Anne McCaffrey - Crystal 2 - Killashandra

KILLASHANDRA

by: Anne McCaffrey

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Chapter 1

Winters on Ballybran were generally mild, so the fury of the first spring

storms as they howled across the land was ever unexpected. This first one

of the new season swept ferociously across the Milekey Ranges, bearing

before its westward course the fleeing sleds of crystal singers like so

much jetsam. Those laggard singers who had tarried too long at their claims

were barely able to hold their bucking sleds on course as they bolted for

the safety of the Heptite Guild Complex.

Inside the gigantic Hangar, its baffles raised against the mach

winds, ordered confusion reigned. Crystal singers lurched from their sleds.

half deafened by windscream, exhausted by their turbulent flights. The

Hangar crew, apparently possessed of eyes in the backs of their heads,

miraculously avoided injury as they concentrated on the primary task of

moving incoming sleds off the Hangar floor and into storage racks, clearing

the way for the erratic landings of the stream of incoming vehicles. The

crash claxon pierced even storm howl as two sleds collided, one to dip over

the baffle and land nose down on the plascrete while the other veered out

of control like a flat rock skipping across water, coming to a crumpling

halt against the far wall. A tractor zipped in to fasten grapples on the

upside-down sled, removing it only seconds before another sled skimmed over

the baffle.

That sled almost repeated the nose dive, pulling up at the last

second and skidding across the Hangar floor to stop just inches away from

the line of handlers carrying the precious cartons of crystal in to

Sorting. Only a near miss, the incident was disregarded even by those who

had barely escaped injury.

Killashandra Ree emerged from the sled, taking as a good omen the

fact that her sled had skidded to a halt so close to the Sorting Sheds. She

caught the arm of the next handler to pass her and firmly diverted him to

her cargo door, which she flung open. She didn't have much crystal, so

every speck she had cut was precious to her. If she didn't earn enough

credit to get off-planet this time . . . Killashandra ground her teeth as

she hurried her carton into the Sorting Shed.

As the man she had pressed into her service quite properly put her

carton down at the Hangar end of a line of ranked containers,

Killashandra's patience evaporated. "No, over here!" she shouted. "Not

there! It'll take all day to be sorted. Here."

She waited until he had deposited her carton in the indicated row

before adding her own. Then she strode back to her sled for a second load,

commandeering two more unencumbered handlers on the way. Only after eight

cartons were unloaded did she permit herself to pause briefly, coping with

the multiple fatigues that assailed her. She had worked nonstop for two

days, desperate to cut enough crystal to get off Ballybran. Crystal pulsed

in her blood and bones, denying her rest in sleep, surcease by day, no

matter how she tried to tire her body. Her only respite was immersion in

the radiant fluid bath. But no one cut crystal from a bathcube! She had to

get off-planet to ease the disturbing thrum.

For over a year and a half, ever since the Passover storms had

shattered Keborgen's old claim, she had searched unremittingly for a

workable site Killashandra was realist enough to admit to herself that the

probability of finding a new claim as important and valuable as Keborgen's

black crystal was very low. Still, she had every right to expect to find

some useful, and reasonably lucrative, crystal in Ballybran's Ranges. And,

with each fruitless trip into the Ranges, the credit balance she had

amassed from her original cutting of Keborgen's site and from the

Trundomoux black crystal installation had eroded beneath the continuous

charges the Heptite Guild exacted for even the most minor services rendered

a crystal singer.

By fall, when everyone else she knew -- Rimbol, Jezerey and Mistra

-- had managed to get off-planet, she had labored on, unable to make a

worthwhile claim in any color. During the mild winter, she had doggedly

hunted in the Ranges, returning to the Complex only long enough to

replenish food packs and steep her crystal-weary body in the radiant fluid.

"You really ought to take a week or two up at Shanganagh Base,"

Lanzecki had said, intercepting her on one of her brief visits.

"What good would that really do?" she had replied, almost snarling

at him in her frustration. "I'd still feel crystal and I'd have to look at

Ballybran."

Lanzecki had given her a searching look. "You're in no mood to

believe me," and he paused to be sure that he had her attention, "but you

will find black crystal again, Killashandra. Meanwhile, the Guild has

pressing needs in any shade you can find. Even the rose you so despise." A

gleam shone in his black eyes and his voice turned lugubrious as he said,

"I am certain that you will be distressed to learn that the Passover storms

destroyed Moksoon's site, too."

Killashandra had stared at him a moment before her sense of the

ridiculous got the better of her and she laughed. "I am inconsolable!"

"I thought you might be." His lips twitched with suppressed

amusement. Then he reached down and pulled the plug on the radiant fluid.

"You'll find more crystal, Killa."

It had been that calm and confident statement which had buoyed her

flagging morale all during the next trip. Nor had it been entirely

misplaced. The third week out, after disregarding two sites of rose and

blue, she discovered white crystal but very nearly missed the vein

entirely. If she had not been bolstering her spirits with arousing aria,

causing the pinnacle under her hand to resonate, she might have missed the

shy white crystal. Consistent with her long run of bad luck, the while

proved elusive, the vein first deteriorating in quality and then

disappearing entirely from the face at one point, resurfacing half a mile

away in fractured shards. It had taken her weeks to clear the fault,

digging away half the ridge before she got to usable crystal. Only the fact

that white crystal had such a variety of potentially lucrative uses kept

her going.

Forewarned of the spring storm by her symbiotic adaptation to

Ballybran's spore, Killashandra had cut at a frenzied pace until she was

too hoarse to key the sonic cutter to the crystal. Only then had she

stopped to rest. She had continued to cut until the first of the winds

began to stroke the dangerous crystal sound from the Ranges. Recklessly,

she had taken the most direct route back to the Complex, counting on the

fact that she'd be the last singer in from the Ranges to protect her claim.

She had almost cut her retreat too fine: the hangar doors slammed

shut against the shrieking storm as soon as her sled had cleared the

baffles. She could expect a reprimand from the Flight Officer for her

recklessness. And probably one from the Guild Master for ignoring the storm

warnings.

She forced several deep breaths in and out of her lungs, dredging

sufficient energy to complete the final step necessary to leave Ballybran.

On the last breath, she grabbed the top carton and walked it into the

Sorting Room, depositing it on Enthor's table just as the old Sorter turned

toward the shed.

"Killashandra! You startled me." Enthor's eyes flicked from normal

to the augmented vision that was his adaptation to Ballybran. He reached

eagerly for the carton. "Did you find the black vein again?" His face fell

into lines of disappointment as his fingers found no trace of the

sensations typical of the priceless, elusive black crystal.

"No such luck." Killashandra's voice broke on weary disgust. "But I

devoutly hope it's a respectable cut." She half sat on the the table,

needing its support to keep on her feet, as she watched Enthor unpack the

crystal blocks from their plastic cocoons.

"Indeed!" Enthor's voice lilted with approval as he removed the

first white crystal shaft and set it with appropriate reverence on his work

table. "Indeed!" He subjected the crystal to the scrutiny of his augmented

eyes. "Flawless. White can so often be muddy. If I am not mistaken -- "

"That'll he the day," Killashandra muttered under her breath, her

voice cracking.

"Never about crystal." Enthor shot her a glance from under his

brows, blinking to adjust his eyes to normal vision. Killashandra idly

wondered what Enthor's eyes saw of human flesh and bone in the augmented

mode. "I do believe, my dear Killa, that you've anticipated the market."

"I have?" Killashandra pulled herself erect. "With white crystal?"

Enthor lifted out more of the slender sparkling crystal shafts.

"Yes, especially if you have matched groupings. These are a good start.

What else did you cut?" As one, they retraced their steps to the storage,

each collecting another carton.

"Forty-four -- "

"Ranked in size?"

"Yes." Enthor's excitement triggered hope in Killashandra.

"Forty-four, from the half centimeter -- "

"By the centimeter?"

"Half centimeter."

Enthor beamed on her with almost as much enthusiasm as if she had

brought him more black crystal.

"Your instinct is remarkable, Killa, for you could not have known

about the order from the Optherians."

"An organ group?"

Enthor gestured for Killashandra to help him display the white

shafts on the workbench.

"Yes, indeed. An entire manual was fractured." Enthor awarded her

another of his beams. "Where are the rest? Quickly. Get them. "If there's

so much as one with a cloud --

Killashandra obeyed, stumbling against the swinging door. By the

time the crystal was sparkling on the table, she was shuddering and had to

cling to the bench to keep upright. It took a century for Enthor to

evaluate her cut.

"Not a single cloudy crystal, Killashandra." Enthor patted her arm

and, taking up his little hammer, cocked his ear to the pure sweet notes

each delicate rap coaxed from the crystal.

"How much, Enthor? How much?" Killashandra was hanging onto the

table, and consciousness, with difficulty.

"Not as much, I fear, as black." Enthor tapped figures into his

terminal. He pulled at his lower lip as he waited for the altered display.

"Still, 10,054 credits is not to be sneezed at." He raised his eyebrows,

anticipating a pleased response.

"Only ten thousand . . ." Her knees were collapsing, the muscles in

her calves spasming painfully. She tightened her grip on the table's edge.

"Surely that's enough to take you off-planet."

"But not far enough or long enough away." Blackness was creeping

across her sight. Killashandra released one hand from the table to rub her

eyes.

"Would Optheria be far enough?" a dry, amused voice asked from

behind her.

"Lanzecki . . ." she began, turning toward the Guild Master, but

her turn became a spin, down into the darkness which would no longer be

evaded.

"She's coming round, Lanzecki."

Killashandra heard the words. She could not understand their sense.

The sentence, and the voice, echoed in her mind as if spoken in a tunnel.

At the softest repetition, comprehension returned.

The voice was Antona's, the Chief Medical Officer of the Heptite

Guild.

Sensation returned then, but sensation was limited to feeling

something under her chin and a restraint about her shoulders. The rest of

her body was deprived of feeling. Killashandra twitched convulsively and

felt the viscous resistance of radiant fluid. She was immersed -- that

explained the need for chin support and the shoulder restraint.

Opening her eyes, she was not surprised to find herself in the tank

room of the Infirmary. Beyond her were several more such tanks, two

occupied. judging by the heads visible above the rims.

"So. you've rejoined us, Killashandra!"

"How long have you been soaking me, Antona?"

Antona glanced at a display on the tank. "Thirty-two hours and

nineteen rinses." Antona shook a warning finger at Killashandra. "Don't

push yourself like this, Killa. You're stretching your symbiont's

resources. Abuses like this now can cause degeneration problems later on.

And it's later on you really need protection. Remember that!" A mirthless

smile crossed Antona's classic features. "If you can. Well, at least put it

in your memory banks when you get back to your room," she added, with a

sigh for the vagaries of singer recall.

"When can I get up?" Killashandra began to writhe in the tank,

testing her limbs and the general response of her body.

Antona shrugged, tapping out a code on the terminal of the tank.

"Oh, anytime now. Pulse and pressure readout's strong. Head clear?"

"Yes."

Antona pressed a stud and the chin support and shoulder harness

released Killashandra. She caught the side of the tank, and Antona handed

her a long robe.

"Do I need to tell you to eat?"

Killashandra grinned wryly. "No. My stomach knows I'm awake and

it's rumbling."

"You've lost nearly two kilos, you know. Can you remember when you

last ate?" Antona's voice and eyes were sharp with annoyance. "No use

asking, is it?"

"Not the least bit." Killashandra replied blithely as she climbed

out of the tank, the radiant fluid sheeting off her body, leaving her skin

smooth and soft. She pulled the robe on. Antona held up a hand to balance

her down the five steps.

"How much crystal resonance do you experience now?" Antona poised

her fingers above the tank's small terminal.

Killashandra listened attentively to the noise between her ears.

"only a faint trace!" Her breath escaped her lips in a sigh of relief.

"Lanzecki said that you cut enough to go off-world."

Killashandra frowned. "He said something else, too. But I forget

what." Something important, though, Killashandra knew.

"He'll probably tell you again in good time. Get up to your

quarters and get some food into you." Antona gave Killashandra's shoulder

an admonitory squeeze before she turned away to check on the other

patients.

As Killashandra made her way up from the Infirmary level, deep in

the bowels of the Guild Complex, she puzzled over the memory lapse. She had

been reassured that most singers had several decades of unimpaired recall

before memory deteriorated, but no fast rule determined the onset. She had

been lucky enough to have a Milekey Transition ending in full adaptation to

Ballybran's spore, an adaptation that was necessary for those inhabiting

thc planet Ballybran. That kind of Transition held many benefits. not the

least of which was avoiding the rigors of Transition Fever, and was

purported to include a longer span of unimpaired memory. In this one

instance, she could, perhaps, legitimately blame fatigue.

As the lift door opened on the deserted lobby of the main singer

level, not a singer was in sight. The storm had blown itself out. She

paused to glance through to the dining area and saw only one lone diner.

Pulling the robe more tightly about her, she hurried down the corridor to

the blue quadrant and her apartment.

The first thing she did was call up her credit balance, and felt

the knot that had been tightening in her belly dissolve as the figures

12,790 rippled onto the screen. She regarded the total for a long moment,

then tapped out the all-important query: how far away from Ballybran would

that sum take her?

The names of four systems were displayed. Her stomach rumbled. She

shifted irritably in her chair and asked for details of the amenities in

each system. The replies were not exciting. In each system the Terran-type

planets were purely industrial or agricultural, having, at best, only

conservative leisure facilities. From comments she had overheard,

Killashandra gathered that because of their proximity the locals had seen

quite enough of their neighbors from Ballybran and tended to be either

credit crunchers or rude to the point of dueling offense.

"The only thing that's good about any of them." Killashandra said

with disgust, "is that I haven't been there yet."

Killashandra had thought to take her long-overdue holiday on Maxim,

the pleasure planet in the Barderi system. From all she'd heard, it would

be very easy to forget crystal resonance in the sophisticated amusement

parks and houses of hedonistic Maxim. But she hadn't yet the credit to

indulge that whimsy.

Exasperated, she rubbed her palms together, noticing that the thick

calluses from cutter vibrations had been softened by her long immersion.

The numerous small nicks and cuts that were a singer's occupational hazard

had healed to thin white scars. Well, that function of her symbiont worked

efficiently. And the white crystal would assure her some sort of an

off-planet holiday.

White crystal! Enthor has said something about a fractured manual!

Optherian sense organs used white Ballybran crystals and she had cut

forty-four from the half centimeter on up in half-centimeter gradients.

Lanzecki had asked her a question.

"Would Optheria be far enough?" The words, remembered in his deep

voice, sprang to mind.

She grinned with tremendous relief at retrieving that question and

turned to the viewscreen to punch up his code.

" -- Killa?" Lanzecki's hands were poised over his own terminal,

surprise manifested by his raised eyebrows. "You haven't used the catering

unit." He frowned.

"Oh, programmed to monitor that, did you?" she replied with a

genuine smile at that reminder of their amorous alliance before her first

trip into the Ranges. On her return from the Trundomoux System, they had

had only a few days together before Lanzecki was swamped with work and she

had to venture back into the Ranges. Since then, she had returned to the

Complex only to replenish supplies or wait out a storm. Their reunions had

consequently been brief. It was reassuring to realize that he wished to

know when she was back.

"It seemed the ideal way to make contact. After thirty-two hours in

a tank, you should be ravenous. I'll just join you. if I may . . ." When

she nodded assent, he typed a quick message on his console and pushed his

chair back, smiling up at her. "I'm hungry, too."

As further reassurance of her unimpaired memory. Killashandra had

no trouble remembering Lanzecki's tastes. She grinned as she ordered Yarran

beer. Though her stomach gurgled impatiently, she'd had no desire for food

in so long that she was as glad to be guided by Lanzecki's preferences.

She was just slipping a brilliantly striped robe over her head when

her door chimed an entry request. "Enter!" she called. On the same voice

cue, the catering slot disgorged her order. The aroma of the dishes aroused

her already voracious appetite.

She wasted no time in taking the steaming platters from the

dispenser, grinning a welcome at Lanzecki as he joined her.

"The Commissary has asked me to relay a few well-chosen words of

complaint about the sudden fad for Yarran beer," he said, taking the

pitcher and the beakers to the table. He seated himself before filling the

two glasses. "To your restoration!" Lanzecki lifted his glass in toast, his

expression obliquely chiding her for that necessity.

"Antona's already scolded me. but I had to cut enough marketable

crystal to get off-planet this time."

"You've certainly succeeded with that white."

"Don't I remember you saying something about Optheria just as I

passed out?"

Lanzecki took a swallow of the Yarran beer before he replied.

"Quite likely." He served himself a generous helping of fried Malva beans.

"Don't the Optherians utilize white crystal in that multi-sense

organ of theirs?"

"They do."

So Lanzecki chose to be uncommunicative. Well, she could be

persistent. "Enthor said that an entire manual was fractured." Lanzecki

nodded. She continued. "And you did ask me would Optheria be far enough?"

"I did?"

"You know you did." Killashandra hung on to her patience. "You

never forget anything. And the impression I got from your cryptic comment

was that someone, and the inference was me" -- she pressed her thumb into

her chest -- "would have to go there. Am I correct?"

He regarded her steadily, his expression unreadable. "Not long ago

you gave me to understand that you would not undertake another off-world

assignment -- "

"That was before I'd been stuck on this fardling planet -- " She

noticed the wicked gleam in his eyes. "So, I'm right. A crystal singer does

have to make the installation!"

It was a shocking incident," Lanzecki said diffidently as he served

himself more Malva beans. "The performer who damaged the organ was killed

by the flying shards. He was also the only person on the planet who could

handle such a major repair. As is so often the case with such sensitive and

expensive equipment, it is a matter of planetary urgency to repair the

instrument. It's the largest on the planet and is essential to the

observances of Optheria's prestigious Summer Festival. We are contracted to

supply technicians as well as crystal." He paused for a mouthful of the

crisp white beans. He was definitely baiting her, Killashandra knew. She

held her tongue. "While the list of those qualified does include your name

. . ."

"The catch can't be the crystal this time," she said as he

purposefully let his sentence dangle unfinished. She watched his face for

any reaction. "White crystal's active, reflecting sound . . ."

" -- Among other things," Lanzecki added when she paused.

"If it isn't the crystal, what's the matter with the Optherians,

then?"

"My dear Killashandra, the assignment has not yet been awarded."

"Awarded? I like the sound of that. Or do I? I wouldn't put it past

you, Lanzecki, to sucker me into another job like that Trundomoux

installation."

He caught the finger she was indignantly shaking at him, pulling

her hand across the laden table to his lips. The familiar caress evoked

familiar responses deep in her groin and she tried to use her irritation

with his methods to neutralize its effect on her.

Just then a communit bleep startled her. With a fleeting expression

of annoyance, Lanzecki lifted his wrist unit to acknowledge the summons.

A tinny version of Trag's bass voice issued from the device. "I was

to inform you when the preliminary testing stations reported," the

Administration Officer said.

"Any interesting applicants?"

Although Lanzecki sounded diffident, even slightly bored, the

curious tension about his lips and eyes alerted Killashandra. She pretended

to continue eating in a courteous disregard of the exchange, but she didn't

lose a syllable of Trag's reply.

"Four agronomists, an endocrinologist from Theta, two

xenobiologists, an atmospheric physicist, three former spacers" --

Killashandra noted the slight widening of Lanzecki's eyes which she

interpreted as satisfaction -- "and the usual flotsam who have no

recommendations from Testing."

"Thank you, Trag."

Lanzecki nodded his head at Killashandra to indicate the

interruption was concluded and finished off the dish of fried Malva beans.

"So what is the glitch in the Optherian assignment? A lousy fee?"

"On the contrary, such an installation is set at twenty thousand

credits."

"And I'd be off-world as well." Killashandra was quite impressed

with the latitude such a credit balance would give her to forget crystal.

"You have not been awarded the contract, Killa. I appreciate your

willingness to entertain the assignment but there are certain aspects which

must be considered by the Guild as well as the individual. Don't commit

yourself rashly." Lanzecki was being sincere. His eyes held hers steadily

and a worried crease to his brows emphasized his warning. "It's a long haul

to the Optherian system. You'd be gone from Ballybran nearly a full year .

. ."

"All the better . . ."

"You say that now when you're full of crystal resonance. You can't

have forgotten Carrik yet."

His reminder conjured flashing scenes of the first crystal singer

she had met: Carrik laughing as they swam in Fuerte's seas, then Carrik

wracked by withdrawal fever and finally the passive hulk of the man,

shattered by sonic resonance.

"You will in time, I've no doubt, experience that phenomenon,"

Lanzecki said. "I've never known a singer who didn't try to push himself

and his symbiont to their limits. A major disadvantage to the Optherian

contract is that you would lose any resonance to your existing claims."

"As if I had a decent claim among the lot." Killashandra snorted in

disgust. "Rose is no good to anyone and the blue petered out after two

days' cutting. Even the white vein skips and jumps. I cut the best of the

accessible vein. With the kind of luck I've been enjoying, the storm has

probably made a total bollix of the site. I am not -- not, I repeat --

spending another three weeks in a spade and basket operation. Not for

white. Why can't Research develop an efficient portable excavator?"

Lanzecki cocked his head slightly. "It is the firm opinion of

Research that any one of the nine efficient, portable and durable," a

significant pause, "excavators already field-tested ought to perform the

task for which it was engineered . . . except in the hands of a crystal

singer. It is the opinion of Research that the only two pieces of equipment

that do not tax the mechanical aptitude of a singer are his cutter --

though Fisherman does not concur -- and his sled, and you have already

heard section and paragraph from the Flight Engineer on that score. Haven't

you?"

Killashandra regarded him stolidly for a few moments, then

remembered to chew what was in her mouth.

"Overheard him," she said, with a malicious grin. "Don't try to

distract me from this Optherian business."

"I'm not. I am bringing to your notice the several overt

disadvantages to an assignment that involves a long absence from Ballybran

for what might, in the long run, be inadequate compensation." His

expression changed subtly. "I'd rather not be professionally at odds with

you. It interferes with my private life."

His dark eyes caught hers. He reached for her hands, lips curved in

the one-sided smile that she found so affecting. She no longer shared a

table with her Guild Master hut with Lanzecki the man. The alteration

pleased her. On numerous occasions, during sleepless nights in the Milekey

Ranges, she had fondly remembered their love-making. Now, seated opposite

the charismatic Lanzecki, she found that her appetite for more than food

had been completely restored.

Her smile answered his and together they rose from the little table

and headed for the sleepingroom.

Chapter 2

Killashandra pushed herself back from thc terminal and, balancing on the

base of her spine, stretched arms and legs as far from her body as bone and

tendon permitted. She had spent the morning immersed in the Optherian entry

of the Encyclopedia Galactica.

Once she had got past the initial exploration and evaluation report

to the release of the Ophiuchine planet for colonization, and the

high-flown language of its charter -- "to establish a colony of Mankind in

complete harmony with the ecological balance of his adopted planet: to

ensure the propagation thereon of the Species in its pure, unadulterated

Form." She kept waiting for the fly to appear in the syrupy ointment of

Optheria's honey pot.

Optheria was an old planet in geological terms. A near-circular

orbit about an aging sun produced a temperate clime. There was little

seasonal change since the axial "wobble" was negligible, and modest

glaciers capped both poles. Optheria was inordinately proud of its

self-sufficiency in a civilization where many planets were so deeply in

debt to mercantile satellites that they were almost charged for the

atmosphere that encapsulated them. Optherian imports were minimal . . .

with the exception of tourists seeking to "enjoy the gentler pleasures of

old Terra in a Totally Natural World."

Killashandra, reading with an eye to hidden significance's, paused

to consider the implications. Although her experience with planets had been

limited to two -- Fuerte, her planet of origin, and Ballybran, she knew

enough of how worlds wagged to sense the iron idealism that probably

supported the Optherian propaganda. She tapped a question and frowned at

the negative answer: Optheria's Charter Signers were not proselytizers of a

religious sect nor did Optheria recognize a federal church. As many worlds

had been colonized for idealist forms of government, religiously or

secularly oriented, as for purely commercial considerations. The guiding

principle of foundation could not yet be considered the necessary criterion

for a successful subculture. The variables involved were too numerous.

But the entry made it clear that Optheria was considered

efficiently organized and, with its substantial positive galactic balance

of payments, a creditably administered world. The entry concluded with a

statement that Optheria was well worth a visit during its annual Summer

Festival. She detected a certain hint of irony in that bland comment. While

she would have preferred to sample some of the exotic and sophisticated

pleasures available to those with credit enough, she felt she could

tolerate Optheria's "natural" pastimes in return for the sizeable fee and a

long vacation from Ballybran.

She considered Lanzecki's diffidence about the assignment. Could he

be charged with favoritism if he gave her another choice off-world

assignment? Who would remember that she had been away during the horrendous

Passover Storms, much less where? She'd been peremptorily snatched away by

Trag, shoved onto the moon shuttle, and without a shred of background data

about the vagaries of the Trundomoux, delivered willy-nilly to a naval

autocracy to cope with the exigencies of installing millions of credits'

worth of black communication crystal for a bunch of skeptical spartan

pioneers. The assignment had been no sinecure. As Trag was the only other

person who had known of it, was he the objector? He very easily could be,

as Administration Officer, yet Killashandra did not think that Trag could,

or did, influence Guild Master Lanzecki.

A second wild notion followed quickly on the heels of that one.

Were there any Optherians on the roster of the Heptite Guild to whom such a

job might be assigned? . . . The Heptite Guild had no Optherian members.

From her ten years in the Music Department of Fuerte's Culture

Center, Killashandra was familiar with the intricacies of Optherian sensory

organ instruments. The encyclopedia enlarged the picture by stating that

music was a planetwide mania on Optheria, with citizens competing on a

planetary scale for opportunities to perform on the sensory organs. With

that sort of environment, Killashandra thought it very odd indeed that

Optheria produced no candidates with the perfect pitch that was the Heptite

Guild's essential entry requirement. And, with competitions on a worldwide

scale, there would be thousands disappointed. Killashandra smiled in sour

sympathy. Surely some would look for off-world alternatives.

Her curiosity titillated, Killashandra checked other Guilds.

Optherians did not go into the Space Services or into galactic mercantile

enterprises, nor were embassies, consulates or legates of Optheria listed

in the Diplomatic Registers. There she lucked out by discovering a

qualifier: As the planet was nearly self-sufficient and no Optherians left

their home world, there was no need for such services. All normal inquiries

about Optheria had to be directed to the Office of External Trade and

Commerce on Optheria.

Killashandra paused in perplexity. A planet so perfect, so beloved

by its citizens that no one chose to leave its surface? She found that very

hard to believe. She recalled the encyclopedia's entry on the planet,

searching for the code on Naturalization. Yes, well, citizenship was

readily available for those interested but could not be rescinded. She

checked the Penal Code and discovered that, unlike many worlds, Optheria

did not deport its criminal element: any recidivists were accommodated at a

rehabilitation center.

Killashandra shivered. So even perfect Optheria had to resort to

rehabilitation.

Having delved sufficiently into Optheria's history and background

to satisfy her basic curiosity, she turned to research the procedure

necessary to replace a fractured manual. The installation posed no overt

problems as the bracketing was remarkably similar to that required by the

black communications crystal. The tuning would be more complex because of

the broad-frequency variable output of the Optherian organ. The instrument

was similar to early Terran pipe organs, with four manuals and a terminal

with hundreds of stops, but a performer on the Optherian organ read a score

containing olfactory, neural, visual, and aural notes. The crystal manual

was in permanent handshake with the multiplex demodulator, the synapse

carrier encoder, and the transducer terminal networks. Or so the manual

said; no schematic was included in the entry. Nor could she remember one

from her days at the Fuerte Music Center.

Dedicated Optherian players spent lifetimes arranging music

embellished and ornamented for reception by many senses. A skilled

Optherian organist could be mass-psychologist and politician as well as

musician, and the effect of any composition played on the fully augmented

instruments had such far-reaching consequences that performances and

practitioners were subject to Federal as well as artistic discipline.

Bearing that in mind, Killashandra wondered how the manual could

have been fractured -- let alone have killed the performer at the same

time, especially as that person had also been the only one on the planet

capable of repairing it. Was there perhaps a spot of rot on the Optherian

apple of Eden? This assignment could be interesting.

Killashandra pulled her chair back to the console and asked for

visual contact with the Travel Officer. Bajorn was a long, thin man, with a

thin face and a thin nose with pinched nostrils. He had preternaturally

long, thin fingers, too, but much was redeemed by the cheerful smile that

broke across his narrow face, and his complete willingness to sort out the

most difficult itinerary. He seemed to be on the most congenial terms with

every transport or freight captain who had ever touched down at or veered

close to the Shanganagh Moon base.

"Is it difficult to get to the Optherian System, Bajorn?"

"Long old journey right now -- out of season for the cruise ships

on that route. Summer Festival won't be for another six months galactic.

So, traveling now, you'd have to make four exchanges -- Rappahoe, Kunjab,

Melorica, and Bernard's World -- all on freighters before getting passage

on a proper liner."

"You're sure up to date."

Bajorn grinned, his thin lips almost touching his droopy ears.

"Should be. You're the fifth inquiry I've had about that system. What's up?

Didn't know the Optherians went in for the sort of kicks singers like."

"Who're the other four?"

"Well, there's no regulation against telling. "Bajorn paused

discreetly, "and as they've all asked, no reason why you shouldn't be told.

You," and he ticked names off on his fingers, "Borella Seal, Concera,

Gobbain Tekla, and Rimbol."

"Indeed. Thank you, Bajorn, that's real considerate of you."

"That's what Rimbol said, too." Bajorn's face sagged mournfully. "I

do try to satisfy the Guild's travel requirements, but it is so depressing

when my efforts are criticized or belittled. I can't help it if singers

lose their memories . . . and every shred of common courtesy."

"I'll program eternal courtesy to you on my personal tape, Bajorn."

"I'd appreciate it. Only do it now, would you, Killashandra, before

you forget?"

Promising faithfully, Killashandra rang off. Lanzecki had said

there was a list. Were there only five names! Borella Seal and Concera she

knew and she wouldn't have minded doing them out of the assignment; Gobbain

Tekla was a total stranger. Rimbol had been cutting successfully, and in

the darker shades just as Lanzecki had predicted. Why would he want such an

assignment? So, four people had been interested enough to check Travel.

Were there more?

She asked for a list of unassigned singers in residence and it was

depressingly long. After some names, including her own, the capital I --

for Inactive -- flashed. Perhaps unwisely, she deleted those and still had

thirty-seven possible rivals. She twirled idly about in the gimbaled chair,

wondering exactly what criterion was vital for the Optherian assignment.

Lanzecki hadn't mentioned such minor details in the little he had

disclosed. From what she had already learned of the planet and the

mechanics of installation, any competent singer could do the job. So what

would weigh the balance in favor of one singer?

Killashandra reexamined the list of her known rivals: Borella and

Concera had both been cutting a long time. Gobbain Tekla, when she found

his position on the Main Roster, was a relative newcomer; Rimbol, like

Anne McCaffrey - Crystal 2 - Killashandra

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