Crystal Singer

by:

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 she could relax in his offer of an "honest" invitation to share his holiday.  He would not leave her to pay the charges if he decided to skip off-world precipitously.

      She smiled to herself, suddenly feeling sensuous.  Carrik thought himself lucky, did he?  Well, so did she.  The last vestige of "ought" was the fleeting thought that she "ought to" register herself with the Fuertan Central Computer as a transient, but since she was by no means obligated to do so as long as she didn't require subsistence, she did nothing.

      As she was beginning to enjoy her new found freedom, several of her classmates began to experience twinges of anxiety about Killashandra.  Everyone realized that Killashandra must have been terribly upset by the examiners' verdict.  Though some felt she deserved the lesson, for her overbearing conceit, the kinder of heart were disquieted about her disappearance.  So was Maestro Esmond Valdi.

      They probably would not have recognized the Killashandra who was sluicing about on water skis on the southern seas of the Western Hemisphere or swathed in elegant gowns, escorted by a tall, distinguished-looking man to whom even the most supercilious hoteliers deferred.

      It was a glorious feeling to have unlimited funds.  Carrik encouraged Killashandra to spend, and practice permitted her to suspend what few scruples remained from years of eking necessities out of student allotments.  She did have the grace to protest his extravagance, at least at the outset.

      "Not to worry, pet.  I've credit to spend," Carrik reassured her.  ·'I made a killing in dominant thirds in the Blue Range about the time some idiot revolutionists blew half a planet's communications out of existence."  He paused; his eyes narrowed as he recalled something not quite pleasant.  "I was lucky on shape, too.  It's not enough, you see, to catch the resonances on what you're cutting.  You've got to hope you remember which shape to cut, and that's where you're made or broken as a Crystal Singer.  You've got to remember what's high on the market or remember something like that revolution on Hardesty."  He pounded the table in emphasis, pleased with that particular memory.  "I did remember that all right when it mattered."

      "I don't understand."

      He gave her a quick look.  "Not to worry, pet."  His standard phrase of evasion.  "Come, give me a kiss and get the crystal out of my blood."

      There was nothing crystalline about his lovemaking or the enjoyment he derived from her body, so Killashandra elected to forget how often he avoided answering her questions about crystal singing.  At first, she felt that since the man was on holiday, he probably wouldn't want to talk about his work.  Then she sensed that he resented her questions as if they were distasteful to him and that he wanted, above all, to forget crystal singing, which did not forward her plan.  But Carrik was not a malleable adolescent, imploring her grace and favor.  So she helped him forget crystal singing, which he was patently able to do until the night he awakened her with his groans.

      "Carrik, what's the matter?  Those shellfish from dinner?  Shall I get the medic?"

      "No, no!"  He twisted about frantically and took her hand from the communit.  "Don't leave me.  This'll pass."

      She held him in her arms as he cried out, clenching his teeth against some internal agony.  Sweat oozed from his pores, yet he refused to let her summon help.  The spasms racked him for almost an hour before they passed, leaving him spent and weak.  Somehow, in that hour, she realized how much he had come to mean to her, how much fun he was, how much she had missed by denying herself any intimate relationships before.  After he had slept and rested, she asked what had possessed him.

      "Crystal, my girl crystal."  His sullen manner and the haggard expression on his face made her drop the subject.

      By the afternoon he was almost himself.  But some of his spontaneity was gone.  He went through the motions of enjoying himself, of encouraging her to more daring exercises on the water skis while he only splashed about in the shallows.  They were finishing a leisurely meal at a seaside restaurant when he finally mentioned that he must return to work.

      "I can't say so soon!" Killashandra remarked with a light laugh.  "But isn't the decision rather sudden?"

      He gave her an odd smile.  "Yes, but most of my decisions are, aren't they?  Like showing you another side of fusty, fogey Fuerte."

      "And now our idyll is over?"  She tried to sound nonchalant, but an edge crept into her tone.

      "I must return to Ballybran.  Ha!  That sounds like one of those fisherfolk songs, doesn't it?"  He hummed a banal tune, the melody so predictable that she could join in firm harmony.

      "We do make beautiful music together," he said, his eyes mocking her.  "I suppose you'll return to your studies now."

      "Studies?  For what?  Lead soprano in a chorus of annotated, orchestrated grunts and groans by Fififidipidi of the planet Grnch?"

      "You could tune crystals.  They obviously need a competent tuner at Fuerte spaceport."

      She made a rude noise and looked at him expectantly.  He smiled back, turning his head politely, awaiting a verbal answer.

      "Or," she drawled, watching him obliquely, "I could apply to the Heptite Guild as a Crystal Singer."

      His expression went blank.  "You don't want to be a Crystal Singer."

      The vehemence in his voice startled her for a moment.

      "How do you know what I want?"  She flared up in spite of herself, in spite of a gnawing uncertainty about his feelings for her.  She might be the ideal partner for lolling about a sandy beach, but as a constant companion in a dangerous profession — that was different.

      He smiled sadly.  "You don't want to be a Crystal Singer."

      "Oh, fardles with that 'highly dangerous' nonsense."

      "It is true."

      "If I've perfect pitch, I can apply."

      "You don't know what you're letting yourself in for," he said in a toneless voice, his expression at once wary and forbidding.  "Singing crystal is a terrible, lonely life.  You can't always find someone to sing with you; the tones don't always strike the right vibes for the crystal faces you find.  Of course, you can make terrific cuts singing duo."  He seemed to vacillate.

      "How do you find out?"  She made her tone ingenuous.

      He gave an amused snort.  "The hard way, of course.  But you don't want to be a Crystal Singer."  An almost frightening sadness tinged his voice.  "Once you sing crystal, you don't stop.  That's why I'm telling you, don't even think about it."

      "So .  .  .  you've told me not to think about it."

      He caught her hand and gazed steadily into her eyes.  "You've never been in a mach storm in the Milekeys."  His voice was rough with remembered anxiety.  "They blow up out of nowhere and crash down on you like all hell let loose.  That's what that phrase on Retrieval means, 'the Guild maintains its own.' A mach storm can reduce a man to a vegetable in one sonic crescendo."

      "There are other — perhaps less violent — ways of reducing a man to a vegetable," she said, thinking of the space-port official of the supercargo worrying over drone-pod weights — of teachers apathetically reviewing the scales of novice students.  "Surely there are instruments that warn you of approaching storms in a crystal range."

      He nodded absently, his gaze fixed above her head.  "You get to cutting crystal and you're halfway through.  You know the pitches will be changed once the storm has passed and you're losing your safety margin by the minute, but that last crystal might mean you'd get off-world .  .  ."

      "You don't get off-world with every trip to the ranges?"

      He shook his head, frowning irritably at her interruption.  "You don't always clear the costs of the trip or past damages, or you might not have cut the right shape or tone.  Sometimes the tone is more important than the shape, you know."

      "And you have to remember what'll be needed, don't you?"  If she had perfect pitch, and she knew she had an excellent memory, crystal singing seemed an ideal profession for her.

      "You have to remember the news," he said, oddly emphasizing the verb.

      Killashandra was contemptuous of the problem.  Memory was only a matter of habit, of training, of mnemonic phrases that easily triggered vital information.  She had plenty of practice in memorization.

      "Is there any chance that I could accompany you back to Ballybran and apply?"

      His hand had a vise grip on hers; even his breath seemed to halt for a moment.  His eyes swept hers with an intense search.  "You asked.  Remember that!"

      "Well, if my company?"

      "Kiss me and don't say anything you'll regret," he said, abruptly pulling her into his arms and covering her mouth so completely she couldn't have spoken.

      The second convulsion caught him so soon after the climax of their lovemaking that she thought, guiltily, that over stimulation was the cause.  This time, the spasms were more severe, and he dropped into a fevered, exhausted sleep when they finally eased.  He looked old and drawn when he woke fourteen hours later.  And he moved like an advanced geriatric case.

      "I've got to get back to Ballybran, Killa — "  His voice quavered, and he had lost his proud confidence.

      "For treatment?"

      He hesitated and then nodded.  "Recharging, actually.  Get the spaceport on the communit and book us."

      "Us?"

      "You may accompany me," he said with grave courtesy, though she was piqued at the phrasing of an invitation that was more plea than permission.  "I don't care how often we have to reroute.  Get us there as fast as possible."

      She reached the spaceport and routing, and after what seemed an age and considerable ineptitude on the part of the ticket clerk, they were passengers confirmed on a shuttle flight leaving Fuerte in four hours, with a four-hour satellite delay before the first liner in their direction.

      He had an assortment of personal things to pack, but Killashandra was for just walking out and leaving everything.

      "You can't get such goods on Ballybran, Killa," Carrik told her as he slowly began to fold the gaudy grallie-fiber shirts.  The stimulus of confirmed passage had given him a surge of energy.  But Killashandra had been rather unnerved by the transformation of a charming, vital man into a quivering invalid.  "Sometimes, even something as inconsequential as a shirt helps you remember so much."

      She was touched by the sentiment and his smile and vowed to be patient with his illness.

      "There are hazards to every profession.  And the hazards to crystal singing — "

      "It depends what you're willing to consider a hazard," Killashandra replied soothingly.  She was glad for the filmy, luminous wraparounds, which were a far cry from the coarse, durable student issue.  Any hazard seemed a fair price for bouts of such high living and spending.  And only 4,425 in the Guild.  She was confident she'd make it to the top there.

      "Do you have any comprehension of what you'd be giving up, Killashandra?"  His voice had a guilty edge.

      She looked at his lined, aging face and experienced a twinge of honest apprehension.  Anyone would look appalling after the convulsions that had wracked Carrik.  She didn't much care for his philosophical mood and hoped that he wouldn't be so dreary all the way to Ballybran.  Was that what he meant?  A man on vacation often had a different personality than when working at his profession?

      "What have I too look forward to on Fuerte?" she asked with a shrug of her shoulders.  She wouldn't necessarily have to team up with Carrik when she got to Ballybran.  "I'd rather take a chance, no matter what it entails, in preference to dragging about forever on Fuerte!"

      He stroked her palm with his thumb, and for the first time his caress didn't send thrills up her spine.  But then he was scarcely in a condition to make love, and his gesture reflected it.

      "You've only seen the glamorous side of crystal singing — "

      "You've told me the dangers, Carrik, as you're supposed to.  The decision is mine, and I'm holding you to your offer."

      He gripped her hand tightly, and the pleasure in his eyes reassured her more thoroughly than any glib protestation."

      "It's also one of the smallest Guilds in the galaxy," she went on, freeing her hand to finish packing the remaining garments.  "I prefer those odds."

      He raised his eyebrows, giving her a sardonic look more like his former self.  "A two-cell in a one-cell pond?"

      "If you please, I won't be second-rate anything."

      "A dead hero in preference to a live coward?"  He was taunting her now.

      "If you prefer.  There!  That's all our clothing.  We'd better skim back to the spaceport.  I've got to check with planetary regulations if I'm going off-world.  I might even have some credit due me."

      She took the skimmer controls, as Carrik was content to doze in the passenger seat.  The rest did him some good, or he was mindful of his public image.  Either way, Killashandra's doubts of his reliability as a partner faded as he ordered the port officials about imperiously, badgering the routing agent to be certain that the man hadn't over looked a more direct flight or a more advantageous connection.

      Killashandra left him to make final arrangements and began to clear her records with the Fuerte Central Computer.  The moment she placed her wrist-unit and thumb in place, the console began to chatter wildly, flashing red light.  She was startled.  She had only programmed a credit check, keyed in the fact that she was going off-world, and asked what immunization she might require for the systems they were to encounter, but the supervisor leaped down the ramp from his console, two port officials converged on her, and the exits of the reception hall flashed red and hold-locks were engaged, to the consternation of passersby.  Killashandra, too stunned to react, instead stared blankly at the men who had each seized an arm.

      "Killashandra Ree?" the supervisor asked, still panting from his exertions.

      "Yes?"

      "You are to be detained."

      "Why?"  Now she was angry.  She had committed no crime, infringed no one's liberties.  Failure to register change of status was not an offense so long as she had not used planetary resources without sufficient credit.

      "Please come with us," the port officials said in chorus.

      "Why?"

      "Ahh, Hmmmm," the supervisor mumbled as both officers turned to him.  "There's a hold out for you."

      "I've done nothing wrong."

      "Here, what's going on?"  Carrik was once more completely himself as he pushed through to place a protecting arm around Killashandra.  "This young lady is under my protection."

      At this announcement, the supervisor and officials exchanged stern and determined stares.

      "This young lady is under the protection of her planet of origin," the supervisor announced.  "There is some doubt as to her mental stability."

      "Why?  Because she accepted an honest invitation from a visitor?  Do you know who I am?"

      The supervisor flushed.  "Indeed I do, sir," and though the man spoke more respectfully, he left no doubt that his immediate aim was to extract Killashandra from Carrik's patronage.

      "Well, then, accept my assurances that Miss Ree is in excellent health, mental and physical."  Carrik gestured for them to admire Killashandra's tanned and trim figure.

      The supervisor was adamant.  "If you'll both please come this way."  His officers straightened resolutely.

      As there was nothing for it but to comply, Carrik reminded this unexpected escort that they had booked shuttle flights due to lift off in one hour.  He had every intention of keeping that schedule — and with Killashandra Ree.  Rather than give rise to further speculation about her mental state, Killashandra remained uncharacteristically quiet.

      "I suspect," she whispered to Carrik after they were shown into a small office, "that the music school may have thought me suicidal."  She giggled, then attempted to mask the noise behind her hand when the supervisor glanced up at her nervously.  "I just walked out of the center and disappeared.  I saw no one who knew me on the way here.  So they did miss me!  Well, that's gratifying."  She was inordinately pleased, but Carrik plainly did not agree.  Well, she had only to reassure the authorities, and she was certain she could.  "I think their reaction is rather complimentary, actually.  And I'm going to make a dramatic exit from Fuerte, after all."

      Carrik awarded her a look of pure disgust and folded his arms solidly across his chest, his expression fading to one of boredom.  He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, which was scrolling through the departure information.

      Killashandra half expected to see her father, though she found it difficult to imagine him bestirring himself on her behalf.  But she did not expect Maestro Esmond Valdi to enter the small office, acting the outraged mentor, nor was she prepared for the attack he immediately launched on Carrik.

      "You!  You!  I know what you are!  A silicate spider paralyzing its prey, a crystal cuckoo pushing the promising fledglings from their nests."

      As stunned as everyone else, Killashandra stared at the usually dignified and imperturbable maestro and wondered what role he thought he was playing.  He had to be acting.  His dialogue was so — so extravagant.  "Silicate spider!"  "Crystal cuckoo!"  If nothing else, his analogies were incorrect and uncalled for.

      "Play on the emotions of an innocent young girl.  Shower her with unaccustomed luxuries and pervert her until she's spoiled as a decent contributing citizen.  Until she's so besotted, she has been brainwashed to enter that den of addled mentalities and shattered nerves!"

      Carrik made no attempt to divert the flow of vituperation or to counter the accusations.  He stood, head up, smiling tolerantly down at the jerky motions of Valdi.

      "What lies has he been feeding you about crystal singing?"  What glamorous tales has he used to lure you there?''

      Valdi whirled toward Killashandra, his stocky figure trembling with outrage.

      "I asked to go."

      Valdi's wild expression hardened into disbelief at her calm answer.

      "You asked to go?"

      "Yes.  He didn't ask me."  She caught Carrik's smile.

      "You heard her, Valdi," Carrik said, then glanced at the officials witnessing the admission.

      The maestro's shoulders sagged.  "So, he's done his recruiting with a master's skill."  His tone registered resignation, he even managed to effect a slight break in his voice.

      "I don't think so," Killashandra said.

      Maestro Valdi inhaled deeply, obviously to support one last attempt to dissuade the misguided girl.  "Did he tell you about .  .  .  the mach storms?"

      She nodded, hiding her amusement at his theatricality.

      "The storms that scramble the brain and reduce the mind to a vegetable existence?"

      She nodded dutifully.

      "Did he fill your mind with garbage about mountains returning symphonies of sound?  Crystalline choruses?  Valleys that echo arpeggios?"  His body rippled upward in an effort to express the desired effect of ridicule.

      "No," she replied in a bored tone.  "Nor did he feed me pap that all I needed was hard work and time."

      Esmond Valdi, maestro, drew himself up, more than ever in an exaggeration of a classical operatic pose.

      "Did he also tell you that once you start cutting crystal, you can never stop?  And that staying too long away from Ballybran produces disastrous convulsions?"

      "I know that."

      "Do you also know" — Valdi rocked back on his heels — "that something in the water of Ballybran, in its very soil, in those crystals, affects your mind?  That you don't re-mem-ber?"  He separated the verb carefully into syllables.

      "That could be a distinct advantage," Killashandra replied, staring back at the little man until he broke eye contact.

      She was the first of the three to feel a peculiar itch behind her ears in the mastoid bone; an itch that rapidly became a wrenching nauseating pain.  She grabbed Carrik by the arm just as the subsonic noise touched him and as Esmond Valdi lifted protecting hands to his ears.

      "The fools!"  Carrik cried as panic contorted his features.  He threw aside the door panel, running as fast as he could for the control-tower entrance.  Killashandra scurried after him.

      Carrik vaulted the decorative barrier and landed in a restricted area, where he was deterred by a hastily engaged force curtain.  "Stop it!  Stop it!"  he screamed, rocking in anguish and clawing at the curtain, oblivious to the sparks flying from his fingers.

      Though the pain was no less bearable for Killashandra, she had presence of mind enough to bang on the nearest communit, to strike the fire buttons, press the battery of emergency signals.  "The shuttle coming in — something's wrong — it's dangerous!"  she yelled at the top of her operatically trained lungs.  She was barely conscious of the panic in the vast reception hall resulting from her all too audible warning.

      The possibility of a stampede by a hysterical mob was evident to those in the control tower, where someone, in reflex action, slapped on the abort signal to warn off all intransit craft.  Moments later, while the communit demanded an explanation from Killashandra or from anyone who could make himself heard over the bedlam in the reception area, a nova blossomed in the sky and rained molten fragments on the spaceport below.  The control tower was unable to contain the destruction within the grappling field, and soon parts of the shuttle were scattered over several kilometers of the Port Authority and the heavily populated business district.

      Apart from bruises, lacerations, and a broken arm, there were only two serious casualties.  A technician on the tarmac was killed, and Carrik would have been better off dead.  The final sonic blast knocked him unconscious, and he never did fully recover his senses After subspace consultation with Heptite Guild medics, it was decided to return him to Ballybran for treatment and care.

      "He won't recover," the medic told Killashandra, where-upon Maestro Valdi instantly assumed the role of her comforter.  His manner provided Killashandra with a fine counter irritant to her shock over Carrik's condition.

      She chose to disbelieve the medic's verdict.  Surely, Carrik could be restored to mental health once he was returned to Ballybran.  He had been away from crystal too long; he was weakened by the seizures.  There'd been no mach storm to scramble his mind.  She'd escort him back to Ballybran.  She owed him that in any reckoning for showing her how to live fully.

      She took a good look at the posturing Valdi and thanked her luck that Carrik had been there to awaken her senses.  How could she have believed that such an artificial life as found in the theater was suitable for her?"  Just look at Valdi!  Present him with a situation, hand him the cue, and he was "on," in the appropriate role.  None existed for these circumstances, so Valdi was endeavoring to come up with a suitable one.

      "What will you do now, Killashandra?" he asked somberly, obviously settling for Dignified Elder Gentleman Consoling the Bereaved Innocent.

      "I'll go with him to Ballybran, of course."

      Valdi nodded solemnly.  "I mean, after you return."

      "I don't intend to return."

      Valdi stared at her, dropping out of character, and then gestured theatrically as the air-cushion stretcher to which Carrik was strapped drifted past them to the shuttle gate.

      "After that?"  Valdi cried, full of dramatic plight.

      "That won't happen to me," she said confidently.

      "But it could!  You, too, could be reduced to a thing with no mind and no memories."

      "I think," Killashandra said slowly, regarding the posturing little man with thinly veiled contempt, "that everyone's brains get scrambled one way or another."

      "You'll rue this day — " Valdi began, raising his left arm in a classical gesture of rejection, fingers gracefully spread.

      "That is, if I remember it!" she said.  Her mocking laughter cut him off midscene.

      Still laughing, Killashandra made her exit, stage center, through the shuttle gate.

CHAPTER 3

      Captain Andurs alerted Killashandra when the ship emerged from hyper-space and Ballybran was fully visible.

      "Good view," he told her, pointing to the two inner moons, positioned at 10 and 5, but Killashandra only had eyes for the mysterious planet.

      She had heard enough to expect just about anything from her first glimpse.  Consequently she experienced an initial disappointment — until she caught sight of the first crystal glare:  a piercing stab of light as the sun's rays reflected from an open crystal on one of the three visible continents.  Cloud cover swirled across most of the ocean area, occluded two subcontinents in the Southern Hemisphere, but where the sun shone, occasional pinpoints of blinding light were visible — light that was all color, yet white and clear.

      "How can they stand the intensity down there?" she demanded, squinting to reduce the keen glare.

      "According to what I hear, you don't notice it on the surface."

      "According to what I hear" had prefaced most of Captain Andurs' statements about Ballybran, a sour comment on the restriction against his landing on one of the richest planets in the galaxy.

      From fellow passengers and garrulous crew members, Killashandra had gleaned additional information about Crystal Singers and Ballybran, a lot of which she discounted since most merely paraphrased Maestro Valdi's comments.  Andurs, despite his limited first-hand knowledge, had proved to be the most informative.  He had been on the space run from Regulus to Ballybran for nine standard years and was always listening, so he had heard more than anyone else — certainly more than she had been able to extract from the cryptic vidifax of the three ships she had traveled on during the voyage.  There was something mysterious about Ballybran and the Heptite Guild and its members — a mystery that she deduced from what wasn't said about those three subjects.  Individuals had privacy; so did certain aspects of any interstellar mercantile company, and one understood that references to certain planetary resources were understated or omitted.  But the lack of routinely available printout on Ballybran, the Guild, and its select members doubled her suspicions.

      Conversely, she had been tremendously impressed by the Guild's tacit power:  high-rank medicorps men had awaited Carrik at the three intermediary ports.  She herself had been accorded the most deferential treatment.  She'd had very little to do other than check the life-support cradle that carried Carrik.  The cradle was programmed for IV feedings, therapy, bathing, and the necessary drugs.  The apparatus was checked by technicians at each port.  Nothing, apparently, was too good for a Heptite Guild member.  Or his escort.  She'd had open credit in the ships' stores, was a member of the captain's private mess on all three ships.  Except for the fact that she was left strictly alone, she thoroughly enjoyed the excitement of her first interstellar journey.

      Possibly because the trip was nearly over, she had received most of her information from Andurs the previous night as he judiciously nursed a Sarvonian brandy through the evening.

      "I hear it often enough to begin to believe it's possible .  .  .  but they say crystal gets into your blood."

      That'd kill you," Killashandra replied though Carrik had used the same phrase.

      "I can't tell whether they mean that the credits are so good," Andurs continued, ignoring her comment.  "Crystal Singers really whoop it up — big spenders, fun people — until the shakes start.  Funny about that, too, because Crystal Singers are supposed to heal faster than other humans, and they're not supposed to be as susceptible to the planetary goolies and fevers that catch you no matter what immunization you've got.  And they stay younger."  That capability annoyed Andurs.  "I asked one of 'em about that.  He was drunk at the time, and he said it's just part of singing crystal."

      "Then there'd be a lot of people willing to sing crystal .  .  ."

      "Yeah but you also risk the shakes or .  .  ."  Andurs jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Carrik in his cabin, "I'd rather grow old."

      "That doesn't happen often, does it?"  Killashandra asked startled.  She'd had the impression that Carrik's collapse was unusual.

      "He's the first I've seen that bad," Andurs admitted.  "Oh, they get the fevers, sometimes bad enough to be packed out in freezebags but not — " and he touched his forehead with one finger.  "Not my business, but how did he get that way?"

      His question, though an obvious one, startled Killashandra because no one else throughout the journey had asked, as if they were afraid of the answer.

      "He was fine until we got to Fuerte Spaceport.  Then a shuttle came in with a badly resonating drive.  It exploded, and he got caught in the sonic backlash."

      "Good of you to escort him back."

      "I owed him that."  Killashandra meant it.  "You said the Guild maintains offices on the moon?  Is that where you apply for membership as well?"

      He looked at her in amazement.  "Oh, you don't want to be a Singer."

      "Why not?"

      Andurs leaned toward her, staring hard into her eyes.  "You weren't forced to come with him, were you?"  I mean, he didn't do anything to you?"

      Killashandra didn't know whether to laugh or become angry.  "I don't know where you come from, Captain Andurs, but on Fuerte privacy is respected."

      "I didn't mean to imply that it wasn't .  .  ."  Andurs responded hastily, raising his hand to fend off her outrage.

      "Do I look as if I've been conditioned?"

      "No, actually you don't.  It's just that you strike me as a sensible woman, and crystal singing isn't sensible.  Oh, I know.  I've heard all the fardling rumors, but that's space-flot because all the Singers I've seen — and I've seen a lot in nine years on this run — never bother anyone.  They keep to themselves, really.  But there is something very peculiar indeed about Ballybran and crystal singing.  I do know" — and he glanced over his shoulder, a needless caution since they were alone in the lounge — "that not every one who applies and gets accepted makes it as a Singer.  Whoever goes down to that planet" — he pointed toward the floor — "stays there.  Only Singers leave.  And they always return."

      "How many people apply for entry into the Guild?"  Killashandra was remembering the 20,007 technicians as well as the 4,425 Singers, and she wondered what the gross was if the net was so small.

      "I can't answer that precisely."  Andurs seemed perplexed as he scratched his head.  "Never thought about it.  Oh, I get a few applicants almost every trip.  Think we've got eight, possibly nine on this flight.  You get to know who's commercial traveling, and who's hoping."  Andurs grinned at her.  "We do have four Guild-vouched passages besides yours.  That means these people have been screened at a Guild center somewhere.  You know that tall, thin, black-haired fellow?"

      Killashandra nodded, remembering the man who had boarded the ship at the last transfer point.  He'd stared at her inquisitively, and once she had found him standing outside her cabin, a strange wild look on his face.

      "He's come on his own.  I wouldn't say he'd be accepted."

      "Oh?"

      Andurs twirled his brandy glass for a long moment before he answered.  "Yeah, I don't think he's the type they want."

      "What is the type they want?"

      "I don't really know," Andurs replied after a moment, "but he's not it.  The Guild will pay your way back to the nearest transfer point," he added as if this would be sufficient compensation for rejection.  "I'll let you know when we emerge, Killa.  Ballybran's one of the more interesting planets to see a moon's eye view of especially if there's a storm in progress."

      Killashandra remained at the view screen until Ballybran was eclipsed by the bulk of its largest moon, Shankill.  If you've seen one moon installation, you've seen them all, she thought as she watched the domes and blackened landing pits swivel past.  Her attention was briefly arrested by the sight of a second vessel swinging up over the horizon, a shuttle craft from the side of it, small enough to make no work of the landing.  She thought she caught a flash of the Heptite Guild dodecahedron on the nose, but the shuttle moved into shadow too quickly for her to check.

      Whatever reception she had subconsciously hoped for was vastly different from the one she received from Lanzecki, the Resident Master of the Heptite Guild.  He was standing at the portal when the ship opened its airlock:  a dour man, with a swarthy complexion and a squat figure clothed in dull colors.  The only things bright and active about him were his wide-set piercing brown eyes, which moved incessantly, seeming to catch more in one darting glance than they ought.

      He gestured to the two men accompanying him who were dun garbed as well.  They silently entered the ship and paced down the corridor, Killashandra in the lead.  She had never felt more superfluous.  In Carrik's stateroom, Lanzecki used that moment's hesitation to press the panel plate open.  He glanced once at the still figure on the carrier, his face expressionless.  He motioned the others to enter and take the carrier.

      "Thank you, Killashandra Ree.  You have an open ticket to whatever destination you desire and a credit of one thousand galactic units."  He proffered two vouchers, each emblazoned with the Heptite Guild dodecahedron black-quartz crystal.  He accorded her a deferential bow, and then, as the men guided Carrik past, he followed them down the corridor.

      For a moment, Killashandra stared at the departing trio, the two metallic voucher slips clinging with static attraction to her fingers.  "Guild Master?  Lanzecki?  Sir?  Wait .  .  ."  The stately progress continued without pause.  "Of all the ungrateful — "

      "I'd not call them ungrateful."  said Captain Andurs, who had approached from the other end of the corridor.  He craned his head to glance at the Vouchers.  "Not at all."

      "I didn't expect praise," Killashandra exclaimed, though that indeed was what she had expected.  "Just a word or two."

      "You've got the important ones," Andurs reminded her with a wry smile.  "One thousand.  They're an odd lot at best," he went on as the Guildsmen turned toward the accordioned portal maw.  "Like I said, there's all kinds of spaceflot about that Guild.  I see strange things banging this old can from system to system, and I pretend not to see half of them."  Suddenly, he slid his arm about her shoulders.  "Now that the dead meat's gone, how about you and me — "

      "Not now," Killashandra irritably pushed his arm away.  "I want a word with that Guild Master first."  She strode rapidly down the corridor toward the portal.

      She never saw Carrik again, though he was listed among the inactive membership for a good many years.  Not that she glanced at the lists, active or inactive, very often once the thrill of seeing her own name inscribed had passed.

      She came to a halt at the opaque force screen of the debarkation arch, which blinked readiness to receive her credentials and reason for business on Shankill.  She ignored it, watching in frustration at the Guild Master's figure disappeared through one of the five irised exits from the small lobby beyond the arch.  She raced back to her cabin to jam her belongings into the carisak.  By the time she had returned to debarkation, much to her disgust, she had to join the queue of passengers.  As she waited, fighting her impatience, Captain Andurs emerged from the ship's forward section and made for the secondary gate by the debarkation arch.  He caught a glimpse of her and turned back, a quizzical smile on his face.

      "Going through with it, Killa?" he asked.  He slid a hand up her arm to grip her elbow.  Andurs' eyes had the sort of intensity she had begun to associate with desire, a pleasing response considering her abrupt manner with him earlier.

      "Why not?  I've been given no reason to stop and a very good one to try?"

      Andurs grinned.  "Well, you'll find the process takes time.  I'll be in the transients' hostel for at least five days."  He made a grimace of resigned distaste and shrugged.  "I'll be seeing you," he added with a half note of questioning, though his smile was inviting.

      It irked Killashandra to see him jauntily present his wrist to the plate on the smaller arc and watch the entrance dilate immediately.  When she finally submitted her wrist to the identity plate at debarkation control, she had become somewhat resigned to delay.

      She was asked for her reason to land on Shankill.

      "I wish to apply for membership in the Heptite Guild.  I have perfect pitch," she added.

      The display requested her credit rating, and Killashandra disdainfully slipped in the Guild voucher.  It was instantly accepted, and the substantial credit balance displayed.  The unit purred, clicked, and then, as a fax sheet rolled from the print slot, the arch dilated to permit access to the Shankill moon base.  She was advised to read and conform to all rules and regulations of the Shankill Authority, which were included in the printout as were directions to Transient accommodations, catering facilities, and the public areas of the installation.

      She passed through the arch and into the lobby with the five exits.  The third iris swirled open, and Killashandra, taking the hint, proceeded down that corridor to the hostel.  She was surprised to emerge into a large open area, high-ceilinged and lined with holograms of trees lightly stirring in an absent breeze.  A glow radiating from the plasglassed skylight simulated sunlight.  She wondered, as she crossed the floor to the reception area if the mock light also followed Ballybran's rotational period.

      Her second surprise was to find a human attendant behind the reception counter.  "Killashandra Ree?" he asked politely, unsmiling.  She suppressed a desire to ask "Who else?" and nodded,

      "You will not have had time to read the rules and regulations pertaining to Shankill Moon Base, therefore, it is my duty to request that you do so immediately upon settling in your accommodation.  Failure to comply will result in restriction of personal liberty to prevent endangering the lives of others through ignorance.  Please synch your digital to Ballybran's rotation with which all base times are synchronized.  If you do not understand anything in the instructions, I am at your service to explain.  Place your wrist unit on the plate.  Thank you."

      More accustomed to the monotone of machine-issued instructions, Killashandra could only stare at the man, wondering if he was some sort of android, though she'd never heard of such life like replicas of humans.  Then he smiled slightly and tapped the plate.

      "Been on a moon base before?" the man asked in a tone remarkably informal after his mechanical speech.

      "No," she said as she placed her wrist to the plate and her thumb in the depression.

      "This is my tenth.  I'm an apprentice in satellite security.  We get to do the routine work, you see.  Not that anything's ever gone wrong here" — he pointed his forefinger firmly toward the floor to indicate the entire base — "though there's always a first time.  Like our training programmer says, there's always a first time, and we're supposed to make sure that first times don't occur.  That's why you'll find human specialists like me on moon bases.  People get so used to machines and displays and automatic cautionary signs that they don't sink in" — he tapped his forehead — "and that's how accidents can happen."

      "Seems like good psychology," Killashandra agreed absently, for she was noting with pleasure the winking green credit balance.  A key poked above the flush counter.  The man handed it to her,

      "My name's Ford.  You'll read that your room has its own life-support system that comes on-line automatically in case of failure of the base system.  Only, by Brennan's left ear, don't get caught in a hostel room during a leak-out or a break — that's a sure way to go berk."

      Killashandra wanted to tell him that his psychology had a flaw if this was how he was supposed to reassure her.  But she refrained, smiled, and promised she'd read the instructions.  Then she glanced about her.

      "Your key's tuned to your room.  It'll find you your way back from any point in the base," Ford said jovially.  "Just go through that door," he added, leaning across his counter and pointing to the left.

      Killashandra felt the tug of the key in that direction, and giving Ford another smile, she set off.

      The key plate of the door frame was glowing in welcome as she approached her assigned room.  She inserted the key, and the door panel retracted with a whoosh.  As she walked in, she could see why Ford didn't recommend a protracted stay on the premises; the compact room would give anyone claustrophobia.  All the bodily comforts compacted into a space 3 1/2 meters long, 2 meters wide, and 3 high.  A three-drawer captain's bed occupied most of the space.  Above it was shelving, from the base of which projected the angled audiovisual unit, obviously usable only to the occupant of the bed.  Any esthetics of space or decor had been waived in considerations of safety and survival.  To be sure, one wasn't compelled to remain in this room.  In fact, from the authority's viewpoint, it was probably advisable that the room be occupied only for sleep.

      Killashandra flipped the carisak to the foot of the bed and plopped down on it, noticing for the first time the row of labeled switches and buttons along the wall and the wall slots from which, according to the labels, table, reading lamp, and an individual catering unit would emerge.  She grimaced.  Everything at finger-tip control.  She wondered if Ford's presence was to reassure the transients that they were indeed human rather than extensions of some computer.  Ford certainly exhibited humanity.

      Sighing, she dutifully pulled the rules and regulations to her.  She had promised.  Besides, forewarning herself seemed wise even if — as Ford had averred, nothing had ever happened on Shankill Station.

      According to the fax sheet, he was correct.  The Shankill Moon Base had been functioning safely for 334 years, Standard Galactic.  The original installation had been considerably expanded when Federated Sentient Planets restricted habitation of Ballybran because of the planet's dangers.

      Killashandra had to reread that part twice.  So the planet itself was dangerous, though obviously that danger had been overcome since people were now working and living on the surface.

      The following paragraphs blithely changed subject and began enumerating safety hazards, regulations, and individual responsibilities.  Killashandra dutifully read on, hearing an echo of Ford's warning:  "There's always a first time."  As a transient, her main responsibilities were first to seek the red-striped areas of whatever corridor or public place she inhabited on hearing either rapid hoots (oxygen leak) or sharp short whistles (penetration) or intermittent siren (internal fire or emergency) and then to stay out of everyone's way.  Sustained hoots, whistles, or siren indicated the end of the emergency.  If she was in her quarters, she was to lie on the bed — not that there was anywhere else in the room to be comfortable during enforced incarceration.  In all crises, helmeted personnel were authorized to command unhelmeted individuals to any task required to end the emergency.

      She turned the sheet over and studied the map of the base, which, comparing the total with the part she had already seen, must be immense.  Some units were composed of nine sprawling levels, most subsurface; each one could be sealed for all had backup life-support systems.  The largest areas were cargo and maintenance facilities, the Guild and administration.  Diagrams of the two smaller bases on the moons, Shilmore and Shanganagh, decorated the bottom of the sheet.  These were both meteorological stations and Shanganagh seemed to be completely automated.

      Meteorology seemed to be the preoccupation of Ballybran, Killashandra thought — was that the danger on the planet?  Its weather?  Carrik had mentioned the incredible mach storms.  That the winds of Ballybran were ferocious enough to merit such a nickname was frightening enough.

      She scanned the map again, noting the proximity of the Guild complex to the transients' quarters.  Two tunnels/corridors/avenues — whatever — over and the small unit between was the debarkation facility.  She grinned at the convenient juxtaposition.  Could it be completely fortuitous?  Could she just walk over and present herself as an aspirant?

      She suddenly experienced an unexpected diffidence and studied her digital.  She was well within the normal working hours of most commercial establishments.  She had read the important safety regulations, and she would certainly look for the red-striped area in any corridor and public place she entered.  With a twitch of her shoulders, she strengthened her resolve and pressed the wall stud to activate the speech-recognition system.

      "Request details for applying to Heptite Guild for membership."

      The display rippled on.

      APPLICATION FOR CONSIDERATION OF MEMBERSHIP IN HEPTITE GUILD REQUIRES PHYSICAL FITNESS TEST SG-l, PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE SG-l, EDUCATION LEVEL 3 PREFERRED BUT EXCEPTIONS CONSIDERED, 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 HUMANOID, ORIGIN SOL III.  MUTANTS NEED NOT APPLY.

      APPLICATION MADE ONLY THROUGH HEPTITE GUILD OFFICES:  SHANKILL MOON BASE, MAIN RECEPTION FACILITY.

      FEDERATED SENTIENT PLANETS REQUIRE PULL DISCLOSURE OF ALL DANGERS INHERENT IN PROFESSION TO PROSPECTIVE CANDIDATES ONCE PHYSICAL, PSYCHOLOGICAL, AND APTITUDE TESTS HAVE BEEN PASSED TO THE SATISFACTION OF THE GUILD EXAMINING BOARD.

      BALLYBRAN IS AN INTERDICTED WORLD, SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78-90.  FOR DETAILS, CONSULT HEPTITE GUILD.

      "Well," Killashandra murmured, "information received by dribs and drabs.  Heptite Guild, please."

      The screen resolved around a woman's face.

      "Heptite Guild, Shankill Moon base.  May I assist you?"

      "Killashandra Ree," she managed, mindful of courtesy, for she hadn't expected a personal answer.  "I'd like to know if your member, Carrik, is all right?"

      "He made the journey safely to the surface."

      "I mean, will he recover?"

      "That is possible but not predictable."

      The woman's face was composed and obviously expectant.

      "How do I get to be a Guild member?"  Her query was blurted out.  "I did tap data retrieval."

      The woman smiled politely.  "I am permitted to release additional information to interested persons.  Your room designation?"  Killashandra gave her the information.  "You will have access to the relevant data until 0800 tomorrow.

If you desire the preliminary examinations, you may present yourself to the Guild during normal working hours."

      The image faded, which was just as well because Killashandra was consumed with curiosity as to what more of Ballybran's mysteries would be revealed by the promised additional data.  Not all, she was certain.

      The display began with a historical summary of the planet.  Furious, she was about to cancel the program when it occurred to her that the wise performer studied the role and the composer, to understand his intent, before any audition.  If the Guild had released this data to her, they would also know if she had availed herself of the courtesy.  Joining the Heptite Guild might not depend alone on perfect pitch, good physical condition, and the right psychological adjustment or why were there so few members?

      She settled herself to study the material, though the preliminary paragraphs on "man's ever-pressing need for material resources in his search of the galaxies — reminded her depressingly of secondary school's orientation propaganda.  She didn't have to wade through much of that but got quickly to the section on Spican quartz.

      In a routine explore and evaluate search, Scoria's planets were probed.  Ballybran, the only one with suitable atmosphere and gravity, gave happy evidence of crystal and quartz formations in its inverted ranges.  A team was dispatched, Barry Milekey of Trace its leader.  The initial findings of the geologists indicated a planet of immense potential, and samples were rushed back to Sector Research division.  The E and E of Ballybran had lucked out.  The first crystal sample to be analyzed properly, a blue porphyry type, proved, due to peculiarities of its composition, a marvelous optical storage device, allowing computers virtually instantaneous access to improbably large volumes of data stored in matrixes of exceptionally small dimensions.  The crystal's fine-grain synapse structure enabled even a smallish (1 cm3) segment to serve as a gigaword memory.

      However, it was Milekey's discovery of the so-called black quartz — under normal conditions neither black quartz — that led to the complete revolution of interstellar communications.  Owing to its thermal characteristics, Black Ballybran is a pigmented rock crystal, translucent in natural light.

      Under certain types of magnetic stress, Black Ballybran, for lack of any better description, absorbs all light and seems to become matte black.  Milekey had observed this phenomenon when he chipped the first lump from the black crystal face.

      Again by accident, while being examined by the crystallographers, the substance's true properties were discovered.  If two identical segments of black quartz were subjected to synchronized magnetic induction, a two-way communication link was established between the crystal segments.  When investigators increased the distance between the samples, it was discovered that, unlike other electromagnetic phenomena, black quartz eliminated the time lag.

      Concurrent with the laboratory discoveries and proposed applications of the new crystals came the first of several problems to be solved in the mining of this rich source.  The first E and E team had only gathered up loose chips of the various types of crystal, or such larger chunks as had already been fractured from the mother lode.  In attempts to cut with ordinary carbon-10 blades, the crystal had shattered.  Laser cutters were tried, but they shattered, melted, or damaged the crystal.

      The habit of one of the crystallographers of singing as he worked led to an unexpected solution.  The man noticed that some crystal faces would resonate to his voice, and he suggested the use of a subsonic cutter.  Though not completely successful, experiments along this line finally produced the sophisticated audio pickup that resonated, amplified, and reduced the required note to set the sub-sonic diamond blade.

      Once the problem of wresting unblemished crystals from the face was solved, Ballybran was opened to private miners.  During the next spate of storms, those miners who heeded the warnings promptly and reached the sheltered valley sustained no injury.  The imprudent were discovered in the storm's wake, dead or mad.  Storm winds blowing across the resonant crystal range coaxed enough sonics from the sensitive rock to shatter unprotected minds.

      Keenly aware of the unexplained deaths of the nine miners, everyone became conscious of previously ignored physical discomforts.  The meditechs began filing reports of disorientation, hypo- and hyperthermic spells, erratic sense perceptions, muscular spasm and weakness.  No one in the several base camps escaped the minor ailments.  Most symptoms passed, but some victims found one sense or another — in most cases hearing — to be affected.  The medical team was hastily augmented, and everyone was put through exhaustive tests.  At first, crystal was suspected of inducing the symptoms.  However, those handling the crystal off-planet appeared unharmed by contact, while meteorologists and support technicians who never touched the stuff on Ballybran, were also affected.  Crystal was absolved.  The planet's ecology then became the prime target for intensive examination, and this area of investigation proved positive.  The spore producing the symptoms was soon isolated, and the planet Ballybran was placed on Code 4 as a preventive measure.

      Killashandra turned off the display to ponder that.  Anything below Code 15 was a stern prohibition against landing.  Ballybran's spore produced complicated reactions sometimes fatal — in the human body.  Yet the culprit had been isolated, but the planet was still on a Code 41

      Evasion!  Killashandra thought, irritated.  She started the display again, but the text now cited the formation of the Heptite Guild.  She halted it.

      What was it Andurs had said?  "Only Singers leave the planet?"  Obviously, the handicapped remained on Ballybran.  Twenty-thousand-odd staff and technicians as opposed to Singers.  Killashandra snorted.  Those were better odds, actually, than the ones against achieving stellar rank in the performing arts.  She rather liked that.  Yes, but what happened if you weren't one of the one-in-five?  What sort of technical workers were employed?

      She queried the vidifax.

      "Technicians:  Ballybran crystal workers, tuners, artificers of crystal drive components and interstellar resonating units, meditechs, programmers, mechanics, therapists, agronomists, caterers .  .  ."  the list continued down to menial functions.

      So, once committed to Ballybran, only Singers left.  Well, she'd be a Singer.  Killashandra pushed aside the console and, knitting her fingers behind her head, leaned back on the narrow bolster.

      What contributed to that subtle difference between Singer and support staff?  Particularly if perfect pitch was a prerequisite to leaving the planet.  If infrasonic cutters were used to extract the crystal from the rock face, sheer strength wasn't the second requisite.  Attitude?  Aptitude?

      The spore disease?  Killashandra drew the console back to her and tapped out a recall.

      "This area of investigation proved positive, and the spore producing the illness was isolated .  .  ."

      "Isolated," Killashandra muttered under her breath. "Isolated but not negated, or cured, and the planet Code 4."

      So it had to be immunity to the spore itself that determined who sang crystal?

      Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she thought, and tapped out a query on the spore.  She chuckled as the display announced a restricted subject.  Only so much information then was vouchsafed the candidate.  Fair enough.  Privacy was as much the right of a Guild as an individual, and the FSP required full disclosure before a candidate took the final irrevocable plunge.

      She pushed back the console and swung off the bed.  Pausing just long enough to brush her hair and check the fall of her tunic, she slid aside the door panel.  It closed quietly behind her.

      When she reached the ramp connecting levels, she studied the wall map mounted there.  She was two levels below and to one side of the Guild and there was but one access to that part of the base.  She hurried up the ramp with an aggressive stride.  It felt good to walk about.  After confinement for nine days in shuttles and spaceships, even a moon base seemed spacious.  The amenities of Shankill reflected its use as a commercial as well as resident scientific facility.  Considerable thought and care had been taken to approximate planetary surroundings, to make residents and transients forget the hostile conditions outside.  Holograms on the outside of the ramp-way depicted a pleasant mountain scene that, Killashandra was sure, would change in lighting to coincide with the base's diurnal pattern.  It was close to midday "outside," but she ignored the faint complaints from her stomach.

      Through a lock, past the red-hatched area she had promised herself to seek out, the corridor widened into a broad foyer.  Set around the wall were holograms of trees and flowers, nodding and dipping among the banked bright leafed shrubs.  She thought the decorator had mixed the flora of several planets in the display, but with holograms that scarcely caused botanical problems.  Besides, the effect was colorful.

      The catering facility below her was set out on several levels, the first one a wide corridor between two beverage areas, one with a human attendant.  She bore left, entering another short corridor that bridged the catering and Guild areas.

      Though it crossed her mind that the Guild offices were closed for midday meals, she was surprised to gain instant admission to the reception area.  There, she stopped in wonder.

      Moon base or not, the twelve-sided hall was immense, the ceiling at least 5, possibly 6 meters high.  An immense crystal art form, multicolored and faintly luminous, hung from the center of the arches that supported the ceiling.  A curved console was the only furnishing in the open chamber, but Killashandra noted the lights of display niches set at random levels on the sidewalls.

      "Well," she uttered in soft amazement, then heard the chandelier chime in response.  It was not, as she'd initially thought, a lighting fixture.  It also seemed to incorporate a variety of crystal forms and colors:  some masterpieces of crystal artifice.  Surely a waste.  Suddenly she realized the mass was slowly rotating, its luminous ends sending motes of light about the room, changing patterns as it turned and always accompanied by the soft, almost subliminal chiming.

      If the noise didn't twist you, thought Killashandra, the light would mesmerize.  She declined the subtle hypnosis and began to prowl about the enormous reception hall.  The first niche held a fan of minute shards of a pale-pink crystal, the sort probably utilized as computer chips or transducers.  She wondered how sharp their edges might be.  The next display provided magnification to show crystal line threads of various hues and diameters.  Surely, one didn't "cut" those.  Perhaps the yellowish crystal fractured into such strands.

      The porcupine of a crystal drive unit dominated the next showcase, but the largest area was devoted to the black crystal, which, indeed, was neither black nor, apparently, a crystal.  When she moved on to the next wall of the dodecahedron and squinted through one of the eyeholes, she saw another piece, very definitely black in the special lighting.

      Suddenly, the chandelier chimed, and, startled, Killashandra turned to find the tall, thin, nervous man from the spaceship standing at the entrance.  He had cleared his throat noisily, and the chandelier was responding to the harsh sound.  He now looked as if he were going to dash from the hall in terror.

      "Yes?" she asked, forestalling his flight.  She might as well find out what was haunting him.

      "No mean to break privacy," he blurted out in a hoarse whisper.  He obviously had encountered the peculiar reaction of the chandelier before.  "But the man with you on the ship?  He was a Singer?"

      "Yes."

      "What happened to him?  That spore get him?"

      "No," Killashandra replied.  The poor man's eyes threatened to pop out of his head he was so worried.  "He was caught in the sonic backlash when a shuttle blew up.  Sensory overload."

      The relief brightened his face, and he mopped at his forehead and cheeks with a film.

      "They tell you only so much and not enough.  So when I saw him — "

      "You want to become a Crystal Singer?"

      He gulped, his larynx cartilage bobbing up and down in his nervousness.

      "Are you a Singer?"  There was awe in his voice.  "I thought you must be from the way the captain was treating you."  He wasn't so certain of that now, obviously.

      "No, I'm not."

      His attitude changed instantly as he straightened up and thrust his shoulders back.

      "Well, I'm going to be," he stated firmly, and the chandelier echoed him.  He glanced nervously above and seemed to draw his head protectively into his shoulders.

      "If that's what you want," Killashandra said equably, and then strode past him.  She'd seen all of the hall she wanted and could do with some food.

      "You mean, you won't try to argue me out of it?" he asked, following her.

      "Why should I?"

      "Everyone else does."

      "I'm not everyone else."

      "It's supposed to be very dangerous."

      "I'm not worried."

      "Are you going to apply, too?"

      She stopped and turned on him so swiftly that he nearly walked into her.

      "You're invading my privacy — "

      "Oh, no, no."  He fended off such an accusation with raised arms and a startled expression.  "But why else would you be in the Heptite Hall?"

      "To buy crystal."

      "You're not a buyer — "

      "You're invading my privacy!"  She stalked off as fast as she could, half tempted to press the close button on the panel that separated the linking corridor with the catering foyer.

      "I just wanted to talk .  .  ."  His voice followed her but he at least had remained behind.

      The energy generated by her irritation carried her past the bar area to a T-junction of aisles leading to business stalls and cubicles, some closed by privacy screens.  Broadleafed plants lined a short flight of steps into the dining area.  Service slots and bright-orange menu panels were positioned against the walls, and she was making her way to the nearest when she heard herself called.

      "Over here, Killashandra Ree."  Captain Andurs rose from a group of spacemen to beckon her.  "C'mon.  Join us."

      Well, he'd at least be protection against that imbecile if he followed her, so she waved back and stepped up to scan the menufax.  She was overwhelmed by the selections scrolling on display.  When she spotted the seafood casserole she'd eaten that momentous evening at Fuerte, she ordered it.

      "Brew's good, too," Andurs said, coming to assist her.  He deftly punched a sequence, paused and tapped again.  "Goes down better with some of these."

      She was about to protest his abruptness, all too familiar with the vagaries of over programmed and stubborn student hall catering units, when the service panel slid open to reveal all three orders.  Efficiency was a pleasure.

      "Here, have a sip of the brew and see if you like it," Andurs suggested, offering her the liter glass.  "No sense making unnecessary trips.  Spoils conversations.  See, I told you it was good.  It's not processed:  allowed to age normally, and that means a good brew.  They know how here."  Then he dialed up not only a liter glass for her but a large beaker as well.  "I'd stick to the brews here or your own planet's ferment or distillations if they stock 'em — and I'd be surprised if they didn't.  You could really turn off on some drinks if you have the wrong metabolism, you know."

      "I appreciate the advice," she said as they made their way back to the others.

      "Do you?"  Andurs sounded cynical.  "We've been scheduled.  We'll be on our way tomorrow, 1000 base time.  Rush cargo.  Bound for Regulus Exchange.  You can use that Guild voucher and cross the Milky Way if you've a mind to."

      "I've a mind to stay here and see how it goes."

      "Done any checking?" he asked, lowering his voice, for they were nearly to the table now.

      "Enough."

      "No matter what prints out, it wouldn't be enough or all the truth."  Andurs' tone was dourly repressive.

      "By FSP law, they have to make full disclosure of the dangers."

      Andurs snorted, but they had reached the table by then and he was disinclined to continue that discussion.

      She had only just been introduced to the flight engineer, whom she hadn't met during the journey, when she noticed tension on the faces of the supercargo and the second officer.  Curious, she glanced over her shoulder to see what caused their dislike and then half turned in her chair to get a clear look.

      Two men and a woman stood there observing the seated diners.  It was not their rough, stained garments, the scarred boots, or unkempt hair that caught Killashandra's eye — though these were unusual enough in a society that respected cleanliness — but the trio's imperious bearing, a sort of lofty disdain that excluded everyone else, and the brilliance of their eyes.  The tableau, briefly held during the trio's survey, broke up as the three moved purposefully toward a corner table where, as Killashandra followed their progress, two other similarly attired people sat.

      "And who do they think they are?"  Killashandra asked, as annoyed by their manner as the second officer and supercargo.  Even as she spoke, she knew the answer, for she had seen that hauteur, that inner luminosity before — in Carrik.

      "Singers, are they?"

      "Yes," said the super flatly.

      "Are they always like that?"

      "Wasn't your friend Carrik?" Andurs countered.

      "Not exactly like that."

      "Then he was most unusual," the super replied in a daunting tone.  "They're at their worst just in from the ranges — as those are.  Lucky for us, Andurs, there are two Monasterian ships in.  They'll ship out on those."

      Andurs nodded curtly and then, as if to make certain Killashandra did not continue the sore subject of Singers, began a volley of questions about supplies and cargo waybills.  Taking the hint, she applied herself to her food but did cast surreptitious glances toward the fascinating group of Singers.  Killashandra was all the more surprised that they seemed not to have much to say to each other, though the trio had deliberately sought out the pair.  Nor did they leave their table longer than it took one of them to dial and collect several wine beakers at a time.  They paid no attention to others in the now — crowded dining area.

      Since there was considerable traffic, greeting of friends, and good-natured teasing from table to table, Killashandra could make some discreet evaluations.  A good relationship seemed to exist between base residents — Guild members or not — and transients.  She recognized the various professions and skills by the distinctive uniform colors and hatchings of coding and rate.  The travelers were garbed in whatever suited their fancies, the styles and fashions of two or three dozen cultures and disciplines.  Ship personnel always wore the space-dark uniforms, sober counterpoint to the riot of civilian dress.  Several life-supported aliens appeared briefly in the main foyer but they quickly retired to the catering level that accommodated their exotic requirements.

      Having leisurely finished their meal, the supercargo and engineer excused themselves, claiming duties before lift off.  Andurs waved them a genial go-ahead and then turned to Killashandra.

      "D'you see what would happen if you become a Singer?"

      "What?" she asked guilelessly.

      Andurs flicked his fingers impatiently at the aloof quintet.  "You'd be alone.  Wherever you went."

      "I wasn't alone with Carrik.  He was very good company."

      "For a specific reason, I've no doubt, and don't spout Privacy at me."

      Killashandra laughed at his sour reply.  "The reason was mutual, my friend.  And I still don't see why the Crystal Singers are at fault."

      "And who do they think they are?"' he mimicked in a fair imitation of her instinctive reaction to the Singers.

      "Well, I also didn't notice anyone making them welcome the way everyone else — "

      "Nor will you.  Disagreeable bastards, that's what they are.  And they always act that superior."

      "Carrik — " she began, remembering how much fun he had been.

      "He might have been halfway gone by the time you met him.  They change — and not for the better."

      "They would have to, wouldn't they?" she said, somewhat abruptly, for Andurs' irrational insistence on generalities annoyed her.  "The fax said they take rigorous physical, psychological, and aptitude tests.  Only the best are taken, so they would be above the ploddies you have to put up with everywhere else in the galaxy."

      "You don't understand.  They are very different!"  Andurs was becoming agitated in his effort to explain.

      "I'll never understand if you won't be specific."

      "Well, I can."  Andurs almost leaped at her offer.  "The Singer in the brown tunic — how old would you say he is?  And don't stare at them too hard.  They can be offensive if irritated.  Especially when they're just off the Ranges like that set."

      Killashandra had noticed the brown-clad man; he was the tallest one and exuded some of the same magnetic quality that had distinguished Carrik.

      "I'd say about second half of his third decade, perhaps beginning of his fourth."

      "I'm in my fourth and have been making this run for nine years standard.  I know he's been a Singer for at least nine decades because his name's appeared on the passenger lists for my ship for that long."

      Killashandra glanced discreetly over at the subject in question.  It was hard to believe the man was well over his first hundred years.  Modern science delayed the worst ravages of physical degeneration but —

      "So eternal youth is your gripe?"

      "No, not mine.  Frankly I wouldn't want to have more than ten or twelve decades.  It's not just that Singers look young longer, though that does get at some, it's — it's other differences .  .  ."

      "Psychological?  Professional?  Physical?  Or financial?"

      "Look, the point is, there are differences that the rest of us note, sense, feel, and resent in Singers!"  Andurs was vehement now, pounding one fist into the other palm to emphasize his points.  "Whatever it is separates you forever from the rest of mankind.  Is that what you want?"

      Killashandra gave the question due consideration before she looked Andurs in the eye and said, "Yes.  Crystal Singers are a rigidly selected, highly trained professional minority.  And I want to be a member of that sort of group.  I've had some training in that direction already," she added with a sour smile.

      "Then your bringing Carrik back .  .  ."  Andurs' nostrils flared with suspicion, and he leaned away from her.

      "Was what I owed the man," she added hastily, for she didn't like that expression to appear so soon, and for no cause, on Andurs' face.  She honestly had been motivated by regret for Carrik's condition.  "Who knows?  I may not pass the requirements.  It harms no one for me to try, does it?"  She gave Andurs a sweet, somewhat tremulous smile.  "I was not motivated toward any goal when I encountered Carrik, you see — "

      "Then ship out with me — or on any of the other ships.  This" — Andurs' forefinger pointed at the door — "is a dead end."

      Killashandra sneaked one more look at the Crystal Singers — proud, aloof, and curiously radiant.  She contrived a thoughtful frown for Andurs' benefit, but the group, remote and inaccessible, were indeed people apart, clearly marked by a subtle difference that set them above humans otherwise no less physically attractive or intelligent.  This distinction would cause Singers to be singled out no matter where they were.  Forever, Killashandra thought, as Stellar performers when basking in the applause of adoring audiences.  Since she was deprived of the one, she would try for this.

      "There is something about them .  .  ."  she said aloud with a diffident lift of her shoulders and a wry smile.  "You know, you're right about the brew — " and she turned a more winning smile at Andurs.

      "I'll get more."

      She spent a pleasant evening with the captain, though

she was glad that it was just an evening, for his limitations soon became apparent.  Carrik had had many revelations for her.  But when Andurs left for his ship at date change, it was only with expressions of regret and additional urgings for her to be on board.  Though he was only going as far as Regulus Exchange, Killashandra could pick up a ship bound anywhere in the galaxy with her Guild voucher.

      She thanked him, affecting more drowsiness than she felt, and left him with the notion that she had been swayed by his persuasions and person.

      She didn't learn until much later that his ship, the Rag Blue Swan Delta, had delayed departure until peremptorily forced to leave by an aggravated landing officer.  By that time she was already in the Guild block of the base.

CHAPTER 4

      Arriving punctually at the beginning of business hours, Killashandra was not the only one so prompt.  Some of the dozen or so milling about the large reception area were quite obviously buyers, peering at the displays and jotting entries on their wrist units.  The tall, thin young man was there.  He looked startled to see Killashandra and swerved away from her.  Just as Killashandra noted two men and a woman emerge from a panel in the far side of the dodecahedron, someone stamped in from the base entrance.  Killashandra glimpsed a set, hard, angry face and the close-cropped hair of a space worker as the bone-thin figure of a female swept past her.

      The chandelier responded to the vibrations of her passage and picked up the tone of her voice.  From the resonance of the chiming art form, Killashandra knew the woman was making demands.  What surprised Killashandra more was that the Guild woman did not pay any attention, her head remaining bent over the module.  The angry space worker repeated her question, sharp enough now for Killashandra to hear that the woman was demanding to be taken immediately for testing as a Guild candidate.

      Suddenly, one of the Guildsmen, excusing himself from his conversation with a buyer, touched the programmer on her arm, directing her gaze to the now irate space worker.  Another angry spate of words jarred the crystal drops, although the Guild programmer seemed not the least disturbed either by her discourtesy or the space worker's ire.  In the next moment, the panel at the back of the room opened again, and the space worker moved toward it, her head set at an aggressive angle, her stride jarring her slender frame.  The panel closed behind her.

      A sigh attracted Killashandra's attention, and she turned to find a young man standing beside her.  He would have deserved a second look anywhere, for he possessed close curled red hair, a recessive trait rarer now than the true blond.  He had evidently watched the interchange between the space worker and the Guild programmer as if he had anticipated such a confrontation.  His sigh had been one of relief.

      "She made it," he murmured under his breath, and then, noticing Killashandra, smiled at her.  His unusually light green eyes twinkled in mischief.  The antipathy Killashandra had instinctively felt for the space worker was replaced by an instant affinity to the young man.  "She's been in a snit, that one, the whole journey here.  Thought she'd go through the debarkation arch like a projectile when it started laying on the formality.  And after all that .  .  ."  He spread his hands wide to express his astonishment at her ease.

      "There's more to it than going through a doorway," Killashandra said.

      "Don't I just know it, but there was no telling Carigana.  For starters, she was annoyed that I got to do the prelim at Yarro on Beta VI.  As if it were a personal affront to her that she had to come all the way here."  He stepped closer to Killashandra as a knot of people, buyers from their varied manner of dress, entered.  "Have you taken the plunge yet?"  And then he held up his hand, grinning so winningly when Killashandra stiffened at such a flagrant breach of privacy that she couldn't, after all, take offense.  "I'm from Scartine, you know, and I keep forgetting manners.  Besides, you don't look like a buyer" — his comment was complimentary for he gestured with good-humored contempt at the finery of most of the other occupants of the hall — "and transients would never venture further than the catering area, so you must be interested in crystal singing .  .  ."  He raised his eyebrows as well as the tone of his voice in question.

      It would have taken a far more punctilious person than Killashandra to depress his ingenuous manner, but she answered with the briefest of smiles and a nod.

      "Well, because I've been through the prelim, I've only to report my presence, but if I were you, though I'm not, and it's certainly not my wish to invade your privacy, I'd give Carigana a chance to get organized before I followed her in."  Then he cocked his head, grinning with a sparkle at odds with his guilelessness.  "Unless you're hanging back with second thoughts."

      "I've thoughts but none of them second."  Killashandra said.  "You did the prelim at Yarro?"

      "Yes, you know the tests."

      "SG-1's, I hear."

      He shrugged diffidently.  "Medigear feels the same for all levels, and if you're adjusted, the psych is nothing.  Aptitude's aptitude and a fast one, but you look like you've done tertiary studies, so what's to knot your hair over?"  His expression was sharp as his eyes flicked to the wall through which Carigana had passed.  "If you've got hair!"

      "Those tests — they're not complicated, or painful, or anything?.  .  ."  The tall nervous young man had sidled up to them without either noticing his approach.

      Killashandra frowned slightly with displeasure, but the other young man grinned encouragingly.

      "No sweat, no stress, no strength exerted, man.  A breeze," and he planed his hand in a smooth gesture indicating ease.  "All I got to do now is go up to the panel, knock on the door, and I'm in."  He snapped the shoulder strap of his carisak.

      "You've been given the full disclosure?" the dark-haired man asked.

      "Not yet."  The red-head grinned again.  "That's the next step and only done here."

      "Shillawn Agus Vartry," the other said formally, raising his right hand, fingers spread in the galactic gesture that indicated cooperation without weapon.

      "Rimbol C-hen-stal-az" was the red-head's rejoinder.

      Killashandra wasn't in the mood to be drawn into further conversation about applying for Guild membership, not with this Shillawn swallowing and stammering his way to a decision.  She accorded Rimbol a smile and the salute as she backed away courteously before veering toward the module with more assurance than she felt.  Once there, she spread her fingers wide where the movement would catch the woman's eye.

      "I'd like to apply for membership to the Heptite Guild," she said when the woman raised her head.  Killashandra had meant to say she wanted to become a Crystal Singer, but the words had shifted in her mind and mouth with uncharacteristic discretion.  Perhaps Carigana's very bad example had tempered her approach.

      The programmer inclined her head in acknowledgment of the request, her fingers flashing across the terminal keys.  "If you will proceed through that entrance."  She motioned toward the opening panel in the wall.

      Killashandra could just imagine how anti-climactic that mild phrase must have been for the storming Carigana.  She smiled to herself as the panel closed behind her without so much as a sigh.  Exit Killashandra Ree softly and with no fanfare.

      She found herself in a short corridor, with a series of color-coded and design-patched doors on either side, and made for one that opened quietly.  Just as she entered the room from one door, a man with an odd crook to one shoulder entered from another.  He gave her such a quick searching look that she felt certain he had had to greet Carigana.

      "You agree to submit to SG-1 examinations of physical, psychological, and aptitudinal readiness?  Please state your name, planet of origin, and whatever rank you hold.  This information is being processed under the Federated Sentient Planets' conditions regarding admission into the Heptite Guild of Ballybran."  He ran through the speech in two breaths, staring expectantly at her while her mind caught up with his rote comments.

      "Yes, I, Killashandra Ree of Fuerte, agree to the examinations.  Rank, tertiary student in performing arts, released."

      "This way, please, Killashandra Ree."  She followed him into an anteroom, the usual examination facility.  The panel on one door blazed red, and Killashandra supposed that Carigana was within, being subjected to the same tests she was about to undergo.

      She was shown to the next cubicle, which held the couch and hood that were standard physical diagnostic equipment for her species.  Without a word, she settled herself on the couch as comfortably as possible, inured since childhood to the procedures, to the slightly claustrophobic sensation as the upper half of the diagnostic unit swung down over her.  She didn't mind the almost comforting pressure of the torso unit or the tight grip across one thigh and the hard weight on her left shin, but she never could get used to the constricting headpiece and the pressures against eyes, temple, and jaw.  But cerebral and retinal scanning were painless, and one never felt the acupuncture that deadened the leg for the blood, bone marrow, and tissue samples.  The other pressures for organ readings, muscle tone, heat and cold tolerances, sound sensitivity, were as nothing to the final pain-threshold jolt.  She had heard about but never experienced the pain-threshold gamut — and hoped never to have to do so again.

      Just as she was about to scream from the stimuli applied to her nerve centers the apparatus abruptly retracted.  As her nervous system tingled with the after effect, she did groan and massaged the back of her neck to ease muscles that had tensed in that split second of measurable agony.

      "Take this restorative now, please," the meditech said, entering the room.  He gave her a glass of carbonated green liquid.  "Set you right.  And if you'll just sit here," he added as a comfortable padded chair rolled to the center of the room while the medigear slid to the left.  "When you are recovered, press the button on the right chair arm, and the psychological test will begin.  A verbal address system is used.  Responses are, of course, recorded, but I'm sure you're familiar with the procedures by now."

      The drink did clear the last miasma of the threshold test from her senses, making her feel incredibly alert.  All the better preparation for psychological testing.

      Killashandra had always had mixed feelings about that sort of evaluation — so much might depend on one's frame of mind at that particular hour, day, and year.  She experienced her usual half hearted desire to give all the wrong answers, but this was coupled with the keen awareness of self-competition.  Too much depended on the exams.  She had no need to play any of the games she might have risked at other levels and times.  She could not, however, comprehend the purpose of some questions that had never been asked during any other evaluation session.  Of course, she'd never applied to the Heptite Guild before, so their criteria were bound to be different.  Nor had she under gone a computerized verbal address psych test before, which was generally conducted face to face with a human examiner.

      Toward the last few moments of the session, the speed of questioning increased to the point where she was actually sweating to produce answers to the displayed questions in an effort to keep up the pace.

      She could still feel her heart racing when the Guild man returned, this time bearing a tray with steaming food packs.

      "Your aptitude tests will be presented after you've eaten and rested.  You may request entertainment from the fax or sleep."  At his words, a contour couch appeared from a storage area.  "When you are ready, inform the computer and the final examination will begin."

      Killashandra was ravenous and found the nutritious meal delicious.  She sipped the hot beverage slowly and asked for soothing Optherian "balances" to clear her mind of the tensions caused by the last portion of the psych tests.

      In her previous evaluation sessions, the manner of the human attendants had often indicated the level of her performance — and she was accustomed to scoring high.  But the Guild tech had been so impersonal, she couldn't guess how she was doing.

      After she'd finished her meal, she elected to continue and signaled her readiness.  Whereupon she was tested for pitch, the severest evaluation of that faculty she'd ever endured, including estimates of vibrational errors and unnerving subliminal noises below 50 and above 18,000 cycles.  That recorded, the testing moved on to deceptively complete hand-eye coordination's that again left her drenched with sweat.  She was run through a series of depth perception exams and spatial relationships.  The latter had always been one of her strong points, but by the time the session was over, she was wrung out with fatigue and was shaking.

      Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but when the meditech returned, she fancied something of respect in his glance.

      "Killashandra Ree, since you have completed the first day's examinations up to standard, you are now the guest of the Guild.  We have taken the liberty of transferring your personal effects to more comfortable quarters in the Guild block.  If you will follow me .  .  ."

      Ordinarily, such an action, taken without her consent, would have constituted an invasion of privacy, but her energies were too depleted for her to summon up a protest.  She was led deeper into the Guild block, down three levels from the main and the only entrance, or exit, to the rest of Shankill Base.  Her easy penetration of the hallowed precinct amused rather than alarmed her.  There was really no need for her to be isolated from the rest of the base population after what were very standard examinations.  Except for the pain-threshold test, she had nothing to warn any other prospective applicant about.  Unsuccessful applicants would be more dangerous to the Guild because of their disappointment.  What happened to them, she wondered?  What, for instance, had become of the angry Carigana?  She'd be glad to be out of that one's vicinity in the event of her failure.  And where were Rimbol and that irritating, twitchy young man, that Shillawn something?

      How far into the Guild did she have to go to get this free room and board, she wondered, fatigue irritating her.  She desired nothing more than to stretch out and sleep.  She felt as drained as she had the night of the final student concert.  How long ago was that now?  In terms of distance or time?  She had no patience with her own conundrums.  How much farther now?

      The Guild man had paused at a door, which slid open.

      "If you'll put your print on file, you will find your belongings within.  At the end of this corridor is a common lounge, although you will also find catering facilities in your room.  Tomorrow you will be summoned for the final phase."

      A bleep from the man's wrist-unit curtailed any questions she might have asked; for he acknowledged the reminder, inclined his head politely to her and retraced his steps.

      She placed her thumb in the depression for the print lock and entered her new accommodation.  It was not only larger — spacious in comparison to the hostel room — it was also more luxuriously appointed.  A chair was drawn up to a small table, already set with a beaker of brew from the catering panel, which was lit.  Killashandra gratefully sampled the drink, noting that the menufax was set to fish selections.  She wondered just how much information the Guild had already had programmed about her since she had given her name, planet of origin, and rank.  Deliberately, she spun the display to other proteins and ordered what was described as a hearty casserole of assorted legumes and a light wine.

      She had just finished her meal when the door announced a visitor.  She hesitated a long moment, unable to imagine who would be calling; then the door added that the visitor's name was Rimbol, who required a word with her.  She pressed the door release.

      Rimbol leaned in, grinning.  "C'mon out for bit.  Just for a drink.  It's free."  Then he winked.  "Neither Carigana nor Shillawn are present.  Just some others who've already passed their prelims.  C'mon."

      The amusement in his wheedling voice was the deciding factor.  Killashandra knew herself well enough to realize that even if she tried to sleep, she'd only play back the tests and become so depressed over omissions and commissions that she'd never achieve a true rest.  A few drinks and a bit of relaxation in Rimbol's infectious company would do her much more good, especially if both Carigana and that nervous Shillawn were absent.

      She was a bit taken aback, however, when 'just some others' numbered twenty-nine.  Rimbol, sensing her surprise, grinned and gestured at the catering area.      "A brew's what you need.  This is Killashandra," he announced in a slightly raised voice to the room in general.  Her presence was acknowledged by slight nods or smiles or a brief hand gesture.  A certain degree of informal companionship was already enjoyed by the others.  The group, involved in some sort of four-player card game, didn't even look up as she and Rimbol collected their drinks.

      "You make thirty, you know," Rimbol said as he guided her to a seat on the one unoccupied lounger.  "Shillawn and Carigana thirty-two, and there's supposed to be one more going through prelim today.  If that's a pass, it means we'll all go down to Ballybran tomorrow."

      "That is, if no one gets scared after disclosure," said a girl who wandered over to join them.  "I'm Jezerey, late of Salonika in the Antares group."

      "I didn't think they canceled after disclosure," Rimbol said, frowning in surprise.

      "You may well be right, but I do know that thirty is the smallest group they'll train," Jezerey went on, settling herself on the couch with a long sigh.  "I've been waiting seven weeks standard."  She sounded disgusted.  "But Borton" — and she gestured toward the card players — "has been here nine.  He'd just missed a class.  Nothing will make him decline.  I'm not so sure about one or two of the others and we've got a few to spare.  Rimbol says that nothing would unpersuade that Carigana, and from the look on her face when old Crookback brought her in, I'm as glad she decided she didn't like us either and stayed in her room.  Space workers are odd lots, but she's — she's — "

      "She's just intense," Rimbol noted when Jezerey faltered.  "I don't think she trusts space stations any more than spaceships.  She was tranked to her brows on the trip here.  Shillawn" — and Rimbol favored Killashandra with a wry expression — "was knackered out of his bones, so I invaded Privacy and put a knockout in his brew.  Got him to bed."

      "Why would someone like him want to be a Crystal Singer?"  Killashandra asked.

      "Why do any of us?"  Rimbol answered, amused.

      "All right, why would you?"  Killashandra fired the question right back at him.

      "Wasn't allowed to continue as an instrumentalist.  Not enough openings on my mudball for a string player.  Crystal singing's the next best thing."

      Killashandra nodded, looking to Jezerey.

      "Curiously enough," the girl said with a bemused expression, "I was redundant in my profession, too.  Limb replacement therapist.  And the Dear knows there're enough accidents on Salonika."  She wrinkled her nose and then caught the puzzled expressions of Rimbol and Killashandra.  "Mining world, asteroid belts around us and the next planet out.  Next to mining, you might say replacement was our biggest industry."

      "Space workers aren't apt to be redundant, either," Killashandra commented, looking at Rimbol.

      "Carigana wasn't.  Psyched out when her safety cable snapped — I get the impression she was deep-spaced a long time before they found her.  She didn't say" — and Rimbol emphasized the last word — "but she's probably unstable for such employment."

      Jezerey nodded sympathetically.

      "Shillawn?"  Killashandra asked.

      "Told me he was a chemotech," Rimbol replied.  "His project was finished up, and he was given an assignment he didn't like.  Underground.  He's a touch claustro!  I think that's what makes him so nervous.

      "And we all have perfect pitch," Killashandra said more to herself than the others because the phrases Maestro Valdi had spat accusingly, particularly the one about a 'silicate spider,' came appropriately to mind.  She dismissed the niggling suspicion as invalid.

      An explosive curse burst from one of the card players, and his earnest request for arbitration from any and all in the room interrupted their private conversation.

      Although Killashandra took no part in the intense discussion that followed, she deemed it good sense to lend her presence to a group with whom she might be spending considerable time.  She also saw them as a group with no other common factor — aside from the invisible prerequisite of perfect pitch — than age.  All seemed to be within their third decade; most apparently just finished with tertiary education, no two from the same system or planet.

      Killashandra remained on the fringes of the good humored but volatile game discussion until she had finished another glass of the very good brew.  Then she quietly retired, wondering as she prepared for sleep just how thirty plus people from so many different planets had all heard of the Crystal Singers.

      She had just finished her morning meal when a soft, deep chime brought her attention to the screen.  She was requested to go to the lounge room.

      "You sneaked away nice and early," a cheerful tenor said behind her.  She turned to find Rimbol approaching, the awkward figure of Shillawn just behind him.  "Missed the fun, you did."

      "Who won the argument?" she asked after a courteous nod to Shillawn.

      "No one and everyone.  It was the arguing that was fun!"  The red-headed lad grinned.

      They had reached the lounge by then, and from the other corridors the rest of the successful filed, some re-forming the groups she'd noticed the previous evening.  Only Carigana seemed apart; she sat on the back of one of the loungers glowering at everyone.  Something about the angry girl was familiar to Killashandra, but she couldn't place what.

      Just then, from the fourth entrance, limped a tall woman holding the left side of her long gown slightly away from her thigh.  Her gaze swiftly scanned the room, counting, Killashandra thought, and made her own tally.  Thirty-three.  Out of what gross number of applicants, she wondered again, over the nine weeks Jezerey had said Borton had waited?

      "I am Borella Seal," the woman announced in the clear, rich voice of a trained contralto.  Killashandra regarded her with closer interest.  "I am a miner of crystal, a Crystal Singer.  Since I am recovering from an injury sustained in the ranges, I have been asked to disclose to you the dangers of this profession."  She pulled aside the long gown and revealed wounds so ugly and vividly contused that several people recoiled.  As if this was the very reaction she had wanted, Borella smiled slightly.  "I will expose the wound again for a specific purpose other than arousing nausea or sympathy.  Take a good look now."

      Shillawn's elbow nudged Killashandra, and she was about to give him a severe reprimand for such a private insult when she realized he was drawing her attention to Carigana.  The girl was the only one who approached Borella Seal and bent for the close inspection of the long gashes scoring the upper leg.

      They appear to be healing properly, though you ought to have had them bonded.  How'd you get 'em?"  Carigana was clinically impersonal.

      "Two days ago I slipped on crystal shale and fell fifteen meters down an old worked face."

      "Two days?"  Anger colored Carigana's voice.  "I don't believe you.  I've seen enough lacerations to know ones as deep as these don't heal that much in two days.  Why the color of the bruising and the state of the tissue already healed show you were injured weeks ago."

      "Two days.  Singers heal quickly."

      "Not that quick."  Carigana would have said more, but Borella Seal gestured dismissal and turned to the others.

      "By order of the Federated Sentient Planets, full disclosure of the dangers peculiar to and inherent in this profession must be revealed to all applicants who have satisfactorily completed the initial examinations."  She accorded them a slight nod of approval.  "However, as is also permissible by FSP law, professional — problems — may be protected by erasure.  Those to whom this practice is unacceptable may withdraw."

      "How much is erased?"  Carigana asked.

      "Precisely one hour and twenty minutes, replaced by a recollection of over sleeping and a leisurely breakfast."

      "On record."

      "If requested, the Guild supplies the information that a minor but inadmissible physical defect has been discovered.  Few question the Heptite Guild."  For some reason Killashandra thought that fact amused Borella.  Carigana's frown had deepened.  "Any objectors?"  Borella asked, looking straight at the space worker.

      When no other voice was raised, she asked them to file before the screen she then activated, giving their name and stating their willingness to comply with erasure.  The process didn't take long, but Killashandra felt that she had taken an irrevocable step as her acceptance was officially and indisputably recorded.

      Borella then led them down a short hall to a door, Carigana the first to follow.  Her gasp and half halt as she passed the entrance forewarned the others but in no way prepared anyone for the display in that short corridor.  On either side were bodies in clear fluid — all but one glinted as if coated with a silicon.  The planes of the faces looked rock hard; limbs, fingers, and toes were extended as if solidified, and not by the rigor of death.  The crystalline sheen couldn't be some trick of the light, Killashandra thought, for her own skin showed no change.  What roiled her stomach were the facial expressions:  three looked as if death had over taken them in a state of insanity; two appeared mildly surprised, and the sixth angry, her hands raised toward some object she had been trying to grasp.  The last was the most grisly:  a charred body forever in the position of a runner, consumed by a conflagration that had melted flesh from bone.

      "This is what happens to the unprotected on Ballybran.  It could also happen to you, though every effort is made to reduce such risks to a minimum.  If you wish to retire now, you are completely at liberty to do so.'

      "External danger does not constitute a Code 4 classification," Carigana said, her tone accusatory.

      "No, it doesn't.  But these are representative of two of the dangers of Ballybran which the Heptite Guild is required by Federated Sentient Planets to reveal to you."

      "Is that the worst that can happen?"  Carigana asked scornfully.

      "Isn't being dead enough?" someone asked from the group.

      "Dead's dead — crystal, char, or carrion," Carigana replied, shrugging her shoulders, her tone so subtly offensive that Killashandra was not the only one who frowned with irritation.

      "Yes, but it is the manner of dying that can be the worst," said Borella in such a thoughtful way that she had everyone's attention.  She accorded them the slightest smile.  "Follow me."

      The grim corridor opened on to a small semicircular lecture hall.  Borella proceeded to a small raised platform, gesturing for the group to take the seats, which would have accommodated three times their number.  As she turned to face them, a large hologram lit behind her, a view of the Scorian system, homing quickly on Ballybran and its three moons.  The planet and its satellites moved with sufficient velocity to demonstrate the peculiar Passover of the moons, when all three briefly synchronized orbits — a synchronization that evidently took place over different parts of the parent world.

      "The crystallization displayed in the corridor is the most prevalent danger on Ballybran.  It occurs when the spore symbiont, a carbon silicate occurring in an unorthodox environment peculiar to Ballybran, does not form a proper bridge between our own carbon-based biological system and the silicon-based ecology of this planet.  Such a bridge is essential for working on Ballybran.  If the human host adapts properly to the spore symbiont, and I assure you it is not the other way round, the human experiences a significant improvement in visual acuity, tactile perceptions, nerve conduction, and cellular adaptation.  The first adaptations are of immense importance to those who become miners of crystal, the Crystal Singers.  Yes, Carigana?"

      "What part of the body does the symbiont invade?  Is it crystalline or biological?"

      "Neither, and the symbiont invades cellular nuclei in successful adaptations — "

      "What happens to the unsuccessful ones?"

      "I shall discuss that shortly if you will be patient.  As part of the cell nucleus, the symbiont affects the DNA/RNA pattern of the body, extending the life span considerably.  The rumor that Crystal Singers are immortal is exaggerated, but functional longevity is definitely increased by fifty or more decades beyond actuarial norms.  The adaptation provides an immunization to ordinary biological disease, enormously increasing the recuperative ability.  Broken bones and wounds such as mine are, I warn you, part of the daily world of a Crystal Singer.  Tolerance to extremes of heat and cold are also increased."

      And pain, no doubt, Killashandra thought, remembering not only the test but Borella's lack of discomfort with her deep wounds.

      Behind the Singer, the holograms were now views of Ballybran's rugged terrain, quickly replaced by a time lapse over view from one of the moons, so that the planet's twelve continents were visible in seconds.

      "On the negative side, once acclimated to Ballybran and adapted to the symbiont, the Singer is irreversibly sterile.  The genetic code is altered by the intrusion of the symbiont into the nuclei, and those parts of the DNA spiral dealing with heredity and propagation are chemically altered, increasing personal survival traits as opposed to racial survival — a chemical alteration of instinct, if you will."

      Carigana gave a pleased sound like a feline expression of enjoyment.

      "The other, and basically the most important negative factor, is that a Singer can not remain too long away from Ballybran's peculiar ecology.  The symbiont must recharge itself from its native place.  Its death means the death of the host — a rather unpleasant one, for death from extreme old age occurs within a period inversely related to the host's elapsed life span."

      "How long can a Singer stay away from Ballybran without ill effect?"  Killashandra asked, thinking of Carrik and his reluctance to return.

      "Depending on the strength of the initial adaptation, and that varies, for periods of up to four hundred days.  A Singer is not required to be absent for longer than two hundred days on assignment off-planet.  Two hundred and fifty days is suitable for leisure.  Sufficient, I assure you, for most purposes."

      Killashandra, seated behind the space worker, saw Carigana draw breath for another question, but Borella had changed the hologram to show a human writhing in the grip of a shaking fever, all too reminiscent of the hypothermia that had affected Carrik.  The man was seized by massive convulsions.  As the focus tightened first to his hands, then his chest and face, he aged from an athletic person in his third, possibly fourth decade, to a wrinkled and dehydrated, hairless, shrunken corpse in the time it took viewers to gasp.

      "He was one of the first Singers to make a successful symbiotic adaptation.  He died, regrettably, at Weasust while setting up the black quartz relay station for that sector of the FSP.  It was the first time a Singer had been absent for a prolonged period, but that particular danger had not yet been recognized."

      "Did you know him?"  Shillawn asked with a perception that surprised Killashandra, for she had wondered the same thing.

      "Yes, I did.  He trained me in the field," Borella replied, dispassionately.

      Killashandra made some mental calculations and regarded the flawless complexion and erect figure of their mentor with surprise.

      "Is that Milekey man still alive?"  Carigana asked.

      "No.  He died during a major fault in the range which bears his name."

      "I thought this symbiont kept you from broken bones and wounds?"

      The symbiont provides increased recuperative ability but cannot replace a severed head on a body whose wounds have resulted in complete blood loss.  For less drastic injuries and she pulled the gown aside from her left leg.

      Rimbol's soft whistle of astonishment summed up Killashandra's amazement, too.  They had all seen the purple bruising and lacerations:  now the contusions were faintly yellow splotches, and the wounds were visibly closing.

      "What about those for whom the symbiont doesn't work?" asked the undaunted Carigana.

      "The main purpose of the intensive physical examination was to evaluate rejection and blood factors, tissue health, and chromosome patterns against those of the known successful adaptations."  A graph appeared on the screen, the line indicating success rising triumphantly over the past three decades where it had hovered in minor peaks over a span of three hundred or more years.  "Your tests indicate no undesirable factors evaluated against records now dating back over three hundred twenty-seven standard years.  You all have as good a chance as possible of achieving complete acceptance by the symbiont — "  "The odds are five to one against."

      Killashandra wondered if Carigana gave even the time of day in that same hostile tone.

      "No longer," Borella replied, and a light appeared on the upward swing of the graph line.  "It's now better than one out of three.  There are still factors not yet computed which cause only partial adaptation.  I am compelled by FSP law to emphasize that."

      "And then?"

      "That person obviously becomes one of the 20,007 technicians," Shillawn said.

      "I asked her."  Carigana gave Shillawn a scathing glance.

      "The young man is, however, right."

      "And technicians never leave Ballybran."  Carigana's glance slid from Borella to Shillawn, and it was obvious what her assessment of Shillawn's chances were.

      "Not without severe risk of further impairment.  The facilities on Ballybran, however, are as complete as — "

      "Except you can't ever leave."

      "As you are not yet there," Borella continued imperturbably, though Killashandra had the notion the Singer enjoyed sparring with the space worker, "the problem is academic and can remain so."  She turned to the others.  "As I was about to point out, the odds have been reduced to three out of five.  And improving constantly.  The last class produced thirty-three Singers from thirty-five candidates.

      "Besides the problem of symbiont adaptation required for existence on Ballybran, there is an additional danger, of the more conventional type."  She went on less briskly, allowing her comments on the odds to be absorbed.  "Ballybran's weather."  The screen erupted into scenes of seas lashed into titanic waves, landscapes where ground cover had been pulped.  "Each of the three moons contains weather stations, and sixteen permanent satellites scan the surface constantly.

      "Scoria, our primary, has a high incidence of sun-spot activity."  A view of the sun in eclipse supported that statement as flares leaped dramatically from behind the eclipsing moon's disk.  A second occluded view showed the primary's dark blotches.  "This high activity, plus the frequent conjunction of the moons' orbits, a triple conjunction being the most dangerous obviously, ensure that Ballybran has interesting weather."

      A bark of laughter for such understatement briefly interrupted Borella, but her patient smile suggested that the reaction was expected.  Then the screen showed breath taking conjunction of the moons' orbits.

      "When the meteorological situation becomes unstable, even in terms of Ballybran's norms, the planet is subjected to storms which have rated the euphemism, mach storm.  As the crystal ranges of Ballybran extend downward rather than up," — the screen obediently provided a view from a surface vehicle traversing the down ranges at speed — "one might assume that one need only descend far enough below the planet's surface to avoid the full brunt of wind and weather.  A fatal assumption.  The ranges constitute the worst danger."  The view changed to a rapid series of photographs of people, their expressions ranging from passive imbecility to wild-eyed violence.  "The winds of the mach storm stroke the crystal to such sonic violence that a human, even one perfectly adapted to his symbiont, can be driven insane by sound.

      "The vehicles provided by the Guild for Singers' use have every known warning device, although the most effective one is lodged in the bodies of the Singers themselves; the symbiont, which is more sensitive to the meteorological changes than any instrument man can create.  Sometimes the human element over comes the keen senses of the symbiont, and a Singer is impervious to warnings.

      "Such injury is the main reason for the tithe levied by the Guild on the active members.  You may be certain of the best possible care should such an accident befall you."

      "You said the symbiont increased recuperative ability for structural damage." the irrepressible Carigana began.

      "A broken mind is scarcely a physiological problem.  Within its scope, the symbiont is a powerful protector.  It is not in itself sentient, so though it could restore damaged brain tissue, it cannot affect what man chooses to designate 'soul'."

      Somehow Borella's tone managed to convey the notion that Carigana might not possess that commodity.  Killashandra was not the only one to catch that nuance, which apparently eluded its intended target.

      "How was the symbiont first discovered?"  Killashandra asked, determined that Carigana was not going to dominate the session.

      "By the first prospector, Milekey.  He made a successful adaptation with the spore, considering the transition illness to be only some irritating infection."

      "He wasn't the only one on that mission, according to the fax," Shillawn said.

      "No, he wasn't, though the deaths of the other members of his geology team were not at first linked to Ballybran.  Milekey made several excursions into the ranges to examine crystal faces and cut new types for evaluation.  He also helped develop the first effective cutter.  His personal tapes indicate that he felt a strong compulsion to return to Ballybran frequently, but, at the time, it was thought that this was merely due to his interest in the crystal and the increasing uses to which it could be put.  He also did not connect his ability to avoid the storms to the presence of the symbiont.

      "This aspect was discovered when the transition disease struck Cutter after Cutter, leaving crystallized bodies similar to those in the hall."

      "There's one that was charred," Rimbol said, swallowing against nausea.

      "And that is the third danger of Ballybran.  Fortunately not as prevalent these days since common sense and education in the use of equipment decrease the probability.  The crystal ranges can build up localized high-voltage and sonic charges near which ordinary communits do not operate properly, nor do other types of electrical equipment, some of which are necessary to the operation of sleds and conveniences.  Fireballs can occur.  And, despite all the precautions, a Singer can be volatilized.  It is a danger we must mention."

      "You say that those who do not make a good adaptation to the symbiont specialize in technical work — but what constitutes a poor adaptation?"  Jezerey asked, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

      "Some impairment of one or more of the normal physical senses.  But this is often coupled with an extension to the other senses not impaired."

      "What senses?"  Shillawn asked, his thin throat muscles working as if he had trouble getting the words out.

      "Generally hearing is impaired."  Borella gave a slight smile.  "That's considered a blessing.  No shielding has ever been invented to silence the full fury of a mach storm.  Often eyesight increases into the ultraviolet or infrared spectra, with an ability in some to sense magnetic fields.  Increased tactile sensitivity has enabled artistically inclined Guildsmen to produce some of the most treasured art of modern times.  There is, however, no way of predicting what form the impairment will take, nor what compensation will be effected."

      "Have you pretty pictures of the victims?"

      "The handicaps are rarely visible, Carigana."

      "The handicap plus sterility plus immolation on a storm lashed planet in exchange for a greatly increased life span?  That constitutes the Code 4?"

      "It does.  You have thus been duly informed of the risks and the permanent alteration to your chemistry and physical abilities.  Any further pertinent questions?"

      "Yes.  If you say there are more Singers these days, how does that affect individual profit with so many cutting in the ranges?" asked Carigana.

      "It doesn't," Borella replied, "not with the expanding galactic need for the communications link provided only by black quartz from Ballybran, not when Singers are capable, quick and cautious; not when there are people, like yourself, motivated to succeed in joining our select band."

      Attuned as her ear was to nuances in vocal tone, Killashandra did not quite perceive how Borella could deliver such a scathing reprimand with no variation in the pitch or timbre of her voice.  Yet a sudden flush of humiliation colored Carigana's space-tan skin.

      "How often are there injuries like yours?" a girl asked from the back of the theater.

      "Frequently," Borella replied with cheerful unconcern.  "But I'll be back in the ranges" — Killashandra caught the note of longing, for it was the first time emotion had shown in the Singer's contained voice "in a day or two."

      "Singing crystal is worth such risks, then?"  Killashandra heard herself ask.

      Borella's eyes sought hers and held them as a slow smile crossed her lips.

      "Yes, singing crystal is worth any risk."  The force of that quiet statement caused a silence.  "I shall leave you to discuss the matter among yourselves.  When you have made your decision, just follow me."  She moved toward the door at the side of the platform.  It opened and closed with a soft whoosh behind her.

      Killashandra looked over at Shillawn and Rimbol, noticed that the others were seeking emotional support from their nearest neighbors.  Carigana, deep in a sullen mood, was pointedly ignored.  Killashandra rose to her feet with an energy that attracted all eyes.

      "I made up my mind before I ever arrived," she said.  "And I don't scare easily, anyhow!"

      She strode down the steps toward the exit, hearing the movement of others behind her, though she didn't turn her head.  A curious elation, tinged with apprehension and a certain fearfulness, seized her as she passed the portal.  Then it was too late.

      Killashandra wasn't sure what she had expected to find on the other side of the door panel.  She half thought Borella might be present to see how many had not been deterred.  Instead, she was surprised to find uniformed members of the FSP Civil Service, their faces and attitudes as grave as if they were at a disintegration or interment.  The senior officer motioned her to follow the first person in line, a male who, in turn, gestured Killashandra toward another of the cubicles that seemed to infest all levels of the moon base.  Behind her, she heard the surprised intake of breath of whichever candidate had directly followed her.

      A slab table and two chairs occupied the small room.  She moved toward one seat, but the officer's gesture stopped her.