Crystal Singer

There was a heaviness about Lanzecki this evening, Killashandra thought. It wasn't fatigue, for he moved as easily as ever for a man of his build.

“I'd forgotten how pleasant the taste is,” he went on, returning with a pitcher and two beakers.

“Is this Passover going to be that bad?” she asked. Lanzecki took a long draught of the beer before he answered, but his eyes were twinkling, and his mouth fell into an easier line.

“We always plan for the worst and generally are not disappointed. The challenge thus presented by each new Passover configuration is irresistible, forces that are changeless and changing, as unpredictable as such natural phenomena are.”

Killashandra was startled by his unexpected philosophizing and wondered if she had been wrong about his mood.

“You actually enjoy this!”

«Hmmm. No – 'enjoy' is not the appropriate word. Stimulated, I think, would be more accurate.» He was teasing her. His lips told her that. Teasing, but something more, something deeper, the element that caused the heaviness about him. «Stop thinking and eat. I've ordered up a particular delicacy which I hope you'll enjoy, too. Catering goes to great pains at this time of Ballybran's cycle, and we must respond.»

Tonight, his appetite equaled hers as they sampled the marvels of taste and texture that had been conjured from the cuisine's of all the elegant and exotic worlds in the Federation. Lanzecki knew a great deal about food and promised her that one day he would personally prepare a meal for her from raw produce to finished dish.

“When eating is not a necessity, as it is now, but can be enjoyed,” and his eyes twinkled at the repetition of that word “in complete leisure.”

“We're not at leisure now?”

“Not completely. As soon as I have satisfied my symbiotic self, I must meet with the storm technicians again.”

She suppressed an irrational disappointment that their di

“Thank you, dear heart,” he said.

“Thank me? For what?”

“For being . . . aware.”

She stared at Lanzecki for a long moment.

“You're certain telepathy is not in the symbiotic . . .”

“Absolutely not!” Lanzecki's assurance was solemn, but she wasn't sure about his mouth.

Killashandra rapidly catalogued some of her responses to him and sighed.

“Well, I am sorry you're not staying!”

Lanzecki laughed as he reached for her hand and kissed it lightly. Not light enough so that she didn't respond to his touch.

«I have never intended to invade your privacy, Killashandra, by watching the shift and flow of your thoughts and emotions. I enjoy them. I enjoy you. Now» – and he rose purposefully – «if it were anything but storm tactics . . .» He kissed her palm again and then strode swiftly from the room.

She let her hand fall back to her lap, Lanzecki's graceful compliment echoing through her mind. Quite one of the nicest she had ever been paid.

Oddly enough, that he had been invading a Fuertan's treasured privacy, once her most defended possession, did not distress Killashandra. If Lanzecki continued to «enjoy» what he saw – She took a long swallow of beer. How much she had changed since that aimless, aching ride on the pedestrian way to Fuerte's spaceport! How much of the change was due to her «symbiotic self?» That, too, had been an invasion of privacy to which she had, before officialdom of the FSP, agreed.

Now that she had held crystal, vibrant in the palm of her hand, light and sound coruscating off the sun-warmed quartz, she felt no regrets for loss of privacy, no regrets for an invasion that had been entrance into a new dimension of experience.

She laughed softly at her whimsy. She finished the beer. She was sleepy and satiated, and tomorrow would be a wearying day. She hoped that Trag did not get reports from Enthor on the raggedness of her first cuttings.

The next morning, after a sturdy breakfast, she reported to Trag in the cutting room. Other members of Class 895 were already busy under the supervision of Concera and another Guild member. Killashandra greeted Concera and smiled at the others.

Trag jerked his head to a side door, and she followed him. She experienced a double shock, for there on the work table amid installation brackets and pads were five black crystals. And she didn't respond to their presence at all!

“Don't worry!” Trag picked up the nearest one and tossed it negligently at her.

She opened her mouth to scald him with an oath when the object reached her hands and she knew it wasn't black crystal.

“Don't you ever frighten me that way again!” Fury was acid in her belly and throat.

“Surely you didn't think we'd risk the black in practice.” Trag had enjoyed startling her.

“I'm too new at this game to know what is risked,” she replied, getting her anger under control. She hefted the block in her hand, wanting more than anything else to loft it right back at Trag.

“Easy now, Killashandra,” he said, raising a protective hand. “You knew it wasn't black crystal the moment you walked into the room!”

The coolness in Trag's voice reminded her that he was a senior Guild member.

“I've had enough surprises in the ranges without having to encounter them here, too, Trag.” As she controlled panic and rage, she also reminded herself that Trag had always been impersonal! Her relations with Lanzecki were clouding other judgments.

«Coping with the unexpected must become automatic for a Singer. Some people never learn how.» Trag's eyes shifted slightly to indicate the room behind them. «You proved just now that your instinct for the blacks is reliable. Now» – and he reached out to take the block from her hand – «let us to the purpose for which these were simulated.» He put the block among its mates.

Only then did she realize that the five mock crystals had been cast in the image of those she had cut, wiggles, improper angles and size.

“This substance has the same tensile strength and expansion ratio as black crystal but no other of its properties. You must learn today to install crystal properly in its bracketing with enough pressure to secure it against vibration but not enough to interfere with intermolecular flow.” He showed her a printed diagram. “This will be the order and the configuration of the Trundimoux link.” He tapped the corresponding block as he pointed out its position, repeating what Lanzecki had rattled through. “Number one and two, the smallest, will be on mining stations, number three on the gas planet satellite, number four on the ice planet satellite, and number five, the largest crystal, will be installed on the habitable planet. You and you alone will handle the crystals.”

“Is that Guild policy?” How much more did she have to learn about this complex profession?

“Among other considerations, no one in the Trundimoux System is technically capable.” Trag's voice was heavy with disapproval.

Killashandra wondered if he considered them “Trundies” or “Moux.”

“I would have thought Marketing would handle installation.”

“Generally.” His stiff tone warned her off further questions.

“Well, I don't suppose I'd've been saddled with the job if I hadn't lost my sled and if Passover weren't so near.”

She got no visible reaction from her rueful comment.

“Remember that,” Trag advised, and added with an unexpected wryness, “if you can.”

Installing crystal in padded clamps was not as simple as it had sounded, but then, as Killashandra was learning, nothing in the Heptite Guild was as simple as it sounded. Nevertheless, by evening, with arm, neck, and back muscles tense and hands that trembled from the effort of small, strong movements, eyes hot from concentration on surface tension readings, she believed she understood the process.

She was philosophical when Trag said they would repeat the day's exercise on the morrow, for she knew she must be motion perfect during the actual installations. Guild members had a reputation to maintain, and she would be up to Trag's standard of performance even if this was the only installation she ever made. Since her notion tallied with Trag's, she was undaunted by his perfectionism.