Crystal Singer

The next morning, she reflected during her shower and notably hearty breakfast on Lanzecki's extraordinary attentions to her, sensual as well as Guild. She could see why Lanzecki, as Guild Master, would exploit her eagerness to get into the ranges and secure Keborgen's priceless claim. She'd succeeded. Now, in an inexplicable reverse, Lanzecki wanted her off-planet. Well, she could decide this morning when she watched the weather history, whether that was the man or the Guild Master talking. She rather hoped it was the former, for she did like Lanzecki the man and admired the Guild Master more than any man she had so far encountered.

What had he meant when he said she was unpredicted? Had that been flattery? The Guild Master indulging a whimsy? Not after he had assisted her in getting out into the ranges; not after she had successfully cut black crystal? Especially, not after Lanzecki had very forcefully defined to her in the Sorting Room the difference between the man and the Guild Master.

She winced at the memory. She had deserved that reprimand. She could also accept his solicitousness for her health and well-being. He wanted more black crystal – if that was his motive. All right, Killashandra Ree, she told herself firmly, no section or paragraph of the Charter of the Heptite Guild requires the Master to explain himself to a member. Her ten years at Fuerte Music Center had taught Killashandra that no one ever does a favor without expecting a return. Lanzecki had also underscored self-preservation and self-interest with every object lesson that was presented.

She didn't really want to leave Ballybran, though it was probably true that she could use the credit margin of an off world assignment. She looked up the payment scale: the credit offered was substantial. Perhaps it would be better to take the assignment. But that would mean leaving Lanzecki, too. She stared grimly at her reflection in the mirror as she dressed. Departing for that reason might also be wise. Only she'd better mend her fences with Rimbol.

Grateful that she would not have the additional expense of replacing the cutter or facing the Fisher with that request, she brought the device up to Engineering and Training. As she entered the small outer office, she saw two familiar figures.

“I'm not going to be caught here again during Passover,” Borella was saying to the Singer Killashandra remembered from the shuttle.

“Doing your bit again on recruits, Borella?” the man asked, negligently shoving his cutter across the counter and ignoring the technician's sour exclamation.

“Recruits?” Borella stared blankly.

«Remember, dear» – and the man's voice rippled with mockery – «occasionally, you pass the time briefing the young hopefuls at Shankill station.»

“Of course, I remember,” Borella said irritably. “I can do better than that this time, Olin,” she went on smugly. “I cut greens in octave groups. Five of them. Enough for an Optherian organ. Small one, of course, but you know that that addiction will last a while.”

“I'm rather well off, too, as it happens.” Olin spoke over her last sentence.

Borella murmured something reassuring to him as she handed over her cutter to the technician, but showed a shade more concern for the device. Then she linked her arm through Olin's. As they turned to leave, Killashandra nodded politely to Borella, but the woman, giving Killashandra's cutter a hard stare, walked past with no more sign of recognition than tightening her clasp on Olin's forearm.

“Of course, there are those unfortunate enough to have to stay here.” Her drawl insinuated that Killashandra would be of that number. “Have you seen Lanzecki lately, Olin?” she asked as they left the room.

For a moment, Killashandra was stu

“Are you turning that cutter in or wealing it?” A sour voice broke through her resentment.

“Turning it in.” She handed the cutter to the Fisher carefully, wishing she didn't have to encounter him as well.

“Killashandra Ree? Right?” He wasn't looking at her but inspecting the cutter. “You can't have used this much,” and he peered suspiciously at handle and blade casing. “Where'd you damage it?”

"I didn't. I'm turning it in.

The Fisher was more daunting than Borella and her rudeness.

“You could have left it in your sled, you know,” he said, his tone not quite so acerbic now that he had assured himself that one of his newest cutters had not been misused. “No one else can use it, you know,” he added, obviously making allowance for her ignorance.

She was not about to admit to anyone that she had lost the sled.

“I'm going off-planet for Passover,” she said and belatedly realized that he had no such option.

“Go while you can, when you can,” he said gruffly but not unkindly. Then he turned and disappeared into his workroom.

As she made her way back to the lift, Killashandra supposed she ought to be relieved that someone remembered her. Possibly the Fisher was able to associate her with a device he had so recently crafted. Or perhaps it was common knowledge through the Guild that Lanzecki had berated a new Singer.

She shouldn't let the encounter with Borella rankle her. The woman had inadvertently confirmed Lanzecki's advice. Furthermore, if Moksoon could not remember Killashandra from moment to moment, how could she fault Borella? How long did it take for a Singer's memory to disintegrate? Killashandra must learn to overcome habits and values acquired on Fuerte in the Music Center. There one sought to put people under obligation so they could be called in as support for this role or that rehearsal room, to form a trio or quartet, throw a party on limited credit, all the myriad arrangements that require cooperation, good will! and . . . memory of favors past. As Lanzecki had pointed out, «Gratitude depends on memory.» The corollary being «memory lasts a finite time with a Singer.» The only common bond for Crystal Singers was the Guild Charter and its regulations, rules, and restrictions – and the desire to get off Ballybran whenever one could afford that privilege.

Carigana shouldn't have died? Now why did that come to mind, Killashandra wondered as she stepped out of the lift at Meteorology. According to the ceiling-border message panel, the viewing was already in progress in the theater. As she hesitated, another lift, this one full of people, opened its door, and she accompanied the group to their mutual destination.

The theater was semidark and crowded, people standing along the walls when all seating was occupied. On the wide angle screen, cloud patterns formed and reformed with incredible speed. At one point, Killashandra saw Rimbol's face illumined; beside him were Borton and Jezerey. She recognized other members of Class 895 and the weather man who had taken them to the sensor station. The turbulence of the storm was not audible. Instead a commentator droned on about pressure, mach-wind velocities, damage, rain fall, snow, sleet, dust density, and previous Passover tempests while a print display under the screen kept pace with his monologue. Killashandra managed to find space against the far wall and looked over the engrossed audience for Lanzecki's face. She hoped he hadn't made his offer of the off-planet trip to anyone else. If he was being magnanimous, surely he would also give her first refusal.

Then she became caught up in the storm visuals, thinking at first they must have been accelerated – until she compared wind velocities and decibel readings. She was aghast at the fury of the storm.

“The major Passover storm of 2898,” voice and print informed viewers, “while not as severe or as damaging as that of 2863, also formed in the northeast, during spring solstice, and when Shilmore was over the Great Ocean in advance of Shanganagh and Shankill. The inauspicious opposition of the two nearest planets will emphasize the violence of this year's storm. Seeding, improved emulsions, and the new wave disrupter off the coasts of Buland and Hoyland should prevent the tsunami drive across the ocean which caused such widespread havoc on the South Durian continent.”