Crystal Line

He had taken the trouble to investigate the alternatives used by people weary of waiting for the Guild to supply crystal. Advantage one to the Guild: Ballybran crystal had a longer work life and, if damaged, did not need to be jettisoned but could be retuned and used in other installations. Its competitors could not be recycled. Some of the original shafts of Ballybran crystal, cut by Barry Milekey, for whom the Milekey Range was named, were still in use after eight hundred years.

"What we need is an advertising campaign, too," she murmured, and tried to think—without much success—of interesting slogans. Ballybran crystal hadn't needed hype: it sold itself. So long as the supply met demand.

"Well, there is an improvement," she told herself, leaning back in the conformchair and stretching. "We'll build on it."

The lights had come up when the sensors registered a diminution in available illumination. She swiveled the chair and noted that night had fallen—Shanganagh and Shankill were chasing each other across the sky, but they were soon to be occluded by the clouds billowing in from the west. She turned the chair enough to see the weatherline blinking on its strip across the top of the room. Barometer was dropping, and the isobars were tight with gale-force winds. Storm warnings had been broadcast. She altered the monitor to pick up the Hangar scan and saw the blips of forty or so sleds homing in.

Good! She would have a chance to speak to some of the less productive singers. She accessed the program that would identify returning craft and asked for details of each singer as they came in. She would approach them with facts and figures: the productive time charts on those working from coordinates, and the credit they raked in. Something that appealed to any singer was how to make enough credit quickly enough to get off-planet for as long as possible. Only "as long as possible" was going to be curtailed to "as long as necessary" until the Guild had returned to its once prestigious position.

Somewhat to Killashandra's surprise, she was received with a good deal of awe by the first group of singers she approached. She had quickly sca

She marked her victims as she sat, drinking with them: the ones who didn't have enough credit to go anywhere interesting. She'd been to a staggering number of R&R and vacation planets in nearly two centuries, so she was able to spin tales to make them yearn to visit such fabulous places. It didn't take her long to interest this group, eighteen in all, in using a surefire way to achieve their ends.

The insistent buzz of the comunit roused her from a deep, dreamless sleep. Once she heard it, she also recognized the emergency code and floundered with her blankets to roll to the control panel at the edge of the sleep panel.

"Killashandra!" The caller was Flicken, his face stark with grief. "Oh, how can I tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"The B-and-B courier—it's sent out a Mayday."

"A B-and-B courier . . ." She stopped, gasping. Lars had been on a courier ship. "Lars?"

Flicken nodded slowly, his chin quivering and his mouth working. "Just came in."

"How? What? Couriers are . . ."

"Singularity trouble!" Flicken gasped out again. "That's all I know. All I can find out. Mayday and a Jump disaster tag."

"Where?"

He shook his head more vigorously, but there were tears falling down his cheeks and he couldn't control the trembling of his mouth.

"Keep me informed," she said, amazed that she could sound so calm, that she wasn't raging at how abruptly her life had been shattered once again. She palmed the lights up and sat there a long, long time, her mind going in tight circles. B&B ships were very sophisticated vessels. Courier ships were the best of the B&Bs. Both brains and brawns could be expected to function under the most adverse conditions and survive against incredible odds. Singularity Jump disasters were few, but they could happen. Brendan had mentioned, in passing, that, while he was equipped to handle thousands of minute calculations during a Jump, he had several back-up, worst-scenario corrective capabilities. Furthermore, and she began to revive from the shocking news, every B&B ship, every naval vessel, every liner, every tanker, freighter, private yacht anywhere in the sector where the courier ship had been lost would be looking for it. If a Singularity disaster had to happen to a ship, then a courier B&B was the most likely one to survive.

She forced her mind to hang on to that thought and found something to wear. She went to the Guild Master's office and palmed up all the lights. She sat down in the conformchair, brought up the comsystem, and accessed Shanganagh Port Authority.

"Deputy Guild Master Ree, here," she said in an even tone, "keep me informed on any developments of the—"

"Yes, of course, Deputy Ree. We've initiated emergency proceedings and requested all naval, mercantile and private spaceships to forward all messages."

"By crystal coms, I trust," she said, mildly surprised that she could be droll at a time like this. A time like this was when a bit of drollery kept you sane, she amended.

"Yes, yes, of course, Deputy. The blacks we have here will pick up whispers in the furthest sectors of inhabited space."

"I think we'll have to find crystal that operates in Singularity space."

"Nothing works in decomposition space, Deputy."

She wondered if Jewel Junk would.

"We'll keep you informed, Deputy."

Deputy! Had she the right to use that title? Well, why not? Lars had appointed her, hadn't he? She was a better deputy than Presnol would be. She was a singer, a sometime diplomat, spy . . . she gri

She sat there, looking at the holo, remembering all that had happened before and after it had been taken. She jumped when someone rapped at the door.

"I've only just been informed, Killa," Donalla said. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, there is," Killashandra said, adopting a brisk tone. She had idled away enough time in private meditations. "Would you dial me some breakfast? I haven't had time with so much to put in motion."

"Put in motion?" Donalla stared at her.

"Yes, I must implement the plans Lars made." She gestured at the neat piles of pencil files. "It'll take my mind off the waiting."

"Oh! Then you think there's hope that—"

"There's always hope, Donalla, but I think Lars would prefer it if I didn't sit about moping like a fool, don't you?"

She had her breakfast and then arranged appointments with the Hangar-bound singers she had talked to the previous evening. Since everyone was dazed by the news that had swept through the Cube, she obtained more agreement than argument and sent seventeen of the eighteen off with three sets of coordinates each and a mission to cut where possible—for some claims were likely to be unworkable—and return as soon as they'd at least a carton of back-ordered colors. She didn't want to see a single shaft of pink or any of the pale blues and greens. Darks, and blacks whenever possible.

She managed to bury herself so deeply in revitalizing the Orientation program that she was astonished to hear multiple sleds leaving the Hangar: she had worked through the night! She allowed herself four hours' sleep and then was back at the desk, going back over Guild affairs of the past decade.