Authors: Anne McCaffrey
By the afternoon he was almost himself. But some of his spontaneity was gone. He went through the motions of enjoying himself, of encouraging her to more daring exercises on the waterskis while he only splashed about in the shallows. They were finishing a leisurely meal at a seaside restaurant when he finally mentioned that he must return to work.
“I can’t say so soon?” Killashandra remarked with a light laugh. “But isn’t the decision rather sudden?”
He gave her an odd smile. “Yes, but most of my decisions are, aren’t they? Like showing you another side of fusty, fogey Fuerte.”
“And now our idyll is over?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but an edge crept into her tone.
“I must return to Ballybran. Ha! That sounds like one of those fisherfolk songs, doesn’t it?” He hummed a banal tune, the melody so predictable that she could join in firm harmony.
“We do make beautiful music together,” he said, his eyes mocking her. “I suppose you’ll return to your studies now.”
“Studies? For what? Lead soprano in a chorus of annotated, orchestrated grunts and groans by Fififidipidi of the planet Grnch?”
“You could tune crystals. They obviously need a competent tuner at Fuerte spaceport.”
She made a rude noise and looked at him expectantly. He smiled back, turning his head politely, awaiting a verbal answer.
“Or,” she drawled, watching him obliquely, “I could apply to the Heptite Guild as a Crystal Singer.”
His expression went blank. “You don’t want to be a Crystal Singer.”
The vehemence in his voice startled her for a moment.
“How do you know what I want?” She flared up in spite of herself, in spite of a gnawing uncertainty about his feelings for her. She might be the ideal partner for lolling about a sandy beach, but as a constant companion in a dangerous profession—that was different.
He smiled sadly. “You don’t want to be a Crystal Singer.”
“Oh, fardles with that ‘highly dangerous’ nonsense.”
“It is true.”
“If I’ve perfect pitch, I can apply.”
“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” he said in a toneless voice, his expression at once wary and forbidding. “Singing crystal is a terrible, lonely life. You can’t always find someone to sing with you; the tones don’t always strike the right vibes for the crystal faces you find. Of course, you can make terrific cuts singing duo.” He seemed to vacillate.
“How do you find out?” She made her tone ingenuous.
He gave an amused snort. “The hard way, of course. But you don’t want to be a Crystal Singer.” An almost frightening sadness tinged his voice. “Once you sing crystal, you don’t stop. That’s why I’m telling you, don’t even think about it.”
“So . . . you’ve told me not to think about it.”
He caught her hand and gazed steadily into her eyes. “You’ve never been in a mach storm in the Milekeys.” His voice was rough with remembered anxiety. “They blow up out of nowhere and crash down on you like all hell let loose. That’s what that phrase on Retrieval means, ‘the Guild maintains its own.’ A mach storm can reduce a man to a vegetable in one sonic crescendo.”
“There are other—perhaps less violent—ways of reducing a man to a vegetable,” she said, thinking of the spaceport official of the supercargo worrying over drone-pod weights—of teachers apathetically reviewing the scales of novice students. “Surely there are instruments that warn you of approaching storms in a crystal range.”
He nodded absently, his gaze fixed above her head. “You get to cutting crystal and you’re halfway through. You know the pitches will be changed once the storm has passed and you’re losing your safety margin by the minute, but that last crystal might mean you’d get off-world . . .”
“You don’t get off-world with every trip to the ranges?”
He shook his head, frowning irritably at her interruption. “You don’t always clear the costs of the trip or past damages, or you might not have cut the right shape or tone. Sometimes the tone is more important than the shape, you know.”
“And you have to remember what’ll be needed, don’t you?” If she had perfect pitch, and she knew she had an excellent memory, crystal singing seemed an ideal profession for her.
“You have to
remember
the news,” he said, oddly emphasizing the verb.
Killashandra was contemptuous of the problem. Memory was only a matter of habit, of training, of mnemonic phrases that easily triggered vital information. She had plenty of practice in memorization.
“Is there any chance that I could accompany you back to Ballybran and apply—”
His hand had a vise grip on hers; even his breath seemed to halt for a moment. His eyes swept hers with an intense search. “You asked. Remember that!”
“Well, if my company—”
“Kiss me and don’t say anything you’ll regret,” he said, abruptly pulling her into his arms and covering her mouth so completely she couldn’t have spoken.
The second convulsion caught him so soon after the climax of their lovemaking that she thought, guiltily, that overstimulation was the cause. This time, the spasms were more severe, and he dropped into a fevered, exhausted sleep when they finally eased. He looked old and drawn when he woke fourteen hours later. And he moved like an advanced geriatric case.
“I’ve got to get back to Ballybran, Killa.” His voice quavered, and he had lost his proud confidence.
“For treatment?”
He hesitated and then nodded. “Recharging, actually. Get the spaceport on the communit and book us.”
“Us?”
“You may accompany me,” he said with grave courtesy, though she was piqued at the phrasing of an invitation that was more plea than permission. “I don’t care how often we have to reroute. Get us there as fast as possible.”
She reached the spaceport and routeing, and after what seemed an age and considerable ineptitude on the part of the ticket clerk, they were passengers confirmed on a shuttle flight leaving Fuerte in four hours, with a four-hour satellite delay before the first liner in their direction.
He had an assortment of personal things to pack, but Killashandra was for just walking out and leaving everything.
“You can’t get such goods on Ballybran, Killa,” Carrik told her as he slowly began to fold the gaudy grallie-fiber shirts. The stimulus of confirmed passage had given him a surge of energy. But Killashandra had been rather unnerved by the transformation of a charming, vital man into a quivering invalid. “Sometimes, even something as inconsequential as a shirt helps you remember so much.”
She was touched by the sentiment and his smile and vowed to be patient with his illness.
“There are hazards to every profession. And the hazards to crystal singing—”
“It depends what you’re willing to consider a hazard,” Killashandra replied soothingly. She was glad for the filmy, luminous wraparounds, which were a far cry from the coarse, durable student issue. Any hazard seemed a fair price for bouts of such high living and spending. And only 4,425 in the Guild. She was confident she’d make it to the top there.
“Do you have any comphrehension of what you’d be giving up, Killashandra?” His voice had a guilty edge.
She looked at his lined, aging face and experienced a twinge of honest apprehension. Anyone would look appalling after the convulsions that had wracked Carrik. She didn’t much care for his philosophical mood and hoped that he wouldn’t be so dreary all the way to Ballybran. Was that what he meant? A man on vacation often had a different personality than when working at his profession?
“What have I too look forward to on Fuerte?” she asked with a shrug of her shoulders. She wouldn’t necessarily have to team up with Carrik when she got to Ballybran. “I’d rather take a chance, no matter what it entails, in preference to dragging about forever on Fuerte!”
He stroked her palm with his thumb, and for the first time his caress didn’t send thrills up her spine. But then he was scarcely in a condition to make love, and his gesture reflected it.
“You’ve only seen the glamorous side of crystal singing—”
“You’ve told me the dangers, Carrik, as you’re supposed to. The decision is mine, and I’m holding you to your offer.”
He gripped her hand tightly, and the pleasure in his eyes reassured her more thoroughly than any glib protestation.
“It’s also one of the smallest Guilds in the galaxy,” she went on, freeing her hand to finish packing the remaining garments. “I prefer those odds.”
He raised his eyebrows, giving her a sardonic look more like his former self. “A two-cell in a one-cell pond?”
“If you please, I won’t be second-rate anything.”
“A dead hero in preference to a live coward?” He was taunting her now.
“If you prefer. There! That’s all our clothing. We’d better skim back to the spaceport. I’ve got to check with planetary regulations if I’m going off-world. I might even have some credit due me.”
She took the skimmer controls, as Carrik was content to doze in the passenger seat. The rest did him some good, or he was mindful of his public image. Either way, Killashandra’s doubts of his reliability as a partner faded as he ordered the port officials about imperiously, badgering the routeing agent to be certain that the man hadn’t over-looked a more direct flight or a more advantageous connection.
Killashandra left him to make final arrangements and began to clear her records with the Fuerte Central Computer. The moment she placed her wrist-unit and thumb in place, the console began to chatter wildly, flashing red light. She was startled. She had only programmed a credit check, keyed in the fact that she was going off-world, and asked what immunization she might require for the systems they were to encounter, but the supervisor leaped down the ramp from his console, two port officials converged on her, and the exits of the reception hall flashed red and hold-locks were engaged, to the consternation of passersby. Killashandra, too stunned to react, instead stared blankly at the men who had each seized an arm.
“Killashandra Ree?” the supervisor asked, still panting from his exertions.
“Yes?”
“You are to be detained.”
“Why?” Now she was angry. She had committed no crime, infringed no one’s liberties. Failure to register change of status was not an offense so long as she had not used planetary resources without sufficient credit.
“Please come with us,” the port officials said in chorus.
“Why?”
“Ahh, hmmmm,” the supervisor mumbled as both officers turned to him. “There’s a hold out for you.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Here, what’s going on?” Carrik was once more completely himself as he pushed through to place a protecting arm around Killashandra. “This young lady is under my protection.”
At this announcement, the supervisor and officials exchanged stern and determined stares.
“This young lady is under the protection of her planet of origin,” the supervisor announced. “There is some doubt as to her mental stability.”
“Why? Because she accepted an honest invitation from a visitor? Do you know who I am?”
The supervisor flushed. “Indeed I do, sir,” and though the man spoke more respectfully, he left no doubt that his immediate aim was to extract Killashandra from Carrik’s patronage.
“Well, then, accept my assurances, that Miss Ree is in excellent health, mental and physical.” Carrik gestured for them to admire Killashandra’s tanned and trim figure.
The supervisor was adamant. “If you’ll
both
please come this way.” His officers straightened resolutely.
As there was nothing for it but to comply, Carrik reminded this unexpected escort that they had booked shuttle flights due to lift off in one hour. He had every intention of keeping that schedule—and with Killashandra Ree. Rather than give rise to further speculation about her mental state, Killashandra remained uncharacteristically quiet.
“I suspect,” she whispered to Carrik after they were shown into a small office, “that the music school may have thought me suicidal.” She giggled, then attempted to mask the noise behind her hand when the supervisor glanced up at her nervously. “I just walked out of the center and disappeared. I saw no one who knew me on the way here. So they did miss me! Well, that’s gratifying.” She was inordinately pleased, but Carrik plainly did not agree. Well, she had only to reassure the authorities, and she was certain she could. “I think their reaction is rather complimentary, actually. And I’m going to make a dramatic exit from Fuerte, after all.”
Carrik awarded her a look of pure disgust and folded his arms solidly across his chest, his expression fading to one of boredom. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, which was scrolling through the departure information.
Killashandra half expected to see her father, though she found it difficult to imagine him bestirring himself on her behalf. But she did not expect Maestro Esmond Valdi to enter the small office, acting the outraged mentor, nor was she prepared for the attack he immediately launched on Carrik.
“You! You! I know what you are! A silicate spider paralyzing its prey, a crystal cuckoo pushing the promising fledglings from their nests.”
As stunned as everyone else, Killashandra stared at the usually dignified and imperturbable maestro and wondered what role he thought he was playing. He had to be acting. His dialogue was so—so extravagant. “Silicate spider!” “Crystal cuckoo!” if nothing else, his analogies were incorrect and uncalled for.
“Play on the emotions of an innocent young girl. Shower her with unaccustomed luxuries and pervert her until she’s spoiled as a decent contributing citizen. Until she’s so besotted, she has been brainwashed to enter that den of addled mentalities and shattered nerves!”
Carrik made no attempt to divert the flow of vituperation or to counter the accusations. He stood, head up, smiling tolerantly down at the jerky motions of Valdi.
“What lies has he been feeding you about crystal singing? What glamorous tales has he used to lure you there?” Valdi whirled toward Killashandra, his stocky figure trembling with outrage.
“I asked to go.”
Valdi’s wild expression hardened into disbelief at her calm answer.
“You
asked
to go?”