Crystal Line

Donalla and Presnol ran Killashandra through a gamut of tests, sampling her bodily juices and wiring her up to all kinds of monitors that provided reams of printout.

"All of which only tells us that you're in great physical shape . . ."

"For a gal my age," Killa added, preening in front of the mirror. She had been allowed to dress again and was hoping they would think of feeding her some time soon.

"Ah, yes," Donalla responded, needing to clear her throat.

Killashandra laughed. "Whatever zapped me seems to have burned off the outlived dross and stupidities any human collects along the way. I don't mind being two hundred and fifteen years old. In fact, it's fun, in a bizarre fashion. How's my symbiont, by the way? I'm keenly interested in its continued functioning."

"Oh, that." Presnol flicked his fingers dismissively. "It's as vigorous as mine or Donalla's and we're both much much younger than you."

"I," Killashandra said quellingly, "may make comments, and even jokes, about my antiquity, Presnol, but"—she waggled her finger at them—"no one else can. Read me?"

Presnol looked properly subdued, but Donalla had to cover her mouth to suppress her laughter. Killashandra focused all her attention on the medic.

"And you, you ingrate," she added sternly, "had better watch your step, too! Imagine! Not showing proper respect to a legend of your planet! Who is exceedingly hungry right now. And I don't care if you need to make more tests. I'm eating first."

"We'll join you."

There were as few diners in the big room as there had been on her last appearance there, Killa noted. "How many singers are actually active?" she asked Donalla, vividly remembering this room packed so many years before.

"Four hundred and forty-two," Donalla said sadly.

"Ouch! That's ridiculous." Killashandra was stu

"Three hundred and five."

"How many inactives?"

Presnol made a face. "Three hundred and seventy five."

Killa could not recall the appropriate total of that category, but then, she hadn't been interested in the figures. In any event the number was depressing.

"Seventy-four," Donalla said with a sigh. "Rimbol passed on this morning. I haven't had a chance to mention it."

"Rimbol!" Killa's throat closed over after she spoke his name. She swallowed and felt tears forming in her eyes. She hadn't cried in—no, that she couldn't bring to mind. She ducked her head and struggled to get control of herself. A beaker of Yarran beer was pushed into her line of sight. She picked it up, nodding her appreciation to Presnol, and held it aloft. "To Rimbol, a gay lad with a kind heart and a fine tenor voice." Then she drowned the beer in one draught.

She looked around her then, to see if she could put names to the handful of singers dining. She recognized two: they had been in the batch of twenty that Lars had recalled to cut black crystal. The tall thin fellow with the long jaw was Marichandim. But search as she did, she could not dredge up a name for the blond woman.

"D'you know her name, Donalla?"

Donalla craned her head over her shoulder. "The one with Marichandim? That's Siglinda. They've done quite well cutting from coordinates."

"How many have joined in that program?"

"Of the active singers, only twelve." Donalla shook her head, and Presnol looked solemn. "The others won't even listen. They run if you try to approach them. They're too far gone in their sublimations."

"Well," Killashandra said, rising, "I think I want to go over the Orientation program. If it's the same as I had under Tukolom, I think we'd better overhaul the whole thing. That's where the trouble started. Whatever singers Lars brings back are going to learn more than Rules and Regs!"

It was strange to be in this office, Killashandra thought as she entered the Guild Master's quarters. Trag's desk was clear, empty, waiting. Waiting for her, she decided with a wry grin, even if she had done her damnedest to delay the inevitable.

Lars's desk was neat, with pencil files set in four platoons across the broad surface. One group had the notation "Orient. Revis." And she smiled. She should have known he would consider that vitally important. She peered at the other notations: "Coords", and there were nine files in that group; "Recruit" had seven; "R&D" was the sparsest with only three.

There were several scrawled notes that she couldn't decipher stuck to one side, near his comunit, and a hologram base. She flicked it on and was gratified to see herself—a shot taken while they were on Nihal III—and then she noticed that the unit, which could hold a hundred 'grams, was full. She flicked the change switch and there she was again, in the orange wet suit he had bought her for Flag, where he had seen the prototype of Angel II. She joggled the switch again and again, pausing only long enough to identify where the 'gram had been taken. She turned the holo off and, hauling the chair firmly under her, resolutely turned to the big monitor and called up the Guild Roster. She had a lot of work to do before Lars got back.

As she had discovered once before on her single foray into administrative work for Lanzecki—she must remember to find out what happened to that dorkish Bollam, she reminded herself—she enjoyed rooting among the files and collating information.

The Guild's operating costs, of which the Infirmary was now requiring an increasingly larger share, came from tithing every singer's cut, a bone of contention between singer and Sorter. Other costs, which the singer bore for sled, fuel, equipment, living accommodations, and food, were presented at market rate. That sank her notion that the Guild took a cut from the supplies, jacking the prices up periodically. The files proved that there was no markup whatever, merely a gradual increase in wholesale costs throughout the inhabited galaxy. There had been an increase of farming on Ballybran and, to give the Guild fair credit, they paid above the average market price for foods produced on Guild lands.

There were, however, far fewer active singers to produce any tithes for the Guild and more inactive ones—some of those in a vegetable state—who had to be supported by an ever-dwindling income. Fewer cutters in the field meant less crystal to offer, and Killashandra came across orders three and four years old that were waiting to be filled. Black crystal figured largely in these back-orders but all the dark crystals were needed.

Before she could be totally depressed by the outlook, she saw a remarkable upswing over the past few months—since Lars had thrown open unused claims. Her cuts were significant in that revival though both Tiagana and Jaygrin had brought in more. To comfort herself, she reviewed the total of one hundred and ninety-five years of cutting and compared it with the records of any other singer. She was tons ahead of the two younger singers.

She then reviewed Lars's notes on Orientation. They showed the continued emphasis on note-taking after every Range trip and on the return from off-planet jaunts: he pla

Lars also had notes on how to modernize the various departments of the Guild, what new technology there was to replace worn machines and at what cost; and many notes on how to capitalize on the talents of the support staff with appropriate bonuses. Most of these possibilities would have to wait on a continued upward turn of filled orders.