anything remotely personal, certainly nothing of Killashandra.

"Because," Killashandra said out loud as if to imprint her voice on the

room, "I'm nothing but a crystal singer with only a present to live in."

She slammed the door as she left but it didn't do much to satisfy her

discontent.  She "might have trouble finding her apartment after a

session in the Ranges but none finding her way up from the subterranean

resident levels and to the shuttle-bays.

She took the time to get the protective lenses removed from her eyes. It

didn't change her outlook much.  In fact, Ballybran looked duller than

it should as the shuttle lifted towards Shankill.  The storm had cleared

away and she felt a brief twinge as her body ached for the resonances

she was leaving, for the dazzle of rainbow-light prisms dancing off

variegated quartz, for the pure sweet sound of crystal waking in the

early morning sun, or sighing in the cold virginal light of one of the

larger moons, for the subsonic hum that ate through bone in black cold

night.

Then she dealt with the formalities of lifting off world and was

directed to Bay 23, where the Armagh freighter, Maeve 18, was docked.

She was escorted to her cabin by a youngster who couldn't keep far

enough ahead of her - and the crystal resonance that pinged off her in

the narrow corridors.

"Is there a radiant fluid tub on board?" she asked him with a grim smile

for his reaction to her condition.

"In your cabin, Crystal Singer,> he said and then scooted away.

It was a courtesy to call it a tub, for it was a two metre tube, just

wide enough to accommodate a body.  To reach it one had to perform

cermin acrobatics over the toilet and, from the legend on the dials, the

same fluid was flushed and re-used.  Well, she could count on three to

four washes before it became ineffective.  That would have to do.

She opened the tap and heard the comforting gurgle of the fluid dropping

to the bottom of the tub.

From there she flung her carisak to the narrow bunk, shucked off her

clothes, and did her acrobatic act, inserting herself just as the flow

automatically cut off.  There were hand and ankle grips and she arranged

her limbs appropriately, tilted her head back and let the radiant fluid

cleanse her.

She entered the common room for the first time the third day out, having

purged sufficient of crystal resonance from blood arid bone to be

socially acceptable.  She was hungry, for more than food, a hunger she

could keep leashed as far as she herself was concerned.  But the eight

male passengers and the two crewmen who circulated in the transit area

were obviously affected by her sensuality.  There wasn't anyone she

wanted so she retired to her cabin and remained there for the rest of

the trip.  She'd travelled often enough in the shape she was in to

practise discretion.

Armagh III's Port Terminal smelled of fish oil and glue.  Great casks

were being trundled into the hold of.the freighter as she bade an

impatient farewell to the captain.  She flashed her general credentials

and was admitted unconditionally to the planet as a leisure guest.  No

problem, so she hadn't had to use her Guild membership.  Armagh III was

an open planet.

She rented a flyer and checked into the Tourist as for a list of

resorts.  It was so lengthy that she merely closed her eyes and bought a

ticket to the destination on which her finger settled: Trefoil, on the

southeastern coast of the main continent.  She paused long enough to

obtain a quick change of Armagh clothing, bright patterns in a

lightweight porous weave, and was off.

Trefoil reminded her of somewhere.  The resemblance nagged at her even

as the interoceanic air vehicle circled the small fishing town.

Ships tacking across the harbour under sail caused her heart to bump

with a curiously painful joy.  She knew she must have seen sail-ships

since the nomenclature sloop, lanteen-rigged, schooner, ketch, yawl

sprang to mind with no hesitation.  As did a second pang of regret.

She grimaced and decided that such clear recollection "hight even be an

asset on this backward little world.

The landing field wasn't that far from one of the longer wharves where a

huge two-master was moving, with graceful and competent ease, to a berth

along the portside.  That term also came unbidden to her mind.  As much

because she would not give in to the emotion of the recall as because

the ship excited her, she swung the carisak to her shoulder and

sauntered down to the wharf.  The crew was busy in the yards, reefing

the last of the square sails used to make port, and more were bustling

about the deck which glinted with an almost crystalline sheen.

"What makes the decks shine?" she asked another observer.

"Fish oils," was the somewhat terse reply and then the man, a

red-bearded giant, took a second look.

Men usually did at Killashandra.  "First time on Armagh?" Killashandra

nodded, her eyes intent on the "Been here long?"

"Just arrived."

"Got a pad?"

"No."

"Try the Golden Dolphin.  Best food in town and best brewman."

Killashandra turned to look at him then.  "You pad there?"

"How else could I judge?" the man replied with charming candour

Killashandra smiled back at him, neither coldly nor invitingly.

Neutral.  He reminded her of someone.

They both turned back to watch the docking ship.

Killashandra found the process fascinating and reminiscent but she

forced memory out, and concentrated on the landing, silently applauding

the well drilled crew.  Each man seemed to perform his set task without

apparent instruction from the captain in the bridge house.  The big hull

drifted slowly sideways towards the wharf.  The last of the sails had

now been fastened along the spars.  Two crewmen flung lines ashore, fore

and aft: then leaped after them when the distance closed, flipping the

heavy lines deftly around the bollards and snubbing the ship securely.

Armagh men ran to height, tanned skins, and strong backs, Killashandra

noticed approvingly.

Redbeard was watching her out of the corner of his eye.  He was

interested in her all right.  Just then, the nearest sailor turned

landside, and waved in her direction.  His teeth were startlingly white

against the mahogany of his skin.  He tossed back a streaked blond curly

mane of hair and waved again.  He wore the long oil-shiny pants of his

profession and an oddly fashioned vest, which left chest and arms bare

and seemed stiff with double hide along the ribs.  He looked incredibly

muscular.

Why was he waving at her?  No, at Redbeard beside her, who now walked

forward to meet his friend.  A third man, black-bearded and tangle

maned, joined them, was embraced by Redbeard.

The trio stood, facing the ship, talking among themselves until a

fearsome machine glided along the rails to their side of the dock.  It

extruded a ramp out and down, into the deck of the boat, where it

hovered expectantly.  The two sailors had jumped back aboard, the blond

man moving with the instinctive grace of the natural athlete.  In

comparison, the black-haired man looked clumsy.  As a team, they heaved

open the hatch.  The hesitant ramp extruded i8o i8i clamps that fastened

to the deck and the lip of the opened hold.  More ramp disappeared into

the maw of the ship.  Moments later the ramp belt moved upwards and

Killashandra saw her first lunk, the great oil fish of Armagh, borne

away on its last journey.

She became absorbed in the unloading process, which, for all the

automated assistance of the machine, still required a human element.

The oil scales of the huge fish did not always stay on the rough surface

of the ramp belt and had to be forced back on manually.  The blond used

an enormous barbed hook, planting it deep in what was actually the very

tough hide of the elusive fish and deftly flipping the body into place

again.  Redbeard seemed to have some official position for he made notes

of the maclime's dials, used the throat key often, and seemed to have

forgotten her existence entirely.

Killashandra approved.  A man should get on with his work.

Yes, especially when he worked with such laudable economy of motion and

effort.  Like the young blond.

In fact, Killashandra was rather surprised when the ramp suddenly

retracted and the machine slid sideways to the next hold.  A small

barefoot rascal of a lad slipped up to the crewmen, a tray of hot pies

balanced on his head.  The aroma was tantalizing and Killashandra

realized that she'd not eaten since leaving the freighter that morning.

Before she could signal the rascal to her, his merchandise had been

bought up by the seamen.  Irritated, Killashandra looked landward.

The docks couldn't be dependent on the services of small boys. There

must be other eating facilities near by.  There was, of course, but

off-dock.  With a backward glance at her blond sailor, contentedly

munching from a pie in each hand, she left the wharf.

As it happened the eating house she chose displayed a placard

advertising the Golden Dolphin.

The hostelry was up the beach, set back amid a grove of frond-leaved

trees which also reminded her of something and excited an irritation in

her.  She wouldn't give in to it.  The i'm was set far enough around a

headland from the town and the wharf so that commercial noise was muted.

She took a room with a veranda looking out over the water.  She changed

into native clothing and retraced her steps along the quiet corridor to

the public room.

"What's the native brew?" she asked the harman, settling herself on the

quaint, high wooden stool.

"Depends on your capacity, m'dear," the little black man told her,

grinning a welcome.

"I've never disgraced myself' "Tart or sweet?"

"Hmmmm .  .  Tart, cool and log) "There's a concoction of fermented

fruits, native to this globe, called "harmat".  Powerful."

"Keep an eye on me then, man.  You call the limit." He nodded

respectfully.  He couldn't know that a crystal singer had a metabolism

that compensated for drug, narcotic or excess alcohol.  A

blessing-curse.

Particularly if you were injured off-world, with no crystal around to

draw the noise of accidental pain from your bones and muscles.

Quietly cursing to herself, she knew she had enough crystal resonance

still in her to reduce even an amputation to minimal discomfort.

Harmat was tart, cool, and long, with a pleasant aftertaste that kept

the mouth sweet and soothed the throat.

"A good drink for a sun world.  And sailors."

"Aye, it is," the harman said, his eyes twinkling.

"And if it weren't for them, we could export more."

"I thought Armagh's trade was fish oils and glue." The harman winnkled

his nose disdainfully.  "It is.

Harmat off-world commands a price, only trade rules say home consumption

comes first."

"Invent another drink." The harman frowned.

"I try.  Oh, I try.  But they drink me dry of anything I brew' "You're

brewman as well?" He drew himself up, straight and proud.  "I gather the

fruit from my own land, prepare it, press it, keg it, age it." She

questioned him further, interested in another's exacting trade, and

thought if she weren't a crystal singer, brewmaking would have been fun.

Biyanco, for that was the brewman's name, chatted with her amiably - he

was an amusing fellow - until the laughter and talk of a large crowd

penetrated the quiet gloom of the public room "The fishermen," he told

her, busying himself by filling glass after glass of harmat, lining them

up along the bar.

He was none too soon, for the wide doors of the public room swung open

and a horde of oiltrousered, vested men and women surged up to the bar,

tanned hands closing on the nearest glass, coins spinning and clicking

to the wooden surface.  Killashandra remained on her stool but she was

pressed hard on both sides by thirsty people who spared her no glance

until they'd finished the first glass and were bawling for a refill.

Then she was, rather casually, she felt, dismissed as the fisherfolk

laughed among themselves and talked trade.

"You'd best watch that stuff," said a voice in her ear and she saw

Redbeard.

"I've been warned," she answered, grinning.

"Biyanco makes the best harmat this side of the canal.  It's not a drink

for the novice."

"I've been warned," she repeated, mildly amused at the half-insult.  Of

course, the man couldn't know that she was a crystal singer.  So his

warning had been kindly meant.

A huge bronzed fist brushed past her left breast.

Startled, she looked up into the brilliant blue eyes of the blond

sailor, received an incurious appraisal that warmed briefly in the way a

man will look at a woman, and then grew cautious.

Killashandra looked away first, oddly disturbed by the blue eyes,

somehow familiar but not the same, and disappointed.  This one was much

too young for her.  She turned back to Redbeard, who grinned as if he

had watched the swift exchange of glances and was somehow amused by it.

"I'm Thursday, Orric Thursday, ma'am," the redbeard said.

"Killashandra Ree is my name," she replied and extended her hand.

He couldn't have told her profession by her grip but she could see that

the strength of it surprised him.  Killashandra was not a tall or

heavily boned woman: cutting crystal does not need mass, only controlled

energy, and that could be developed in any arm.

"This is my good friend, Shad Tucker, and Thursday gestured to the

blond.

thankful that the press of bodies made it impossible for her to do the

courteous handshake, Killashandra nodded to Shad Tucker.

"And my old comrade of the wars, Tir Od Nell." Orric Thursday motioned

to the blackbeard, who also contented himself with a nod and a grin at

her.

"You'd be here for a rest, Killashandra?" And when she nodded, "Now, why

would you pick such a dull fisherman's world as Armagh if you'd the

galaxy to choose from?" Killashandra had heard that sort of question

before, how many times she couldn't remember She'd also heard the same

chanriig invitation for confidences.

"Perhaps I like water sports," she replied, smiling back at him and not

bothering to hide her appraisal.

To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed.  She could see

where he'd trimmed the hairs from his throat, leaving a narrow band of

white flesh that never saw sun.  His two friends said nothing but their

eyes were on her.

"Perhaps you do, ma'am.  And this is the place.  Did you want the long

wave ride?  There's a boat out every dawn." Orric looked at her

questioningly.

"Then water-skating?  Submarining?  Dolphin swimming?  What is your

pleasure, Killashandra Ree?"

"Rest!  I'm tired!"

"Oh, I'd never think you'd ever known fatigue." The expression in his

eyes invited her to edif\r him.

"For someone unfamiliar with the condition, how would you know it?" Tir

Od Nell roared.

"She's got you there, Orr," he said, clapping his friend on the

shoulder.  Shad Tucker smiled, a sort of shy, amused sle, as if he

hadn't suspected her capable of caustic reply, and wasn't sure he should

enjoy it at his friend's expense.

Orric grinned, shrugged and eyed Killashandra with respect.  Then he

bawled to Biyanco that his glass had a hole in it.

When the edge of their thirst had been satisfied, most of the fishermen

left.  "In search of other diversions," Orric said but he, Tir Od Nell

and Shad Tucker merely settled stools around her and continued to drink.

She matched them, paid her rounds and enjoyed Orric's attempts to pry

information, any personal information, from her.

He was not, she discovered, easily put off, nor shy of giving facts

about himself and his friends.  They'd all worked the same fishing boat

five seasons back, leaving the sea periodically as bad fishing turned

them off temporarily.  Orric had an interest in comcomcomputers and

often did wharfman's chores if the regular men were away when the ships

came in.  Tir Od Nell needed some ready credit, was working the lunk

season and would return to his regular job inland.

Shad Tucker, the only off-worlder, had sailed the seas of four planets

before he was landed on Armagh.

"Shad keeps saying he'll move on, but he's been here five years and

more," Orric told Killashandra, "and no sign of applying for a

ticket-off." Tucker only smiled, the slight, tolerant smile playing at

the corner of his mouth, as if chary of admitting even that much about

himself.

"Don't let Shad's reticence mislead you, Killashandra Ree," Orric went

on, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder.  "He's accredited for more

than a lunk fisher.  Indeed he is." Killashandra felt yet another tweak

of pain that she masked with a smile for Orric.  "Shad's got first

mate's tickets on four water worlds that make sailing Armagh look like

tank bathing.  Came here with a submarine rig one of the Anchorite

companies was touting." He shrugged, eloquently indicating that the

company's praise had fallen on deaf Armaghan ears.

"They're conservative here on Armagh, Tucker said, his accent a nice

change, soft after Orric's nearbellow.  She almost had to sharpen her

hearing to catch what he said.

"How so?" she asked Shad, ignoring what Orric started to say.

"They feel there is one good way to catch lunk when it's in oil.

By long line.  That way you don't bruise the flesh so much and the lunk

doesn't struggle the way it does in a net and sour the oil.  The

captains, they've a sense of location that doesn't need sonic gear.

I've sailed with five, six of the best and they always know when and

where lunk are running.

And how many they can bring from that deep." And, thought Killashandra,

bemused by Shad's soft accent, you'd give your arm to develop that

sense.

"You've fished on other worlds," she said out loud.

"Aye."

"Where, for instance?" He was as chary to give information as a fish. Or

herself.

"Oh, spiderfish, crackerjaw, bluefm, skaters and Welladay whales." The

young man said it as casually as if encounters with aquatic monsters

were of no account.  And how, Killashandra wondered to herself, did she

know that's what he'd name?  Nervously, she glanced to one side and saw

Orric's eyes alight, as if he had hoped that the catalogue would impress

her.

"A crackerjack opened his back for him on Spindrift," Orric said

proudly.  "And he flew five miles with a skater and brought it down, the

largest one ever recorded on Mandalay." Killashandra wasn't sure why

Orric Thursday wished to extol his friend.  But it made him more

acceptable in her eyes.  Shad was too young, anyhow.

Killashandra made no further attempt to draw Shad out but turned to Tir

and Orric.

Despite a continued concern for her consumption of harmat, Orric kept

ordering until full dark closed down abruptly on the planet and the

artificial lights came on in the room.

"Mealtime," Biyanco announced in a loud, penetrating voice, and

activated a barrier that dropped over the bar.  He appeared through a

side door and briskly gestured them to a table for four on the other

side of the room.  Killashandra made no resistance to Orric's suggestion

that they all dine together and she spent the rest of the evening -

listening to fish stories i88

- in their company.  And her night alone: by choice.

She'd not made up her mind yet.

when the sun came up over the edge of the sea, she was down in the

hotel's private lagoon, floating on the buoyant waters, just as the lunk

ships, sails fat with dawn winds, slid out to open sea with incredible

5-.

To her surprise, Orric appeared at midday and offered to show her

Trefoil's few diversions.  Nothing loath, she went and found him most

agreeable company, conversant on every phase of Trefoil's domestic

industry.  He steered her from the usual tourist path for which she was

grateful.  She abhorred that label though that was, in essence, her

status on any world but Ballybran.  Nor did she give Orric Thursday any

hint of her profession, despite all his attempts to wheedle the

information from her.

It wasn't that she liked being secretive, but few worlds understood the

function of crystal singers and some very odd habits and practices had

been attributed to them.  Killashandra's discretion and caution were

instinctive now.

I-ate afternoon and a bleeper on Orric's belt alerted him to return to

the dock: the fishing boats had been sighted.

"Sorry, m'dear," he said as he executed a dipping turn of his fast

airfliter.  "Duty calls." She elected to join him on the wharf, allowing

him to think it was his company she preferred.  Actually, she wanted to

watch the silent team-work of docking, and see the mahogany figure of

Shad Tucker again.

He was much too young for her, she told herself again, but a right

graceful person to observe.

They'd made a quick plenteous catch that day, Killashandra was told as

the fishermen drowned their thirsts in harmat at the Golden Dolphin.

Tucker seemed unusually pleased and Killashandra couldn't resist asking

why "He's made enough now to go off-world," Orric said when Shad replied

with an indolent shrug.  "He won't go," and Redbeard shook his head, a

wry grin on his face.  "He never does.  He's been here longer than on

any other planet."

"Why?" Killashandra asked Shad, then had to hush Orric.  "Let Tucker

reply.  He knows his own mind, doesn't he?" Shad regarded her with mild

surprise and the indolent look left his blue eyes, replaced by an

intensity she found hard to ignore.

"This is a real sea world," Shad said, picking his words in his

soft-accented way, "not some halfevolved plankton planet." He doesn't en

his lips wi& enough w enunciate properly, she thought, and wondered why

he guarded himself so.

"You've lunk for profit, territ and flat ffish for fine eating, the

crustaceans and bivalves for high livers, then the sea fruits for a

constant harvest.  Variety.  I might buy myself a strip of land and

stay' "You do ship on more than the lunk boats?" Shad was surprised by

her question.  "All the boats fish lunk when it runs.  Then you go after

the others."

"If you've a mind for drudgery," said Tir Od Nell gloomily.

Shad gave Tir a forbearing glance.  "Lunk requires only muscle," he said

with a sly grin.

This appeared to be an old challenge, for Tir launched into a debate

that Shad parried with the habit of long practice.

For the sake of being perverse, Killashandra took Tir to bed that night.

She didn't regret the experience, although there was no harmony between

them.

If it gave her no peace, his vehemence did take the edge off her hunger.

She did not encourage him to ask for more.  Somewhere, long ago, she'd

learned the way to do that without aggravating a lover.

He was gone by dawn.  Orric dropped by a few hours later and took her to

see a sea-fruit farm on the peninsula, ten klicks from Trefoil to the

south.

when she assured Max Ennert, the farmer, of her experience, they were

all fitted out with breather tanks and went subnue.

Enclosed by water, isolated by her trail of bubbles, though attached by

guide-lines to Max and Orric, she realized - probably for an uncountable

time - why crystal singers sought water worlds.  Below sea level there

was insulation against aural sound, relief from the play of noise

against weary eardrums.

They drifted inches about the carefully tended sea gardens, Max and

Orric occasionally pruning off a ripe frond of grape or plum, shoving

them in the net bags they towed.  They by-passed reapers in a vast

sea-valley where weed was being harvested.  Occasionally, loose strands

would drift past them, the fatter, longer ones deftly caught and netted

by the men.

Killashandra was content to follow, slightly behind Max, slightly ahead

of Orric, craning her neck, angling her body to enjoy as much of the

clear-sea view as possible.  One or the other men checked her gauges

from time to time.  Euphoria could be a curse under sea and they didn't

know the professional immunity she enjoyed.

Perhaps that was why Orric argued with Max at one point, when they'd

been below some two hours.

They stayed down almost three more before they completed the circuit. As

they walked out of the sea at Max's landing, night was approaching with

the usual tropical despatch.

"Stay on, Orric, Killashandra, if you've no other plans," Max said but

the words sounded rehearsed, strained.

She entered the room where she had changed to sea-dress and heard

Orric's footsteps right behind her.  She didn't bother closing the door.

He did, and had her in his arms the next instant.  She made no

resistance to his advance nor did she respond.  He held her from him,

surprised, a question in his eyes.

"I'm not susceptible to euphorics, Orric," she told him.

"what are you talking about?" he asked, grey eyes wide with innocence.

"And I've submarined on more worlds than Shad has sailed."

"Is it Tucker you're after?" He didn't seem jealous, merely curious.

"Shad's.  .  ." She shrugged, unwilling to place the young man in any

category.

"But you don't fancy me?" Not aggrieved: again, merely curious.

She looked at him a long moment.  "I think .  .  .

she began, pausing as she voiced an opinion that had been subconscious

till that moment, .  - .  you remind me too much of someone I've been

trying to forget."

"Oh, just remind you?" Orric 5

voice was soft and coaxing, almost like Tucker's.  She put that young

man firmly out of her mind.

"No offence intended, Orric.  The resemblance is purely superficial."

His eyes twinkled merrily and Killashandra realized that the resemblance

was not purely superficial, for the other man would have responded in

just the same way, amused with her and taking no offence.  Perversely

that annoyed her more.

"So, dark and mysterious lady, when you get to know me better.

"Let me get to know you better first." They flitted back to Trefoil,

circling over quays empty of any fishing craft.

"Lunk is moving off-shore," Orric said.  "Season's about over, I'd say."

"Does Tucker really have enough for a ticket off?"

"Probably." Orric was busy setting the little craft down in dim light.

"But Tir needs one more good haul.  And so, I suspect, does Skipper

Garnish.

They'll track school as far as there's trace before they head in." which

was the substance of the message left for Orric at the Golden Dolphin.

So Killashandra, Orric and Biyanco talked most of the evening with

damned few other drinkers at the bar.

That was why Killashandra got an invitation to go with Biyanco

fruit-harvesting.  "Land-fruit for harmat," Biyanco said with an odd

shudder.

Orric laughed and called him an incorrigible lubber.  "Biyanco swears

he's never touched sea-fruit in his life."

"Never been that poor, Biyanco said with some dignity.

The brewman roused her before dawn, his tractorfloat purring outside her

veranda.  She dressed in the overall he'd advised and the combi-boots,

and braided her hair tightly to her skull on the outward leg of their

trip.  Trefoil nestled on the curved sands of a giant horseshoe bay,

foothills at its back.  Rain forests that were all but impenetrable

swept up the hills, sending rank streamers across the acid road in vain

attempts to cover that man-made tunnel to the drier interior.

Biyanco was amiable company, quiet at times, garrulous but interesting

at others.  He stopped off on the far side of the first range of

foothills for lorries and climbers.  None of the small boys and girls

looked old enough, Killashandra thought, to be absent from schooling.

All carried knives, half as long again as their legs, from sheaths

thong-tied to their backs.  All wore the coveralls and combi-boots with

spurred clamp-ons for tree-climbing.

They chattered and sang, dangling their legs from the lorries as the

tractor hovered above the acid road.

Occasionally one of them would wield a knife, chopping an impertinent

streamer that clasped itself to a lorry Biyanco climbed farther above

sea level by the winding acid road until he finally slowed down, peering

at the roadside.  Five kilometres later he let out an exclamation and

veered the tractor-float to the left, his hands busy with dials and

switches.

A warning hoot brought every climber's legs back into the lorries.

Flanges, tilting downward, appeared along the lorry loadbeds and acid

began to drop from this shield.  It sprayed out, arcing well past the

tractor-float's leading edge, dissolving vegetation.

Suddenly the float halted, as if trying to push against an impenetrable

barrier.  Biyanco pushed a few toggles, closed a switch and suddenly the

tractorfloat moved smoothly in a new direction.

"Own this side of the mountain, you know," Biyanco said, glancing at

Killashandra to see the effect of his announcement.  "Ah, you thought I

was only a bar-brewman, didn't you?  Surprised you, didn't I?

Ha!" The little man was pleased.

"You did."

"I'll surprise you more before the day is out." which he did, spryer

than she'd ever thought him and elated with his success.

She was glad for his sake and somewhat puzzled on her own account.

He was adept enough so that she ought to have enjoyed it, too.  Was

there crystal in her soul, after all?  Was she too old to love?

They'd reached their destination, a permaformed clearing with

acid-roofed buildings that housed his processing unit and temporary

living quarters.  The climbers he'd escorted went farther on, sending

the lorries off on automated tracks, six climbers to each lorry.

They'd evidently climbed for him before and in the teams they now

assembled, for he gave a minimum of instruction before dismissing them

to pick.

Then he'd shown Killashandra into the processing plant and explained the

works succinctly.

Each of the teams worked a different fruit, he told her.  The secret of

good harmat lay in the careful proportions and the blending of dead ripe

fruit.

There were as many blends of harmat as there were fish in the sea.

His had made the Golden Dolphin famous; that's why so many Armaghans

patronized the hostelry.  No vapid, innocuous stuff came from his

stills.  Harmat took months to bring to perfection: the fruit he'd

process today would not be fermented for nine months and would not be

offered for sale for six years.  Then he took her below ground, to the

cool dark storage area, deep in the permaform.  He showed her the

automatic alarms if the vicious digger roots of the jungle ever

penetrated the permaform.

He wore a bleeper on his belt at all times (he never did remove the belt

but it was made of soft tough fibre).  He let her sample the brews and

it amused her that he would sip abstemiously while filling her cup full.

Because she liked him and she learned about harmat from him, she

gradually imitated drunk.

He'd had a good deal of experience, Killashandra had to admit and he

tried his damnedest to bring her to pitch but the frequency was wrong,

as it had been with Tir, would have been with Orric, and this badly

puzzled Killashandra.  She ought not to have such trouble off-world.

while Biyanco slept, before the full lorries glided back to the

clearing, she probed her patchy memory, again and again, stopped by the

Guild Master's cynical laugh.  Damn the man!  He was haunting her even

on Armagh.  He had no right to taint everything she touched, every

association she tried to enjoy.  She could remember, too, enough

snatches to know that her previous break had been as disastrous.

Probably other journeys, too.  In the quiet cool dark of the sleeping

room, Biyanco motionless with exhaustion beside her, Killashandra

bleakly cursed Lars Dahl.

why was it she found so little fulfilment with other lovers?  How could

he have spoiled it for everyone else when she could barely remember him?

Or his lovemaking?  She'd refused to stay with him, sure then of herself

where she was completely unsure now.  "Crystal in her soul?"

Experimentally, she ran her hand down her bare body, to the hard flesh

of her thighs, the softness of her belly, her firm breasts.  You never

conceived once you sang crystal.  Small loss, she thought, and then,

suddenly, wasn't sure.

Damn!  Damn!  Damn Lars dahl.  How could he have left her?  what was

rank to singing black crystal?  They'd been the most productive duo ever

paired in the annals of the Heptite Guild.  And he'd given that up for

power.  what good did power do him now?  It did her none whatsoever.

Without him, black eluded her.

The sound of the returning lorries, the singing of the climbers, roused

Biyanco.  He blinked at her, having forgot in his sleeping that he'd

taken a woman again.  With solemn courtesy, he thanked her for their

intercourse, and, having dressed, excused himself with grave ceremony.

At least a man had found pleasure in her body, she thought.

She bathed, dressed, and joined him as the full fruit bins began

spilling their colourful contents into the washing pool.  Biyanco was

seated at the controls, his nimble fingers darting here and there as he

weighed each bin, computed the price, and awarded each chief his crew's

chit.  It was evidently a good pick, judging by the grins on every face,

including Biyanco's.

As each lorry emptied, it swivelled around and joined the line on the

tractor-float that was also headed homeward.  All were shortly in place

and the second part of the processing began.  The climbers took

themselves off under the shade of the encroaching jungle and ate their

lunches.

Abruptly, noise pierced Killashandra's ears.  She let out a scream,

smothering a repetition against her hand but not soon enough to escape

Biyanco "5 notice.  The noise ceased.  Trembling with relief,

Killashandra looked around, astonished that no one else seemed affected

by that appalling shriek.

"You are a crystal singer, then, aren't you?" asked Biyanco, steadying

her as she rocked on her feet.  "I'm sorry.  I wasn't sure you were and

I've not such good pitch myself that I'd hear if the drive crystals were

off.  Honest, or I'd have warned you." He was embarrassed and earnest.

"You should have them balanced," Killashandra replied angrily and

immediately apologized.  "what made you think I might be a crystal

singer?" Biyanco looked away from her now.  "Things I've heard."

"what have you heard?" He looked at her then, his black eyes steady.

"That a crystal singer can sound notes that'll drive a man mad.  That

they lure men to them, seduce them, and then kidnap "em away to

Ballybran, and they never come back." Killashandra smiled, a little

weakly because her ears still ached.  "What made you think I wasn't?"

"Me!" He jabbed at his chest with a juice-stained finger.  "You slept

with me!" She reached out and touched his cheek gently.

"You are a good man, Biyanco, besides being the best brewman on Armagh.

And I like you.  But you should get ,those crystals balanced before they

splinter on you.

Biyanco glanced over at the offinding machinery and grimaced.

"The balancer's got a waiting-list as long as Murtagh River," he said.

"You look pale.  How about a drink?  Harmat'll help .  - .  Oh, you are

a witch," he added, chuckling as he realized that she couldn't've been

as drunk as she'd acted.  Then a smile tugged his lips across his face.

"Oh ho, you are a something, Killashandra of Ballybran.  I should've

spotted your phoney drunk, and me a harman all these decades." He

chuckled again.  "Well, harmat'll help your nerves." He clicked his

fingers at one of the climber chiefs and the boy scampered into the

living quarters, and came back again with glasses and a flask of chilled

harmat.

She drank eagerly, both hands on the glass because she was still shaky.

The cool tartness was soothing, though, and she wordlessly held the

glass out for a refill.  Biyanco's eyes were kind and somewhat anxious.

Somehow he could appreciate what unbalanced crystalline shrieks could do

to sensitive nerves.

"You've not been harmed by it, have you?"

"No.  No, Biyanco.

We're tougher than that.  It was the surprise.  I wasn't expecting you

to have crystal driven equipment He grinned slyly.  "We're not backward

on Armagh for all we're quiet and peaceful." He leaned back from her,

regarding her with fresh interest.  "Is it true that crystal singers

don't grow old?"

"There're disadvantages to that, my friend." He raised his eyebrows in

polite contradiction.  But she only smiled as she steadily sipped the

harmat until all trace of pain had eased.

"You told me you've only a certain time to process ripe fruit.  If

you'll let me take the tractor down the rails past the first turn - No -

- -" And she vetoed her own suggestion, arriving at an impulsive

alternative.  "How long do you have left before the pick sours?"

"Three hours," and in Biyanco's widening eyes she saw incredulous

gratitude as he understood her intention.  "You wouldn't?" he asked in a

voiceless whisper.

"I could and I would.  That is, if you've the tools I need." -"I've

tools." And, as if afraid she'd renege, he propelled her towards the

machine shed.

He had what she needed, but the bare minimum.

Fortunately, the all-important crystal saw was still very sharp and

true.  With two pairs of knowledgeable hands (Biyanco had put the driver

together himself when he updated the plant's machinery thirty years

ago), it was no trick at all to get down to the crystals.

"They're in thirds," he told her needlessly.

"Pitch?"

"B-flat minor."

"Minor?  For heavy work like this?"

"Minor because it isn't that continuous a load and minors don't cost

what majors do," Biyanco replied crisply.

Killashandra nodded.  Majors would be far too expensive for a brewman,

however successful, on a tertiary fishing world.  She hit the B-flat and

that piece of crystal hummed sweetly in tune.  So did the D.

It was the E that was sour - off by a half-tone.  She cut off the

resonance before the sound did more than rulfie her nerves.  With

Biyanco carefully assisting her, she freed the crystal of its brackets,

cradling it tenderly in her hands.  It was a blue, from the Ghanghe

Range, more than likely, and old, because the blues were worked out

there now "The break's in the top of the prism, here," she said, tracing

the flaw.  "The bracket may have shifted with vibration."

"G'delpme, I weighed those brackets and felted them proper-' "No blame

to you, Biyanco.  Probably the expansion coefficient differs in this

rain forest enough to make even properly set felt slip.  Thirty years

they've been in?  You worked well.  Wish more people would take such

good care of their crystal."

"That'd mean less call for crystal, bring the price down, wouldn't it?"

Killa laughed, shaking her head.  "The Guild keeps finding new ways to

use crystal.  Singers'U never be out of work." They decided to shift

pitch down, which meant she had to recut all three crystals, but that

way he'd have a major triad.  Because she trusted him, she let him watch

as she cut and tuned.  She had to sustain pitch with her voice after she

had warmed them enough to sing, but she could hold a true pitch long

enough to place the initial, and all important, cuts.

It was wringing-wet work, even with the best of equipment and in a

moderate climate.  She was exhausted by the time they reset the felted

brackets.

In fact, he elbowed her out of the way when he saw how her hands

trembled.

"Just check me," he said but she didn't need to.

He was spry in more than one way.  She was glad she'd tuned the crystals

for him.  But he was too old for her She felt better when he started the

processor again and there was no crystal torment.

"You get some rest, Killashandra.  This'll take a couple more hours. Why

don't you stretch out on the tractor-van seat?  It's wide enough.  That

way you can rest all the way back to Trefoil."

"And yourself, Biyanco?" He grinned like the old black imp he was.  "I'm

maybe a shade younger than you, crystal singer Killashandra.  But we'll

never know, will we?" She slept, enervated by the pitching and cutting,

but she woke when Biyanco opened the float door.

The hinge squeaked in C-sharp.

"Good press," he said when he saw she was awake.

Behind in the lorries, the weary climbers chanted to themselves.

One was a monotone.  Before the sound could get on her nerves, they'd

reached the village.

The lorries were detached and the climbers melted into the darkness.

Biyanco and Killashandra continued on the acid road back to Trefoil.

It was close to dawn before they pulled up at the Golden Dolphin.

"Killashandra?"

"Yes, Biyanco?"

"I'm in your debt."

"No, for we exchanged favours.

He made a rude noise.  And she smiled at him.  "We did.  But, if you

need a price, Biyanco, then it's your silence on the subject of crystal

singers."

"why?"

"Because I'm human, no matter what you've heard of us. And I must have

that humanity on equal terms or I'll shatter one day among the crystal.

It's why we have to go off-world."

"You don't lure men back to Ballybran?"

"Would you come with me to Ballybran?" He snorted.  "You can't make

harmat on Ballybran." She laughed for he had given the right answer to

ease his own mind.  As the tractor-float moved off slowly, she wondered

if he'd ever heard of Yarran beer.  A chilled one would go down a treat

right now She slept the sun around and woke the second dawn refreshed.

She lazed in the water, having been told by the pug-nosed host that the

lunk ships were still out.  Biyanco greeted her that noonday with

pleasantries and no references to favours past, present or future.  He

was old enough, that brewman, she thought, to know what not to say.

She wondered if she should leave Trefoil and frit around the planet.

There'd be other ports to visit, other fishermen to snare in the net of

her attraction.

One of them might be strong enough, must be strong enough, to melt the

crystal in her.  But she tarried and drank harmat all afternoon until

Biyanco made her go eat something.

She knew the lunk boats were in even before the parched seamen came

thronging up the beachroad, chanting their need.  She helped Biyanco

draw glasses against their demand, laughing at their surprise to see her

working behind the bar.  Only Shad Tucker seemed unamazed.

Orric was there, too, with Tir Od Nell, teasing her as men have teased

harmaids for centuries.  Tucker sat on a stool in the corner of the bar

and watched her, though he drank a good deal of harmat to "unstick his

tongue from the roof of his mouth'.

Biyanco made them all stop drinking for a meal, to lay a foundation for

more harmat, he said.  And when they came back, they brought a squeeze

box, a fiddle, two guitars and a flute.  The tables were stacked against

the wall, and the music and dancing began.

It was good music, too, true-pitched so Killashandra could enjoy it,

tapping her foot in time.  And they played until the musicians pleaded

for a respite, and, leaving their instruments on the bar, swept out to

the cool evening beach to get a second wind.

Killashandra had been dancing as hot and heavy as any woman, partnered

with anyone who felt like dancing, including Biyanco.

Everyone except Tucker, who stayed in his corner and watched.  .  . her.

When the others left to cool off, she wandered over to him.  His eyes

were a brighter blue in the new red-tan of his face.  He was picking his

hands now and again because the last of the lunks had an acid in their

scales that ate flesh: he'd had to grab some barehanded at the last.

"Will they heal?" she asked.

"Oh, sure.  Be dry tomorrow.  New skin in a week.

Doesn't hurt." Shad looked at his hands impersonally and then went on

absently sloughing off the drying skin.

"You weren't dancing." The shy grin twisted up one corner of his mouth

and he ducked his head a little, looking at her from the side of his

eyes.

"I've done my dancing.  With the fish the past days.

I prefer to watch, anyhow." He unwound himself from the stool to reach

out and secure the nearest guitar.  He picked a chord, winced so that he

didn't see her shudder at the discord.  Lightly he plucked the strings,

twisting the tuning knob on the soured G, adjusting the E string

slightly, striking the chord again and nodding with approval.

Killashandra blinked.  The man had perfect pitch.

He began to play, softly, with a style totally different from the

raucous tempi of the previous musicians.  His picking was intricate and

his rhythm sophisticated, yet the result was a delicate shifting of

pattern and tone that enchanted Killashandra.  It was improvisation at

its best, with the player as intent upon the melody he produced as his

only audience.

The beauty of his playing, the beauty of his face as he played, struck

an aching in her bones.  When his playing ceased, she felt empty.

She'd been leaning towards him, perched on a stool, elbows on her knees,

supporting her chin with cradled hands.  So he leaned forward, across

the guitar, and kissed her gently on the mouth.  They rose, as one, Shad

putting the guitar aside to fold her in his arms and kiss her deeply.

She felt the silk of his bare flesh beneath her hands, the warmth of his

strong body against hers and then .  .  .  The others came pouring back

with disruptive noise.

As well, thought Killashandra, as Orric boisterously swung her up to the

beat of a rough dance.

When next she looked over her shoulder, Shad was in his corner,

watching, the slight smile on his lips, his eyes still on her.

He is very much too young for me, she told herself, and I am briale with

too much living.

The next day she nursed what must have been her first hangover in a

century.  She'd worked hard enough to acquire one.  She lay on the beach

in the shade and tried not to move unnecessarily.  Otherwise she'd ache

and hurt.  No one bothered her until midday: presumably everyone was

nursing hangovers of their own.  Then Shad's big feet stopped on the

sand beside her pallet.  Shad's big knees cracked as he bent over her

and his compelling hand tipped back the wide hat she wore against sun

glare.

"You'll feel better if you eat this," he said, speaking very softly.  He

held out a small tray with a frosted glass and a plate of fruit chips on

it.

She wondered if he were enunciating with extra care for she understood

every soft word, even if she resented the gist of them.  She groaned and

he repeated his advice.  Then he put gentle hands on her, raising her

torso so she could drink without spilling.  He fed her, piece by piece,

as a man feeds a sick and fretful child.

She felt sick and she was fretful but, when all the food and drink were

in her belly, she had to admit that his advice was sound.

"I never get drunk."

"Probably not.  But you also don't dance yourself bloody-footed either'

Her feet were tender, come to think of it, and, when she examined the

soles, she discovered blisters and myriad thin scratches.

Tucker sat with her all afternoon, saying little.

when he suggested a swim, she complied and the lagoon water was cooler

than she'd remembered, or maybe she was hotter for all she'd been lying

in the shade.

when they emerged from the water, she felt human, even for a crystal

singer.  And she admired his straight tall body, the easy grace of his

carriage, and the fineness of his handsome face.  But he was much too

young for her.  She would have to try Orric for she needed a man's

favours again.

Evidently it was not Shad's intention that she find Orric for he

persuaded her that she didn't want to eat in the hostelry; that it would

be more fun to dig bivalves where the tide was going out, in a cove he

knew of, a short walk away.  It is difficult to argue with a soft-spoken

man, who is taller than you by several centimetres, and can carry you

easily under one arm - even if he is a century or so younger.

And it was impossible not to touch his silky flesh when he brushed past

her to tend the baking shellfish, or when he passed her wine-steeped

fruit chips and steamed roots.

When he looked at her, sideways, his blue eyes darker now, reflecting

the fire and the night, it was beyond her to resist his subtle

importunities.

She woke on the dark beach, before the dying fire, with his sleeping

weight against her side.  Her arms were wrapped around his right arm,

her head cradled in the cup of his shoulder.  Without moving her head,

she could see his profile.  And she knew there wasn't any crystal in her

soul.  She could still give, and receive.  For all she sang crystal, she

still possessed that priceless human quality, annealed in the fire of

his youth.

She'd been wrong to dismiss him for what was a mere chronological

accident, irrelevant to the peace and solace he brought her.  Her body

was exultant, renewed.

Her stretching roused him to smile with unexpected sweetness into her

eyes.  He gathered her against him, the vibrant strength of his arms

tempered to tenderness for her slighter frame.

"You crazy woman," he said, in a wondering voice as he lightly scrubbed

her scalp with his long fingers and played with her fine hair.

"I've never met anyone like you before."

"Not likely to again." Please!

He grinned down at her, delighted by her arrogance.

"Do you travel much?" he asked.

"When the mood strikes me."

"Don't travel for a while."

"I'll have to one day.  I've got to go back to work, you know."

"What work?"

"I'm a Guild member.

His grin broadened and he hugged her.  "All right, I won't pry." His

finger delicately traced the line of her jaw.  "You can't be as old as

you make out," he said, for she'd been honest enough earlier to tell him

they were not contemporary.

She answered him now with a laugh but his comment brought a chill to

her.  It couldn't have been an accident that he could relieve her, she

thought, caressing his curving thigh.  She panicked suddenly at the idea

that, once tasted, she could not drink again and strained herself to

him.

His arms tightened and his low laugh was loving to her ears.  And their

bodies fitted together again as fully and sweetly in harmony as before.

Yes, with Shad Tucker, she could dismiss all fear as baseless.

Their pairing-off was accepted by Orric and Tir who had his ready credit

now and was off to apply it to whatever end he'd had in mind.

Only Biyanco had searched her face and she'd shrugged and given the

brewman a little reassuring smile.  Then he'd peered closely at Shad and

smiled back.

That was why he said nothing.  As she'd known he wouldn't.  For Shad

Tucker wasn't ready to settle on one woman.  Killashandra was an

adventure to him, a willing companion for a man just finished with a

hard season's work.

They spent the days together as well, exploring the coastline in both

directions from Trefoil, for Shad had a mind to put his earnings in land

or sea-front.

She had never felt so - so vital and alive.  He had a guitar of his own

that he'd bring, playing for hours little tunes he'd make up when they

were becalmed in his small sloop, and had to take shelter in the shade

of the sail from Armagh's biting noonday sun.

She loved to look at him while he played: his absorption had the quality

of an innocent boy discovering major Truths of Beauty, Music and Love.

Indeed, his face, when he caressed her to a fever pitch of love,

retained that same youthful innocence and intent concentration.

Because he was so strong, because his youth was so powerful, his

delicate, restrained lovemaking was all the more surprising to her.

The days multiplied and became weeks but so deep was her contentment

that the first twinge of uneasiness caught her unawares.

She knew what it was, though: her body's cry for crystal song.

"Did I hurt you?" asked Shad for she was in his arms.

She couldn't answer, so she shook her head.  He began to kiss her

slowly, leisurely, sure of himself.

She felt the second brutal knock along her spine and twisted herself

closer in his arms so he wouldn't feel it and she could forget it had

happened.

"What's wrong, Killa?"

"Nothing.  Nothing you can't cure." So he did. But afterwards she

couldn't sleep and stared up at the spinning moons. She couldn't leave

Shad now.  Time and again he'd worked his magic with her, until she'd've

sworn all crystal thought was purged.

Until she'd even toyed with the notion of resigning from the Guild.  No

one ever had, according to the Rules and Regs, she reviewed over and

over.  No one ever had but likely no one wanted to.

when she had to have crystal, she could tune sour crystal.  There was

always a need for that service, anywhere, on any water world, on any

world for that matter.  But she must stay with Shad.  He held back fear,

he brought her peace.  She'd waited for a love like Shad Tucker for so

long, she had the right to enjoy the relationship.

The next moment another spasm struck her, hard, sharp, fierce.

She fought it through a body arched with pain.  And she knew that she

was being inexorably drawn back.  And she did not want to leave Shad

Tucker To him, she was a novelty, a woman to make love to.  .  . now.  .

.  when the lunk season had been good and a man needed to relax. But

Killashandra was not the sort of woman he'd build a home for on his

acres of sea-front.  For her, she loved him: for his youth, for his

absurd gentleness and courtesy; because, in his arms, she was briefly

ageless.

The profound cruelty of her situation was driven home to her mind as

bitterly as the next hunger pain for crystal sound.

It isn't fair, she cried piteously.  It isn't fair.  I can't love him.

It isn't fair.  He's too young.  He'll forget me in other loves.

And I.  .  .  I'll not be able to remember him.

That was the cruellest part.

She began to cry, Killashandra who had forsworn tears for any man half a

century before when the harmony between herself and Lars Dahl had turned

chaotic.  Her weeping, soft as it was, woke Shad.  He comforted her

lovingly and complicated her feelings for him by asking no questions at

all.  Maybe, she thought with the desperation of fearful hope, he isn't

that young.  He might want to remember me.

And, when her tears had dried on her face, he kissed her again, with an

urgency that must be answered.  And was, as fully and sweetly as ever

The summons came two days later.  Biyanco tracked them in the cove and

told her only that she had an urgent message.  She was grateful for that

courtesy but she hated the brewman for bringing the message at all.

It was a Guild summons all right: a large order for black crystal had

been received.  All who had sung black crystal were needed in the

Ranges.  Implicit in the message was a Guild warning: she'd been away

too long from crystal.  What crystal gave, it took away.  She stared at

her reflection in the glass panel of the message booth.  Yes, crystal

could take away her appearance of youthfulness.  How long would Shad

remember the old woman she would shortly become?

So she started out to say goodbye to him.  Best have it done quickly and

now!  Then back to Ballybran and forgetfulness in the crystal song.  She

felt cold all over He was sitting by the lagoon, strumming his guitar,

his face absorbed in a melody he'd composed for her.  It was a pretty

tune, one that stayed in the mind and woke you humming it the next day.

Killashandra caught back her breath: Shad had perfect pitch: he could

come with her, to Ballybran.

She'd train him herself to be a crystal singer "Don't," said Biyanco,

stepping to her side.

"Don't what?" she asked coldly "If you really love the boy,

Killashandra, don't.

He'll remember you this way.  That's what you want, isn't it?" It was,

of course, because she wouldn't remember him.  So she stood there,

beside Biyanco, and listened to Shad sing, watched the boyish intensity

on his beloved face and let cruelty wash hope out of her.

"It never works, does it, Killashandra?" Biyanco asked gently.

"No." She had a fleeting recollection of Lars Dahl.

They'd met somewhere, off-world.  Hadn't they?  His had been a water

world, too.  Hadn't it?  Had she chosen another such world, hoping to

find Lars Dahl again?  Or merely anyone?  Like Shad Tucker.

Had she herself been lured to Ballybran by some ageless lover?

Perhaps.  who could remember details like that?  The difference was that

now she was old enough not to play the siren for crystal.  Old enough to

leave love while he was young, and still in love enough to remember her

only as a woman.

"No one forgets you, Killashandra," Biyanco said, his eyes dark and sad,

as she turned to leave.

"Maybe I can remember that much."

Chapter Eight "

The Guild has received the biggest order ever requested, to facilitate

the colonization and exploitation of seven new systems," the Guild

Master told the twenty singers he had called back from their travels.

"We must be able to fill these orders for black crystal.  All of you,'

and his blue eyes settled on one after the other, "have cut black

crystal from time to time."

"When I could find it," someone said in a facetious tone.

"The chosen few," another added.

He wasn't really all that much like Shad, Killashandra thought, her mind

jumping as much from crystal deprivation as deliberate inattention

because it was Lars Dahl who was talking in his Guild Master role.  Just

because they both have blue eyes and love the sea that doesn't make them

comparable.  Or it shouldn't.

And if any of us could find black crystal, we would, without him having

to order us!

"To facilitate that search," Lars Dahl continued as the screen behind

him lit up with a variety of paint emblems, "the Guild is cancelling the

markers of singers who, for one reason or another, are not actively

working in the Ranges." That caused a stir and some consternation.  "I

should amend that, singers who have been known to bring in black

crystal," he went on, raising his voice slightly over the murmuring. "We

must follow up every potential source of black crystal.

"Leaving no stone unturned?" the wit asked and roused some laughter and

groans.  Lars Dahl grinned in response.

"That's it.  Now," and he gestured behind to the screen, "these are the

cancelled markers.  If, however, one of you finds black on the claim of

a still-existing singer "Can't regress "em back far enough to tell you

where they cut black yet, eh, Lars?" someone asked, ending with a

malicious laugh.

Regress?  The word reverberated, jogging an uneasy memory, and Killa sat

upright, trying to locate the speaker.  Regress?  Why should that word

alarm her?

"I'll be forced to use that option, Fanerine, if you sane and active

ones can't cut the blacks the Guild is obligated to supply.  As I was

saying, if an existing singer's claim is worked, there'll be a levy of

twenty five percent on your cut which is to go to the original

claimant." He held up his hand to interrupt the sharp protests.  "That

will include the Guild tithe so you aren't losing much to gain a viable

site.  Of course, you have to find it, first." Killashandra rather liked

that droll touch.  Lanzecki had reserved his humour for private moments.

"Now, here're copies of these released markers for you to take with you.

Secure it somewhere highly visible and try to remember why the sheet's

there.  First corner to any of these reopened clams has possession: mark

it with your own colours.

"Most of you realize that we've just had Passover so that's one hazard

that won't interrupt the search.

Met says there's a period of stable weather due us isn't it always after

Passover?" His remark generated a few polite chuckles but Killashandra

regarded him stony-faced.

He shouldn't think he could jolly them into doing the impossible even

with that ploy of reopening worked claims that might possibly be black

crystal.

Why was the Guild "obligated' to supply anything?

Worlds should be grateful for whatever the singers cut.  She flicked her

gaze around the room from one face to the next.  Of the twenty, she

recognized two or three.  She ought to be able to recognize more.  The

buzz in her body made it hard for her to think.  On the other hand, did

any of the twenty recognize her?

But then she was seated at the back and hoping to get this meeting over

with.  She hugged herself, wishing she could squeeze out the itch.

Maybe she could sneak out but there was someone standing right in front

of the door.  To prevent premature exits?

Resignedly she listened to Lars go through his rahrah act, stirring the

singers up to do the impossible find enough black crystal to fill those

contracts.

Muhlah!  She gave a humourless snort.  He was doing a good job of

communicating the urgency of this search.  She couldn't recall another

such all-out effort!  Or that Lanzecki had ever thrown open unused

claims before the paint-marker was completely obliterated.

She rose when the others did, not unduly surprised when her name was

called out.  The Guild Master pushed his way through to her "Killa, can

we let bygones be and cooperate duo on- this?" he asked in a quiet voice

so that only she could hear him.

She was unnerved to have the regard of those intense and brilliant blue

eyes focused on her alone.

That was one difference between Shad and Lars dahl - Shad's eyes were

kinder, milder, undemanding.

She turned her face away.

Damn that Biyanco!  She shouldn't have let herself be persuaded out of a

good partner by sentiment.

True, even if she'd brought Shad back with her, he wouldn't have been

ready for a massive search this soon, even if he'd been lucky enough to

have a Milekey Transition.  But she'd have had such fun shepherding him,

deftly guiding him to learn the intricacies of a new trade, watching his

sensitive face perceiving new and marvelous things.  .  .  Especially

hearing the dawn song of crystal with someone as gentle and loving as

Shad Tucker.  And how he'd've enjoyed the seas of Ballybran, too.  What

sort of a ship would he get with his first big cut?

"Killa!'Someone had her by the shoulders, firm hands giving her a shake

to focus her attention.

"Killa?"

"What?" The Guild Master frowned at her with concern.

"One thing is sure, Killashandra Ree, you've got to get back to the

Ranges whether you sing black, green or pink!  You left your return

mighty late.  How do you stand the itch?" The sudden tender concern in

his voice startled her but she gave no hint that it had.

"I'll be all right as soon as I make the Ranges," she said wearily, her

spine twisting with crystal hunger.

"If you can in this condition.  So I'm not asking permission now.

I am coming with you.  It'd be outright murder to send you out solo in

your present state.  I'll meet you at the Hangar.  Donalla - Killa

peered at the woman who stepped forward.

Her face was vaguely familiar and, although her smile was warm and

friendly, Killa felt a flash of anxiety.

"Glad to see you safely back, Killashandra." And, when Killa recoiled

slightly, the woman smiled reassuringly.  "We're only going straight to

the Hangar.  You really can trust me that far, you know."

"I'll need . ." And Killa pulled at the clothes she was wearing: they

wouldn't last an hour in the Ranges.  "I've no boots "Let Donalla take

care of the details, sunny, will you?" And the loving tone of the Guild

Master was gently supportive.

Some part of Killa was unconvinced but the other, more dominant need for

a respite from the crystal itch made that hesitation short.

The hands that replaced Lars' were gentle, warm and subtly persuasive.

It was easier to submit and be guided.

Killa rubbed at her forehead.  How could she let herself get in such a

state?  She ought not to be led about like a child.  Surely, she wasn't

that bad, that decrepit?  She had walked off the transport ship on her

own, hadn't she?  Found the shuttle bay with no trouble!  Why was she

suddenly incapable of managing something as simple as getting to the

Hangar?

Her feet ought to know the way even if her head didn't.

But she let herself be taken.  She really couldn't think straight with

all that noise in her head and that buzz along her veins, spiking into

her heart and lungs.  A crystal shiver that no amount of radiant fluid

would reduce: only cutting crystal.

She hated to admit it, even to herself, but the Guild Master had been