By no means as shy with drink in him and lacking his stammer, Shillawn was talking earnestly to one of the girls. Jezerey was half asleep, though trying to keep her eyes open as Borton argued some point with the oldest recruit, a swarthy faced man from Amodeus VII. He had his second mate's deep space ticket as well as radiology qualifications. Maybe the Guild needed another shuttle pilot more than they needed crystal miners.

Killashandra wished she could gracefully retire. She did not intend making the same mistakes with this group that she had in the Music Center. Carigana had already provoked dislike by her unacceptable behavior, so Killashandra had a prime example she was not going to emulate. Then she caught Jezerey's eyes as the girl yawned broadly. Killashandra grinned and jerked her head in the direction of the rooms.

“You can talk all night if you want to,” the girl said, rising, “but I'm going to bed, and so is Killashandra. See you in the morning.” Then she added as the two reached the corridor, “Shards, was I glad of an excuse. G'night.”

Killashandra repeated the salute and, once in her room, gratefully gave the verbal order to secure her privacy until morning.

A curious glow at the window attracted her attention, and she darkened the room light that had come on at her entrance. She caught her breath then at the sight of the two moons: golden Shankill, large and appearing far nearer than it actually was; just above it, hanging as if from a different radius altogether, the tiny, faintly green luminescence of Shilmore, the innermost and smallest moon. She was accustomed to night skies with several satellites, but somehow these were unusual. Though Killashandra had never been off Fuerte before she met Carrik, she had had every intention of traveling extensively throughout the galaxy, as a performing soloist of any rank would have done. Perhaps it was because she might be seeing only these moons for the rest of her life that they now had a special radiance for her. She sat on the edge of her bed, watching their graceful ascent until Shilmore had outrun her larger companion and disappeared beyond Killashandra's view.

Then she went to bed and slept.

The next morning, she and the other recruits learned the organization of the Guild Complex and were obliquely informed that the higher the level, the lower the status. They were introduced rapidly to the geology of Ballybran and made a beginning with its complex meteorology.

Trouble started about mid afternoon as the students were viewing the details of the Charter of the Heptite Guild as a diversion after meta-maths. Rimbol muttered that the Guild was damned autocratic for a member of the Federated Planets. Shillawn, swallowing first, mumbled about data retrieval and briefing.

It took a few moments before the import of the section dealing with tithes, fee, and charges was fully understood. With a growing sense of indignation, Killashandra learned that from the moment she had been sworn in at the moon base as a recruit, the Guild could charge her for any and all services rendered, including a fee of transfer from the satellite to the planet.

“Do they charge, too, for the damn spores in the air we're breathing?” Carigana demanded, characteristically the first to find voice after the initial shock For once, she had the total support of the others. With a fine display of vituperation, she vented her anger on Tukolom, the visible representative of the Guild that she vehemently declared had exploited the unsuspecting.

“Told you were,” Tukolom replied, unexpectedly raising his voice to top hers. “Available to you was that data at Shankill. The charter in the data is.”

“How would we have known to ask?” Carigana retorted, her anger fueled by his answer. “This narding Guild keeps its secrets so well, you're not led to expect a straight answer to a direct question!”

"Thinking surely you would," Tukolom said, unruffled and with an irony that surprised Killashandra. "Maintenance charges only at cost are – "

"No where else in the galaxy do students have to pay for subsistence – "

“Students you are not.” Tukolom was firm. “Guild members are you!”

Not even Carigana could find a quick answer to that. She glared around her, her flashing eyes begging someone to have a rejoinder.

“Trapped us, haven't you?” She spat the words at the man. “Good and truly trapped. And we walked so obligingly into it.” She flung herself down on the seating unit, her hands flopping uselessly about her thighs.

"Once trained, salary far above galactic average," Tukolom announced diplomatically into the silence. "Most indebtedness cleared by second year. Then – every wish satisfy. Order any thing from any place in galaxy." He tendered a thin smile of encouragement. ''Guild credit good anywhere for anything."

“That's not much consolation for being stuck on this planet for the rest of your life,” Carigana replied with a snarl.

Once she had absorbed the initial shock, Killashandra was willing to admit that the Guild method was fair. Its members must be furnished with private quarters, food, clothing, personal necessities, and medical care. Some of the specialists, the Singers especially, had a further initial outlay for equipment. The cost of the flitter craft used by Crystal Singers in the ranges was staggering the sonic cutting gear that had to be tuned to the user was also expensive and a variety of other items whose purpose was not yet known to her were basic Singer's tools.

Obviously, the best job to have on Ballybran was that of a Crystal Singer even if the Guild did “tithe” 30 percent of the crystal cut and brought in. She duly noted the phrase, brought in, and wondered if she could find a vocabulary section in the data bank that would define words in precisely the nuance meant on Ballybran. Interlingual was accurate enough, but every profession has terms that sound familiar, seem innocuous, and are dangerous to the incompletely initiated.

A wide variety of supporting skills put the Singers into the ranges, maintained the vehicles, buildings, space station, research, medical facilities, and the administration of it all. Twenty thousand technicians, essential to keep the four thousand or so Singers working, and this very elite group was somehow recruited from the galaxy.

The argument over entrapment, as Carigana vehemently insisted on calling it, continued long after Tukolom left. Killashandra noticed him as he gradually worked his way from the center of the explosion, almost encouraging Carigana to become the focus, then adroitly slipped down a corridor. He's pulled the fade-away act before, Killashandra thought. Perversely, she then became annoyed because she and her group were reacting predictably; it was one thing to have a stage director prescribe your moves on stage, quite another to be manipulated in one's living. She had thought to be free of overt management, so she experienced a surge of anger. To rant as Carigana was doing solved nothing except the immediate release of an energy and purpose that could be used to better advantage.

Ignoring Carigana's continuing harangue, Killashandra quietly moved to a small terminal and asked for a review of the Charter. After a few moment's study, she left the machine. There was no legal way in which one could relinquish membership in the Heptite Guild except by dying. Even in sickness, mental or physical, the Guild had complete protective authority over every member so sworn, averred, and affirmed. Now she appreciated the FSP officials and the elaborate rigmarole. On the other hand, she had been told; she could have withdrawn after full disclosure if she hadn't been so eager to flaunt Maestro Valdi and prove to Andurs that she'd be right as a Crystal Singer. The section on the Guild's responsibilities to the individual member was clear. Killashandra would see definite advantages, including the ones that had lured her to Ballybran. If she became a Crystal Singer . . . She preferred “Singer” to the Guild's dull job description, “Cutter.”

“Ever the optimist, Killa?” Rimbol asked. He must have been standing behind her a while.

“Well, I prefer that role to hers.” She inclined her head sharply in Carigana's direction. “She's beating her gums over ways to break a contract that we were warned was irrevocable.”

“D'you suppose they count on our being obstinate by nature?”

“Obviously, they have psychologists among the membership.” Killashandra laughed. “You want what you can't or shouldn't have or are denied. Human nature.”

“Will we still be human after symbiosis?” Rimbol wondered aloud, cocking his head to one side, His eyes narrow with speculation.

“I can't say as I'd like Borella for an intimate friend,” Killashandra began.

“Nor I.” Rimbol's laugh was infectious.

“I did hear her come out with a very human, snide comment on the shuttle.”

“About us?”

"In general. But I liked Carrik. He knew how to enjoy things, even silly things, and – "

Rimbol touched her arm, and the glint of his blue eyes reminded her of the look in Carrik's when they'd first met.

“Comparisons are invidious but . . . join me!”

Killashandra gave him a longer, speculative look. His gaiety and ingenuous appearance, his gregariousness, were carefully cultivated to counterbalance his unusual coloring. The expression on his face, the warmth of his eyes and smile, and the gentle stroking of his hand on her arm effected a distinct change in her attitude toward him.

“Guaranteed Privacy between members of equal rank.” His voice was teasing and she had no desire to resist his temptation.

With Carigana's strident voice in their ears, they slipped down the corridor to her room and enjoyed complete Privacy.

The next morning Tukolom marshaled Class 895, some of whom were decidedly the worse for a night's drinking.

“Borton, Jezerey, also Falanog, qualified are you already on surface and shuttle craft. To take your pilot cards to Flight Control on first level. Follow gray strip down, turn right twice, Guild Member Danin see. All others of this class with me are coming.”

Tukolom led without turning to discover if he was being followed, but the class, sullen or just resigned, obeyed. Shillawn stepped in behind Killashandra and Rimbol.

“I figured it out,” he said with his characteristic gulp. His anxiety to please was so intense that Killashandra asked him what had he figured out. “How much it will all cost until we start earning credits. And . . . and what the lowest credit rating is. It's not too bad, really. Guild charges at cost and doesn't add a tariff for transport or special orders.”

“Having done us to get us here, they're not out to do us further, huh?”

«Well» – and Shillawn had to shuffle awkwardly to keep a position where his words would be audible only to Rimbol and Killashandra – «it is fair.»

Rimbol shrugged. “So, what is the lowest Guild wage? And how long will it take to pay off what we're racking up just by breathing?”

«Well» – Shillawn held up his jotter – «the lowest wage is for a caterer's assistant and that brings in three thousand five hundred credits plus Class three accommodations, clothing allowance and two hundred luxury units per standard year. We're charged at the base-level accommodations, shuttle passage was only fifteen cr, but any unusual item from catering – except two beakers of beverages up to Grade four – is charged against the individual's account. So, if you don't eat exotic, or drink heavy, you'd clear off the initial levies at a c.a.'s pay in» – Shillawn had to skip after them as he glanced down at his jotter and lost his stride – «in seven months, two weeks and five days' standard.»

Rimbol caught Killashandra's eye, and she could see that the young Yarran was hard put to suppress his laughter.

“Why did you only consider the lowest-paid member, Shillawn?” she asked, managing to keep her voice level.

“Well, that was practical.”

“You mean, you didn't compute any of the higher grades?”

“The highest-paid position is that of the Guild Master, and such information is not available.”

“You did try?” Now it was Killashandra's turn to have to skip ahead or be over run by Shillawn's long legs.

“I wanted to see just what areas are open to the average member . . .”

“How high could you retrieve data?”

“That's the good part,” Shillawn beamed down at them. “The next rank after Guild Master is Crystal Cutter Singer, I mean. Only the credit varies too erratically, depending as it does on how much usable crystal a Cutter brings in.” “If Crystal Singers are second, who's third in rank?”

“Chief of Research, Chief of Control, and Chief of Marketing. All on equal rating.”

“Credit per year?”

“Their base pay is 300,000 pgy, plus living, entertainment, travel, and personal allowances 'to be determined'.”

The base figure was sufficient to draw an appreciative whistle from Rimbol.

“And, of course, you're going to be Chief of Control, I expect,” a new voice said and the three friends realized that Carigana had been listening.

Shillawn flushed at her sarcasm.

“And you'll be chief rant-and-raver,” Rimbol said, unexpectedly acerbic, his blue eyes signaling dislike.

Carigana flipped her thumbnail at him and strode on, head high, shoulders and back stiffly straight.

“Any sympathy I had for that woman is fast giving place to total antipathy,” Rimbol said, making an even more insulting gesture at the space worker's back.

With her head start on the rest of Class 895, Carigana was first to reach the ground-craft depot, but she had to wait until the flight officer checked in all thirty. They were taken to a large section inside a gigantic hangar that housed three vehicles on simulation stands: a skimmer, the general work craft, which could be adapted for variations of atmosphere and gravity and could be driven by children. A single bar controlled forward, reverse, and side movement. The skimmer had no great speed but plowed its air cushion with equal efficiency over land, water, snow, mud, ice, sand, or rock. Its drive could be adapted to a variety of fuels and power sources.

The second stand simulated an air sled, not as clumsy as its name implied and capable of considerable speed and maneuverability. It was the long-haul craft, the Crystal Cutter's official vehicle, capable of delivering cargo and passengers to any point on Ballybran.

The third simulator was a satellite shuttle, it caused Rimbol's eyes to widen appreciatively, but Killashandra sincerely hoped she would not be asked to pilot it.

Though all were bored by waiting their turn, Killashandra had no trouble with the skimmer simulation. The sled was more complex, but she felt she acquitted herself fairly well, though she'd certainly want a lot more practice in the vehicle before flying any distance.

“You know who failed the skimmer test?” Rimbol asked, joining her as she emerged from the air sled.

“Shillawn?” But then she saw the gangly man still waiting on line.

“No. Carigana!”

“How could anyone not be able to fly a skimmer?”

"A skimmer needs a light hand." Rimbol's smile was malicious. "Carigana's used to a space suit. Ever noticed how she always turns her entire body around to face you? That's from wearing a servomech for so long. That's why her movements are so jerky, over corrected. She over reacts. too. As we all know. Hey, we'd better scurry. Instructor Tukolom" – and Rimbol grinned at the title with which the flight officer had pointedly addressed their tutor – says we're due back at the training lounge for the afternoon's entrancing lectures."

Carigana might well have been floating in deep space in a servomech suit for all the notice she gave to Tukolom's recitations on the care and packing of crystal cuttings. He informed Class 895 that they must pay strict attention to these procedures, as one of their first official tasks for their Guild would be to prepare crystal for export. As he spoke – he reminded them – Crystal Cutters were in the ranges, making the most of the mild spring weather and the favorable aspects of the moons. When the Cutters returned, Class 895 would be privileged to have its first experience with handling crystal, in all its infinite variety . . . and value.

The reverence with which Tukolom made the announcement showed Killashandra a new and unexpected facet of the humorless instructor. Did crystal affect even those who did not sing it? How long had Tukolom been a Guild member? Not that she really wanted to know. She was just intrigued by his uncharacteristic radiance when discussing, of all the dull subjects, the packing of crystal.

As soon as Tukolom released the class from the lecture, she murmured something about returning in a moment to Rimbol and slipped away to her room. She drew out the console and tapped the Flight Office, requesting the use of a skimmer for personal relaxation. The display spilled out a confirmation that she could use vehicle registry VZD7780 for two hours, confined to over land flight.

As she slipped from her room, she was relieved to see Rimbol's door open. He was still in the lounge, so she suppressed the vague disquiet she felt about sneaking off without him. Her first visit to the crystal ranges was better experienced as a solo. Besides, if Rimbol and Shillawn couldn't figure out how to obtain a clearance, they didn't deserve one.

The vast hangar complex was eerily empty. A light breeze sighed through the vacant racks for Singers' air sleds as Killashandra hurried to the skimmer section. An air sled engine revved unexpectedly and caused her to leap inches off the plascrete surface; then she saw the cluster of mechanics on the far side of the building, where lights exposed the sled's drive section.

Killashandra finally located the VZD rack and her assigned craft at the top of the skimmer section. The vehicle was sand-scraped, although the plasglas bubble was relatively unscathed. She climbed in, backed the skimmer carefully clear of the rack, and proceeded from the hangar at a sedate pace.

“Pilot may fly only in area designated on master chart,” a mechanical voice announced: to her left, an opaque square lit to display an overlay of the Joslin plateau, the Guild complex out of which a small flashing dot, herself, was moving.

“Pilot complies.”

«Weather alert must be obeyed by immediate return to hangar. Weather holding clear and mild: no storm warning presently in effect.» As she cleared the hangar, she noticed three figures emerge from the ramp. She chuckled – she'd got her skimmer first.

She didn't want to be followed, so she pushed the control bar forward for maximum speed. The master chart cut off just at the fringe of the Milekey Range to the northeast but close enough for her to see exactly what she had mortgaged her life for. It was suddenly very necessary to Killashandra to stand on the edge of this possible future of hers, to be close to it; to make it more vivid than Tukolom's carefully recited lessons; to make her understand why Borella had smiled in longing.

The old skimmer didn't like being pushed to maximum speed and vibrated unpleasantly. None of the function dials were in the red, so Killashandra ignored the shaking, keeping on the northeasterly course. The Brerrerton Range would have been closer, almost directly south, but Milekey had been the range Carrik frequently mentioned, and her choice had been subconsciously affected by him. Well, the others were certain to head to the nearer range, which was fine by her.

Once she had bounced over the first hill, Killashandra saw the smudge of the range, occasionally reflecting the westering sun. Beneath her, the dull gray-green shrub and ground cover of Ballybran passed without change. Dull exteriors so often hid treasures. Who could ever have thought Ballybran worth half credit? She recalled the model of the planet that Borella had shown them on Shankill. It was as if cosmic hands had taken the world and twisted it so that the softer interior material had been forced through the crust, forming the jagged ranges that bore crystal, and then capriciously the same hands had yanked the misshapen spheres out, the ridges falling inward.

The plain gave way to a series of deep gullies that in a wetter season, might have become streams. The first of the jagged upthrusts coincided with the edge of her chart, so she settled the skimmer on the largest promontory and got out.

To either side and before her, the planet's folds stretched each cline peering through a gap or a few meters higher than the one before. Shading her eyes, she strained to see any evidence of the shining crystal that was the hidden and unique wealth of such an uninviting planet.

The silence was all but complete, the merest whisper of sound, not wind, and transmitted not through the atmosphere but through the rock under her feet. A strange sound to be experienced so, as if her heel were responding to a vibration to which her keen ears, expectant, were not attuned. Not precisely comprehending the urge to test the curious unsilence, Killashandra drew a deep breath and expelled it on a fine clear E.

The single note echoed back to her ears and through her heels, the resonance coursing to her nerve ends, leaving behind, as the sound died away, a pleasurable sensation that caressed her nervous system. She stood entranced but hesitated to repeat the experience, so she scanned the dirty, unpretentious mounds. Now she was willing to believe what Carrik had said and, equally, was credulous of the hazards attached. The two facets of singing crystal were linked: the good and bad, the difficult, the ecstatic.

She quickly discarded a notion to fly deeper into the range. Common sense told her that any crystal in the immediate vicinity would long since have been removed. A more practical restraint was Killashandra's recognition that it would be easy to lose oneself beyond the curiously reassuring flatness of the plain and the sight of the White Sea. However, she did skim along the first ridges, always keeping the plain in sight and at the edge of her flight chart. The undulating hills fascinated her as the sharper, young thrusts and anticlines of Fuerte had not. Ballybran's ranges tempted, taunted, tantalized, hiding wealth produced by titanic forces boiling from the molten core of the planet: a wealth created by the technical needs of an ever-expanding galactic population and found on an ancient world with no other resources to commend it. That was ever the way of technology: to take the worthless and convert it into wealth.

Eventually, Killashandra turned the skimmer back toward the Guild Complex. She had renewed her determination to become a Singer, which had been dampened somewhat by Tukolom and an instructional mode that subtly ignored the main objective of the recruits – becoming a Crystal Singer. She could understand why their initiation took the form it had – until the symbiosis occurred, no lasting assignments could be made, but other worthwhile skills and ranks could be examined. She sighed, wondering if she could sustain another defeat. Then she laughed, remembering how facilely she had shrugged off ten-years' hard work when Carrik had dangled his lure. Yet, to be perfectly honest, he hadn't dangled: he'd argued against her taking such a step, argued vehemently.

What had Rimbol said about being denied making an object more desirable? And it was true that the maestro's histrionic condemnation of Carrik and Crystal Singers had done much to increase her desire. She had, of course, been so elated by her interlude with Carrik that the luxurious standard of living – and playing – to which he had introduced her had been a lure to one who had had no more than student credit. Carrik's fascinating personality had bemused her and given her the recklessness to throw off the restraints of a decade of unrewarded discipline.

Now that she had stood close to crystal source, felt that phenomenal vibration through bone and nerve, a call to the core of her that her involvement with music had never touched, she was strengthened in her purpose.

A lone figure was climbing about the skimmer racks when Killashandra returned. She noticed eight other empty slots as she parked her vehicle. The figure waved urgently for her to remain by her skimmer and quickly climbed up to her. Killashandra waited politely, but the man checked the registry of the skimmer first, then ran his hands along the sides, frowning. He began a tactile examination of the canopy without so much as glancing at her in the seat. He muttered as he made notations on his jotter. The display alarmed him, and for the first time he noticed her, opening the canopy.

“You weren't out long. Has something happened to one of the others? Nine of you went out!”

“No, nothing's wrong.”

Relieved, he gave a pull to the visored cap he wore.

“Only have so many skimmers, and I shouldn't ought to 've given out nine to recruits, but no one else requested.”

Killashandra stepped from the skimmer, and the hangar man was instantly inside, running fingers over the control surface, the steering rod, as if her mere physical presence might have caused damage.

“I'm not careless with equipment,” she said, but he gave no indication he had heard.

“You're Killashandra?” He finished his inspection and looked around at her as he closed the canopy.

“Yes.”

He grunted and made another entry on his jotter, watching the display.

“Do you always inspect each vehicle as it's used?” she asked, trying to be pleasant.

He made no comment. Was it because of her lowly rank as a recruit? A sudden resentment flared past the serenity she had achieved in the range. She touched his arm and repeated her question.

“Always. My job. Some of you lot are damned careless and give me more work than necessary. Don't mind doing my proper job, but unnecessary work is not on. Just not on.”

A loud whine from the service bays startled Killashandra, but the hangar man didn't flinch. It was then that she realized the man was deaf. A second ear-piercing whine erupted, and she winced, but it elicited no reaction from the man. Deafness must be a blessing in his occupation.

Giving the returned skimmer one last sweep of his hand, the hangar man began to climb to check another vehicle, unconscious of Killashandra's presence. She stared after him. Had his job, his dedication to the presentation of his skimmers, supplanted interest in people? If she received deafness from the symbiont, would she detach herself from people so completely?

She made her way down to the hangar floor, startled each time the engine being repaired blasted out its unbaffled noise. She might have renounced music as a career, but never to hear it again? She shuddered convulsively.

She had been so positive on Fuerte that hers was to be a brilliant career as a solo performer, maybe she'd better not be so bloody certain of becoming a Crystal Singer and explore the alternatives within the Guild.

Suddenly, she didn't want to return to the recruits' lounge, nor did she wish to hear the accounts of the other eight who had skimmed away from the Guild Complex. She wanted to be private. Getting out by herself, to the edge of the range, had been beneficial, the encounter with the hangar man an instructive counter theme.

She walked quickly from the hangar, caught by the stiff breeze and bending into it. The eastern sky was darkening; glancing over her shoulder, she saw banks of western clouds tinged purple by the setting sun. She paused, savoring the display, and then hurried on. She didn't wish to be sighted by the returning skimmers. Finally past the long side of the Complex, she struck out up a low hill, her boots scuffling in the dirt. A warm spicy smell rose when she trod on the low ground cover. She listened to the rising wind, not merely with her ears but with her entire body, planting her boot heels firmly in the soil, hoping to experience again that coil of body-felt sound. The wind bore the taint of brine and chill but no sound as it eddied past her and away east.

There the sky was dark now, and the first faint stars were appearing. She must study the astronomy of Ballybran. Strange that this had not been mentioned in the lectures on meteorology; or was it a deliberate exclusion since the knowledge would have no immediate bearing on the recruits' training.

Shanganagh, the middle moon, rose, honey-colored, in the northeast. She seemed almost to creep out, much as Killashandra was doing, to be away from the more powerful personality of Shankill and the erratic infringements of Shilmore. Killashandra grinned – if Rimbol were symbolized by Shankill, that would make Shillawn, Shilmore. Shanganagh was the odd one out, avoiding the other two until inexorable forces pulled her between their paths at Passover.

Shanganagh paled to silver, rising higher and lighting Killashandra's way until she reached the crest of a rolling hill and realized that she could walk all night, possibly getting lost, to no purpose. Student pranks had been tolerated, in their place, on Fuerte in the Music Center, but it would be quite another matter here where an old deaf hangar man cared more for his vehicles than the people who used them.

She turned and surveyed the crouching hulk of the Guild, its upper stories lit by the rising moon, the remainder sharp black thrusts of shadow. She sat down on the hillside, twisting her buttocks to find some comfort. She hadn't realized how huge the Complex was and what a small portion of it was above the surface. She had been told that the best quarters were deep underground. Killashandra picked up a handful of gravel and cast the bits in a thin arc, listening to the rattle as bush and leaf were struck.

The sense of isolation, of total solitude and utter privacy, pleased her as much as the odors on the wind and the roughness of the dirt in her hand. Always on Fuerte, there had been the knowledge that people were close by, people were seeing, if not intently observing her, impinging on her consciousness, infringing on her desire to be alone and private.

Suddenly, Killashandra could appreciate Carigana's fury. If the woman had been a space worker, she had enjoyed the same sense of privacy. She'd never needed to learn the subtle techniques of cutting oneself from contact. Well, if Killashandra understood something of Carigana's antisocial manner, she still had no wish to make friends with her. She spun off another handful of dirt.

It was comforting, too, to know that on Ballybran, at least, one could take a night time stroll in perfect safety, one of the few worlds in the Federated Sentient Planets where that was possible. She rose, dusted off her pants, and continued her walk around the great Guild installation.

She almost stumbled as she reached the front of the building, for a turf so dense that it felt like a woven fabric had been encouraged to grow there. The imposing entrance hall bore the shield of the Heptite Guild in a luminous crystal. The tall, narrow windows facing south gave off no light on the first level, and most were dark on the upper stories. She wondered which ratings were so low as to live above ground. Caterers' assistants?

Killashandra was beginning to regret her whimsical night tour as she passed the long side of the building, the very long side. Ramps, up and down, pierced the flat wall at intervals, but she knew from Tukolom's lecture that these led into storage areas without access to the living quarters so she trudged or ward until she was back at the vast hangar maw.

She was very weary when she finally reached the ramp to the class's quarters. All else was quiet, the lounge empty and dark. Though Rimbol's door light was green, she hurried past to her own. Tomorrow would be soon enough for companionship. She went to sleep, comforted by the irrevocable advantage of privacy available to a member of the Heptite Guild.

Killashandra wasn't as positive of that the next afternoon as she struggled to retain her balance in the gusts of wind and, more importantly, tried not to drop the precious crate of crystal. The recruits had been aroused by the computer at a false dawn they had to take on faith. The sky was a deep, sullen gray, with storm clouds that were sucked across the Complex so low they threatened to envelop the upper level. The recruits had been told to eat quickly but heartily and to report to the cargo officer on the hangar floor. They were to be under her supervision until she released them. Wind precautions were already evident; the 12-meter-high screen across the hangar maw was lowered only to admit approaching air sleds; evidently the device was to prevent workers' being sucked from the hangar by fierce counter draughts.

Cargo Officer Malaine took no chances that instructions would be misunderstood or unheard. She carried a bullhorn, but her orders were also displayed on screens positioned around the hangar. If they had any doubts as they assisted the regular personnel in unloading, the recruits were to touch and/or otherwise get the attention of anyone in a green-checked uniform. Basic instructions remained on the screen; updates blinked orange on the green displays.

"Your main assignments will be to unload, very, very carefully, the cartons of cut crystals. One at a time. Don't be misled by the fact that the cartons have strong hand grips. The wind out there will shortly make you wish you had prehensile tails." Cargo Officer Malaine gave the recruits a smile. "You'll know when to put on your head gear," and she tapped a close fitting skull cap with its padded ears and eyescreen. "Now" – and she gestured to the plasglas wall of the ready-room facing the hangar" the sleds are coming in. Watch the procedure of the hangar personnel. First, the Crystal Singer is checked, then the cargo is off-loaded. You will concentrate on off-loading. Your responsibility is to transfer the crystal cartons safely inside. Any carton that comes in is worth more than you are! No offense, recruits, just basic Guild economics. I also caution you that Crystal Singers just in off the ranges are highly unpredictable. You're lucky. All in this group have been out a good while, so they'll probably have good cuttings. Don't drop a carton! You'll have the Singer, me, and Guild Master Lanzecki on your neck – the Singer being first and worst.

«Fair does not apply,» Malaine said in a hard voice. «Those plasfoam boxes» – and she pointed at the line of hangar personnel hurrying to the cargo bay, white cartons clutched firmly to their chests – «are what pay for this planet, its satellites, and everything on them. No one gets a credit till that cargo is safely in this building, weighed in and graded – Okay, here's a new flight coming in. I'll count you off in threes. Line up and be ready to go when called. Just remember: the crystal is important! When the klaxon sounds – that means a sled is out of control Duck but don't drop!»

She counted the recruits off, and Killashandra was teamed with Borton and a man she didn't know by name. The recruits formed loose trios in front of the window, watching the routine.

“Doesn't seem hard,” the man commented to Borton. “Those cartons can't be heavy,” and he gestured at a slim person walking rapidly carrying his burden.

"Maybe not now, Celee," Borton replied, "but when the wind picks up – "

“Well, we're both sturdy enough to give our teammate a hand if she needs one,” Celee said, grinning with some condescension at Killashandra.

“I'm closer to the ground,” she said, looking up at him with a warning glint in her eyes. “Center of gravity is lower and not so far to fall.”

“You tell him, Killa.” Borton nudged Celee and winked at her.

Suddenly Celee pointed urgently to the hangar. The recruits saw a sled careen in, barely missing the vaulted roof, then plunge toward the ground, only to be pulled up at the last second, skid sideways, and barely miss a broadside against the interior wall. A klaxon had sounded, its clamor causing everyone to clap hands over his ears at the piercing noise. When the trio looked again, the air sled had slid to a stop, nose against the wall. To their surprise, the Singer, orange overalls streaked with black, emerged unscathed from the front hatch, gave the sled an admonitory kick, gestured obscenely at the wind, and then stalked into the shelter of the cargo bay. Then she, Borton, and Celee were being beckoned out to the hangar floor.

As Killashandra grabbed her first carton from a Singer's ship, she clutched it firmly to her chest because it was light and could easily have been flipped from a casual grip by the strong wind gusting about the hangar. She got to the cargo bay with a sigh of relief, only to be stunned by the sight of the Crystal Singer, who was slumped against a wall while snarling at the medic who was daubing at the blood running down the Singer's left cheek. Until the last canon from his sled was unloaded, the Crystal Singer remained at his observation point.

“By the horny toes of a swamp bear,” Celee remarked to Killashandra as they hurried back for more cartons, “that man knows every nardling one of his cargo, and he sure to bones knows we're doing the unloading. And the bloody wind's rising. Watch it, Killashandra.”

“Only two more in that ship,” Borton yelled as he passed them on his way in. “They want to hoist it out of the way!”

Celee and Killashandra trotted faster, wary of the hoist now descending over the disabled ship. No sooner had they lifted the last two cartons from the sled than the hoist clanked tight on its top. At that instant, Killashandra glanced around her and counted five more sleds wheeling in, fortunately in more control. Seven unloaded vehicles were heading to the top of the sled storage racks.

As the hangar became crowded, unloading took longer, and keeping upright during the passage between sled and cargo bay became increasingly more difficult. Killashandra saw three people flung against sleds, and one skidded against the outer wind baffle. An incoming sled was caught in a side gust and flipped onto its back. Killashandra shook her head against the loud keening that followed, unsure whether it was the sound of the gale or the injured Singer's screaming. She forced her mind to the business of unloading and maintaining her balance.

She was wheeling back from the bay for yet another load when someone caught her by the hair. Startled, she looked up to see Cargo Officer Malaine, who jerked the helmet from Killashandra's belt and jammed it atop her head. Abashed at her lapse of memory, Killashandra hastily straightened the protective gear. Malaine gave her a grin and an encouraging thumbs up.

The relief from the wind's noise and the subsidence of air pressure in her ears was enormous. Killashandra, accustomed to full chorus and electronically augmented orchestral instruments, had not previously thought of “noise” as a hazard. But to be deaf on Ballybran might not be an intolerable prospect. She could still hear the gale's shrieks, but the cacophony was blessedly muffled, and the relief from the sound pressure gave her fresh energy. She needed it, for the physical strength of the gale hadn't abated at all.

In the course of her next wind-battered trip, a wholesale clearance of sleds took place behind her back. The emptied sleds were cleared, and the newer arrivals slipped into the vacant positions. Some relief from the wind could be had by darting from the wind shadow of one sled to that of the next. The danger lay in the gap, for there the gale would whip around to catch the unwary.

Why no one was killed, why so few ships were damaged inside the hangar, and why not a single plasfoam container was dropped, Killashandra would never know. She was at one point certain, however, that she had probably bumped into most of the nine thousand Guild members stationed in the Joslin Plateau Headquarters. She later learned her assumption was faulty: anyone who could have, had carefully contrived to remain inside.

The cartons were not always heavy, though the weight was unevenly distributed, and the heavy end always ended up dragging at Killashandra's left arm. That side was certainly the sorest the next day. Only once did she come close to losing a container: she hefted it from the ship and nearly lost the whole to a gust of wind. After that, she learned to protect her burden with her body to the wind.

Aside from the intense struggle with the gale-force winds, two other observations were indelibly marked in her mind that day. A different side of Crystal Singers their least glamorous, as they jumped from their sleds. Few looked as if they had washed in days: some had fresh wounds, and others showed evidence of old ones. When she had to enter a sled's cargo hold to get the last few cartons, she was aware of an overripe aroma exuding from the main compartment of the sled and was just as glad that there was a fierce supply of fresh air at her back.

Still the sleds hurled themselves in over the wind baffle and managed to land in the little space available: the gale was audible even through her ear mufflers, and the force of the wind smacked at the body as brutally as any physical fist.

“RECRUITS! RECRUITS! All recruits will regroup in the sorting area. All recruits to the sorting area!”

Dazed, Killashandra swung around to check the message on the display screens, and then someone linked arms with her, and they both cantered into the gale to reach the sorting area.

Once inside the building, Killashandra nearly fell, as much from exhaustion as from pushing her body against a wind no longer felt. She was handed from one person to another and then deposited on a seat. A heavy beaker was put into her hands, and the noise-abatement helmet was removed from her head. Nor was there much noise beyond weary sighs, an occasional noisy exhalation that was not quite a groan, or the sound of boots scraping against plascrete.

Killashandra managed to stop the trembling in her hands to take a judicious sip of the hot, clear broth. She sighed softly with relief. The restorative was richly tasty, and its warmth immediately crept to her cold extremities, which Killashandra had not recognized as being wind sore. The lower part of her face, her jaw and chin, which had been exposed to the scouring wind, were also stiff and painful.

Taking another sip, she raised her eyes above the cup and noticed the row opposite her: noticed and recognized the faces of Rimbol and Borton, and farther down, Celee. Half a dozen had black eyes, torn or scratched cheeks. Four recruits looked as if they'd been dragged face down over gravel. When she touched her own skin, she realized she, too, had suffered unfelt abrasions, for her numb fingers were pricked with dots of blood.

A loud hiss of indrawn breath made her look to the left. A medic was daubing Jezerey's face. Another medic was working down the row toward Rimbol, Celee, and Borton.

“Any damage?” Killashandra, despite her exhausted stupor, recognized the voice as that of Guild Master Lanzecki's.

Surprised, she turned to find him standing in an open door, his black-garbed figure stark against the white of piled crystal cartons.

“Superficial, sir,” one of the medics said after a respectful nod in the Guild Master's direction.

“Class 895 has been of invaluable assistance today,” Lanzecki said, his eyes taking in every one of the thirty-three. “I, your Guild Master, thank you. So does Cargo Officer Malaine. No one else will.” There wasn't even a trace of a smile on the man's face to suggest he was being humorously ironic. “Order what you will for your evening meal: it will not be debited from your account. Tomorrow you will report to this sorting area where you will learn what you can from the crystals brought in today. You are dismissed.”

He withdraws, Killashandra thought. He fades from the scene. How unusual. But then, he's not a Singer. So no sweeping entrances like Carrik or the three Singers at Shankill, nor exits like Borella's. She took another sip of her broth, needing its sustenance to get her weary body up the ramp for that good free meal. Come to remember, the last good free meal she'd had had also been indirectly charged to the Guild. She was, as it happened, one of the last of the recruits to leave the sorting area. A door opened somewhere behind her.

“How many not yet in, Malaine?” she heard Lanzecki ask.

“Five more just hit the hangar floor, one literally. And Flight says there are two more possible light-sights.”

"That makes twenty-two unaccounted – "

“If we could only get Singers to register cuts, we'd have some way of tracking the missing and retrieve at least the cargo . . .”

The door swooshed tight, and the last of the sentence was inaudible. The exchange, the tone of it, worried her.

«Retrieve the cargo.» Was that the concern of Malaine and Lanzecki? The cargo? Malaine certainly had stressed the cargo's being more valuable than the recruits handling it. But surely the Crystal Singers themselves were valuable, too. Sleds could be replaced – another debit to clear off one's Guild account – but surely Singers were a valuable commodity in their own peculiar way.

Killashandra's mind simply could not cope with such anomalies. She made it to the top of the ramp. She had to put one hand on the door frame to steady herself as she thumbed her door open. A moan of weariness escaped her lips. Rimbol's door whisked open.

“You all right, Killa?” Rimbol's face was flecked with fine lines and tiny beads of fresh blood. He wore only a towel.

“Barely.”

“The herbal bath does wonders. And eat.”

“I will. It's on the management, after all.” She couldn't move her painful face to smile.

After a long soak absorbed the worst fatigue from her muscles she did force herself to eat.

An insistent burp from the computer roused her the next morning. She peered into the dark beyond her bed and only then realized that the windows were shuttered and the gale still furious outside.

The digital told her that it was 0830 and her belly that it was empty. As she started to throw back the thermal covering, every muscle in her body announced its unreadiness for such activity. Cursing under her breath, Killashandra struggled up on one elbow. No sooner had she put her fingers on the catering dial than a small beaker with an effervescent pale-yellow liquid appeared in the slot.

“The medication is a muscle relaxant combined with a mild analgesic to relieve symptoms of muscular discomfort. This condition is transitory.”

Killashandra cursed fluently at what she felt was the computers embarrassingly well timed invasion of Privacy, but she drained the medicine, grimacing at its over sweet taste. In a few moments, she began to feel less stiff. She took a quick shower, alternating hot and cold, for unaccountably her skin still prickled from yesterdays severe buffeting. As she was eating a high-protein breakfast, she hoped that time would be allowed for meals today. She doubted that the rows of crystal containers could all be sorted and repacked in one day. And such a job oughtn't need the pace of yesterday.

Sorting took four days of labor as intense as fighting the storm wind, though presenting less physical danger. The recruits, each working with a qualified sorter, learned a great deal about how not to cut crystal and pack it and which forms were currently profitable. These were in the majority, and most of the experienced sorters directed a constant flow of abuse at Singers who had cut quantities of the commodity then most over stocked.

“We've got three ruddy storage rooms of these,” muttered Enthor, with whom Killashandra was sorting. “It's blues what we need and want. And blacks, of course. No, no, wrong side. You've got to learn,” he said, grabbing the carton Killashandra had just lifted to the sorting table. “First, present the Singer's ident code.” He turned the box so that the strip, ineradicably etched on the side, would register. “Didn't have that little bit of help and there'd be war unloading, with cartons getting mixed up every which way and murder going on.”

Once the ident number went up on the display, the carton was unpacked and each crystal form carefully put on the scale, which computed color, size, weight, form, and perfection. Some crystals Enthor immediately placed on the moving belts, which shunted them to the appropriate level for shipment or storage. Others he himself cocooned in the plastic webbing with meticulous care.

The sorting process seemed boringly simple. Sometimes it was not easy to retrieve the small crystals that had been thrust at any angle into the protective foam. Killashandra almost missed a small blue octagon before Enthor grabbed the carton she was about to assign to replacement.

“Lucky for you,” the sorter said darkly, glancing about him, brows wrinkled over his eyes, “that the Singer who cut this wasn't watching. I've seen them try to kill a person for negligence.”

“For this?” Killashandra held up the octagon, which couldn't have been more than 8 centimeters in length.

“For that. It's unflawed.” Enthor's quick movement had placed the crystal on the scale and checked its perfection. “Listen!” He set the piece carefully between her thumb and forefinger and flicked it lightly.

Even above the rustling and stamping and low-voiced instructions, Killashandra heard the delicate, pure sound of the crystal. The note seemed to catch in her throat and travel down her bones to her heels.

“It's not easy to cut small, and right now this piece's worth a couple of hundred credits.”

Killashandra was properly awed and far more painstaking, risking her fingers to search a plasfoam carton that seemed heavier than empty. Enthor scolded her for that, slapping her gloves across her cheek before he tugged one of his off and showed her fingers laced by faint white scars.

“Crystal does it. Even through gloves and with symbiosis. Yours would fester. I'd get docked for being careless.”

“Docked?”

“Loss of work time due to inadequate safety measures is considered deductible. You, too, despite your being a recruit.”

“We get paid for this?”

“Certainly.” Enthor was indignant at her ignorance. “And you got danger money for unloading yesterday. Didn't you know?”

Killashandra stared at him in surprise.

“Just like all new recruits.” Enthor chuckled amiably

at her discomfort. "Not got over the shock, huh? Get a beaker of juice this morning? Thought so. Everyone does who's worked in a gale. Does the trick. And no charge for it, either." He chuckled again at her. "All medical treatment's free, you know." "But you said you got docked – "

“For stupidity in not taking safety precautions.” He wiggled his fingers, now encased in their tough skin-tight gloves, at her. “No, don't take that carton. I will. Get the next. Fugastri just came in. We don't want him breathing down your neck. He's a devil, but he's never faulted me!”

"You're being extremely helpful – "

“You're helping me, and we're both being paid by the same source, this crystal. You might as well know this job properly,” and Enthors tone implied that she might not have as good an instructor in any other sector. “You might end up here as a sorter, and we sorters like to have a good time. What'd you say your name was?”

“Killashandra.”

"Oh, the person who brought Carrik back! Enthors tone was neither pleased nor approving: he just identified her.

Obscurely, Killashandra felt better: she wasn't just an identity lost in the Guild's memory banks. People besides Class 895 had heard of her.

“Did you know Carrik?”

«I know them all, m'dear. And wish I didn't. – However, it's not a bad life.» He gave another of his friendly chuckles. «A fair day's wage for a fair day's work and then the best possible domestic conditions.» His grin turned to a knowing leer, and he gave her a nudge. «Yes, you might remember my name while you can, for you won't if you become a Singer. Enthor, I am, level 4, accommodation 895. That ought to be easy for you to remember, as it's your class number.»

“What was yours?” Quickly, Killashandra sought a way to turn the conversation away from his offer.

“Class number? 502,” he said. “Nothing wrong with my memory.”

“And you're not deaf.”

“Couldn't sort crystal if I were!”

“Then what did the symbiont do to you?” She blurted it out before she realized she might be invading his privacy.

“Eyes, m'dear. Eyes.” He turned and, for the first time, faced her directly. He blinked once, and she gasped. A protective lens retracted at his blink. She saw how huge his irises were, obscuring the original shade of the pupil. He blinked again, and some reddish substance covered the entire eyeball. “That's why I'm a sorter and why I know which crystals are flawless at a glance. I'm one of the best sorters they've ever had. Lanzecki keeps remarking on my ability. Ah, you'll shortly see what I mean . . .”

Another sorter, a disgruntled look on his face, was walking toward them with a carton and escorted by an angry Singer.

“Your opinion on these blues'?” The Singer, his face still bearing the ravages of a long period in the ranges, curtly took the container from the sorter and thrust it at Enthor. Then the Singer, with the rudeness that Killashandra was beginning to observe was the mark of a profession rather than a personality, blocked the view of the sorter whose judgment he had questioned.

Enthor carefully deposited the carton on his work space and extracted the crystals, one by one, holding them up to his supersensitive eyes for inspection, laying them down in a precise row. There were seven green-blue pyramids, each broader in the base by 2 or 3 centimeters.

“No flaws perceived. A fine shear edge and good point,” Enthor rendered his opinion in a flat tone markedly different from his conversational style with Killashandra. With an almost finicky precision, he wiped and polished a tiny crystal hammer and tapped each pyramid delicately. The fourth one was a half note, instead of a whole, above the third, and thus a scale was not achieved.

“Market them in trios and save the imperfect one for a show piece. I recommend that you check your cutter for worn gaskets or fittings. You're too good a Singer to make such an obvious mistake. Probably the oncoming storm put you off the note.”

The attempt at diplomacy did not mollify the Singer, whose eyes bulged as he gathered himself to bellow. Enthor appeared not to notice, but the other sorter had stepped backward hastily.

“Lanzecki!”

The angry shout produced more than the swift arrival of Lanzecki. A hush fell over the sorting room, and the Singer seemed unaware of it, his savage glance resting on Enthor, who blithely tapped figures into his terminal.

Killashandra felt a hand on her shoulder and stepped obediently aside to allow Lanzecki to take her place by Enthor. As if aware of the Guild Master's presence, Enthor again tapped the crystals, the soft tones falling into respectful silence.

Lanzecki was not listening: he was watching the dials on the scales. One eyebrow twitched as the half tone sounded and the corresponding digits appeared on the display.

“Not a large problem, Uyad,” Lanzecki said, turning calmly to the flushed Singer. “You've been cutting that face long enough to fill in half tones. I'd suggest you store this set and fill it to octave. Always a good price for pyramids in scale.”

“Lanzecki . . . I've got to get off-planet this time. I have got to get away! I won't survive another trip to the ranges. . . not until I've had time off this bloody planet!”

“This is but one carton, one set, Uyad-vuic-Holm. Your cargo has been very good according to the input here,” for Lanzecki had made use of the terminal even as Uyad's manner changed from ire to entreaty. “Yes, I think it'll be sufficient to take you off-planet for a decent interval. Come, I'll supervise the sort myself.”

Simultaneously, several things happened: working noises recommenced in the room; Lanzecki was guiding the distressed Singer to another sorting slide, his marker encouraging rather than condescending, which Killashandra could not help but admire in the Guild Master; the other sorter had returned to his position. Enthor swiftly packed the offending pyramids, marked their container, and dealt it to a little-used slide above his head, then, seeing her bemused, gave her a friendly dig in the ribs.

“An even pace makes light of the biggest load. Another box, m'dear.”

Even pace or not, they didn't seem to be making much of an impression on the mound of containers waiting to be sorted. What made a repetitive day interesting was the tremendous input of information Enthor divulged on crystal, grading, sound, and disposition. When he noticed she was taking a keen interest in the valuations, he chided her.

"Don't sweat your head remembering prices, m'dear. Change every day. Value's computed by the Marketing Office before we start sorting, but tomorrow, values might be totally different. One aspect of crystal's enough for me to cope with: I leave the merchandising to others. Ah, now here's beauty in rose quartz! Just look at the shading, the cut. Dooth's work, or I miss my guess," and Enthor peered at the carton, blinking his eyes for a lens change. "I don't." I'd know his cut among the whole roster's."

“Why?” Killashandra leaned closer to inspect the octagon. It was beautiful, a deep pale pink with a purple tinge, but she couldn't understand Enthor's enthusiasm.

The sorter took a deep breath as if to explain and then exhaled sharply.

“Ah, but if you knew, you'd have my rating, wouldn't you?” He blinked again and regarded her with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes.

“Not necessarily,” she replied. “I'd prefer to sing crystal . . .”

Enthor looked from her to the rose octagon. «Yes, perhaps you would at that. However, I recognize Dooth's cut when I see it. When – if – you cut crystal, you will know crystal that is so fine, so rare.»

With both hands, he laid the heavy jewel on the scale plate, running two fingers over his lips as he watched the configurations change and settle.

“I thought you said there was a surplus of rose crystal . . .”

"Not of this weight, color, or octagonal," he said, his fingers tapping out a sequence. "I happen to have heard" and Enthor lowered his voice – " that someone very highly placed in the Federated Planets is looking for large pieces this hue." He lifted the octagon to the coating rack where the deep pink was swiftly cocooned from sight with plastic webbing, and at a touch of his finger on the terminal, an identifying code was stippled along the hardening surface.

At the close of the first day of sorting, Killashandra felt as tired as she had after unloading in the gale. She said as much as Shillawn and Rimbol joined her in a weary trudge to their lounge.

“We're getting paid for our efforts,” Shillawn said by way of cheering them.

“Yesterday we got a danger bonus as well,” Killashandra said, not to be outdone.

“Making use of the data banks, are you?” Rimbol asked, grinning at her with some malice. Killashandra hadn't admitted to him that she'd taken a skimmer out the evening before the storm, but he'd known.

“Told we were. Available to us is the data.” Killashandra so aptly mimicked Tukolom's ponderous tones that she had the other two laughing. “I'm going for a shower. See you in the lounge later?”

Rimbol nodded, and so did Shillawn.

In the catering slot by her bed was another beaker of the lemon liquid. She drank it and had her shower, by the end of which she felt sufficiently revived to enjoy a quiet evening at dice with Rimbol and Shillawn.

Though no more peevish crystal cutters added excitement to the sorting routine during the next three days, Killashandra did have an unusual slice of luck. Halfway through the second day, Lanzecki and the handsome woman Killashandra guessed must be the chief marketing officer walked swiftly into the sorting room and marched right up to Enthor.

“Gorren's conscious. Muttering about black crystal. Have any of his cartons been released to you yet?”

“By my bones, no!” Enthor was shocked and amazed. Shocked, he later confided to Killashandra, that Gorren's cuttings had been stored separately and amazed because he hadn't known that Gorren had returned. He'd half expected to hear, Enthor continued solemnly, that Gorren had been one of the Singers trapped in the ranges by the storm. Gorren's black crystals were always entrusted to Enthor for evaluation.

A work force was hastily assembled in the sorting room, checking the labels of the many boxes still waiting evaluation. The group that had unloaded Gorren's ship – his had been the one to overturn – were identified and summoned. Fortunately, the handlers were regular hangar personnel, and since they had known the cartons were Gorren's and valuable, they had placed them on a top layer, fifth stack, with buffering layers on either side.

Reverently, the eleven valuable cartons were handed down. Since it had been impressed constantly on Killashandra that very little could damage these specially constructed boxes or their contents, and she'd seen some of these same men indifferently lobbing cartons through the air to one another, she reflected that the presence of Lanzecki and Chief Marketing Officer Heglana had a salutary effect.

She was more surprised to see the two officials each take up a carton and was delighted when Enthor, his expression severe, pressed one firmly into her body, waiting until she had grasped the handles tightly.

Killashandra was elated by Enthor's confidence in her and walked the short distance back to the sorting room with the black crystal crammed against her breasts. Unaccountably, she was trembling with tension when she deposited her burden safely beside the others.

Later, she remembered that Enthor had moved with his normal dispatch to unpack: it was probably just because so many important people were watching and she herself caught their suppressed excitement that Enthor appeared to be dawdling. Tension can be transferred, and the sorting room was certainly crackling despite the hush. Those at nearby sorting tables had managed to be in positions to observe the unpacking, while those not directly in the Guild Master's view had suspended work completely, watching.

As Enthor lifted the first black crystal from its protecting foam, a sigh rippled through the watchers.

“Flipped right over, didn't he?” Heglana remarked, and made a clicking sound in her throat. Lanzecki nodded, his eyes on Enthor's hands.

The second black was larger, and to Killashandra's surprise, Enthor did not place it safely apart from the first but against the first where it seemed to fit securely. She felt a tingle at the very base of her head that spread upward across her skull. She shook her head, and the sensation dissipated. Not for long. A third, the largest crystal, fit against the second, a fourth and a fifth. The tingle in her head became a tightening of the scalp. Or was it her head bones pressing out hard against her skin, stretching it?

“Five matched crystals. Gorren hadn't imagined it.”

Lanzecki's voice was level, but Killashandra sensed his satisfaction with such a cut. “Quality?”

“High, Lanzecki,” Enthor replied calmly. “Not his best cut, but I dare say the flaws, minute as they are, will not impair the function if the units are not too far separated.”

“Five is a respectable link,” Heglana said, “for an interplanetary network.”

“Where are the flaws? In the king crystal?”

«No, Lanzecki» – Enthor's fingers caressed the largest of the five as if reassuring it – «in the first and fifth of the cut.» He gestured to either side. «Marginal.» He deftly transferred the interlocking quintet to the scales and ordered his sequence. The display rested at a figure that would have made Killashandra exclaim aloud had she not been in such company.

Whoever Gorren was, he had just made a fortune. She mentally deducted the requisite 30 percent tithe. So Gorren had a small fortune, and there were ten more cartons to unpack.

Enthor removed the contents of three containers while Lanzecki and Heglana observed. Killashandra was somewhat disappointed by these, though the two watching nodded in satisfaction. The smaller units were not as impressive, though one set contained twelve interlocking pieces, the “king” crystal no longer than her hand at octave stretch and no thicker than her finger.

“He may be down to the base of this cutting,” Lanzecki said as the fourth container was emptied. “Proceed, Enthor, but transfer the total to my office for immediate display, will you?” With an inclination of his head to Enthor, he and Heglana swiftly left the sorting room.

A universal sigh ran about the room and activity picked up on all the other tables.

“I don't think we've come to the prize yet, Killashandra,” Enthor said, frowning. “The hairs on the crest of m'neckio . . .”

“The what?” Killashandra stared at him, for he was describing exactly her sensation.

Enthor shot her a surprised glance. “Scalp itch! Spasm at the back of your head?”

“Am I coming down with symbiont fever?”

“How long have you been here?”

“Five days.”

He shook his head. “No! No! Too soon for fever.” He narrowed his eyes again, turning his head to one side as he squinted at her. Then he pointed to the seven remaining containers.

“Pick the next one.”

“Me?”

"Why not? You might as well get used to handling – he paused, scrubbed at his close cropped hair – "crystal. Myself, I don't agree with Master Lanzecki. I don't think Gorren has come to the end of the black face he's been cutting. Gorren's clever. Just enough substantial stuff to get off-planet, and slivers now and then. That way he's got Lanzecki in a bind and a route off-planet any time he chooses. Pick a carton, girl."

Startled by the command, Killashandra reached for the nearest box, hesitated, and drawn by a curious compulsion, settled her hands on its neighbor. She picked it up and would have given it over to Enthor, but he gestured for her to place it on the table, its ident facing the scanner.

“So open it!”

“Me? Black crystal?”

“You chose it, didn't you? You must learn to handle it.”

“If I should drop?”

“You won't. Your hands are very strong for a girl's, fingers short and supple. You won't drop things you want to hold.”

Tension, like a frigid extra skin about her torso, crept down her thighs. She had felt this way, standing in the wings before an entrance in the Music Center, so she took three deep breaths, clearing her lungs and diaphragm as she would if she were about to sing a long musical phrase.

Indeed, when her questing fingers closed on the large soapy-soft object in the center of the plasfoam, she exhaled a long, low “ah” of surprise.

«NO!» Enthor turned to her in outrage. «No, no,» and he darted forward, clapping his hand to her mouth. «Never sing around raw crystal! Especially» – and his tone intense with anger – «near black crystal!» He was so agitated that he blinked his lens on and off, and the red of his unprotected eyes effectively cowed Killashandra. Enthor looked about him in a frenzied survey to see if any one at the nearer tables had heard her. «Never!»

She didn't dare tell him at that juncture that the black crystal had vibrated in her hands at her spontaneous note and her finger bones had echoed the response of other segments still unpacked.

With an effort, Enthor regained his composure, but his nostrils flared, and his lips worked as he struggled for calm.

«Never sing or whistle or hum around raw crystal no matter what the color. I can only hope you haven't inhibited the magnetic induction of a whole ring linkage with that ill-advised – ah – exclamation. I'll say it was an exclamation if I should be asked.» He let out one more unaspirated breath and then nodded for her to take out the crystal.

Killashandra closed her eyes as she freed the heavy block. Enthor was not going to like this if she had indeed blurred raw crystal. Told she had been and at some length and with considerable emphasis by Tukolom all about the subtle and delicate process by which segments of the black quartz crystal were subjected to synchronized magnetic induction, which resulted in the instantaneous resonance between segments as far apart as five hundred light years. The resonance provided the most effective and accurate communications network known in the galaxy. That she might have inadvertently damaged the thick block she now exposed to Enthor's startled gaze weighed heavily in her mind.

With an intake of breath for which she might have returned him his caution on sound, Enthor reverently took the dodecahedron from her.

“How many more are with it?” he asked in an uneven voice.

Killashandra already knew how many there should be.

Twelve and there were. She retrieved them from their webbing, handing them carefully to Enthor, though they were not as massive or tall as the king crystal. They fit as snugly to the central block as they had lived with it until Gorren had cut the crystals from the quartz face.

“Well!” Enthor regarded the matched set on the scale.

«Are – are they all right?» Killashandra finally found a contrite voice for the urgent question.

Enthor's little hammer evoked a clear tone that rippled from her ear bones to her heels, like an absolving benison. Even without Enthor's verbal reassurance, she knew the crystal had forgiven her.

“Luck, m'dear. You seem to have used the note on which they were cut. Fortunate for me.”

Killashandra leaned against the sorting table to balance her shaky self.

"A set like this will provide a multiple linkage with thirty or forty other systems. "Magnificent!" By this time, Enthor was examining the thirteen crystals with his augmented vision. "He cut just under the flaw," he murmured, more to himself, then remembered the presence of Killashandra. "As one would expect Gorren to do."

Brusquely but with precise movements, he put the crystals on the scale. Killashandra allowed herself an unaspirated sigh at the size of the huge fortune in credits Gorren had just acquired.

“Magnificent!” Enthor said. Then he gave a chuckle, his glance back at Killashandra sly. “Only Lanzecki will have the devil's own time persuading Gorren to cut anything for the next two galactic years. There's not that much black being cut. Being found. Still in all, that's Lanzecki's problem, not mine. Not yours. Bring another carton, m'dear. You've the knack of picking them, it seems.”

“Luck,” Killashandra said, regarding the remaining boxes, none of which seemed to draw her as that other had done.

She would rather have been wrong but the rest of Gorren's cut was unexciting. The small clusters were unexciting. The small clusters, absolutely flawless, would be quite sufficient for the larger public entertainment units that provided realistic sensual effects, Enthor told her.

That night, most of the recruits insisted on her telling them about the black crystal, and Lanzecki and the chief marketing officer, for they had been unable to hear much and not permitted to stare. She obliged them, including a slightly exaggerated version of Enthor's dressing down that she felt would be salutary. Besides, the telling relieved the tension she still felt at how close she had come to buggering up enough credit to ransom a planet.

“What could they do to you if you had?” Shillawn asked, swallowing nervously as if he envisioned himself muffing it in a similar instance.

“I don't know.”

“Something bizarre, I'm sure,” Borton said. “Those Singers don't spare anyone if their cuttings are mishandled. I was lucky enough to be the sorter who did Uyad's cut.” Borton grinned. “I hid in the storage behind enough cartons, so I didn't get much of the back blast.”

“So that's where you were,” Jezerey asked, teasing.

“Bloody well told. I'm not here to bucket someone else's bilge.”

Conversation continued about the variety of cuts and sizes and colors of the crystals from the Brerrerton and Milekey Ranges. Killashandra added nothing else, considering it more discreet to remain silent. When she could do so without attracting attention, she rose and went to her room. She wanted to think and recall the sensation of handling that massive black crystal. It hadn't been really black, not black at all, nor clear the way the rose or indeed any of the other crystals had been. She had accepted the designation at the time, for surely Enthor knew his crystals, and certainly the black quartz was different.

She tapped data retrieval for all information on black quartz crystal and specimens there of. The data included black crystal in segmented units, none quite like the dodecahedron. Another display showed an octagon in its luminous, unchanged state, then the same form shading gradually to a matte black as it responded to thermal changes artificially induced. The data began to take up the lecture Tukolom had given, and she switched it off, lying back and recalling the sensation of her first contact with black crystal.

The next day, recovery teams brought in the cargo from sleds that had not reached the safety of the Guild Complex, and depression settled over the sorting room when the cartons, dinged, scarred, and discolored, were deposited on sorting tables. The mood was partially lightened when two containers disgorged some good triple and quadruple black crystal.

“What happens to them?” Killashandra asked Enthor in a low voice.

“To what?”

“The crystal of the Singer who didn't make it.”

“Guild.” Enthor's terse reply seemed to imply that this was only fair.

“But doesn't a Guild member have the right to dispose of the . . . things of which he dies possessed?”

Enthor paused before opening the carton before him.

“I suppose so,” he finally answered. “Problem is most Singers out live their families by hundreds of years; they tend to get very greedy; don't make many friends off-world and are unlikely to remember them if they have. I suppose some do. Not many.”

Half way through the next day, the backlog of crystal cartons having been substantially reduced, the recruits were assigned to help the hangar crew clean and resupply the Singers' sleds, for the storm was blowing itself out. There was some disgruntlement, but the hangar officer hadn't the look of someone to antagonize. It seemed to Killashandra that discretion was necessary.

“I'm not going to clean out someone else's filth for the nardy day's credits that gives,” Carigana said. “No one ever cleaned up for me in space, and I'm not doing it on the ground. Pack of vermin, that's all they are, for all their airs and arrogance.” She glared at the others, daring them to follow her example. Her contempt as she walked off was palpable.

Remembering the state of some of the sleds, Killashandra would have been sorely tempted to follow – if anyone other than Carigana had set the example.

“We do get paid. And it's better than twiddling your fingers!” Shillawn caught at Killashandra's arm as if he had divined her thoughts.

“Doesn't matter to me,” the hangar officer went on, forgetting Carigana the instant she was out of sight, “but there is a bonus for every rank finished. The first eight are already done. Singers can make life intolerable for those who don't assist them. This storm is nearly blown out, and there'll be Singers frothing to get into the ranges. Met'll give 'em clearance by midday tomorrow. Get on with it. Get 'em cleaned and stocked and the Singers out where they belong.”

He resumed his seat at the control console, peering out at the vast orderly ranks of air sleds where the regular suppliers were already at work. He frowned as his gaze rested briefly on the undecided recruits; the grimace deepened as he saw a damaged sled being hoisted for repair.

“There must be some way the Guild handles dossers like Carigana,” Borton said, squinting after the space worker. “She can't get away with it!”

“We don't have to clean up after a bunch of shitty Singers,” said Jezerey, her eyes flashing her personal rebellion. “I remember some of those sleds. Faugh!” and she pinched her nose shut with two fingers.

“I want a closer look at some of the equipment inside the sleds,” Rimbol said, turning on his heel toward the sled racks.

“Closer smell, too?” asked Jezerey.

"You get used to any stinks in time," Rimbol said, waving off that argument." 'Sides, it keeps my mind off other things."

“Those sleds will keep your mind off many things,” Jezerey snapped back.

They were all silent a moment, knowing exactly what Rimbol meant. They were near the earliest day of onset of the symbiotic fever.

“We do get paid. And the hangar officer mentioned a bonus . . .” Shillawn let his sentence fall off, swallowing nervously.

“Hey, you, there. You recruits. I could use some help.”

A supplier, by the shade of his uniform, leaned out of an upper level. Jezerey continued to grumble, but she followed the others toward the array of cleaning equipment.

Not since Killashandra had left her family's small tree farm on Fuerte had she had to muck out on this scale. By the fifth sled, as Rimbol had suggested, she had become inured to the various stenches. It was also, as he had said, worth the chance to examine a Crystal Singer's air sled first hand: at its worst and, after proper restoration, at its best.

The sled's control console took up the bow section, complete with pilot safety couch. Built into the couch's armrests were an assortment of manual over ride buttons. Alongside the main hatch were the empty brackets for the crystal cutter; the instruments were serviced after each trip to the ranges. The main compartment was the Singer's inrange living accommodations, adequate if compact. A thick webbing separated the forward sections from cargo storage and the drive section.

Her supplier, to give the ancient man his proper title, was so deaf that Killashandra had to shake him violently to get his attention. However, once she had asked a question (for his lip reading was good), she received an encyclopedic answer and a history of the particular sled and its Singer. The fellow might be elderly, but he worked so swiftly that Killashandra was hard-pressed to do her share in the same time.

The supplier, for he admitted no name to Killashandra's polite inquiry, seemed to have a passion for orderly, gleaming, well-stocked vehicles. Killashandra wondered at his dedication since the order he cherished would so soon deteriorate to slime and shit.

«One can always get at crystal,» the old man said. He invariably pointed out the five hatches: the one into the main compartment, the bottom through the drive area, and the two on either side and the top of the storage compartment. «Strongest part of the sled as well. On purpose, of course, since it's crystal is important. If a Singer gets injured, or worse» – and he paused reverently – «especially if Singer's injured, the crystal can be salvaged, and he isn't out of credit. Singers get very incensed, they do, if they're done on crystal, you know. Maybe you will. You be a recruit, don't you? So this is all new to you. Might be the only time you see a sled. Then again, it might not – no safety net is always fastened.» He did the catches himself a mild reproof to her quickness in stowing the empty crystal containers. «Can't have these, full or empty, bouncing about in flight or in a storm.»

He consulted his wrist-unit, peering around at the hatch to confirm the sled number.

“Oh, yes, special orders for this one. Never eats animal protein. Prefers non-acid beverages.” He beckoned to Killashandra to follow him to Stores. He took her past the sections from which they had been restocking, and into a blandly pink section. She rather hoped the food wasn't the same color. It'd be enough to put her off eating entirely.

The sled's catering unit did not allow much diversity, but the supplier assured her that the quality was always the best that was obtainable even if the Singers sometimes didn't realize what they were eating in the frenzy of their work.

Frenzy, Killashandra decided, was an inadequate description of the state in which most sleds had been left, though the supplier reminded her time and again that the storm that had forced all the Singers in had caused some of the internal spillage.

After another wearying day, she had helped clean and stock ten sleds, three more, her supplier noted, than he would have been able to do himself.

Technically, the next day was a rest day, but the hangar officer told the recruits that any who cared to continue would get double credit.

Shillawn shoved his hand up first; Rimbol, grimacing at Killashandra, followed with his; and she, perforce, volunteered as well. The hangar officer, however, was surprised when all present signaled their willingness. He grunted and then went back into his office.

“Why did we volunteer?” asked Jezerey, shaking her head.

Thoughts of double credits to be earned, staving off the pangs and uncertainties of debt!" Rimbol rolled his eyes. "My supplier had a thing about debt."

“Mine did, too,” Killashandra replied.

"At this rate" – and Borton pulled across his shoulders at aching muscles – 'we'll be ahead of the Guild even before we get the fever."

“They'll charge us for time off then without due cause,” said Jezerey sourly.

“No,” Shilawn corrected her. “All medical treatment is free.”

“Except you don't get paid for work you can't do.”

“May you never stand outside during a full Passover,” said Rimbol, intoning his blessing in a fruity voice.

“I don't think I've worked this hard since I was a kid on my father's fishing trawler,” Borton continued. “And fishing on Argma is done in the oooold-fashioned way.”

“Which is why you studied spaceflight?” asked Killashandra.

“Too right.”

“Well. you're slaving again.” said Jezerey, fatigue making her sullen.

“But we're Guild members,” Rimbol mocked her.

“Reducing our initial debt,” Shillawn added with a sigh of relief.

“All green and go!”

At Rimbol's quip, they reached the top of the ramp and the lounge. Rimbol made drinking motions to Killashandra, smiling wistfully.

“Not until I'm clean, really clean!”

“Me, too,” Jezerey said, her whole body giving way to a shudder.

They all made for their private quarters. Carigana's red-lit door caught Killashandra's gaze as she passed it.

“Don't worry about her, Killa. She's trapped by more than just the Guild,” Rimbol said, taking her elbow to move her on.

“I'm not sorry for her,” Killashandra replied, obscurely annoyed by herself and Rimbol's remark.

“No one's ever sorry about anything here,” Shillawn commented almost sadly. “No one thanks anyone. No one has good manners at all.”

This was very true, Killashandra thought as she wallowed in steaming – hot, scented water, scouring the stench of the day's labors from body and breath.

The matter of debt stuck in her mind, and the old supplier's obsession with it. She pulled the console before her as she lay languidly on her bed after her bath.

Suppliers earned more than caterer's assistants. And bonuses for speedy completion of their duty. She tapped for her own account and discovered that her labors were covering her living expenses and eating away at the shuttle fare. If she got double time for the next day and perhaps a speed bonus, she'd be clear of debt. It was only then that she remembered the two Guild vouchers. If she submitted them, she might even be able to pay for whatever equipment her post symbiosis rank required. A soothing thought. To be one step ahead of the Guild. Was that what prompted the supplier?

Out of curiosity, she asked for a roster of the Guild in rank order. It began with Lanzecki, Guild Master, then the chiefs of Control, Marketing, and Research, and the names of active Singers followed. That information wasn't in the form Killashandra wanted. She thought a moment and then asked for enlistment order. Barry Milekey was the first member of the Guild. The names, with the planet of origin, rolled past on the display. They must all be dead, she thought, and wondered that no such notation was made. Once a Crystal Singer, always a Crystal Singer? No, some of these must have been support personnel. If Borella's statistics were to be believed since the rate of adaptability to the symbiont spore had been low in the early days of the Guild. What did surprise her was that nearly every planet of the Federated Sentient Planets inhabited by her life form was represented on the Guild roster. Several planets had more than a fair share, but they were heavily populated worlds. There were even two Fuertans. That was an eye opener. What the listing did not show was when they had joined the Guild. The names must be listed in order of membership, for it was certainly not alphabetical. Borella's name flashed by, then Malaine's and Carrik's. She wondered if Enthor's had passed already but, on cue, his appeared. He originated from Hyperion one of the first planets settled in Alpha Proxima in the Great Surge of exploration and evaluation that forced the organization of the Federated Sentient Planets. Was he younger than Borella, Malaine, or Carrik? Or had he joined as an older man? And the supplier, who wouldn't admit to a name – when had he joined? She shuddered. Sorter aptly fitted Anthor's skill, whereas supplier was a glamorous title for a job that could have been done mechanically and wasn't. Cutter, applied to a Crystal Singer, certainly didn't imply the rank the designation commanded.

She flipped off the console. Computers hadn't changed all that much since their invention; one still had to know what question to ask even the most sophisticated system. The Guild's tremendous data banks, using Ballybran crystals with their naturally structured synapse like formation, stored data nonvolatilely for indefinite retention, but Killashandra was far more adept at finding obscure composers and performers than galactic conundrums.

Later. she joined the others in the lounge for a few drinks, wondering if Shillawn had fathomed any startling interpretations from his time with the data banks. He was far too involved in figuring out a mechanical means of cleansing the sleds, and Killashandra was glad when Rimbol tapped her arm and winked.

“I think I'm too tired for much, Killa,” he said as they reached his room, “but I'd like my arms around something warm, friendly, and in my decade.”

Killashandra grinned at him. “My sentiments entirely. Can your account stand a Yarran beer?”

“And one for you, too,” he replied, deliberately misinterpreting her.

They slept soundly and in harmony as if, indeed, the company kept was mutually beneficial. When the computer woke them, they ate heartily, without much conversation but still in accord, and then reported to the hangar officer. As they were the first to arrive, the man looked with some anxiety back up the ramp.

“They'll be along,” Rimbol told him.

“I've got sleds that must be ready by midday. You two start with these. Other numbers will come up on the display boards when I find out which flaming Singers will lift their asses out of the racks today.”

Killashandra and Rimbol hurried off, hoping to be out of his range if the other volunteers didn't arrive. They had cleaned and stocked eight sleds by midday. Numbers had disappeared periodically from the display, so Killashandra and Rimbol knew that other recruits had gone to work.

Almost at the stroke of 1200 hours, raised voices, echoing in the vastness of the hangar, warned Killashandra and Rimbol of the influx.

“I don't like the tone of that,” she said, giving a final swipe to the cutter brackets on the sled they had just readied.

“Sound of angry mob in the distance,” Rimbol said, and pulling her arm, urged her into the stock rooms and behind a half-empty section where they had a view of the rack beyond them as well as the hangar entrance.

Bangs, curses, metallic slammings, and the thud of plastic resounded. Drive motors started, too fast for such an enclosed space, Rimbol told Killashandra. She plugged her fingers in her ears. Rimbol grimaced at one particularly loud screech and followed her example. The exodus didn't take long, but Killashandra was wide-eyed at the piloting and wondered that the Singers didn't collide with such antics. As abruptly as the commotion had started, it ended. The final sled had veered off to the Brerrerton Ranges.

“We did eight sleds?” Rimbol asked Killashandra. “That's enough at double time. Let's go. I've had enough!”

When they reached the lounge, it was empty. Carigana's door was red-lit and closed. Rimbol still held Killashandra's hand. Now he pulled her toward him, and she swayed against his lean body.

“I'm not tired now. Are you?”

Killashandra was not. Rimbol had a way about him, for all his ingenuousness and deceivingly innocent appearance, that was charmingly irresistible. She knew that he counted on this appeal, but as he didn't disappoint and gave no evidence of possessiveness, she complied willingly. He was like his Yarran beer, cool, with a good mouth and a pleasant after taste: satisfying without filling.

They joined the others as they straggled back to the lounge, consoling themselves for their scraped and solution withered fingers with thoughts of the double credits accruing to their accounts.

“You know what the Guild can do, though?” Shillawn began, seating himself opposite Rimbol and Killashandra. He swallowed and then sipped at his own drink in quick gulps.

“Guild do what?” Borton and Jezerey asked, joining the others.

“About dossers like her.” Shillawn nodded his head in Carigana's direction.

“What?” Jezerey asked, sliding into a lounger, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“Well, they can reduce her rations.”

Jezerey didn't think much of that discipline.

“And other amenities can be discontinued at random.”

“Such as?” Jezerey realized that Shillawn's face was contorted more by amusement than the effort to speak.

«Well, such as cold water instead of hot: the same with food. You know, the cold hot and the hot cold. Then the computer takes to making noises and shuffling the sleeping unit. Other furniture collapses when least expected, and, of course, the door doesn't always respond to your print. And,» Shillawn was warming to the delighted response of his audience «and since you have to print in for any meals, and it wouldn't be accepted» – he spread both arms wide and smirked again – «all sorts of insidious, uncomfortable, miserable things can happen.»

“How in the name of any holy did you get the computer to tell you that?” Killashandra demanded. Her request was seconded by the others.

“Didn't ask the computer,” Shillawn admitted, casting his eyes away from them. “I asked the supplier I worked with yesterday.”

Rimbol burst out laughing, slapping his thighs. “The best computer is still the human brain.”

“That's about all my supplier has left that's human,” Shillawn said in a disgusted tone of voice.

“And that's happening to Carigan?” Jezerey asked, her expression hopeful.

“Not yet, but it could if she keeps up. Meanwhile, she's two days in debt for bed and biscuits, and we're four ahead.”

"Yet Guild rules state – " Borton began.

«Sure» – and Rimbol chortled again – «but they haven't deprived someone of shelter or sustenance, just made them bloody hard to acquire or uncomfortable.»

“I dread the thought of a future as a stockist or a supplier,” Jezerey said, echoing the unspoken anxiety in everyone, judging by the gloom that settled over the quintet.

“Think positively,” Shillawn suggested with a slight stammer that impeded the advice. “We've been here eight days now.”

“Well, we ought to know fairly soon,” Rimbol said. “We've been here eight days now.”

“Almost nine.” Shillawn's correction was automatic.

“Tomorrow?” Jezerey's voice held a tinge of horror.

“Could be much longer than ten days if I remember what Borella said about the incubation period,” Shillawn reassured her in a mock cheerful tone.

"That's enough, friend " Killashandra said firmly, and drained her beaker. "Let us eat, drink, and be merry – "

“For tomorrow we die?” Rimbol's eyebrows shot upward.

“I don't intend to die,” Killashandra replied. and ordered a double beaker of Yarran beer for herself and Rimbol.

They had quite a few refills before they went to bed together. As Killashandra woke in her own room, she assumed they'd ended up there, but Rimbol was gone. The light was far too brilliant for her eyes, and she dimmed the plasglas on the unshuttered windows. After the storm and its attendant hard labor, it was pleasant to look out on the hills. She scoffed at herself for missing 'a view.' The rain must have encouraged growth, for vivid reddish-purple blooms tinged the slopes, and the gray-green vegetation was brighter. Doubtless she would grow to love the seasonal changes of Ballybran. Until she'd gone with Carrik to see the sights of Fuerte, she hadn't quite appreciated natural scenery, too accustomed to the holograms used in performances.

Carigana was the first person she saw as she entered the lounge. Killashandra hoped the day would improve from that point. The space worker had an ability to ignore people, so that Killashandra was not obliged to acknowledge her presence. The woman's obstinacy annoyed her. No one had forced her to apply to the Heptite Guild.

The recruits were laggard, and by the time all had assembled, Tukolom was clearly impatient.

"Much to be done is this day," he said. "Basic lessons delayed have been – "

“Well, it will be a relief to sit and relax,” someone said from the center of the group.

“Relax is not thinking, and thought must earnest be,” Tukolom replied, his eyes trying to find the irreverent. “Geography today's study is. All of Ballybran. When adjusted you are, another continent may you be sent to.”

Carigana's exaggerated sigh of resignation was echoed by others, though Tukolom stared only at her for such a public display of insolence. Carigana's vocabulary of monosyllables punctuated Tukolom's fluid explanations throughout the morning until someone hissed at her to stop it.

Whoever had organized the lecture material had had a sense of humor, and though Killashandra wagered with herself that Tukolom could not have been aware of the amusing portions of his rote discourse, she, and others, waited for these leavening phrases. The humor often emphasized the more important aspects of the lessons. Tukolom might be reciting what he had patiently learned or switching mental frames in an eidetic review, but he had also learned to pace his delivery. Knowing the strain of uninterrupted speaking, Killashandra was also impressed by his endurance.

“I wouldn't mind farming in North Ballinteer,” Rimbol confided in her as they ate lunch during the midday break. “Nice productive life, snow sports in the winter . . .”

Killashandra stared at him. “Farmer?”

“Sure, why not? That'd be meters ahead of being a supplier! Or a sorter. Out in the open . . .”

“In mach storms?”

“You heard your geography lesson. The produce areas are 'carefully situated at the edge of the general storm belts or can be shielded at need'.” Rimbol imitated Tukolom's voice and delivery well, and Killashandra had to laugh.

That was when she saw a group moving together with a menacing deliberation, closing off one corner and its lone occupant. Noting her preoccupation, Rimbol swiveled and cursed under his breath.

“I knew it.” He swung out of his chair.

“Why bother, Rimbol? She deserves it.”

“She can t help being the way she is. And I thought you were so big on Privacy on your world. On mine, we don't permit those odds.”

Killashandra had to accede to the merit of that reply and joined him.

"What do I care about that?" Carigana's strident voice rose above the discreet murmur addressed to her by the group's leader. "And why should you? Any of you? They're only biding their time until we get sick. Nothing matters until then, not all your cooperation or attention or good manners or volunteering" – and her scorn intensified – to clean up messes in sleds. Not me! I had a pleasant day – What?" She snapped her head about to the questioner. "Debit?" She tossed her head back and laugher raucously. "They can take it out of my hide – later. Right now, I can get anything I want from stores. If you had any intelligence, you'd do the same thing and forget that stuffed mudhead – "

“You helped unload crystal . . .” Killashandra heard Jezerey's voice.

«Sure I did. I wanted to see this crystal, just like everyone else . . . Only» – and her tone taunted them – «I also got wise. They'll work you at every mean, disagreeable, dirty grind they've got until the spore gets you. Nothing will matter after that except what you're good for.»

“And what do you expect to be good for?” Jezerey demanded.

“Crystal Singer, like everyone else!” Carigana's expression mocked them for the ambition. “One thing sure. I won't be sorting or supplying or mucking in mud or . . . You play along like good cooperative contributing citizens. I'll do what I choose while I still have eyes and ears and a mind that functions properly.”

She rose quickly, pushing herself through the unsympathetic crowd, then pounded down the corridor to her room. The red light flashed on.

“You said something about Privacy?” Killashandra couldn't refrain from asking Rimbol as they turned desultorily away from the silent group.

“She does prove the exception,” he replied, unruffled.

“What did she mean about a mind that functions properly?” Jezerey asked, joining them. She was no longer as confident as she had been when confronting Carigana.

“I told you not to worry about it, Jez,” Borton said, coming behind her. “Carigana's got space rot, anyhow. And I told you that the first time I saw her.”

“She's right about one thing,” Shillawn added, almost unable to pronounce the 'th'. “Nothing really does matter until the symbiont spore works.”

“I wish she hadn't said 'sick',” and Jezerey emphasized her distaste with a shudder. “That's one thing they haven't shown us . . . the medical facilities . . .”

“You saw Borella's scar,” Shillawn said.

“True, but she's got full adaptation, hasn't she?”

“Anyone got headache, bellyache, chills, fever?” Rimbol asked with brightly false curiosity.

“Not time yet.” Jezerey pouted.

“Soon. Soon.” Rimbol's tone became sepulchral. Then he waved his hand in a silencing gesture and jerked his thumb to indicate Tukolom's return. He gave a heavy sigh and then grinned because he inadvertently echoed Carigana. “I'd rather pass time doing something . . .”

That was the unanimous mood as the recruits turned to their instructor. The ordeal of symbiotic adaptation was no longer an explanation delivered in a remote and antiseptic hall on a moon base: it was imminent and palpable. The spore was in the air they breathed, the food they ate, possibly in the contact of everyone they'd worked with over the past ten days.

Ten days, was it? Killashandra thought. Who would be first? She looked about her, shrugged, and forced her mind to follow Tukolom's words.

Who would be first? The question was in everyone's eyes the following morning when the recruits, with the exception of the obdurate Carigana, assembled for the morning meal. They sought each other's company for reassurance as well as curiosity. It was a bright clear day, the colors of the hills mellower, deeper, and no one raised any objection when Tukolom announced that they would visit the succession houses on the Joslin plateau where delicacies were grown.

When they arrived in the hangar for transport, they witnessed the return of a heavy-duty wrecker, a twisted knot of sled dangling from its hoist. The only portion of the air sled that resembled the original shape was the storage area, though the under and right hatch were buckled.

“Do they plan all this?” Rimbol quietly asked Killashandra in a troubled voice.

«The recovered sled? Perhaps. But the storm – C'mon now, Rimbol. Besides, what function would such a display serve? We're stuck here, and we'll be Singers. . . or whatever.» Killashandra spoke severely, as much to reassure herself as Rimbol.

He grunted as if he had divined her anxiety; then jauntily he swung up the ramp to their transport vehicle without another glance at the wreck.

They sat together, but neither spoke on the trip, although Killashandra began several times to point out beautiful clusters of flowering shrubs with vivid, often clashing, shades of red and pink. The gray had completely disappeared from the ground cover, and its rich deep green was now tinged with brown. Rimbol was remote, in thought, and she felt that fancies about flora would be an invasion of his privacy.

The moist humidity and lush aromas of the huge hothouses reminded Killashandra of Fuerte's tropical area, and Carrik. The agronomist demonstrated the baffles that deflected the mach winds from the plasroofs as well as the hydroponics system that could be continued without human assistance. He also lectured on the variety and diversity of fruits, vegetables, grasses, lichens, fungi and exotics available to the Guild caterers. When he went on to explain that research was a part of the Agronomy Department, improving on nature wherever possible in sweetness texture, or size, he led them outside the controlled-climate units.

“We must also improve on nature's whimsy,” he added just as the recruits noticed the work crews and the damage to the next building.

Killashandra exchanged glances with Rimbol, who was grinning. They both shrugged and joined the agronomists in finishing the storm repairs.

“At least, it's only finishing,” Rimbol muttered as he pressed a trigger on a screw gun. “What do they do when they haven't got three decades of recruits to fill up work gangs?”

“Probably draft suppliers and sorters and anyone else unoccupied. At least, here everyone takes a turn,” she added, noticing that both Tukolom and the chief agronomist were heaving plastic as willingly as Borton and Jezerey.

"There, now, you can let go, Killa." He stood back to survey the panel they had just secured. "That ought to hold . . . until another boulder gets casually bounced off the corner.

Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun to her left, Killashandra peered northerly, toward the crystal ranges.

“Don't even think about it,” Rimbol said, taking her hand down and turning her. He gathered up his tools. “I wonder what's in store for us tomorrow?”

He had no banter on the return trip, nor had anyone else. Killashandra wished she'd thought to ask the agronomist about the ground-cover plants and shrubs. And amused herself by wondering if he bothered with such common varieties.

Tension put an effective damper on recruit spirits that evening, a damper unrelieved even by some moderate drinking. Rimbol, who had been the class wit, was not disposed to resume that mantle.

“Are you all right?” Killashandra asked him as he stared into his half-empty beer.

“Me?” He raised his eyebrows in affected surprise at her question. “Sure. I'm tired. No more than the accumulation of more hard work in the past . . few days than I've had to do in years. Student living softens the muscles.”

He patted her arm, grinning reassuringly, and finished his beer, politely ending that subject. When she returned with a refill of her own beaker, he was gone. Well, she thought sadly, he has as much right to Privacy as I, and neither of us is good company tonight.

Sleep did not come easily that night for Killashandra. She doubted she was alone in her insomnia, though that was no consolation. Her mind continually reviewed the symptoms Borella had described for the onset of the adaptation. Fever? Would she recognize one, for she'd never had a severe systemic illness. Nausea? Well, she had had bad food now and again or drunk too much. Diarrhea? She'd experienced that from over eating the first sweet yellow melons as a girl. The thought of being completely helpless, weak in the thrall of an alien invasion – yes, that was an appropriate description of the process – was abhorrent to Killashandra. Cold swept across her body, the chill of fear and tension.

It had all seemed so easy to contemplate on Shankill: symbiosis with an alien spore would enrich her innate abilities, endow her with miraculous recuperative powers, a much increased life span, the credit to travel luxuriously, the prestige of being a member of a truly elite Guild. The attractive parts of a felicitous out come of her adaptation to the spore had, until this dark and lengthy night, far out weighed the unemphasized alternatives. Deafness? She wouldn't have sung professionally anyhow, not after what the judges had said about her voice, but the choice not to sing had to be hers, not because she couldn't hear herself. To be a sorter, like Enthor, with his augmented vision? Could she endure that? She'd bloody have to, wouldn't she? Yet Enthor seemed content, even jealous of his ability to value crystal.

Had she not desired to be highly placed? To be first sorter of the exclusive Heptite Guild qualified. How long would it take to become first sorter? With lives as long as those the inhabitants of Ballybran could lead?

How long would it have taken her to become a Singer of stellar rank, much less solo performer anywhere, had her voice passed the jury? The thoughts mocked her, and Killashandra twisted into yet another position in which to find sleep.

She was well and truly caught and had no one to blame but herself. Caught? What was it the older Singer had asked Borella on the shuttle? “How was the catch?” No, “Much of a catch?” “The usual,” Borella had replied. “One can never tell at this time.”

Catch? Pools like herself, warned by Carrik and Maestro Valdi, not to mention the FSP officials, were the catch, those who would trade solid reality for illusion – the illusion of being wealthy and powerful, feared, and set apart by the tremendous burden that came with crystal singing.

And no guarantee that one would become a Singer! Carigana had been right. Nothing would matter until adaptation, for none of the lectures and work had been specifically oriented toward the role of the Singer: nothing had been explained about the art of cutting crystal from the face, or how to tune a cutter, or where in the ranges to go.

Tossing, Killashandra recalled the contorted features of Uyad, arguing for credit to take him off-planet: the stained Singers stumbling from their sleds across the wind-battered hangar – and the condition of those sleds that gave an all too brutal picture of the conditions that Singers endured to cut enough crystal to get off the planet.

Yet Borella's voice had held longing when she spoke of returning to the crystal ranges . . . as if she couldn't wait.

Would singing crystal be analogous to having the lead role in a top-rank interstellar company?

Killashandra flailed her arms, shaking her head from side to side. Anything was better than being classed as an anonymous chorus leader. Wasn't it?

She rearranged her limbs and body into the classic position for meditation, concentrated on breathing deeply and pushing back all extraneous and insidious conjectures.

Her head was heavy the next morning, and her eyes felt scratchy in their sockets. She'd no idea how long she had slept finally, but the brightness of the morning was an affront to her mental attitude; with a groan, she darkened the window. She was in no mood to admire hillsides.

Nor was anyone else in a much better state, ordering their breakfasts quietly and eating alone. Nonetheless, Killashandra was disgusted not to have noticed the absences. Especially Rimbol's. Later, in a wallow of private guilt, she rationalized that she had been groggy with lack of sleep and certainly not as observant as usual. People were straggling into the lounge. It was Shillawn, stammering badly, who first noticed.

“Killashandra, have you seen Rimbol yet? Or Mistra?” Mistra was the slender dark girl with whom Shillawn had been pairing.

“Overslept?” was her immediate irritated reaction.

«Who can sleep through the waking buzz? He's not in his room. It's – too empty.»

“Empty?”

“His gear. He had things when he came. Nothing's there now.”

Killashandra half ran to Rimbol's room. It was, as Shillawn had said, very empty, without the hint of a recent occupation, antiseptically clean.

“Where is Rimbol, former occupant of this room?” Killashandra asked.

“Infirmary,” a detached voice said after a negligible pause.

“Condition?”

“Satisfactory.”

“Mistra?” Shillawn managed to ask.

“Infirmary.”

“Condition?”

“Satisfactory!”

«Hey, look, you two» – and Borton diverted the attention of the group waiting in the corridor – «Carigana's gone, too.»

The forbidding red light on that door was off.

Shillawn gulped, glanced apologetically at Killashandra. Carigana's condition, too, was satisfactory.

“I wonder if dying is considered satisfactory,” Killashandra said, seething with frustration.

“Negative,” replied the computer.

"So we get whisked away in the night and never seen again? Jezerey asked, clinging to Borton's hand, her eyes dark and scared.

“Distress being noted by sensitive monitors, proper treatment immediately initiated,” Tukolom said. He had arrived without being noticed. “All proceeds properly.” He accorded them an almost paternal smile that faded quickly to an intense scrutiny of the faces before him. Apparently satisfied, he beckoned them to follow him to the lounge.

“He makes me feel as if I ought to have come down sick, too,” Jezerey murmured so that just Killashandra and Borton heard.

“I wish the hell I had,” Killashandra assured her. She tried not to imagine Rimbol tossing feverishly, or convulsed.

“Today concerns weather,” Tukolom announced portentously and frowned at the groans from his audience.

Killashandra hid her face and gripped her fingers into fists until her nails dug painfully into her palms. And he has to pick today to talk about weather.

Some of what he said on the subject of meteorology as that science applied to Ballybran and its moons penetrated her depression. In spite of herself, she learned of all the safety devices, warnings, visual evidences of imminent turbulence, and the storm duties of Guild members. All available personnel were marshaled to unload Singers' air sleds, not just unclassified recruits.

Tukolom then guided his meek students to the met section of the Guild control rooms, and there they were able to watch other people watching satellite pictures, moon relays, and the printout of the diverse and sensitive instrumentation recording temperatures, suspended particles, wind speed and direction from the sensor network on the planet.

Killashandra didn't think much of herself as a met worker. The swirling clouds mesmerized her, and she found it difficult to remember which moon view she was supposed to observe. The computer translated the data into forecasts, constantly updated, compared, overseen by both human and machine. Another sort of symbiosis. One she didn't particularly care to achieve.

Tukolom shepherded them down to the hangar again, to accompany a maintenance crew to one of the nearby sensor units. They were filing aboard the transport when Jezerey went into a spasm, dropping to the plascrete, her face flushed. She moaned as a convulsion seized her.

Borton was on his knees beside her, but two strangers appeared as if teleported, inserted her into a padded cocoon, and bore her off.

“Entirely normal are such manifestations of the adaptation,” Tukolom said, peering into Borton's face as the man stared anxiously after his friend. “Delay these technicians longer we may not.”

“They don't bloody care,” Borton said in a savage tone, bouncing into the hard seat next to Killashandra. “She was a package to them. They're glad to see us get sick.”

“I'd rather come down than watch others,” Killashandra replied, softening her voice out of compassion for his distress. She already missed Rimbol's irreverent comments and his sustaining good humor. Borton had been paired with Jezerey all during their long wait on Shankill.

“Not knowing 'when' gets to you.”

Borton stared out at the hills passing under the transport, immersed in his concern, and she did not invade his privacy.

Jezerey's collapse cast a further pall over the remaining travel. Shillawn, sitting across the aisle from Killashandra, swallowed with such rhythmic nervousness that she couldn't look in his direction. The habit had always irritated her: now it was a major aggravation. She looked in the other direction past Borton, to the swiftly changing view. The colors of the brush, the stunted trees, even the glancing lights the sun struck from exposed rock formations formed a delightful visual display. Though she had always been acutely aware of stage motion, rhythm, and flow, Killashandra had not had much opportunity to view the natural state. The surface of this rugged, unkempt, ancient planet emphasized the artificiality of the performing arts world and its continual emphasis on the “newest” form of expression. She had once considered the performing arts the be-all and end-all of ambition. Ballybran, in its eternal struggle for survival against gigantic natural forces, appealed to another instinct in her.

The recruits examined the weather station, its sensors fully extended and the thick trunk of the unit completely extruded from the installation into which it retreated like a burrowing animal during “inclement weather.” Their guide's phrase occasioned wry laughter. He even smiled at their response. Ballybraners had struck Killashandra as a humorless crew, and she wondered if the fever would wrest her sense of the ridiculous from her. Rimbol wouldn't be the same person without his funning.

Tukolom then announced that they would assist the technician by applying to the weather station a protective film against gale-flung particles. The recruits had first to scrape off the previous application, not an arduous job since the gale had removed most of the substance, which was not a jelly, a lubricant or a true paint.

Killashandra found the scraping and painting soothing occupations, for she had to concentrate on keeping her brush strokes even. Overlapping was better than skimping. She could see where the alloy of the arm she worked on had been scored in thin lines that argued other workers had not been as conscientious. Concentration kept her from disturbing reflections such as Rimbol's being “satisfactory” and Jezerey's convulsions.

Borton demonstrated his anxieties by being loud in complaint on the return journey, nagging at Tukolom for more details than the “satisfactory” prognosis. Although Killashandra sympathized with the former shuttle pilot's concern for his friend, his harangues began to irritate. She was sorely tempted to tell him to turn it off, but the scraping and painting had tired her, and she couldn't summon the energy to speak.

When the transport settled back at the hangar, she made sure she was the last to descend. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath and quiet.

Nor was she refreshed at all by the bathing. She dialed for a Yarran beer and for information on Rimbol. He was continuing “satisfactory,” and the beer tasted off. A different batch, she thought, not up to the standard of the Guild at all. But she sipped it, watching the dying day color her hillside with rapid shifts into the deepest purples and browns of shadow. She left the half-finished beer and stretched out on her bed, wondering if the fatigue she felt was cumulative or the onset of the symbiotic fever. Her pulse was normal, and she was not flushed. She pulled the thermal cover over her, turned on her side, and fell asleep wondering what would be found for the remainder of the recruits to do on the morrow.

The waking buzz brought her bolt upright in the bed.

“Lower that narding noise!” she cried, hands to her ears to muffle the incredible din.

Then she stared about her in surprise. The walls of her quarters were no longer a neutral shade but sparkled with many in the all-too-brilliant morning sun. She turned up the window opacity to cut the blinding glare. She felt extraordinarily rested, clearer of mind than she had since the morning she realized she didn't owe Fuerte or the Music Center any further allegiance. As she made for the toilet, the carpeting under her bare feet felt strangely harsh. She was aware of subtle odors in the facility, acrid, pungent, overlaid by the scent she used. She couldn't remember spilling the container last night. The water as she washed her face and hands had a softness to it she had not previously noticed.

When she shrugged into her coverall, its texture was oddly coarse on her hands. She scrubbed them together and then decided that perhaps there'd been something abrasive in the paint she had used the day before. But her feet hadn't painted anything!

Noise struck her the moment the door panel opened. She flinched, reluctant to enter the corridor, which she was startled to find empty. The commotion was coming from the lounge. She could identify every voice, separating one conversation from another by turning her head. Then she noticed the guide stripe at the far end of the corridor, a stripe that was no longer dull gray but a vivid bluish purple.

She stepped back into her room and closed the panel, unable to comprehend the immense personal alteration that had apparently transformed her overnight.

“Am I satisfactory?” she cried out, a wild exultation seizing her. She threw her arms about her shoulders. “Is MY condition satisfactory?”

A tap on her door panel answered her.

“Come in.”

Tukolom stood there with two Guild medics. That did not surprise her. The expression on Tukolom's face did. The mentor drew back in astonishment, expressions of incredulity, dismay, and indignation replacing his customary diffidence. It struck Killashandra as peculiar that this man, who had undoubtedly witnessed the transformation of thousands of recruits, should appear displeased at hers.

“You will be conducted to the infirmary to complete the symbiosis.” Tukolom took refuge in a rote formula. His hand left his side just enough to indicate that she should leave with the medics.

Thoroughly amused at his reaction and quite delighted with herself, Killashandra stepped forward eagerly, then turned with the intention of picking up the lute. Now that she knew she'd have her hearing the rest of her life, she wanted the instrument.

“Your possessions to you will be later brought. Go!” Tukolom's anger and frustration were not overt. His face was suffused with red.

There was not the least physical or philosophical resemblance between Tukolom and Maestro Valdi, yet at the moment Killashandra was reminded of her former teacher. She turned her back on Tukolom and followed her guides to the ramp. Just as she emerged from the corridor, she heard Tukolom peremptorily calling for attention. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that every head was turned in his direction. Once again, she had made a major exit without an audience.