Anne McCaffrey - Crystal 1 - Crystal Singer

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Crystal Singer - Anne McCaffrey
Copyright 1982
Author's Note
Crystal Singer is based on four stories originally published in Roger
Elwood's Continuum series. Crystal Singer is considerably expanded from these
stories, thanks to the technical assistance of Ron Massey, Langshot Stables,
Surrey. His long explanations and careful notes permitted me to venture
daringly where no man had gone before.
CHAPTER 1
Killashandra listened as the words dropped with leaden fatality into her
frozen belly. She stared at the maestro's famous profile as his lips opened
and shut around the words that meant the death of all her hopes and ambitions
and rendered ten years of hard work and study a waste.
The maestro finally turned to face her. The genuine regret in his
expressive eyes made him look older. The heavy singer's muscles in his jaw
relaxed sorrowfully into jowls.
One day, Killashandra might remember those details. Just then, she was
too crushed by overwhelming defeat to be aware of more than her terrible
personal failure.
"But...but...how could you?"
"How could I what?" the maestro asked in surprise.
"How could you lead me on?"
"Lead you on? But, my dear girl, I didn't."
"You did! You said -- you said all I needed was hard work. Haven't I
worked hard enough?"
"Of course you have worked hard." Valdi was affronted. "My students must
apply themselves. It takes years of hard work to develop the voice, to learn
even a segment of the outworld repertoire that must be performed."
"I've repertoire! I've worked hard and now -- now you tell me I've no
voice?"
Maestro Valdi sighed heavily, a mannerism that had always irritated
Killashandra and was now insupportable. She opened her mouth to protest, but
he raised a restraining hand. The habit of four years made her pause.
"You haven't the voice to be a top-rank singer, my dear Killashandra,
but that does not preclude any of the many other responsible and
fulfilling..."
"I won't be second rank. I want -- I wanted" -- and she had the
satisfaction of seeing him wince at the bitterness in her voice -- "to be a
top-rank concert singer. You said I had -- "
He held up his hand again. "You have the gift of perfect pitch, your
musicality is faultless, your memory superb, your dramatic potential can't be
criticized. But there is that burr in your voice which becomes intolerable in
the higher register. While I thought it could be trained out, modified -- " he
shrugged his helplessness. He eyed her sternly. "Today's audition with
completely impartial judges proved conclusively that the flaw is inherent in
the voice. This moment is cruel for you and not particularly pleasant for me."
He gave her another stern look, reacting to the rebellion in her stance. "I
make few errors in judgment as to voice. I honestly thought I could help you.
I cannot, and it would be doubly cruel of me to encourage you further as a
soloist. No. You had best strengthen another facet of your potential."
"And what, in your judgment, would that be?"
He had the grace to blink at her caustic words, then looked her squarely
in the eye. "You don't have the patience to teach, but you could do very well
in one of the theater arts where your sympathy with the problems of a singer
would stand you in good stead. No? You are a trained synthesizer? Hmmmm. Too
bad, your musical education would be a real asset there." He paused. "Well,
then, I'd recommend you leave the theater arts entirely. With your sense of
pitch, you could be a crystal tuner or an aircraft and shuttle dispatcher or
-- " "Thank you, maestro," she said, more from force of habit than any real
gratitude. She gave him the half bow his rank required and withdrew.
Slamming the panel shut behind her, Killashandra stalked down the
corridor, blinded by the tears she'd been too proud to shed in the maestro's
presence. Though she half wanted and half feared meeting a fellow student who
would question her tears and commiserate with her disaster, she was
inordinately relieved to reach her study cubicle without having encountered
anyone. There she gave herself up to her misery, bawling into hysteria, past
choking, until she was too spent to do more than gasp for breath.
If her body protested the emotional excess, her mind reveled in it. For
she had been abused, misused, misguided, misdirected -- and who knows how many
of her peers had been secretly laughing at her dreams of glorious triumphs on
the concert and opera stage? Killashandra had a generous portion of the
conceit and ego required for her chosen profession, with no leavening of
humility: she'd felt success and stardom were only a matter of time. Now she
cringed at the vivid memory of her self-assertiveness and arrogance. She had
approached the morning's audition with such confidence, the requisite
commendations to continue as a solo aspirant a foregone conclusion. She
remembered the faces of the examiners, so pleasantly composed; one man nodding
absent-mindedly to the pulse of the test arias and lieder. She'd been
scrupulous in tempi; they'd marked her high on that. How could they have
looked so -- so impressed? So encouraging?
How could they record such verdicts against her?
"The voice is unsuited to the dynamics of opera Unpleasant burr too
audible." "A good instrument for singing with orchestra and chorus where
grating overtone will not be noticeable." "Strong choral leader quality:
student should be positively dissuaded from solo work."
Unfair! Unfair! How could she be allowed to come so far, be permitted to
delude herself, only to be dashed down in the penultimate trial? And to be
offered, as a sop, choral leadership! How degradingly ignominious!
From her excruciating memories wriggled up the faces of her brothers and
sisters, taunting her for what they called "shrieking at the top of her
lungs." Teasing her for the hours she spent on finger exercises and attempting
to "understand" the harmonics of odd off-world music. Her parents had
surrendered to Killashandra's choice of profession because it was, at the
outset, financed by Fuerte's planetary educational system; second, it might
accrue to their own standing in the community; and third, she had the
encouragement of her early vocal and instrumental teachers. Them! Was it the
ineptitude of one of those clods to which she owed the flaw in her voice?
Killashandra rolled in an agony of self-pity.
What was it Valdi had had the temerity to suggest? An allied art? A
synthesizer? Bah! Spending her life in mental institutions catering to flawed
minds because she had a flawed voice? Or mending flawed crystals to keep
interplanetary travel or someone's power plant flowing smoothly?
Then she realized her despondency was merely self-pity and sat upright,
staring at herself in the mirror on the far wall, the mirror that had
reflected all those long hours of study and self-perfection. Self-deception!
In an instant, Killashandra shook herself free of such wallowing
self-indulgence. She looked around the study, a slice of a room dominated by
the Vidifax, with its full address keyboard that interfaced with the Music
Record Center, providing access to a galaxy's musical output. She glanced over
the repros of training performances -- she'd always had a lead role -- and she
knew that she would do best to forget the whole damned thing! If she couldn't
be at the top, to hell with theater arts! She'd be top in whatever she did or
die in the attempt.
She stood. There was nothing for her now in a room that three hours
before had been the focal point of every waking minute and all her energies.
Whatever personal items remained in the drawers or on the shelves, the merit
awards on the wall, the signed holograms of singers she'd hoped to emulate or
excel, no longer concerned her or belonged to her.
She reached for her cloak, ripped off the student badge, and flung the
garment across one shoulder. As she wheeled around, she saw a note tacked on
the door.
Party at Roare's to celebrate!
She snorted. They'd all know. Let them chortle over her downfall. She'd
not play the bravely smiling, courageous-under-adversity role tonight. Or
ever. Exit Killashandra, quietly, stage center, she thought as she ran down
the long shallow flight of steps to the mall in front of the Culture Center.
Again, she experienced both satisfaction and regret that no one witnessed her
departure.
Actually, she couldn't have asked for a more dramatic exit. Tonight,
they'd wonder what had happened. Maybe someone would know. She knew that Valdi
would never disclose their interview; he disliked failures; especially his
own, so they'd never hear about it from him. As for the verdict of the
examiners, at least the exact wording handed her would be computer sealed. But
someone would know that Killashandra Ree had failed her vocal finals and the
grounds for failure.
Meanwhile she would have effectively disappeared. They could speculate
all they wanted -- nothing would stop them from that -- and they'd remember
her when she rose to prominence in another field. Then they'd marvel that
nothing so minor as failure could suppress her excellence.
Such reflections consoled Killashandra all the way to her lodgings.
Subsidized students rated dwellings -- no more the depressing bohemian
semifilth and overcrowding of ancient times -- but her room was hardly
palatial. When she failed to reregister at the Music Center, her landlady
would be notified and the room locked to her. Subsistence living was abhorrent
to Killashandra; it smacked of an inability to achieve. But she'd take the
initiative on that, too, and leave the room now. And all the memories it held.
Besides, it would spoil the mystery of her disappearance if she were to be
discovered in her digs. So, with a brief nod to the landlady, who always
checked comings and goings, Killashandra climbed the stairs to her floor,
keyed open her room, and looked around. There was really nothing to take but
clothing.
Despite that assessment, Killashandra packed the lute that she had hand
crafted to satisfy that requirement of her profession. She might not care to
play the thing, but she couldn't bear to abandon it. She packed it among the
clothes in her carisak, which she looped over her back. She closed the door
panel, skipped down the stairs, nodded to the landlady exactly as she always
did, and left quietly.
Having fulfilled the dramatic requirement of her new role, she hadn't
any idea what to do with herself. She slipped from walk-on to the fastbelt of
the pedestrian way, heading into the center of the city. She ought to register
with a work bureau: she ought to apply for subsistence. She ought to do many
things, but suddenly Killashandra discovered that "ought to" no longer ruled
her. No more tedious commitments to schedule-rehearsals, lessons, studies. She
was free, utterly and completely free! With a lifetime ahead of her that ought
to be filled. Ought to? With what?
The walkway was whipping her rapidly into the busier sections of the
city. Pedestrian directions flashed at cross-points: mercantile triangle
purple crossed with social services' circle orange; green check manufactory
and dormitory blue hatching, medical green-red stripes and then airport arrow
red and spaceport star-spangled blue. Killashandra, paralyzed by indecision,
toyed with the variety of things she ought to do, and was carried past the
cross-points that would take her where she ought to go.
Ought to, again, she thought, and stayed on the speedway. Half of
Killashandra was amused that she, once so certain of her goal, could now be so
irresolute. At that moment it did not occur to her that she was suffering an
intense, traumatic shock or that she was reacting to that shock -- first, in a
somewhat immature fashion by her abrupt withdrawal from the center; second, in
a more mature manner, as she divorced herself from the indulgence of self-pity
and began a positive search for an alternate life.
She could not know that at that very moment Esmond Valdi was concerned,
realizing that the girl would be reacting in some fashion to the demise of her
ambition. Had she known, she might have thought more kindly of him, though he
hadn't pursued her beyond her study nor done more than call the Personnel
Section to report his concern. He'd come to the reassuring conclusion that she
had sought refuge with a fellow student, probably having a good cry. Knowing
her dedication to music, he'd incorrectly assumed that she'd continue in the
study of music, accepting a choral leadership in due time. That's where he
wanted her, and it simply did not occur to Valdi that Killashandra would
discard ten years of her life in a second.
CHAPTER 2
Killashandra was halfway to the spaceport before she consciously decided
that that was where she ought to go -- "ought" this time not in an obligatory
but in an investigative sense. Fuerte held nothing but distressing memories
for her. She'd leave the planet and erase the painful associations. Good thing
she had taken the lute. She had sufficient credentials to be taken on as a
casual entertainer on some liner at the best or as a ship attendant at the
worst. She might as well travel about a bit to see what else she ought to do
with her life.
As the speedway slowed to curve into the spaceport terminal,
Killashandra was aware of externals -- people and things -- for the first time
since she'd left Maestro Valdi's studio. She had never been to the spaceport
before and had never been on any of the welcoming committees for off planet
stellars. Just then, a shuttle launched from its bay, powerful engines making
the port building tremble. There was, however, a very disconcerting whine of
which she was almost subliminally aware, sensing it from the mastoid bone
right down to her heel. She shook her head. The whine intensified -- it had to
be coming from the shuttle -- until she was forced to clamp her hands over her
ears. The sonics abated, and she forgot the incident as she wandered around
the immense, domed reception hall of the port facility. Vidifax were ranked
across the inner segment, each labeled with the name of a particular freight
or passenger service, each with its own screen plate. Faraway places with
strange sounding names -- a fragment from an ancient song obtruded and was
instantly suppressed. No more music.
She paused at a portal to watch a shuttle off-loading cargo, the loading
attendants using pneumatic pallets to shift odd-sized packages that did not
fit the automatic cargo-handling ramp. A supercargo was scurrying about,
portentously examining strip codes, juggling weight units, and arguing with
the stevedores. Killashandra snorted. She'd soon have more than such trivia to
occupy her energies. Suddenly, she caught the scent of appetizing odors.
She realized she was hungry! Hungry? When her whole life had been
shattered? How banal! But the odors made her mouth water. Well, her credit
ought to be good for a meal, but she'd better check her balance rather than be
embarrassed at the restaurant. At a public outlet, she inserted her digital
wristunit and applied her right thumb to the print plate. She was agreeably
surprised to note that a credit had been added that very day -- a student
credit, she read. Her last. That the total represented a bonus did not please
her. A bonus to solemnize the fact that she could never be a soloist?
She walked quickly to the nearest restaurant, observing only that it was
not the economy service. The old, dutiful Killashandra would have backed out
hastily. The new Killashandra entered imperiously. So early in the day, the
dining rooms were not crowded, so she chose a booth on the upper level for its
unobstructed view of the flow of shuttles and small spacecraft. She had never
realized how much traffic passed through the spaceport of her not very
important planet, though she vaguely knew that Fuerte was a transfer point.
The vidifax menu was long and varied, and she was tempted several times to
indulge in the exotic foods temptingly described therein. But she settled for
a casserole, purportedly composed of off-world fish, unusual but not too
highly spiced for a students untutored palate. An off-world wine included in
the selection pleased her so much that she ordered a second carafe just as
dusk closed in.
She thought, at first, that it was the unfamiliar wine that made her
nerves jangle so. But the discomfort increased so rapidly that she sensed it
couldn't be just the effect of alcohol. Rubbing her neck and frowning, she
looked around for the source of irritation. Finally, the appearance of a
descending shuttle's retroblasts made her realize that her discomfort must be
the result of a sonic disturbance, though how it could penetrate the shielded
restaurant she didn't know. She covered her ears, pressing as hard as she
could to ease that piercing pain. Suddenly, it ceased.
"I tell you, that shuttle's drive is about to explode. Now connect me to
the control supervisor," a baritone voice cried in the ensuing silence.
Startled, Killashandra looked around.
"How do I know? I know!" At the screen of the restaurant's service
console, a tall man was demanding: "Put me through to the control tower. Is
everyone up there deaf? Do you want a shuttle explosion the next time that one
is used? Didn't you hear it?"
"I heard it," Killashandra said, rushing over to plant herself in the
view of the console.
"You heard it?" The spaceport official seemed genuinely surprised.
"I certainly did. All but cracked my skull. My ears still hurt. What was
it?" she asked the tall man, who had an air of command about him, frustrated
though he was by officious stupidity. He carried his overlean body with an
arrogance that suited the fine fabric of his clothes -- obviously of off-world
design and cloth.
"She heard it too, man. Now, get the control tower."
"Really, sir..."
"Don't be a complete subbie," Killashandra snapped.
That she was obviously a Fuertan like himself disturbed the official
more than the insult. Then the stranger, ripping off an oath as colorful as it
was descriptive of idiocy, flipped open a card case drawn from his belt.
Whatever identification he showed made the official's eyes bulge.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize, Sir."
Killashandra watched as the man pressed out a code, then his image
dissolved into a view of the control tower. The off-worlder stepped squarely
before the screen, and Killashandra politely moved back.
"Control? The shuttle that just landed can't be permitted to take off;
it's resonating so badly half the crystals in the drive must be overheating.
Didn't anyone up there hear the beat frequency? It's broadcasting secondary
sonics. No, this is not a drunk and not a threat. This is a fact. Is your
entire control staff tone deaf? Don't you take efficiency readings for your
shuttles? Can't you tell from the ejection velocity monitor? What does a drive
check cost in comparison to a new port facility? Is this shuttle stop world
too poor to employ a crystal tuner or a stoker?
"Well, now that's a more reasonable attitude," said the stranger after a
moment. "As to my credentials, I'm Carrik of the Heptite Guild, Ballybran.
Yes, that's what I said. I could hear the secondary sonics right through the
walls, so I damn well know there's over heating. I'm glad the uneven drive
thrust has registered on your monitors, so get that shuttle decoked and
retuned." Another pause. "Thanks, but I've paid my bill already. No, that's
all right. Yes..." and Killashandra observed that the gratitude irritated
Carrik. "Oh, as you will." He glanced at Killashandra. "Make that for two," he
added, grinning at her as he turned from the console. "After all, you heard it
as well." He cupped his hand under Killashandra's elbow and steered her toward
a secluded booth.
"I've a bottle of wine over there," she said, half protesting, half
laughing at his peremptory escort.
"You'll have better shortly. I'm Carrik and you're...?"
"Killashandra Ree."
He smiled, gray eyes lighting briefly with surprise. "That's a lovely
name.""Oh, come now. You can do better than that?"
He laughed, absently blotting the sweat on his forehead and upper lip as
he slid into his place.
"I can and I will, but it is a lovely name. A musical one."
She winced.
"What did I say wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing."
He glanced at her skeptically just as a chilled bottle slid from the
service panel.
Carrik peered at the label. "A '72 -- well, that's astonishing." He
flipped the menu vidifax. "I wonder if they stock Forellan biscuits and
Aldebaran paste? -- Oh, they do! Well, I might revise my opinion of Fuerte."
"Really, I only just finished -- "
"On the contrary, my dear Killashandra Ree, you've only just begun.
"Oh?" Any of Killashandra's associates would have modified his attitude
instantly at that tone in her voice.
"Yes," Carrik continued blithely, a sparkling challenge in his eyes,
"for this is a night for feasting and frolicking -- on the management, as it
were. Having just saved the port from being leveled, my wish, and yours, is
their command. They'll be even more grateful when they take the drive down and
see the cracks in the transducer crystals. Off the true by a hundred vibes at
least."
Her half-formed intention of making a dignified exit died, and she
stared at Carrik. It would take a highly trained ear to catch so small a
variation in pitch.
"Off a hundred vibes? What do you mean? Are you a musician?"
Carrik stared at her as if she ought to know who or what he was. He
looked around to see where the attendant had gone and then, leaning indolently
back in the seat, smiled at her enigmatically.
"Yes, I'm a kind of musician. Are you?"
"Not anymore." Killashandra replied in her most caustic tone. Her desire
to leave returned immediately. She had managed very briefly to forget why she
was at a spaceport. Now he had reminded her, and she wanted no more such
reminders.
As she began to rise, his hand, fingers gripping firmly the flesh of her
arm, held her in her seat. Just then, an official bustled into the restaurant,
his eyes searching for Carrik. His countenance simulated relief and delight as
he hurried to the table. Carrik smiled at Killashandra, daring her to contest
his restraint in front of the witness. Despite her inclination, Killashandra
realized she couldn't start a scene. Besides, she had no real grounds yet for
charging personal-liberty infringement. Carrik, fully aware of her dilemma,
had the audacity to offer her a toast as he took the traditional sample sip of
the wine.
"Yes, sir, the '72. A very good choice. Surely, you'll..."
The serving panel opened on a slightly smoking dish of biscuits and a
platter of a reddish-brown substance.
"But, of course, Forellan biscuits and Aldebaran paste. Served with
warmed biscuits, I see. Your caterers do know their trade," Carrik remarked
with feigned surprise.
"We may be small at Fuerte in comparison to other ports you've seen,"
the official began obsequiously.
"Yes, yes, thank you." Carrik brusquely waved the man away.
Killashandra stared after the fellow, wondering that he hadn't claimed
insult for such a careless dismissal.
"How do you get away with such behavior?"
Carrik smiled. "Try the wine, Killashandra." His smile suggested that
the evening would be long, and a prelude to a more intimate association.
"Who are you?" she demanded, angry now.
"I'm Carrik of the Heptite Guild," he repeated cryptically.
"And that gives you the right to infringe on my personal freedom?"
"It does if you heard that crystal whine."
"And how do you figure that?"
"Your opinion of the wine, Killashandra Ree? Surely your throat must be
dry, and I imagine you've a skull ache from that subsonic torture, which would
account for your shrewish temper."
Actually, she did have a pain at the base of her neck. He was right,
too, about the dryness of her throat -- and about her shrewish temper. But he
had modified his criticism by stroking her hand.
"I must apologize for my bad manners," he began with no display of
genuine remorse but with a charming smile. "Those shuttle drive-harmonics can
be unnerving. It brings out the worst in us."
She nodded agreement as she sipped the wine. It was a fine vintage. She
looked up with delight and pleasure. He patted her arm and gestured her to
drink up.
"Who are you, Carrik of the Heptite Guild, that port authorities listen
and control towers order exorbitant delicacies in gratitude?"
"You really don't know?"
"I wouldn't ask if I did!"
"Where have you been all your life that you've never heard of the
Heptite Guild?"
"I've been a music student on Fuerte," she replied, spitting out the
words."You wouldn't, by any chance, have perfect pitch?" The question,
unexpected and too casually put forth, caught her halfway into a foul temper.
"Yes, I do, but I don't -- "
"What fantastic luck!" His face, which was not unattractive, became
radiant. "I shall have to tip the agent who ticketed me here! Why, our meeting
is unbelievable luck -- "
"Luck? If you knew why I'm here -- "
"I don't care why. You are here, and so am I." He took her hands and
seemed to devour her face with his eyes grinning with such intense joy she
found herself smiling back with embarrassment.
"Oh, luck indeed, my dear girl. Fate. Destiny. Karma. Lequoal.
Pidalkoram. Whatever you care to name the coincidence of our life lines, I
should order magnums of this fine wine for that lousy shuttle pilot for
endangering this port terminal, in general, and us, in particular."
"I don't understand what you're ranting about, Carrik of Heptite,"
Killashandra said, but she was not impervious to his compliments or the charm
he exuded. She knew that her self-assurance tended to put off men, but here a
well-traveled off-worlder, a man of obvious rank and position, was
inexplicably taken with her.
"You don't?" He teased her for the banality of her protest, and she
closed her mouth on the rest of her rebuff. "Seriously," he went on, stroking
the palms of her hands with his fingers as if to soothe the anger from her,
"have you never heard of Crystal Singers?"
"Crystal Singers? No. Crystal tuners, yes."
He dismissed the mention of tuners with a contemptuous flick of his
fingers. "Imagine singing a note, a pure, clear middle C, and hearing it
answered across an entire mountain range?"
She stared at him.
"Go up a third or down; it makes no difference. Sing out and hear the
harmony return to you. A whole mountainside pitched to a C and another sheer
wall of pink quartz echoing back in a dominant. Night brings out the minors,
like an ache in your chest. the most beautiful pain in the world because the
music of the crystal is in your bones, Is your blood -- "
"You're mad!" Killashandra dug her fingers into his hands to shut off
his words. They conjured too many painful associations. She had to forget all
that, "I hate music. I hate anything to do with music."
He regarded her with disbelief for a moment, but then, with an
unexpected tenderness and concern reflected in his expression, he moved an arm
around her shoulders and, despite her initial resistance, drew himself against
her. "My dear girl, what happened to you today?"
A moment before, she would have swallowed glass shards rather than
confide in anyone. But the warmth in his voice, his solicitude, were so timely
and unexpected that the whole of her personal disaster came tumbling out. He
listened to every word, occasionally squeezing her hand in sympathy. But at
the end of the recital, she was amazed to see the fullness in his eyes as
tears threatened to embarrass her.
"My dear Killashandra, what can I say? There's no possible consolation
for such a personal catastrophe as that! And there you were" -- his eyes shone
with what Killashandra chose to interpret as admiration -- "having a bottle of
wine as coolly as a queen. Or" -- and he leaned over her, grinning maliciously
-- "were you just gathering enough courage to step under a shuttle?" He kept
hold of her hand which, at his outrageous suggestion, she tried to free. "No,
I can see that suicide was furthest from your mind." She subsided at the
implicit compliment. "Although" -- and his expression altered thoughtfully --
"you might inadvertently have succeeded if that shuttle had been allowed to
take off again. If I hadn't been here to stop it -- " He flashed her his
charmingly reprehensible smile.
"You're full of yourself, aren't you?" Her accusation was said in jest,
for she found his autocratic manner an irresistible contrast to anyone of her
previous acquaintance.
He grinned unrepentantly and nodded toward the remains of their exotic
snack. "Not without justification, dear girl. But look, you're free of
commitments right now, aren't you?" She hesitantly nodded. "Or is there
someone you've been seeing?" He asked that question almost savagely, as if
he'd eliminate any rival.
Later, Killashandra might remember how adroitly Carrik had handled her,
preying on her unsettled state of mind, on her essential femininity, but that
tinge of jealousy was highly complimentary, and the eagerness in his eyes, in
his hands, was not feigned.
"No one to matter or miss me."
Carrik looked so skeptical that she reminded him that she'd devoted all
her energies to singing.
"Surely not all?" He mocked her dedication.
"No one to matter," she repeated firmly.
"Then I will make an honest invitation to you. I'm an off-worlder on
holiday. I don't have to be back to the Guild till -- well" -- and he gave a
nonchalant shrug -- "when I wish. I've all the credits I need. Help me spend
them. It'll purge you of the music college."
She looked squarely at him, for their acquaintanceship was so brief and
hectic that she simply hadn't had time to consider him a possible companion.
Nor did she quite trust him. She was both attracted to and repelled by his
domineering, high-handed manner, and yet he represented a challenge to her. He
was certainly the exact opposite of the young men she had thus far encountered
on Fuerte.
"We don't have to stay on this mudball, either."
"Then why did you come?"
He laughed. "I'm told I haven't been on Fuerte before. I can't say that
it lives up to its name, or maybe you'll live up to the name for it? Oh come
now, Killashandra," he said when she bridled. "Surely you've been flirted with
before? Or have music students changed so much since my day?"
"You studied music?"
An odd shadow flickered through his eyes. "Probably. I don't rightly
remember. Another time, another life perhaps." Then his charming smile
deepened, and a warmth entered his expression that she found rather
unsettling. "Tell me, what's on this planet that's fun to do?"
Killashandra considered for a moment and then blinked. "You know, I
haven't an earthly?"
"Then we'll find out together."
What with the wine, his adept cajolery, and her own recklessness,
Killashandra could not withstand the temptation. She ought to do many things,
she knew, but "ought" had been exiled someplace during the second bottle of
that classic vintage. After spending the rest of the night nestled in Carrik's
arms in the most expensive accommodation of the spaceport hostelry,
Killashandra decided she would suspend duty for a few days and be kind to the
charming visitor.
The vidifax printout chattered as it popped out dozens of cards on the
resorts of Fuerte, more than she had ever suspected. She had never water
skied, so Carrik decided they'd both try that. He ordered a private skimmer to
be ready within the hour. As he sang cheerily at the top of a good, rich bass
voice, floundering about in the elegant sunken bathtub of the suite,
Killashandra recalled some vestige of self-preserving shrewdness and tapped
out a few discreet inquiries on the console.
1234/AZ...
CRYSTAL SINGER...A COLLOQUIAL GALACTIC EUPHEMISM REFERRING TO
MEMBERS OF THE HEPTITE GUILD, BALLYBRAN, WHO MINE CRYSTAL RANGES UNIQUE TO
THAT PLANET. REF: BALLYBRAN, REGULUS SYSTEM, A-S-F/ 128/ 4. ALSO CRYSTAL
MINING, CRYSTAL TECHNOLOGY, 'BLACK QUARTZ' COMMUNICATIONS.
WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED LANDING ON BALLYBRAN INTERDICTED BY
FEDERATED SENTIENT PLANETS, SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78-90.
The landing prohibition surprised Killashandra. She tried to recall
details from her obligatory secondary school course on FSP Rights and
Responsibilities. The 900 Section had to do with life forms, she thought, and
the Code 4 suggested considerable danger.
She tapped out the section, code, and paragraphs and was awarded a
request for Need to Know? As she couldn't think of one at the moment, she went
to the planetary reference, and the display rippled across the screen.
BALLYBRAN: FIFTH PLANET OF THE SUN, 'SCORIA, REGULUS SECTOR: THREE
SATELLITES; AUTHORIZED LANDING POINT, FIRST MOON, SHANKILL; STANDARD
LIFE-SUPPORT BASE, COMMERCIAL AND TRANSIENT ACCOMMODATIONS. NO UNAUTHORIZED
PLANETARY LANDINGS: SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78-90.
SOLE AUTHORITY: HEPTITE GUILD, MOON BASE, SHANKILL.
Then she followed dense lines of data on the spectral analysis of Scoria
and its satellites, Ballybran being the only one that rated considerable
print-out, which Killashandra could, in part, interpret Ballybran had a
gravity slightly lower than galactic norm for human adaptability, a breathable
atmosphere, more oceans than land mass, tidal complications caused by three
moons, as well as an exotic meteorology stimulated by sunspot activity on the
primary.
PRINCIPAL INDUSTRIES: (1) BALLYBRAN CRYSTALS
(2) THERAPEUTIC WATERS.
(1) BALLYBRAN LIVING CRYSTAL VARIES IN DENSITY, COLOR, AND
LONGEVITY AND IS UNIQUE TO THE PLANET. VITAL TO THE PRODUCTION OF CONTROL
ELEMENTS IN LASERS; AS A MATERIAL FOR INTEGRATED-CIRCUIT SUBSTRATES (OF THE
LADDER HIERARCHY); POSITRONIC ROBOTICS; AS TRANSDUCERS FOR ELECTRO-MAGNETIC
RADIATION (FUNDAMENTALS OF 20 KHZ AND 500 KHZ WITH AUDIO SECONDARIES AND
HARMONICS IN THE LOWER FREQUENCIES) AND HEAT TRANSDUCERS, AS OPTHERIAN SOUND
RELAYS AND MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS; BLUE TETRAHEDRONS ARE A CRUCIAL PART IN
TACHYON DRIVE SYSTEMS.
"BLACK" QUARTZ, A PHENOMENON LIMITED TO BALLYBRAN, IS THE CRITICAL
ELEMENT OF INSTANTANEOUS INTERSTELLAR COMMUNICATION, HAVING THE ABILITY TO
FOLD SPACE, OVER ANY DISTANCE, SO THAT MAGNETICALLY, ELECTRICALLY, AND, AS FAR
AS IS KNOWN, OPTICALLY, THERE IS NO EFFECTIVE SEPARATION BETWEEN TWO COUPLED
RESONATING SEGMENTS REGARDLESS OF THE ACTUAL DISTANCE BETWEEN THEM.
TIMING ACCURACY OVER A DISTANCE OF 500 LIGHT-YEARS HAS PRODUCED
CONSISTENT ACCURACY OF 1 X 10-6 OF THE CESIUM ATOM TIME STANDARD.
BLACK QUARTZ IS CAPABLE OF ACHIEVING SIMULTANEOUS SYNCHRONIZATION
WITH TWO OTHER SEGMENTS AND SO PROVIDES A RING-LINK BACKUP SYSTEM. FOR
EXAMPLE, WITH SIX QUARTZ SEGMENTS, A TO F, A IS LINKED TO C, D, & E; B IS
LINKED TO C, E, & F...
That was more than she ever wanted to know about black quartz
communications, Killashandra thought as diagrams and computations scrolled
across the screen, so she pressed on to more interesting data. She slowed the
display when she noticed the heading "Membership" and reversed to the start of
that entry.
CURRENT MEMBERSHIP OF THE HEPTITE GUILD ON BALLYBRAN IS 4425, INCLUDING
INACTIVE MEMBERS, BUT THE NUMBER FLUCTUATES CONSIDERABLY DUE TO OCCUPATIONAL
HAZARDS. THE ANCILLARY STAFF AND TECHNICIANS ARE LISTED CURRENTLY AT 20,007.
ASPIRANTS TO THE GUILD ARE ADVISED THAT THE PROFESSION IS HIGHLY DANGEROUS,
AND THE HEPTITE GUILD IS REQUIRED BY FEDERATION LAW TO DISCLOSE FULL
PARTICULARS OF ALL DANGERS INVOLVED BEFORE CONTRACTING NEW MEMBERS.
Four thousand four hundred and twenty-five seemed an absurdly small
roster for a galaxy-wide Guild that supplied essential elements to so many
industries. Most galaxy-wide guilds ran to the hundreds of millions. What were
those ancillary staff and technicians? The notation of "full particulars of
dangers involved" didn't dissuade Killashandra at all. Danger was relative.
THE CUTTING OF BALLYBRAN CRYSTAL IS A HIGHLY SKILLED AND PHYSICALLY
SELECTIVE CRAFT, WHICH, AMONG IT'S OTHER EXACTING DISCIPLINES, REQUIRES THAT
PRACTITIONERS HAVE PERFECT AND ABSOLUTE PITCH BOTH IN PERCEPTION AND
REPRODUCTION OF THE TONAL QUALITY AND TIMBRE TO BE FOUND ONLY IN TYPE IV
THROUGH VIII BIPEDAL HUMANOIDS -- ORIGIN: SOL III.
CRYSTAL CUTTERS MUST BE MEMBERS OF THE HEPTITE GUILD, WHICH TRAINS,
EQUIPS, AND SUPPLIES GUILD MEDICAL SERVICES FOR WHICH THE GUILD EXACTS A 30
PERCENT TITHE FROM ALL ACTIVE MEMBERS.
Killashandra whistled softly -- 30 percent was quite a whack. Yet Carrik
seemed to have no lack of credit, so 70 percent of his earnings as a Cutter
must be very respectable.
Thinking of Carrik, she tapped out a query. Anyone could pose as a
member of a Guild; chancers often produced exquisitely forged documentation
and talked a very good line of their assumed profession, but a computer check
could not be forged. She got affirmation that Carrik was indeed a member in
good standing of the Heptite Guild, currently on leave of absence. A hologram
of Carrik, taken when he used his credit plate for spaceflight to Fuerte five
days before, flowed across the viewplate.
Well, the man was undeniably who he said he was and doing what he said
he was doing. His being a card-tuned Guild member was a safeguard for her so
摘要：

CrystalSinger-AnneMcCaffreyCopyright1982Author'sNoteCrystalSingerisbasedonfourstoriesoriginallypublishedinRogerElwood'sContinuumseries.CrystalSingerisconsiderablyexpandedfromthesestories,thankstothetechnicalassistanceofRonMassey,LangshotStables,Surrey.Hislongexplanationsandcarefulnotespermittedmetov...

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