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 rampway 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-leaved 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 artform, 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 crystalline 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. Broad-leafed 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 overprogrammed and stubborn student hall catering uni
ts, 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 rescheduled. 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 calling 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 liftoff. 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 m
otivated 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 floor—“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 display 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.
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