Crystal Singer Page 2

  “She heard it too, man. Now, get the control tower.”

  “Really, sir . . .”

  “Don’t be a complete subbie,” Killashandra snapped.

  That she was obviously a Fuertan like himself disturbed the official more than the insult. Then the stranger, ripping off an oath as colorful as it was descriptive of idiocy, flipped open a card case drawn from his belt. Whatever identification he showed made the official’s eyes bulge.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize, sir.”

  Killashandra watched as the man pressed out a code, then his image dissolved into a view of the control tower. The off-worlder stepped squarely before the screen, and Killashandra politely moved back.

  “Control? The shuttle that just landed can’t be permitted to take off; it’s resonating so badly half the crystals in the drive must be overheating. Didn’t anyone up there hear the beat frequency? It’s broadcasting secondary sonics. No, this is not a drunk and not a threat. This is a fact. Is your entire control staff tone deaf? Don’t you take efficiency readings for your shuttles? Can’t you tell from the ejection velocity monitor? What does a drive check cost in comparison to a new port facility? Is this shuttlestop world too poor to employ a crystal tuner or a stoker?

  “Well, now that’s a more reasonable attitude,” said the stranger after a moment. “As to my credentials, I’m Carrik of the Heptite Guild, Ballybran. Yes, that’s what I said. I could hear the secondary sonics right through the walls, so I damn well know there’s overheating. I’m glad the uneven drive thrust has registered on your monitors, so get that shuttle decoked and retuned.” Another pause. “Thanks, but I’ve paid my bill already. No, that’s all right. Yes . . .” and Killashandra observed that the gratitude irritated Carrik. “Oh, as you will.” He glanced at Killashandra. “Make that for two,” he added, grinning at her as he turned from the console. “After all, you heard it as well.” He cupped his hand under Killashandra’s elbow and steered her toward a secluded booth.

  “I’ve a bottle of wine over there,” she said, half protesting, half laughing at his peremptory escort.

  “You’ll have better shortly. I’m Carrik and you’re . . .?”

  “Killashandra Ree.”

  He smiled, gray eyes lighting briefly with surprise. “That’s a lovely name.”

  “Oh, come now. You can do better than that?”

  He laughed, absently blotting the sweat on his forehead and upper lip as he slid into his place.

  “I can and I will, but it is a lovely name. A musical one.”

  She winced.

  “What did I say wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.”

  He glanced at her skeptically just as a chilled bottle slid from the service panel.

  Carrik peered at the label. “A ’72—well, that’s astonishing.” He flipped the menu vidifax. “I wonder if they stock Forellan biscuits and Aldebaran paste?—Oh, they do! Well, I might revise my opinion of Fuerte.”

  “Really, I only just finished—”

  “On the contrary, my dear Killashandra Ree, you’ve only just begun.”

  “Oh?” Any of Killashandra’s associates would have modified his attitude instantly at that tone in her voice.

  “Yes,” Carrik continued blithely, a sparkling challenge in his eyes, “for this is a night for feasting and frolicking—on the management, as it were. Having just saved the port from being leveled, my wish, and yours, is their command. They’ll be even more grateful when they take the drive down and see the cracks in the transducer crystals. Off the true by a hundred vibes at least.”

  Her half-formed intention of making a dignified exit died, and she stared at Carrik. It would take a highly trained ear to catch so small a variation in pitch.

  “Off a hundred vibes? What do you mean? Are you a musician?”

  Carrik stared at her as if she ought to know who or what he was. He looked around to see where the attendant had gone and then, leaning indolently back in the seat, smiled at her enigmatically.

  “Yes, I’m a kind of musician. Are you?”

  “Not anymore.” Killashandra replied in her most caustic tone. Her desire to leave returned immediately. She had managed very briefly to forget why she was at a spaceport. Now he had reminded her, and she wanted no more such reminders.

  As she began to rise, his hand, fingers gripping firmly the flesh of her arm, held her in her seat. Just then, an official bustled into the restaurant, his eyes searching for Carrik. His countenance simulated relief and delight as he hurried to the table. Carrik smiled at Killashandra, daring her to contest his restraint in front of the witness. Despite her inclination, Killashandra realized she couldn’t start a scene. Besides, she had no real grounds yet for charging personal liberty infringement. Carrik, fully aware of her dilemma, had the audacity to offer her a toast as he took the traditional sample sip of the wine.

  “Yes, sir, the ’72. A very good choice. Surely, you’ll . . .”

  The serving panel opened on a slightly smoking dish of biscuits and a platter of a reddish-brown substance.

  “But, of course, Forellan biscuits and Aldebaran paste. Served with warmed biscuits, I see. Your caterers do know their trade,” Carrik remarked with feigned surprise.

  “We may be small at Fuerte in comparison to other ports you’ve seen,” the official began obsequiously.

  “Yes, yes, thank you.” Carrik brusquely waved the man away.

  Killashandra stared after the fellow, wondering that he hadn’t claimed insult for such a careless dismissal.

  “How do you get away with such behavior?”

  Carrik smiled. “Try the wine, Killashandra.” His smile suggested that the evening would be long, and a prelude to a more intimate association.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, angry now.

  “I’m Carrik of the Heptite Guild,” he repeated cryptically.

  “And that gives you the right to infringe on my personal freedom?”

  “It does if you heard that crystal whine.”

  “And how do you figure that?”

  “Your opinion of the wine, Killashandra Ree? Surely your throat must be dry, and I imagine you’ve a skull ache from that subsonic torture, which would account for your shrewish temper.”

  Actually, she did have a pain at the base of her neck. He was right, too, about the dryness of her throat—and about her shrewish temper. But he had modified his criticism by stroking her hand.

  “I must apologize for my bad manners,” he began with no display of genuine remorse but with a charming smile. “Those shuttle drive-harmonics can be unnerving. It brings out the worst in us.”

  She nodded agreement as she sipped the wine. It was a fine vintage. She looked up with delight and pleasure. He patted her arm and gestured her to drink up.

  “Who are you, Carrik of the Heptite Guild, that port authorities listen and control towers order exorbitant delicacies in gratitude?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I did!”

  “Where have you been all your life that you’ve never heard of the Heptite Guild?”

  “I’ve been a music student on Fuerte,” she replied, spitting out the words.

  “You wouldn’t, by any chance, have perfect pitch?” The question, unexpected and too casually put forth, caught her halfway into afoul temper.

  “Yes, I do, but I don’t—”

  “What fantastic luck!” His face, which was not unattractive, became radiant. “I shall have to tip the agent who ticketed me here! Why, our meeting is unbelievable luck—”

  “Luck? If you knew why I’m here—”

  “I don’t care why. You are here, and so am I.” He took her hands and seemed to devour her face with his eyes, grinning with such intense joy she found herself smiling back with embarrassment.

  “Oh, luck indeed, my dear girl. Fate. Destiny. Karma. Lequoal. Fidalkoram. Whatever you care to name the coincidence of our life lines, I should order magnums of this fine wi
ne for that lousy shuttle pilot for endangering this port terminal, in general, and us, in particular.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re ranting about, Carrik of Heptite,” Killashandra said, but she was not impervious to his compliments or the charm he exuded. She knew that her self-assurance tended to put off men, but here a well-traveled off-worlder, a man of obvious rank and position, was inexplicably taken with her.

  “You don’t?” He teased her for the banality of her protest, and she closed her mouth on the rest of her rebuff. “Seriously,” he went on, stroking the palms of her hands with his fingers as if to soothe the anger from her, “have you never heard of Crystal Singers?”

  “Crystal Singers? No. Crystal tuners, yes.”

  He dismissed the mention of tuners with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. “Imagine singing a note, a pure, clear middle C, and hearing it answered across an entire mountain range?”

  She stared at him.

  “Go up a third or down; it makes no difference. Sing out and hear the harmony return to you. A whole mountainside pitched to a C and another sheer wall of pink quartz echoing back in a dominant. Night brings out the minors, like an ache in your chest, the most beautiful pain in the world because the music of the crystal is in your bones, in your blood—”

  “You’re mad!” Killashandra dug her fingers into his hands to shut off his words. They conjured too many painful associations. She had to forget all that. “I hate music. I hate anything to do with music.”

  He regarded her with disbelief for a moment, but then, with an unexpected tenderness and concern reflected in his expression, he moved an arm around her shoulders and, despite her initial resistance, drew himself against her.

  “My dear girl, what happened to you today?”

  A moment before, she would have swallowed glass shards rather than confide in anyone. But the warmth in his voice, his solicitude, were so timely and unexpected that the whole of her personal disaster came tumbling out. He listened to every word, occasionally squeezing her hand in sympathy. But at the end of the recital, she was amazed to see the fullness in his eyes as tears threatened to embarrass her.

  “My dear Killashandra, what can I say? There’s no possible consolation for such a personal catastrophe as that! And there you were”—his eyes shone with what Killashandra chose to interpret as admiration—“having a bottle of wine as coolly as a queen. Or”—and he leaned over her, grinning maliciously—“were you just gathering enough courage to step under a shuttle?” He kept hold of her hand which, at his outrageous suggestion, she tried to free. “No, I can see that suicide was furthest from your mind.” She subsided at the implicit compliment. “Although”—and his expression altered thoughtfully—“you might inadvertently have succeeded if that shuttle had been allowed to take off again. If I hadn’t been here to stop it—” He flashed her his charmingly reprehensible smile.

  “You’re full of yourself, aren’t you?” Her accusation was said in jest, for she found his autocratic manner an irresistible contrast to anyone of her previous acquaintance.

  He grinned unrepentantly and nodded toward the remains of their exotic snack. “Not without justification, dear girl. But look, you’re free of commitments right now, aren’t you?” She hesitantly, nodded. “Or is there someone you’ve been seeing?” He asked that question almost savagely, as if he’d eliminate any rival.

  Later, Killashandra might remember how adroitly Carrik had handled her, preying on her unsettled state of mind, on her essential femininity, but that tinge of jealousy was highly complimentary, and the eagerness in his eyes, in his hands, was not feigned.

  “No one to matter or miss me.”

  Carrik looked so skeptical that she reminded him that she’d devoted all her energies to singing.

  “Surely not all?” He mocked her dedication.

  “No one to matter,” she repeated firmly.

  “Then I will make an honest invitation to you. I’m an off-worlder on holiday. I don’t have to be back to the Guild till—well”—and he have a nonchalant shrug—“when I wish. I’ve all the credits I need. Help me spend them. It’ll purge you of the music college.”

  She looked squarely at him, for their acquaintanceship was so brief and hectic that she simply hadn’t had time to consider him a possible companion. Nor did she quite trust him. She was both attracted to and repelled by his domineering, high-handed manner, and yet he represented a challenge to her. He was certainly the exact opposite of the young men she had thus far encountered on Fuerte.

  “We don’t have to stay on this mudball, either.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  He laughed. “I’m told I haven’t been on Fuerte before. I can’t say that it lives up to its name, or maybe you’ll live up to the name for it? Oh come now, Killashandra,” he said when she bridled. “Surely you’ve been flirted with before? Or have music students changed so much since my day?”

  “You studied music?”

  An odd shadow flickered through his eyes. “Probably. I don’t rightly remember. Another time, another life perhaps.” Then his charming smile deepened, and a warmth entered his expression that she found rather unsettling. “Tell me, what’s on this planet that’s fun to do?”

  Killashandra considered for a moment and then blinked. “You know, I haven’t an earthly?”

  “Then we’ll find out together.”

  What with the wine, his adept cajolery, and her own recklessness, Killashandra could not withstand the temptation. She ought to do many things, she knew, but “ought” had been exiled someplace during the second bottle of that classic vintage. After spending the rest of the night nestled in Carrik’s arms in the most expensive accommodation of the spaceport hostelry, Killashandra decided she would suspend duty for a few days and be kind to the charming visitor.

  The vidifax printout chattered as it popped out dozens of cards on the resorts of Fuerte, more than she had ever suspected. She had never water skied, so Carrik decided they’d both try that. He ordered a private skimmer to be ready within the hour. As he sang cheerily at the top of a good, rich bass voice, floundering about in the elegant sunken bathtub of the suite, Killashandra recalled some vestige of self-preserving shrewdness and tapped out a few discreet inquiries on the console.

  1234/az . . .

  CRYSTAL SINGER . . . A COLLOQUIAL GALACTIC EUPHEMISM REFERRING TO MEMBERS OF THE HEPTITE GUILD, BALLYBRAN, WHO MINE CRYSTAL RANGES UNIQUE TO THAT PLANET. REF: BALLYBRAN, REGULUS SYSTEM, A-S-F/128/4. ALSO CRYSTAL MINING, CRYSTAL TECHNOLOGY, ‘BLACK QUARTZ’ COMMUNICATIONS. WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED LANDING ON BALLYBRAN INTERDICTED BY FEDERATED SENTIENT PLANETS, SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78–90.

  The landing prohibition surprised Killashandra. She tried to recall details from her obligatory secondary school course on FSP Rights and Responsibilities. The 900 Section had to do with life forms, she thought, and the Code 4 suggested considerable danger.

  She tapped out the section, code, and paragraphs and was awarded a request for Need to Know? As she couldn’t think of one at the moment, she went to the planetary reference, and the display rippled across the screen.

  BALLYBRAN: FIFTH PLANET OF THE SUN, SCORIA, REGULUS SECTOR: THREE SATELLITES; AUTHORIZED LANDING POINT, FIRST MOON, SHANKILL; STANDARD LIFE-SUPPORT BASE, COMMERCIAL AND TRANSIENT ACCOMMODATIONS. NO UNAUTHORIZED PLANETARY LANDINGS: SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 78-90. SOLE AUTHORITY: HEPTITE GUILD, MOON BASE, SHANKILL.

  Then she followed dense lines of data on the spectral analysis of Scoria and its satellites, Ballybran being the only one that rated considerable print-out, which Killashandra could, in part, interpret. Ballybran had a gravity slightly lower than galactic norm for human adaptability, a breathable atmosphere, more oceans than land mass, tidal complications caused by three moons, as well as an exotic meteorology stimulated by sunspot activity on the primary.

  PRINCIPAL INDUSTRIES: (1) BALLYBRAN CRYSTALS (2) THERAPEUTIC WATERS.

  1) BALLYBRAN LIVING CRYSTAL VARIES IN DENS
ITY, COLOR, AND LONGEVITY AND IS UNIQUE TO THE PLANET. VITAL TO THE PRODUCTION OF CONTROL ELEMENTS IN LASERS; AS A MATERIAL FOR INTEGRATED CIRCUIT SUBSTRATES (OF THE LADDER HIERARCHY); POSITRONIC ROBOTICS; AS TRANSDUCERS FOR ELECTROMAGNETIC RADIATION (FUNDAMENTALS OF 20 KHZ AND 500 KHZ WITH AUDIO SECONDARIES AND HARMONICS IN THE LOWER FREQUENCIES) AND HEAT TRANSDUCERS; AS OPTHERIAN SOUND RELAYS AND MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS; BLUE TETRAHEDRONS ARE A CRUCIAL PART IN TACHYON DRIVE SYSTEMS.

  “BLACK” QUARTZ, A PHENOMENON LIMITED TO BALLYBRAN, IS THE CRITICAL ELEMENT OF INSTANTANEOUS INTERSTELLAR COMMUNICATION, HAVING THE ABILITY TO FOLD SPACE, OVER ANY DISTANCE, SO THAT MAGNETICALLY, ELECTRICALLY, AND, AS FAR AS IS KNOWN, OPTICALLY, THERE IS NO EFFECTIVE SEPARATION BETWEEN TWO COUPLED RESONATING SEGMENTS REGARDLESS OF THE ACTUAL DISTANCE BETWEEN THEM.

  TIMING ACCURACY OVER A DISTANCE OF 500 LIGHT-YEARS HAS PRODUCED CONSISTENT ACCURACY OF 1 X 10-6 OF THE CESIUM ATOM TIME STANDARD.

  BLACK QUARTZ IS CAPABLE OF ACHIEVING SIMULTANEOUS SYNCHRONIZATION WITH TWO OTHER SEGMENTS AND SO PROVIDES A RING-LINK BACKUP SYSTEM. FOR EXAMPLE, WITH SIX QUARTZ SEGMENTS, A TO F, A IS LINKED TO C, D, & E; B IS LINKED TO C, E, & F . . .

  That was more than she ever wanted to know about black quartz communications, Killashandra thought as diagrams and computations scrolled across the screen, so she pressed on to more interesting data. She slowed the display when she noticed the heading “Membership” and reversed to the start of that entry.

  CURRENT MEMBERSHIP OF THE HEPTITE GUILD ON BALLYBRAN IS 4425, INCLUDING INACTIVE MEMBERS, BUT THE NUMBER FLUCTUATES CONSIDERABLY DUE TO OCCUPATIONAL HAZARDS. THE ANCILLARY STAFF AND TECHNICIANS ARE LISTED CURRENTLY AT 20,007. ASPIRANTS TO THE GUILD ARE ADVISED THAT THE PROFESSION IS HIGHLY DANGEROUS, AND THE HEPTITE GUILD IS REQUIRED BY FEDERATION LAW TO DISCLOSE FULL PARTICULARS OF ALL DANGERS INVOLVED BEFORE CONTRACTING NEW MEMBERS.

  Four thousand four hundred and twenty-five seemed an absurdly small roster for a galaxy-wide Guild that supplied essential elements to so many industries. Most galaxy-wide guilds ran to the hundreds of millions. What were those ancillary staff and technicians? The notation of “full particulars of dangers involved” didn’t dissuade Killashandra at all. Danger was relative.