Crystal Singer

“There's just one thing,” and Pendel cleared his throat, ducking his head from her glance. “The Selkite reaches Ballybran just toward the end of the Passover storms. The original E.T.A. would land you well after they'd completed.”

“Oh, you've been doing some retrieving, have you?” Killashandra gri

Pendel winked, laying his finger along his nose. “I did feel some objective information a wise precaution.”

“So Chasurt decided the storms produced my mental aberrations?”

“Some such conclusion.”

“No fool goes out in Passover storms. We leave the planet if at all possible. If not, sleep through it!”

“I had heard the rumor that Crystal Singers hibernated.”

“Something of the sort.”

“Well, well. Have another Yarran beer, Killashandra.”

Whatever caused Pendel such satisfaction, he preferred to keep to himself, but they enjoyed several glasses until drowsiness over came her again. Pendel escorted her back to her cabin where Tac stood very much on duty. Small light meals were arranged, and Killashandra lay down to sleep, fervently blessing the fore thought that had provided her with the FSP authority. And what had Francu intended to do with her if he had managed to over rule her? Give her to Chasurt to find out why Crystal Singers are different?

She wasn't well pleased to have to spend a few more days on the cruiser, but she could sleep and relax, now that the pressures of installation were behind her. And she had completed those well. Trag would be pleased with her. Even if some percentage of the Trundimoux were not. Pity about that!

Still, they'd given her a big hand. She'd knocked herself out to give them a new tradition. Her performance at the planet installation had turned an angry mob into a jubilant throng. Yes, she'd done well as a Crystal Singer.

Would she ever again be able to experience that incredible surge of contact as black crystal segments linked? That all-enveloping surge as if she were aligned with every black crystal in the galaxy?

She shuddered with the aching desire. She turned from that thought. There would be other such times; of that she was now certain. Meanwhile, once the storms of Ballybran were over, she could sing crystal.

Sing crystal? Sing?

Killashandra began to laugh, recalling herself as she strode into the planetary communications building, stage center with a near riot occurring around her. She, playing the high priestess, completing the ritual that linked the isolated elements of the Trundimoux! A solo performance if ever there was one. And she had played before an audience of an entire system. What an opening note she had struck with crystal! What an ovation! Echoes from distant satellites. She had done exactly as she had once boasted she'd do, had arrogantly proclaimed to her peers in Fuerte that she would do. She had been the first Singer in this system and possibly the only Crystal Singer ever to appear in Trundimoux.

Killashandra laughed at the twisted irony of circumstance. She laughed and then cried because there was no one to know except herself that she had achieved an ambition.

Killashandra Ree was a Singer, right enough. Truly a Crystal Singer!

Reprise

What are you doing back now?" the lock attendant demanded as she entered.

“Wough? What sort of transport were you on? You reek.”

“Selkite,” Killashandra said grimly. She had become used to her own fragrance within the Selkite's O-breather quarters.

“There s some ships no one will travel on. Pity you weren't warned.” He was pinching his nostrils closed.

“I'll remember, I assure you.”

She started for the Guild's transient quarters.

“Hey, there's no vacancies. Passover storms aren't over yet, you know.”

“I know, but getting here was more important than waiting the storms out.”

“Not if you had to travel Selkite. But there's plenty of space in the regular quarters,” and the man thumbed the archway that she had entered so naively a few months before. “No travelers here yet. Doesn't make any difference with your credit where you stay, you know.”

Killashandra thanked him and walked on through the blue-irised entrance toward the hostel, trying to remember the girl she'd been at that point and unable to credit how much had occurred since then. Including the simultaneous realization of two ambitions.

The aroma she exuded alerted Ford, still at his reception counter.

“But you're a Singer. You oughtn't to be here.” His nose wrinkled, and he shuddered, licking his lips. “Singers have their own quarters.”

“Full up. Just give me a room and let me fumigate myself.”

Killashandra advanced to the counter to put her wrist unit to the plate.

“No, no, that won't be necessary!” Ford handed her the key, his arm stretching out to keep as much distance from her as possible.

“I know I'm bad, but am I that bad?”

Ford tried to stammer an apology, but Killashandra let the key guide her to her quarters.

“I've given you the biggest we have.” Ford's voice followed her through the hallway.

The room was down a level, and assuming that the lock attendant had been correct – that there were no visitors at that time – Killashandra began ripping off her stinking clothes. The key warmed at the appropriate room, and she shoved through the panel, shutting it and leaning against the door to shuck off her pants and footwear. She looked at the carisak and decided there was no point in fumigating those things. She stuffed everything into the disposal unit with a tremendous sense of relief.

The Shankill accommodation had only shower facilities but a decent array of herb and fragrance washes. She stood under the jets, as hot as the spray would come, then laved herself until her skin was raw. She stepped out of the shower enclosure, smelling her hands and her shoulders, bending to sniff her knees, and decided that she was possibly close to decontaminated.

It was only drying her hair that she realized she didn't have any fresh clothes to put on. She dialed the commissary and ordered the first coverall that appeared on the fax then keyed for perfumes and ordered a large bottle of something spicy. She needed some spice in her life after the Selkite vessel. Well, Pendel had tried to warn her. Come to consider, even the Selkites were better than remaining in the vicinity of Francu or that bonehead Chasurt.

Then she remembered to take out her lenses and sighed with relief as color, decent soothing color, sprang up around the room.

She ordered a Yarran beer and wondered how Lanzecki had weathered Passover. Immured by herself in the Selkite ship, she had come to terms with lingering feelings of resentment for the Guild Master and wanted very much to continue in friendship with the man. Solitude was a great leveler: stinking solitude made one grateful for remembered favors and kindness. She owed Lanzecki more of those than accusations.

The beer was so good! She lifted her beaker in a toast to Pendel. She hoped that for every Francu she met, there would be at least one Pendel to be grateful for.

The door chime sounded. She wrapped a dry towel around her, wondering why her order was being delivered instead of sent by tube. She released the door lock and was about to slide the panel back when it was moved from without.

“What are you doing back here?” Lanzecki stepped into the room, looming angrily above her in the narrow confines. He closed the panel behind him and lobbed a parcel in the direction of the bed.

“What are you doing on Shankill?” She tried to tighten the towel above her breasts.

He brought both hands to his belt and stared at her, his eyes glittering, his face set in the most uncompromising lines, his mouth still.

“Shankill affords the most strategic point from which to assess the storm flows.”