The Crystal Singer

CHAPTER 7

Killashandra leaned back from the terminal in her room, noted that the time display marked an early-morning hour. She was tired, her eyes hot with fatigue, and she was ravenous. But she had every bit of data she could extract from the Guild's banks that might be useful in narrowing her search for Keborgen's black-crystal claim. She keyed the program into the privacy of her personal record, then stood and walked stiffly, arching against the ache in her back, to the catering unit where she dialed for a hot soup. Though she had stored the data, she couldn't stop thinking about her plan. And all the obstacles to its implementation.

Keborgen was dead. His claims, wherever they had been, were now open according to the vast paragraphs on “Claims, the making and marking thereof, penalties for misappropriation, fines and restrictions,” and all subparagraphs. However, the claim first had to be found. As Enthor had said, that was the first problem. Killashandra might have theories about its location, but she had neither sled to get there and look nor cutter to take crystal from the “open” face. Her research revealed that Keborgen had worked the claim for at least four decades and analysis proved that twelve black crystal cuttings had come from the same face, the next to last one some nine years previously. The second problem, as Enthor had so pithily stated, was remembering.

To relieve the tedium of drill. Killashandra had asked Concera how Singers found their way back to claims after an absence, especially if memory was so unreliable.

“Oh,” Concera had replied airily, “I always remember to tell my sled what landmarks to look for. Sleds have voice print recorders so they're dead safe.” She hesitated, looking in an unfocused way that was habitual with her. “Of course, storms do sometimes alter landmarks, so it's wiser to record contour levels and valleys or gorges, things that aren't as apt to be rearranged by a bad blow. Then, too,” she continued in a brighter voice, “when you've cut at a particular face a few tunes, it resonates. So if you can recall even the general direction and get there, finding the exact spot is much easier.”

“It isn't so much singing crystal then, as being sung to by crystal,” Killashandra had noted.

“Oh, yes, very well put,” Concera said with the false cheerfulness of someone who hadn't understood.

Killashandra finished the soup and wearily shuffled to the bedroom, shedding her coverall. She wasn't unsatisfied with the information she'd accumulated. She could narrow the search to older claim markings in the geographical area dictated by the top speed of Keborgen's elderly sled, the time the storm warning was issued, and the registered storm wind speed.

She fretted about one point. Keborgen's sled recorder. She had seen the sled being dismantled, but would the Guild technicians have rescued the record for the data that might be retrieved? She wasn't certain if anyone had ever broken a voice code. It hadn't been so much as whispered that it was possible. Though the rules did not state the Guild was able to take such an action, a terrible breach of privacy under FSP rights, the Charter didn't specifically deny the Guild that right, either, once the member was dead. On the other hand, Trag had said that private personal records were irretrievable.

The darkness and absolute silence of her bedroom compounded her sudden doubt. The Guild could and occasionally did exhibit a certain ruthlessness. For sanity's sake, she had better decide here and now whether or not the Guild adhered faithfully to its stated and endlessly cited principles. She took a sudden comfort in the very length of the Charter. Its voluminous paragraphs and sections obviously reflected contingencies and emergencies that had been dealt with over four hundred years of usage and abuse.

With a sigh, Killashandra turned over. Avoiding restrictions and defying laws were completely in the human condition. As the Guild prohibited, it also protected or the bloody planet would have been abandoned to the spores and crystal.

She woke later in the morning to the insistent buzz of her terminal. She was informed that her cutter was now ready and she was to collect it and report to training room 47. Groggy from insufficient sleep, Killashandra took a quick shower and ate a good meal. She found herself directing glances to the computer console, almost as if she expected last night's data to spring from the cover and expose itself.

Computers had to deal with fact, and she had one advantage that wouldn't compute: a sensitivity to black crystal – Keborgen's black crystal. Computers did not volunteer information, either, but she had few doubts that with the news of Keborgen's death, the opening of his rich claim would be widely known. Only 39 Singers had come in from that same storm. She couldn't know how many other Singers had returned from leave and were available to search. She knew that the odds against her finding the claim were good on the one hand and unlikely on the other. The delivery of her cutter she took as propitious.

She was waiting for the lift when she heard her name called in an incredulous shout.

“Killashandra! I'm recovered. I'm a Singer, too.”

Herself astonished, she turned to find Rimbol striding toward her.

“Rimbol!” She returned his enthusiastic embrace, acutely aware that she hadn't given him any thought at all in several days.

“I was told you'd got through the transition satisfactorily, but no one else's seen you. Are you all right?” Rimbol held her from him, his green eyes searching her face and figure. “Was it just the fever, or did you come see me at one point?”

“I did at several points,” she replied with perfect truth and instinctive diplomacy. “Then I was told that I was interfering with your recovery. Who else is through?”

Rimbol's expression changed to sorrow. “Carigana didn't make it. Shillawn is deaf and has been assigned to research Mistra, Borton, Jezerey, bless the pair; in total twenty-nine made it. Celee, the spacer, made only a tolerable adjustment, but he's got all his senses, so he's been shunted to shuttle piloting. I don't think that goes against his grain, anyway.”

“And Shillawn? Does he mind?” Killashandra knew her voice was sharp, and Rimbol's face clouded until she hugged him. He was going to have to learn not to care so much about people now. “I really think Shillawn will be happier in research than cutting. Celee was already a pilot, so he's lost nothing . . . Antona told me Carigana wouldn't surrender to the spore.”

Rimbol frowned, his body stiffening so that she released him.

“She rebelled against everything, Rimbol. Didn't you ask Antona?”

“No.” Rimbol ducked his head, a silly grin on his face. “I was afraid to while others were going through transition.”

“Now it's all over. And you're installed on Singer level.” She saw the wrist-band and showed him hers. “Where 're you bound for now?”

“To be fitted with my cutter.” His green eyes brightened with enthusiasm.

"Then we can go together. I'm to collect mine. They had entered the lift, and Rimbol half turned in surprise.

“Collect it?”

“They did tell you how long you've been ill. didn't they?” Killashandra knew her quick question was to give herself time. Rimbol's eyes mirrored surprise and then perplexity. “Oh, I lucked out. I had what Antona calls a Milekey transition, so they pushed me out of the infirmary to make room for someone else and put me into training to keep me out of mischief. Here we are, and don't mind the technician's manner. He hates to be kept from his fishing.”

They had come to the cutter office and found Jezerey, Mistra, and two others.

“Killashandra! You made it!”

Killashandra thought there was a note of unwelcome surprise in Jezerey's voice. The girl looked gaunt and had lost her prettiness.

“Quiet out here,” the Fisher said, his voice cutting through Killashandra's attempt at reply. He had a cutter in his hand, patently new.

“You Killashandra,” and he beckoned her brusquely to the counter as the others stepped back.

Killashandra was uncomfortably aware of the attention focused on her as she accepted the device. Then she curled her fingers around the power grip, the right hand on the guide, and forgot embarrassment in the thrill of being one step closer to the Crystal Ranges. She gave a little gasp as she saw that her name had been incised in neat letters on the plas housing that covered the infrasonic blade.

“Bring that back to be serviced after every trip, D'you hear? Otherwise, don't fault me when it doesn't cut proper. Understand?”

Killashandra would have thanked him, but he had turned to the others, beckoning to Borton. Cutter in hand, Killashandra turned and saw the indignation in Jezerey's eyes, the hurt, surprise, and betrayal in Rimbol's.

“Antona tossed me out of the infirmary,” she said, more to Rimbol than the others, but they all seemed to accuse her, “So the Guild put me to work.”

Holding her head high, she gave them all a polite smile and left the office.

As she marched down the hall to the lift shafts, she was perversely angry with herself, with their ignorance, and with the Guild for thrusting her ahead of the others. She remembered similar scenes in the Music Center when she had achieved a role or an instrumental solo after unremitting practice and knew that the majority of her peers had favored another. Then she had been responsible. Now, though she had done nothing, consciously, to provoke her fellow recruits, she was being faulted because she'd had a bit of luck, just as she'd been blamed at the Music Center for hard work. What was the use!

“Watch that fardling cutter!” A savage tone interrupted her mortified self-pity, and someone shoved her to the right with unnecessary force. “I said, watch it!”

The man backed hastily away from her, for Killashandra had instinctively raised the cutter at the aggressive voice. Her confusion was further complicated by the knowledge that she had been careless and now was acting the fool. To be brought to task did not improve her temper.

“It's not on.”

“It's bloody dangerous, on or off. Haven't you had the proper guidance with that?” The tall man glaring at her was Borella's companion from the shuttle.

“Then complain to Borella! She instructed us.”

“Borella?” The Singer stared at her with a perplexed frown. “What has she to do with you?”

“I was one of her recent 'catch,' I believe was her word.”

His frown increased as his eyes flicked over her, pausing at the wristband.

“Just received your cutter, my dear?” He smiled now with supercilious condescension. “I'll forget any charge of discourtesy.” With a slight bow and a sardonic grin, he strode on to the workshop.

She stared after the man, aware again of the strange magnetism of the Crystal Singer. She'd been furious with him, and yet her anger had been partially fed by his diffidence and her wish to impress him. Had Carrik once been like that, too? And she too green to know?

She continued to the lift and entered. The encounter with the Singer had restored some perspective to her. Whatever else, she was a Crystal Singer: more of one than the rest of her class by a physical anomaly and a time factor that were no connivance of hers.

As she entered training room 47, she received another surprise. Trag was there, leaning against a heavy plastic table, arms folded across his chest, obviously awaiting her.

“I'm not late?” she asked, and experienced a second jolt of confusion, for the tones of her question seemed to echo sourly in the room. Then she saw the unmistakable plasfoam cartons on the table behind Trag. “Oh, how curious?”

“Soured crystal,” he said, his deeper voice resounding as hers had. Then he extended his hand for her cutter.

She released it to him, somewhat reluctantly since it was so recent an acquisition. He inspected every part of the device, even unsheathing the infrasonic blade, which he gave the keenest scrutiny. He moved to her left side, proffering the cutter and watching as she took it by the grips. He checked her hand position and nodded.

“You are familiar with the controls?” he asked, although he must have known that the Fisher had carefully explained them. “And the process of tuning?” She nodded again, impatient with the catechism.

Now with a disregard for its contents that made her catch her breath, he dumped onto the plastic table a crystal carton. Trag grinned.

“This is soured crystal. Sent to us from some of the nearer systems which never bother to employ tuners. These will teach you how to learn that weapon you carry.”

For one horrified second, Killashandra wondered if Trag had been a witness to her encounter with the other Singer. She glanced down at the device which she realized, could be used as a weapon.

From the carton, Trag took five octagons of rose crystal. With a hammer similar to the one Enthor had used, he tapped each in turn. The third crystal was sour, off significantly.

«Now the five must be retuned to match. I suggest you sing them a full note below this» – and he tapped the faulty octagon – «and shave the top of this until it rings pure against the infrasonic cutter.» He placed the soured crystal in an adjustable standing vise. He tightened the braces and tugged to be sure the crystal was secure. «When this sings properly, you merely recut the others in scale.»

“How did it go sour?”

“Bracket flaw. Common enough in rose quartz.”

“Dominant or minor?”

“Minor will be acceptable.”

He nodded at her control grip, and she turned on the cutter, remembering to brace her body against the power that would surge through the handle. Trag tapped the sour crystal with his hammer, and she sang the minor note below, twirling the tuner with her thumb until the sound of the cutter matched her pitch.

The crystal screamed as she laid the blade against it. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to pull away.

“Slice it evenly,” Trag commanded, his abrupt order steadying her.

The rose scream blended into a purer tone as the infrasonic cutter completed its surgery. Trag signaled her to turn off the cutter, ignoring her trembling hold. He tapped the crystal, and it sang a pure A minor. He tapped the crystal next in line. A major.

“Go to the G minor,” he said, fastening the second octagon in place.

Killashandra found it took an effort to erase the echo of the major note from her mind. Turning on the cutter, setting the tuner to G minor, this time she was ready for the power surge and the cry of crystal. It was not as shrill, but the rose octagon seemed to resist the change in note as she drew the blade across it. Trag tapped the recut G minor and nodded approval, setting the third in the vise.

When Killashandra had recut the five, she felt drained and, in a bizarre fashion, elated. She had actually cut crystal. She leaned against the table, watching Trag repack them and make appropriate notations on the carton. Then he reached for a second container. Bracket rub again, and Trag made a few derogatory comments on technicians who did not recognize that proper bracketing prolonged the life of crystal.

“How would beginners like me learn if someone didn't make such mistakes?” she asked. “You surely don't use fresh crystal from the ranges.”

"Those octagons were relatively new. They ought not need tuning yet. I object to carelessness in any form.''

Killashandra rather thought he would and determined to give him no cause to complain about her.

She recut the contents of nine boxes, twelve sets of crystal, blue, yellow, and rose. She had earnestly hoped that one of the boxes might reveal black crystal and as the last box was unpacked to expose two squat blue dodecahedrons, one with a vertical split, she asked if black never had to be recut.

“Not within my service,” Trag said, glancing at her keenly. “That is partly because the segments are separated and partly because their installation is handled by technicians of impeccable training and standard. Black does not suffer from bracket erosion or mishandling. Black crystal is too valuable.” He put the damaged blue into the brace, split side exposed. “This will require a slightly different technique with your blade. If you slice off the damaged portion entirely, you will have destroyed the symmetry of the form. Therefore, the entire piece must be reshaped, scaled down in the dodecahedron. Ordinarily, one goes from major to minor, minor to major down the scale. This time, you must drop at least a sixth to achieve a pure note. As blues are nearly as common as rose, error presents no great loss. Relax. Proceed.”

Killashandra had felt unequal to such an exercise, but Trag's inference that she could err with impunity stiffened her resolve. She heard the sixth below the moment she tapped the blue, set her cutter, and was slicing before he had time to step out of her way. She made the next two cuts without hesitation, listening to the change of pitch in the crystal. Curtly, she nodded for him to turn the dodecahedron in the vise and did three more passes. Only when she had completed the recutting did she turn off her device. Then she stared challengingly at Trag. Blandly, he placed the second crystal in the grips, tapped it and then the recut dodecahedron. They were in tune with each other.

“That is sufficient for one day, Trag.”

At the unexpected voice behind her, Killashandra whirled, the cutter again rising in automatic defense, as Lanzecki finished speaking. With the slightest movement of his lips, he eyed the blade turned broadside to him. Instantly, she lowered it and her eyes, embarrassed and agitated by her reaction, and utterly wearied by the morning's intense concentration.

“I'd always heard that Fuerte was a pacific planet,” Lanzechi said. “Nevertheless, you take to cutting well, Killashandra Ree.”

“Does that mean I can get into the ranges soon?”

She heard Trag's snort at her presumption, but Lanzecki did not reflect his chief assistant's attitude. The brown eyes held hers. Meeting that appraising stare, she wondered why Lanzecki was not a Crystal Singer: he seemed much more, so much more than Carrik or Borella or any of the other Crystal Singers she had met or seen.

«Soon enough not to jeopardize a promising career. Soon enough. Meanwhile, practice makes perfect. This exercise» – and Lanzecki gestured to the boxes of tuned crystal – «is but one of several in which you must excel before you challenge the ranges.»

He was gone in one of those fluid movements that was swift enough to make Killashandra wonder if Lanzecki had actually made his visit. Yet his brief appearance was undeniable by the effect he had on her and Trag.

The assistant Guild Master was regarding her with covert interest.

“Take a radiant bath when you reach your quarters.” Trag said. “You are scheduled for sled simulator practice this afternoon.” He turned away in dismissal.

The training pattern held until the next rest day, though she wished the two elements could have been reversed, with the sled simulation in the morning when her reflexes were fresher and the cutting in the afternoon so she could collapse. There proved to be a reason for that apparently irrational schedule. As she would invariably be flying the sled after she had cut crystal, she must learn to judge blunted reactions.

The radiant baths, the viscous liquid a gentle pressure on her tired body, its thick whirling like the most delicate of massages, did freshen after a morning's intense cutting drill. She checked with the computer and discovered that she was being paid a tuner's wage for her morning work but charged for the flight officer's instruction in the afternoon.

After six days of such an exhausting routine, she looked forward to a day of relaxation. A low-pressure ridge was moving in from the White Sea, so rest day might be cloudy with rain. She had begun to develop the Ballybraners' preoccupation with meteorology, encouraged by Trag's invariable questions about weather conditions at the start of each training session.

Her flight instructor also pressed heavily on weather wise acumen. His insistence made more sense than Trag's since a good deal of her simulation drill involved coping with turbulence of varying degrees and types. She began to distinguish among the tonal differences of the warning equipment with which the simulator was equipped. Sound could tell her as clearly as the met display the kind and scope of the gale her practice flights trained her to survive.

Privately, Killashandra decided the warnings were an over kill situation; after being banged at, rung out, and buzzed, your mind would turn off most of the noise. The nerve tingler, last of the series of cautionary devices, couldn't be ignored.

Meanwhile, her practice performance developed from merely adequate to perfect automatic reaction as she simulated flights over every sector of Ballybran, land, sea, and arctic ice. She learned to identify, within seconds of their being displayed on her plan board, the major air and sea currents everywhere on the planet.

As she practiced, so she learned confidence in her vehicle. The sled was highly maneuverable with VTOL capabilities and a variety of assists to the basic crystalline drive, which had been highly refined for Ballybran's unusual conditions.

Killashandra had had only glimpses of the other members of Class 895. Rimbol had waved cheerfully at her from a distance, and she saw Jezerey scooting across the hangar floor once, but Killashandra wouldn't count on her tolerance unless the girl's temper had markedly improved since the last time they'd met. Jezerey might be more amenable now that she and the others were in full training.

She saw Borton first as she wandered into the Commons hall of the Singers' level. It was an evening when most of the Guild's full members could relax. No storms were expected despite the low-pressure ridge, and Passover – the ominous conjunction of the three moons that produced the fiercest storms – was nine weeks away. Borton didn't see Killashandra, for he and the others in the lounge with him were on the far side. Augmented vision had advantages: see first; plan ahead.

She ordered Yarran beer, a beaker for herself and a pitcher for the group. She was annoyed with herself for anticipating a need for subtle bribery, but an offer made in good faith was unlikely to be refused. Especially of Yarran beer.

Borton saw her coming when she was about twenty meters away. His expression was of mild surprise, and he beckoned to her, speaking to someone hidden from view by the high back of the seating unit. A stir, exclamations, and Rimbol emerged, meeting her with a wide grin. The sense of relief she felt caused the pitcher to wobble.

“Don't waste a drop of good Yarran,” he admonished, rescuing it. “Not everyone's down. Some are flaked out in radiant tanks. Shillawn has been transferred to the North Helton continent. That's where they do most of the pure research. Would you believe it, Killa? He doesn't stammer anymore.”

“No!”

“Antona said the symbiosis must have corrected the fault in his palate.” Rimbol was being determinedly affable, Killashandra thought as she took a place on the wide seating unit. Jezerey, seated in a corner of the unit, acknowledged Killashandra's arrival with a tight smile, Mistra nodded, and Celee and two other men whose names she couldn't call to mind greeted her. All of them looked tired.

“Well, I can't really say I'm sorry Shillawn didn't make it as a Singer because he certainly won't be wasted in research,” Killashandra said, raising her beaker in a circular toast to him.

“You mean, you haven't cut crystal yet?” Jezerey asked, a strident note in her voice as she pointed to the wristband evident as Killashandra made her toast.

“Me? Bloody no!” The disgust and frustration in her tone made Rimbol laugh, head thrown back.

“I told you she hadn't got that far,” he said to Jezerey. “She only collected the cutter the day we met her.”

Killashandra overtly eased the band on her wrist, aware now that it constituted her passport to friendship as well as to Singer levels.

“Furthermore, Jezerey,” she went on, letting resentment sharpen her words, “I'll be spending weeks more tuning crystal and simulating gale flights before I'm so much as allowed to put my nose past skimmer chart range. And by then there'll be Passover storms!”

“Oh, yes.” Jezerey's attitude brightened, and her smile was complacent. “We'll all be storm bound then.”

Killashandra was sensitive to the perceptible change of the atmosphere around her and decided to secure the advantage.

"I may be a little ahead of you in training – you do know that injured Singers take it on only for the bonuses? Good. Well, once you've got those wretched cutters, you'll know what 'tired' means. Cut in the morning, then they send you on simulator flights, and when you're not doing either of those, it's drill; regs, rules, claims, fines – " Groans rose from her listeners. "Ah, I see you're getting the drills."

So what other jollies are we to get? Rimbol asked, his eyes sparkling with an almost malicious delight.

Most of those present were interested in any details she'd give concerning the retuning of crystal. She explained as best she could, truthfully if not fully, for she said nothing about Lanzecki's flattering appearances, her empathy with black crystal, and the rapid progress she seemed to be making in cutting difficult forms. She found it took an effort to be discreet, for she had never practiced tact in the Music Center. She'd be spending the rest of a very long life with these people, had nearly lost their friendship once through circumstances beyond her control, and she wasn't knowingly going to jeopardize it again.

Sufficient beer and other intoxicants were consumed by the recruits to make it a convivial evening. Killashandra found herself ready to be on old terms with Rimbol, and many of the tensions that had built over the past few weeks were dissolved in that most harmonious of activities.

When they woke, rested, they continued, although Killashandra was a trifle surprised to find that they had ended up in Rimbol's quarters. Location made little difference, as the apartments were in every respect similar. He had done little to furbish his rooms and solicited Killashandra's assistance. In this way. they passed agreeable hours and virtuously ended with a game reviewing rules and regulations from the clue of a phrase. In the glow of utter relaxation, Killashandra came very close to mentioning Keborgen's black crystal to Rimbol, rationalizing her evasion later by her desire not to burden her friend with unnecessary detail.

The next week, she suggested to Concera that she join the others in their classes rather than hold Concera up. The Singer's two fingers were complete except for nails.

“You're not holding me up,” Concera replied, her eyes sliding past Killashandra's, her mouth pursing with angry frustration. “Those others evidently have priority over a Singer of my long standing. Besides, I only accepted you as a favor, I much prefer single teaching to group learning. Now let's go on to claims and counterclaims.”

“I know those paragraphs sideways, frontwise, and backward.”

“Then let's start in the middle of one,” Concera said with unexpected levity.

As Killashandra really could rehearse claims and counterclaims as well as she boasted, she could also let her mind deal with her biggest problems: how to get her sled, how to get Lanzecki's attention and obtain clearance to cut crystal rather than chant about it. With the prodigious Passover storms looming only nine weeks off, she had to speed up. Research in the data banks about post – Passover problems indicated that it would be weeks before a new Singer would be permitted to claim hunt in ranges made more dangerous than ever by the ravages of Passover. Keborgen's claim could be so altered that her sensitivity to his black crystal might be nullified. Mach storms could damage or substantially alter an exposed crystal face, flawing deep into the vein and rendering it useless. She had to get out soon.

Lanzecki had been in the habit, over the preceding two weeks, of appearing as if teleported, generally when Killashandra was retuning crystal under Trag's scrutiny. Once Lanzecki had sat in the observer's seat of the sled simulator while she flew a particularly hazardous course. Instead of making her nervous, his presence had made her fly with heightened perception. Lanzecki also roamed through the Commons in the evenings, stopping for a word with this or that group, sorter, or technician. Now, when she very much wished him to materialize, he wasn't anywhere to be seen.

The fourth day, she casually asked Concera if she'd encountered the Guild Master and was told that Trag would know better where to find him. Trag was not the easiest person to question or converse with at all except in the handling of cutter or about incisions into crystal. Gathering all her self-assurance, Killashandra resorted to stratagem on the sixth day.

Trag had her shaving cones: she had ruined three the day before and quite expected to spend the morning's lesson avoiding future failures. After she had made a cut, she would look behind her. The fourth time, Trag frowned.

“Your attention span has been longer. What's the matter?”

“I keep thinking the Guild Master will appear. He does, you know, when I least expect it.”

“He's on Shankill. Attend to your business.”

She did, with less enthusiasm than ever, deeply grateful that the morrow was a rest day. She had half promised to spend that evening and the next day with Rimbol: half promised because her urgency to reach the ranges was in no way shared by the young Scartine. Trag released her at the end of the gruelingly precise session, his impassive face giving her no indication that she had learned to cut cones properly, though she felt in every muscle of her aching hands that she had achieved some proficiency.

She considered a radiant bath before the afternoon's flight practice. Instead, she put in a call for Rimbol: his company would be a soothing anodyne for her increasing frustration. Waiting for his answer, she had a quick hot shower. She paced her apartment, wondering where in hell's planets Rimbol had got to. Her mealtime was nearly gone, and she hadn't eaten. She ordered a quick meal from the catering unit, bolting the hot food, adding a seared mouth to her catalog of grievances before she went to the hangar level.

She was now one of many using the sled simulator so she had to be on time. She knew the flight was only an hour long, but this one, a complicated wind and night problem that kept her preternaturally alert and made her wish she'd taken the radiant bath instead of the shower, seemed endless. She was very pleased to avoid several crashes and emerge unscathed from the simulator. She waved impudently at the flight training officer in his booth above the sled and passed the next student, Jezerey, on her way.

“He's either crash happy or he hates me,” Killashandra commented to Jezerey.

“Him? He's crazy. He killed me three times yesterday.”

“Kill or cure?”

“That's the Guild's motto, isn't it?” Jezerey replied sourly.

Killashandra watched the girl enter the simulator, wondering. She hadn't been killed yet. She thought of going to the ready room and watching Jezerey's flight. No one else was in the ready room, so she dialed a carbohydrate drink to give her blood sugar level a boost. She was watching Jezerey take off when she became conscious of someone in the doorway. She turned and saw the Guild Master.

“I understand you've been looking for me,” he said to compound her astonishment.

“You're on Shankill. Trag told me so this morning.”

“I was. I am here now. You have finished your afternoon's exercises?”

“I think they've about finished me.”

He stood aside to indicate she should precede him.

“The severity of the drills may seem excessive, but the reality of a mach storm is far more violent than anything we can simulate in the trainers,” he said, moving toward the lift while touching her elbow to guide her. “We must prepare you for the very worst that can occur. A mach storm won't give you a second chance. We try to insure that you have at least one.”

“I seem to hear that axiom a lot”

“Remember it.”

Killashandra expected the lift to plummet to the Singers' level. Instead, it rose and, tired as she was, she swayed uncertainly. Lanzecki steadied her, hand cupped under her elbow.

“The next bad storm is Passover, isn't it?” She was making conversation because Lanzecki's touch had sent ripples along her arm. His appearance in the ready room had already unnerved her. She glanced sideways at him as unobtrusively as possible, but his face was in profile. His lips were relaxed, giving no hint of his thoughts.

“Yes, eight weeks from now is your first Passover.”

The lift stopped, and the panels retracted. Killashandra stepped with him out into the small reception area. No sooner had he turned to the right than the third door opened. The large room they entered was an office, with one wall covered by a complex data retrieval system. Printout charts hung neatly from the adjacent wall. Before it, a formidable console printed out fax sheets that neatly folded into a bin. Several comfortable chairs occupied the center of the room, one centered at the nine screens that displayed the meteorology transmissions from the planet's main weather installations and the three moons.

"Yes, eight weeks away," Killashandra said, taking a deep breath, "and if I don't get out to the ranges before it comes, it will be weeks, according to every report I've scanned – "

Lanzecki's laugh interrupted her.

“Sit.” He pushed two chairs together and pointed a commanding finger to one.

Amazed that the Master of the Heptite Guild laughed and infuriated because she had not been able to state her case, she dropped without much grace into the appointed chair, her self-confidence pricked and drained. Presently she heard the familiar clink of beakers. She looked up as he handed one to her.

“I like Yarran beer myself, having originated on that planet. I'm obliged to the Scartine for reminding me of it.”

Killashandra masked her confusion by drinking deeply. Lanzecki knew a great deal about Class 895. He raised his glass to her.

“Yes, we must get you out to the ranges. If anyone can find Keborgen's claim, it's likely to be you.”

Feeling the beaker slip through fingers made nerveless by shock, she was grateful when he took the glass and put it on the table he swung before her.

«Conceit in a Singer – voice or crystal – can be a virtue, Killashandra Ree. Do not let such single-mindedness blind you to the fact that others can reach the same conclusions from the same data.»

“I don't. That's why I've got to get out into the ranges as soon as possible.” Then she frowned. “How did you know? No one followed me that night. Only you and Enthor knew I'd reacted to Keborgen's crystals.”

Lanzecki gave her a long look that she decided must be pity, and she dropped her gaze, jamming her fingers together. She wanted to pound him or stamp her feet violently or indulge in some release from the humiliation she was experiencing.

Lanzecki, sitting opposite her, began to unlock her fingers one by one.

“You played the pianoforte as well as the lute,” he said, his finger tips gently examining the thick muscle on the heel of her hand, the lack of webbing between her fingers, their flexible joints and callused tips. If this hadn't been her Guild Master, Killashandra would have enjoyed the semicaress. “Didn't you?”

She mumbled an affirmative, unable to remain quite silent. She was relieved, taking a deeply needed breath as he leaned back and took up his drink, sipping it slowly.

“No one did follow you. And only Enthor and I knew of your sensitivity to Keborgen's black crystal. Very few people know the significance of a Milekey transition beyond the fact that you somehow escaped the discomforts they had to endure. What they will never appreciate is the totality of the symbiotic adjustment.”

“Is that why Antona wished me luck?”

Lanzecki smiled as he nodded.

“Does that have something to do with my identifying black crystal so easily? Did Keborgen have a Milekey, too?”

“Yes, to both questions.”

“That totality didn't save his life, did it?”

“Not that time,” he said mildly, ignoring her angry, impudent question. Lanzecki voice-cued a display screen, and the guild s chronological roster appeared. Keborgen's name was in the early third. “As I told you that evening, the symbiont ages too, and is then limited in the help it can give an ancient and abused body.”

“Why Keborgen must have been two hundred years old! He didn't look it!” Killashandra was aghast. She'd had only one glimpse of the injured Crystal Singer's face, but she never would have credited twenty decades to his age. Suddenly, the pressure of hundreds of years of life seemed as depressing to Killashandra as her inability to get into the ranges.

“Happily, one doesn't realize the passage of time in our profession until some event displays a forcible comparison.”

“You had a Milekey transition.” She shot her guess at him as if it were undeniable.

He nodded affirmation.

“But you don't sing crystal?”

“I have.”

“Then . . . why . . .” and she gestured around the office and then at him.

“Guild Masters are chosen early and trained rigorously in all aspects of the operation.”

“Keborgen was . . . but he sang crystal. And you have, too.” She sprang to her feet, unable to assimilate the impact of Lanzecki's quiet words. “You don't mean . . . I have to train to be . . . You're raving!”

“No, you are raving,” Lanzecki replied, a slight smile playing on his face as he gestured her to her seat and pointed at her beer. “Steady your nerves. My only purpose in having a private talk with you is to reassure you that you will go out into the ranges as soon as I can arrange a shepherd for you.”

“Shepherd?”

Killashandra was generally quick enough of wit to absorb the unexpected without floundering, but Lanzecki's singular interest in her, his awareness of intentions that she had kept utterly private, and his disclosures of the past few minutes had left her bewildered.

“Oh? Concera neglected to mention this facet of training?”

“Yes, a shepherd, Killashandra Ree, a seasoned Singer who will permit you to accompany him or her to a worked face, probably the least valuable of his claims, to demonstrate in practice what, to that point, has been theory.”

“I've had theory up to my eyeballs.”

“Above and behind them is better, my dear, which is where your brain is located, where theory must become reflex. On such reflexive knowledge may lie your survival. A successful Crystal Singer must have transcended the need for the conscious performance of his art.”

"I've an eidetic memory. I can recite – "

“If you couldn't, you wouldn't be here.” Lanzecki's tone reminded Killashandra of her companion's rank and the importance of the matter under consideration. He took a sip of his beer. “How often has Concera told you these past few weeks that an eidetic memory is generally associated with perfect pitch? And how often that memory distortion is one of the cruel facets of crystal singing? Sensory overload, as you ought to know, is altogether too frequent an occurrence in the ranges. I am not concerned with your ability to remember: I am concerned with how much memory distortion you will suffer. To prevent distortion, you have been subjected to weeks of drill and will continue to be. I am also vitally concerned in a recruit who has made a Milekey transition, retunes crystal well enough that Trag cannot fault her, who drives a sled so cleverly that the flight officer has given her patterns he wouldn't dare fly, and a person who had the wit to try to out smart as old a hand at claim-hiding as Keborgen.”

Lanzecki's compliments, though delivered as dry fact, disconcerted Killashandra more than any other of the afternoon's disclosures. She concentrated on the fact that Lanzecki actually wanted her to go after Keborgen's claim.

“Do you know where I should look?”

Lanzecki smiled, altering the uncompromising planes of his craggy face. He crossed one arm on his chest, supporting the elbow of the other, sipping at his beer.

“You've been doing the probability programming. Why don't you retrieve the data you've been accumulating?”

“How do you know what I've been doing? I thought my private voice code was unbreakable!”

“So it is.” The sardonic look on Lanzecki's face reproved her for doubting. “But your use of data retrieval for weather, sled performance, and the time you have recently spent programming was notable. In a general way, what recruits or newly convalesced Singers do is unregarded. However, when the person in question is not only sensitive to black crystal but signs out a skimmer to track the crash of a sled known to have transported black crystal, a quiet surveillance and a performance check are justified. Don't you agree? My dear girl, you are a very slow drinker. Finish it up and call up your program on Keborgen.” He stood and indicated that she was to sit at the big console. “I'll get more beer for us and something to munch.” He sauntered off to the catering unit.

Killashandra quickly took her place at the console, voice coding the program. Though she might have doubted before now, Lanzecki's reproof reassured her. Nor did she doubt that he wanted more black crystal from Keborgen's claim, and if she offered the Guild the best chance of retrieving the loss, he would support her.

“Did you know Keborgen?” she asked, then realized that this must sound a stupid query to his Guild Master.

“As well as any man or woman here did.”

«Part of my theory» – and Killashandra spoke quickly, tapping for the parameters she had stored on sled speed, warning time, and storm winds' velocity based on Keborgen's crash line – «is that Keborgen flew out direct.»

Lanzecki put a fresh beaker on the ledge of the console, a tray of steaming morsels beside it, and smiled indulgently at her.

“No consideration, even his own safety, would have weighed more with Keborgen than protecting that claim.”

“If that was what was expected of him, mightn't he once, in his desperate situation, choose the straight course?”

Lanzecki considered this, leaning against the console edge.

“Remember, he'd left escape to the last minute, judging by his arrival,” Killashandra added earnestly. “The sled was not malfunctioning: the medical report postulated that he was suffering from sensory overload. But when he set out, he would have known from the met that the storm would be short. He would have known that everyone else would have cleared out of the ranges so a direct route wouldn't be observed. And he hadn't cut that claim in nine years. Would that be important?”'

“Not especially. Not for someone who had sung as long as Keborgen.” Lanzecki tapped his forehead significantly and then looked down at the display where her parameters overlaid the chart of the area. “The others are searching west of your proposed site.”

“Others?” Killashandra felt her mouth go dry.

“It's a valuable claim, my dear Killashandra; of course, I have to permit search. Don't be overly anxious,” he added, resting one hand lightly on her shoulder. “They've never sung black.”

“Does being sensitive to it give an advantage?”

«In your case quite likely. You were the first other person to touch the crystal after Keborgen cut it. That seems to key a perceptive person to the face. Seems, I emphasize, not does. Much of what we should like to know about cutting crystal is locked within paranoid brains; silence is their defense against detection and their eventual destruction. However, one day, we shall know how to defend them against themselves.» He was standing behind her now, cupping her shoulders with his hands. The contact was distracting to Killashandra, though she fancied he meant to be reassuring. Or supportive, because his next words were pessimistic. «Your greatest disadvantage, my dear Killashandra, is that you are a total novice when it comes to finding or cutting crystal. Where» – and his blunt forefinger pointed to the rough triangle on the map «would your projected flight place his claim?»

“Here!” Killashandra pointed without hesitation to the spot, equidistant from the northern tip of the triangle and the sides defined.

He gave her shoulders a brief squeeze and moved off walking slowly across the thick carpeting, hands behind his back. He tilted his head up, as if the blank ceiling might give him back a clue to the tortured reasoning of a dying Crystal Singer.

«Part of the Milekey transition is a weather affinity. A spore always knows storm, though its human host may choose to trust instrumentation rather than instinct. Keborgen was old, he'd begun to distrust everything, including his sled. He would have been inclined to rely on his affinity rather than the warning devices.» Lanzecki's bland expression cautioned her against such ignorance. «As I told you, the symbiosis loses its capabilities as the host ages. What you haven't accounted for in your program is Keborgen's desperate need to get off-planet during Passover – and he hadn't quite enough credit to do so. A cut of black crystal, any size, would have insured it. Those shards would have been sufficient. My opinion is that, having cleared them, he found he had a flawless cut. He ignored both the sled's warnings and his symbiont and finished the cut. He lost time.»

He paused behind Killashandra again, put both hands on her shoulders, leaning slightly against her as he peered at the overlay.

“I think you're nearer right on the position than the others, Killashandra Ree.” His chuckle was vibrant, and the sound seemed to travel through his fingers and down her shoulders. “A fresh viewpoint, unsullied as yet by the devious exigencies of decades spent outwitting everyone, including self.” Then, releasing her when she did not wish him to, he continued in a completely different tone of voice. “Did Carrik interest you in the Guild?”

“No.” She swung the console chair about and caught a very curious and unreadable movement of Lanzecki's mouth. His face and eyes were expressionless, but he was waiting for her to elaborate. “No, he told me the last thing I wanted to be was a Crystal Singer. He wasn't the only one to warn me off.”

Lanzecki raised his eyebrows.

“Everyone I knew on Fuerte was against my leaving with a Crystal Singer in spite of the fact that he had saved many lives there.” She was bitter about that, more bitter than she had supposed. While she knew it had not been Maestro Valdi's fault, if he hadn't initiated the hold on her, Carrik and she would have been well away from Fuerte and that shuttle crash; Carrik might still be well.

But would she have become a Singer?

“Despite all that is rumored about Crystal Singers, Killashandra, we have our human moments.”

She stared at Lanzecki, wondering if he meant Carrik's saving lives or warning her against singing.

“Now,” and Lanzecki walked to the console and touched a key. Suddenly, the triangle of P42NW down to F43NW in which Killashandra hoped to search was magnified on the big display across the room. “Yes, there's plenty of range totally unmarked.”

At that magnification, Killashandra could also discern five paint splashes. Within the five-klick circle centering on the paint splash, the tumbled gorges and hills were under claim. A Singer could renounce his claim by listing the geographical coordinates, but Concera had told Killashandra that such an occurrence was rare.

“You could search an entire ravine and still miss the hoard inside the face,” Lanzecki said, staring at the target area. “Or come a cropper with the claim's rightful owner.” He reversed the magnification, and slowly the area was reduced until it faded into the rocky wrinkles surrounding the bay.

"Monday you will go out. Moksoon is not willing. He never is. But he's trying to get off-planet; with a decent cut and the bonus for shepherding, he could make it this time.

“Killashandra?”

"Yes, I go out on Monday. Moksoon is not willing but for the bonus – "

“Killashandra, you will find the black crystal!” Lanzecki's eyes took on an uncanny intensity, reinforcing his message and the strength of his conviction that Killashandra Ree was an agent he could command.

“Only if I'm bloody lucky.” She laughed, recovering her equilibrium as she gestured to the vast area she'd have to comb.

Lanzecki's eyes did not leave hers. She was reminded of an ancient piece of drama history: a man had hypnotized a girl, a musical idiot, into vocal performances without peer. She couldn't recall the name, but to think of Lanzecki, Resident Master of one of the most prestigious Guilds in the Federated Sentient Planets, attempting to . . . ah . . . Svengali her into locating the nardy precious black crystal was ludicrous. Only she couldn't suggest that to Lanzecki, not when he was regarding her in so disconcerting a fashion.

Suddenly, he threw up his head and started to laugh. He abandoned his whole body to the exercise, his chest caving in, his ribs arching, his hands spread on his thighs as he bent forward. If anyone had told her five minutes before that Guild Master Lanzecki was capable of humor at all, she'd have thought them mad. He collapsed into a seating unit, his head lolling against its back as he roared.

His laughter had an oddly infectious quality, and she grinned in response. Then laughed, too, to see the Guild Master so reduced in dignity by mirth.

“Killashandra . . .” He gasped her name as the laughter subsided. “I do apologize, but the look on your face . . . I've thrown the reputation of the entire Guild into jeopardy, have I not?” He wiped moisture from the corners of his eyes and straightened up. “I haven't laughed in a very long time.”

A wistful quality in that last remark made Killashandra change her reply.

“They used to say at Fuerte that I'd have been a good comic singer if I hadn't been so hipped on leads.”

“I find nothing comic about you, Killashandra,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he held out his hand.

“Dramatic?”

“Unexpected.”

He took the hand she had unconsciously extended, caressing the palm with the ball of his thumb before turning her hand over and dropping a kiss in it.

She caught her breath at the spread of sensation from her palm through her body to the nipples on her breasts. She wanted to snatch her hand from his but saw the tender smile on his lips as he raised his head. Lanzecki had his eyes and face under control; his mouth betrayed him.

The pressure he exerted on her hand to draw her to him was as inexorable as it was gently and deftly done. With her across his thighs, her body against his, and her head in the crook of his arm, he brought her hand again to his mouth, and she closed her eyes at the sensuality of that delicate kiss. Her hand was placed palm down against warm skin, and she felt him stroke her hair, letting one curl wrap round his finger before he dropped his hand to her breast, lightly and with skill.

“Killashandra Ree?” His low whisper asked a question that had nothing to do with her name but everything that pertained to who she was.

“Lanzecki !”

His mouth covered hers in so light a caress that she was at first unaware of being kissed. It was so with the rest of her first experience with the Guild Master, a loving and sharing that paled into insignificance any other encounter.