Authors: Anne McCaffrey
CHAPTER 2
K
illashandra was halfway to the spaceport before she consciously decided that that was where she ought to go—“ought” this time not in an obligatory but in an investigative sense. Fuerte held nothing but distressing memories for her. She’d leave the planet and erase the painful associations. Good thing she had taken the lute. She had sufficient credentials to be taken on as a casual entertainer on some liner at the best or as a ship attendant at the worst. She might as well travel about a bit to see what else she
ought
to do with her life.
As the speedway slowed to curve into the spaceport terminal, Killashandra was aware of externals—people and things—for the first time since she’d left Maestro Valdi’s studio. She had never been to the spaceport before and had never been on any of the welcoming committees for off-planet stellars. Just then, a shuttle launched from its bay, powerful engines making the port building tremble. There was, however, a very disconcerting whine of which she was almost subliminally aware, sensing it from the mastoid bone right down to her heel. She shook her head. The whine intensified—it had to be coming from the shuttle—until she was forced to clamp her hands over her ears. The sonics abated, and she forgot the incident as she wandered around the immense, domed reception hall of the port facility. Vidifax were ranked across the inner segment, each labeled with the name of a particular freight or passenger service, each with its own screen plate. Faraway places with strange sounding names—a fragment from an ancient song obtruded and was instantly suppressed. No more music.
She paused at a portal to watch a shuttle off-loading cargo, the loading attendants using pneumatic pallets to shift odd-sized packages that did not fit the automatic cargo-handling ramp. A supercargo was scurrying about, portentously examining strip codes, juggling weight units, and arguing with the stevedores. Killashandra snorted. She’d soon have more than such trivia to occupy her energies. Suddenly, she caught the scent of appetizing odors.
She realized she was hungry! Hungry? When her whole
life
had been shattered? How banal! But the odors made her mouth water. Well, her credit ought to be good for a meal, but she’d better check her balance rather than be embarrassed at the restaurant. At a public outlet, she inserted her digital wristunit and applied her right thumb to the print plate. She was agreeably surprised to note that a credit had been added that very day—a student credit, she read. Her last. That the total represented a bonus did not please her. A bonus to solemnize the fact that she could never be a soloist?
She walked quickly to the nearest restaurant, observing only that it was not the economy service. The old, dutiful Killashandra would have backed out hastily. The new Killashandra entered imperiously. So early in the day, the dining rooms were not crowded, so she chose a booth on the upper level for its unobstructed view of the flow of shuttles and small spacecraft. She had never realized how much traffic passed through the spaceport of her not very important planet, though she vaguely knew that Fuerte was a transfer point. The vidifax menu was long and varied, and she was tempted several times to indulge in the exotic foods temptingly described therein. But she settled for a casserole, purportedly composed of off-world fish, unusual but not too highly spiced for a student’s untutored palate. An off-world wine included in the selection pleased her so much that she ordered a second carafe just as dusk closed in.
She thought, at first, that it was the unfamiliar wine that made her nerves jangle so. But the discomfort increased so rapidly that she sensed it couldn’t be just the effect of alcohol. Rubbing her neck and frowning, she looked around for the source of irritation. Finally, the appearance of a descending shuttle’s retroblasts made her realize that her discomfort must be the result of a sonic disturbance, though how it could penetrate the shielded restaurant she didn’t know. She covered her ears, pressing as hard as she could to ease that piercing pain. Suddenly, it ceased.
“I tell you, that shuttle’s drive is about to explode. Now connect me to the control supervisor,” a baritone voice cried in the ensuing silence.
Startled, Killashandra looked around.
“How do I know? I know!” At the screen of the restaurant’s service console, a tall man was demanding: “Put me through to the control tower. Is everyone up there deaf? So you
want
a shuttle explosion the next time that one is used? Didn’t you hear it?”
“I heard it,” Killashandra said, rushing over to plant herself in the view of the console.
“You heard it?” The spaceport official seemed genuinely surprised.
“I certainly did. All but cracked my skull. My ears still hurt. What was it?” she asked the tall man, who had an air of command about him, frustrated though he was by officious stupidity. He carried his overlean body with an arrogance that suited the fine fabric of his clothes—obviously of off-world design and cloth.
“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 wine 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.”