Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  She came to a halt at the opaque force screen of the debarkation arch, which blinked readiness to receive her credentials and reason for business on Shankill. She ignored it, watching in frustration as the Guild Master’s figure disappeared through one of the five irised exits from the small lobby beyond the arch. She raced back to her cabin to jam her belongings into the carisak. By the time she had returned to debarkation, much to her disgust, she had to join the queue of passengers. As she waited, fighting her impatience, Captain Andurs emerged from the ship’s forward section and made for the secondary gate by the debarkation arch. He caught a glimpse of her and turned back, a quizzical smile on his face.

  “Going through with it, Killa?” he asked. He slid a hand up her arm to grip her elbow. Andurs’ eyes had the sort of intensity she had begun to associate with desire, a pleasing response considering her abrupt manner with him earlier.

  “Why not? I’ve been given no reason to stop and a very good one to try.”

  Andurs grinned. “Well, you’ll find the process takes time. I’ll be in the transients’ hostel for at least five days.” He made a grimace of resigned distaste and shrugged. “I’ll be seeing you,” he added with a half note of questioning, though his smile was inviting.

  It irked Killashandra to see him jauntily present his wrist to the plate on the smaller arc and watch the entrance dilate immediately. When she finally submitted her wrist to the identity plate at debarkation control, she had become somewhat resigned to delay.

  She was asked for her reason to land on Shankill.

  “I wish to apply for membership in the Heptite Guild. I have perfect pitch,” she added.

  The display requested her credit rating, and Killashandra disdainfully slipped in the Guild voucher. It was instantly accepted, and the substantial credit balance displayed. The unit purred, clicked, and then, as a fax sheet rolled from the print slot, the arch dilated to permit access to the Shankill moon base. She was advised to read and conform to all rules and regulations of the Shankill Authority, which were included in the printout as were directions to transient accommodations, catering facilities, and the public areas of the installation.

  She passed through the arch and into the lobby with the five exits. The third iris swirled open, and Killashandra, taking the hint, proceeded down that corridor to the hostel. She was surprised to emerge into a large open area, high-ceilinged and lined with holograms of trees lightly stirring in an absent breeze. A glow radiating from the plasglassed skylight simulated sunlight. She wondered, as she crossed the floor to the reception area if the mock light also followed Ballybran’s rotational period.

  Her second surprise was to find a human attendant behind the reception counter. “Killashandra Ree?” he asked politely, unsmiling.

  She suppressed a desire to ask “Who else?” and nodded.

  “You will not have had time to read the rules and regulations pertaining to Shankill Moon Base, therefore, it is my duty to request that you do so immediately upon settling in your accommodation. Failure to comply will result in restriction of personal liberty to prevent endangering the lives of others through ignorance. Please synch your digital to Ballybran’s rotation with which all base times are synchronized. If you do not understand anything in the instructions, I am at your service to explain. Place your wrist unit on the plate. Thank you.”

  More accustomed to the monotone of machine-issued instructions, Killashandra could only stare at the man, wondering if he was some sort of android, though she’d never heard of such lifelike replicas of humans. Then he smiled slightly and tapped the plate.

  “Been on a moon base before?” the man asked in a tone remarkably informal after his mechanical speech.

  “No,” she said as she placed her wrist to the plate and her thumb in the depression.

  “This is my tenth. I’m an apprentice in satellite security. We get to do the routine work, you see. Not that anything’s ever gone wrong here”—he pointed his forefinger firmly toward the floor to indicate the entire base—“though there’s always a first time. Like our training programmer says, there’s always a first time, and we’re supposed to make sure that first times don’t occur. That’s why you’ll find human specialists like me on moon bases. People get so used to machines and displays and automatic cautionary signs that they don’t sink in”—he tapped his forehead—“and that’s how accidents can happen.”

  “Seems like good psychology,” Killashandra agreed absently, for she was noting with pleasure the winking green credit balance. A key poked above the flush counter. The man handed it to her.

  “My name’s Ford. You’ll read that your room has its own life-support system that comes on-line automatically in case of failure of the base system. Only, by Brennan’s left ear, don’t get caught in a hostel room during a leak-out or a break—that’s a sure way to go berk.”

  Killashandra wanted to tell him that his psychology had a flaw if this was how he was supposed to reassure her. But she refrained, smiled, and promised she’d read the instructions. Then she glanced about her.

  “Your key’s tuned to your room. It’ll find you your way back from any point in the base,” Ford said jovially. “Just go through that door,” he added, leaning across his counter and pointing to the left.

  Killashandra felt the tug of the key in that direction, and giving Ford another smile, she set off.

  The key plate of the door frame was glowing in welcome as she approached her assigned room. She inserted the key, and the door panel retracted with a whoosh. As she walked in she could see why Ford didn’t recommend a protracted stay on the premises; the compact room would give anyone claustrophobia. All the bodily comforts compacted into a space 3Þ meters long, 2 meters wide, and 3 high. A three-drawer captain’s bed occupied most of the space. Above it was shelving, from the base of which projected the angled audiovisual unit, obviously usable only to the occupant of the bed. Any esthetics of space or decor had been waived in considerations of safety and survival. To be sure, one wasn’t compelled to remain in this room. In fact, from the authority’s viewpoint, it was probably advisable that the room be occupied only for sleep.

  Killashandra flipped the carisak to the foot of the bed and plopped down on it, noticing for the first time the row of labled switches and buttons along the wall and the wall slots from which, according to the labels, table, reading lamp, and an individual catering unit would emerge. She grimaced. Everything at finger-tip control. She wondered if Ford’s presence was to reassure the transients that they were indeed human rather than extensions of some computer. Ford certainly exhibited humanity.

  Sighing, she dutifully pulled the rules and regulations to her. She had promised. Besides, forewarning herself seemed wise even if, as Ford had averred, nothing had ever happened on Shankill Station.

  According to the fax sheet, he was correct. The Shankill Moon Base had been functioning safely for 334 years, Standard Galactic. The original installation had been considerably expanded when Federated Sentient Planets restricted habitation of Ballybran because of the planet’s dangers.

  Killashandra had to reread that part twice. So the planet itself was dangerous, though obviously that danger had been overcome since people were now working and living on the surface.

  The following paragraphs blithely changed subject and began enumerating safety hazards, regulations, and individual responsibilities. Killashandra dutifully read on, hearing an echo of Ford’s warning: “There’s always a first time.” As a transient, her main responsibilities were first to seek the red-striped areas of whatever corridor or public place she inhabited on hearing either rapid hoots (oxygen leak) or sharp short whistles (penetration) or intermittent siren (internal fire or emergency) and then to stay out of everyone’s way. Sustained hoots, whistles, or siren indicated the end of the emergency. If she was in her quarters, she was to lie on the bed—not that there was anywhere else in the room to be comfortable during enforced incarceration. In all crises, helmeted personnel were authori
zed to command unhelmeted individuals to any task required to end the emergency.

  She turned the sheet over and studied the map of the base, which, comparing the total with the part she had already seen, must be immense. Some units were composed of nine sprawling levels, most subsurface; each one could be sealed for all had backup life-support systems. The largest areas were cargo and maintenance facilities, the Guild and administration. Diagrams of the two smaller bases on the moons, Shilmore and Shanganagh, decorated the bottom of the sheet. These were both meteorological stations, and Shanganagh seemed to be completely automated.

  Meteorology seemed to be the preoccupation of Ballybran, Killashandra thought—was that the danger on the planet? Its weather? Carrik had mentioned the incredible mach storms. That the winds of Ballybran were ferocious enough to merit such a nickname was frightening enough.

  She scanned the map again, noting the proximity of the Guild complex to the transients’ quarters. Two tunnels/corridors/avenues—whatever—over and the small unit between was the debarkation facility. She grinned at the convenient juxtaposition. Could it be completely fortuitous? Could she just walk over and present herself as an aspirant?

  She suddenly experienced an unexpected diffidence and studied her digital. She was well within the normal working hours of most commercial establishments. She had read the important safety regulations, and she would certainly look for the red-striped area in any corridor and public place she entered. With a twitch of her shoulders, she strengthened her resolve and pressed the wall stud to activate the speech-recognition system.

  “Request details for applying to Heptite Guild for membership.”

  The display rippled on.

  APPLICATION FOR CONSIDERATION OF MEMBERSHIP IN HEPTITE GUILD REQUIRES PHYSICAL FITNESS TEST SG-1, PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE SG-1, EDUCATION LEVEL 3 PREFERRED BUT EXCEPTIONS CONSIDERED, PERFECT AND ABSOLUTE PITCH BOTH IN PERCEPTION AND REPRODUCTION OF THE TONAL QUALITY AND TIMBRE TO BE FOUND ONLY IN TYPE IV THROUGH VIII BIPEDAL HUMANOID, ORIGIN SOL III. MUTANTS NEED NOT APPLY.

  APPLICATION MADE ONLY THROUGH HEPTITE GUILD OFFICES: SHANKILL MOON BASE, MAIN RECEPTION FACILITY.

  FEDERATED SENTIENT PLANETS REQUIRE FULL DISCLOSURE OF ALL DANGERS INHERENT IN PROFESSION TO PROSPECTIVE CANDIDATES ONCE PHYSICAL, PSYCHOLOGICAL, AND APTITUDE TESTS HAVE BEEN PASSED TO THE SATISFACTION OF THE GUILD EXAMINING BOARD.

  BALLYBRAN IS AN INTERDICTED WORLD, SECTION 907, CODE 4, PARAGRAPHS 783–90. FOR DETAILS, CONSULT HEPTITE GUILD.

  ”Well,” Killashandra murmured, “Information received by dribs and drabs. Heptite Guild, please.”

  The screen resolved around a woman’s face.

  “Heptite Guild, Shankill Moon base. May I assist you?”

  “Killashandra Ree,” she managed, mindful of courtesy, for she hadn’t expected a personal answer. “I’d like to know if your member, Carrik, is all right?”

  “He made the journey safely to the surface.”

  “I mean, will he recover?”

  “That is possible but not predictable.”

  The woman’s face was composed and obviously expectant.

  “How do I get to be a Guild member?” Her query was blurted out. “I did tap data retrieval.”

  The woman smiled politely. “I am permitted to release additional information to interested persons. Your room designation?” Killashandra gave her the information. “You will have access to the relevant data until 0800 tomorrow. If you desire the preliminary examinations, you may present yourself to the Guild during normal working hours.”

  The image faded, which was just as well because Killashandra was consumed with curiosity as to what more of Ballybran’s mysteries would be revealed by the promised additional data. Not all, she was certain.

  The display began with a historical summary of the planet. Furious, she was about to cancel the program when it occurred to her that the wise performer studied the role and the composer, to understand his intent, before any audition. If the Guild had released this data to her, they would also know if she had availed herself of the courtesy. Joining the Heptite Guild might not depend alone on perfect pitch, good physical condition, and the right psychological adjustment—or why were there so few members?

  She settled herself to study the material, though the preliminary paragraphs on “man’s ever-pressing need for material resources in his search of the galaxies” reminded her depressingly of secondary school’s orientation propaganda. She didn’t have to wade through much of that but got quickly to the section on Spican quartz.

  In a routine explore and evaluate search, Scoria’s planets were probed. Ballybran, the only one with suitable atmosphere and gravity, gave happy evidence of crystal and quartz formations in its inverted ranges. A team was dispatched, Barry Milekey of Trace its leader. The initial findings of the geologists indicated a planet of immense potential, and samples were rushed back to Sector Research Division. The E and E of Ballybran had lucked out. The first crystal sample to be analyzed properly, a blue porphyry type, proved, due to peculiarities of its composition, a marvelous optical storage device, allowing computers virtually instantaneous access to improbably large volumes of data stored in matrixes of exceptionally small dimensions. The crystal’s fine-grain synapse structure enabled even a smallish (1 cm3) segment to serve as a gigaword memory.

  However, it was Milekey’s discovery of the so-called black quartz—under normal conditions neither black nor quartz—that led to the complete revolution of interstellar communications. Owing to its thermal characteristics, Black Ballybran is a pigmented rock crystal, translucent in natural light.

  Under certain types of magnetic stress, Black Ballybran, for lack of any better description, absorbs all light and seems to become matte black. Milekey had observed this phenomenon when he chipped the first lump from the black crystal face.

  Again by accident, while being examined by the crystalographers, the substance’s true properties were discovered. If two identical segments of black quartz were subjected to synchronized magnetic induction, a two-way communication link was established between the crystal segments. When investigators increased the distance between the samples, it was discovered that, unlike other electromagnetic phenomena, black quartz eliminated the time lag.

  Concurrent with the laboratory discoveries and proposed applications of the new crystals came the first of several problems to be solved in the mining of this rich source. The first E and E team had only gathered up loose chips of the various types of crystal, or such larger chunks as had already been fractured from the mother lode. In attempts to cut with ordinary carbon-10 blades, the crystal had shattered. Laser cutters were tried, but they shattered, melted, or damaged the crystal.

  The habit of one of the crystallographers of singing as he worked led to an unexpected solution. The man noticed that some crystal faces would resonate to his voice, and he suggested the use of a subsonic cutter. Though not completely successful, experiments along this line finally produced the sophisticated audio pickup that resonated, amplified, and reduced the required note to set the subsonic diamond blade.

  Once the problem of wresting unblemished crystals from the face was solved, Ballybran was opened to private miners. During the next spate of storms, those miners who heeded the warnings promptly and reached the sheltered valley sustained no injury. The imprudent were discovered in the storm’s wake, dead or mad. Storm winds blowing across the resonant crystal range coaxed enough sonics from the sensitive rock to shatter unprotected minds.

  Keenly aware of the unexplained deaths of the nine miners, everyone became conscious of previously ignored physical discomforts. The meditechs began filing reports of disorientation, hypo- and hyperthermic spells, erratic sense perceptions, muscular spasm and weakness. No one in the several base camps escaped the minor ailments. Most symptoms passed, but some victims found one sense or another—in most cases hearing—to be affected. The medical team was hastily augmented, and everyone was put through exhaustive tests. At first, crystal w
as suspected of inducing the symptoms. However, those handling the crystal off-planet appeared unharmed by contact, while meteorologists and support technicians who never touched the stuff on Ballybran, were also affected. Crystal was absolved. The planet’s ecology then became the prime target for intensive examination, and this area of investigation proved positive. The spore producing the symptoms was soon isolated, and the planet Ballybran was placed on Code 4 as a preventive measure.

  Killashandra turned off the display to ponder that. Anything below Code 15 was a stern prohibition against landing. Ballybran’s spore produced complicated reactions—sometimes fatal—in the human body. Yet the culprit had been isolated, but the planet was still on a Code 4!

  Evasion! Killashandra thought, irritated. She started the display again, but the text now cited the formation of the Heptite Guild. She halted it.

  What was it Andurs had said? “Only Singers leave the planet?” Obviously, the handicapped remained on Ballybran. Twenty-thousand-odd staff and technicians as opposed to Singers. Killashandra snorted. Those were better odds, actually, than the ones against achieving stellar rank in the performing arts. She rather liked that. Yes, but what happened if you weren’t one of the one-in-five? What sort of technical workers were employed?

  She queried the vidifax.

  “Technicians: Ballybran crystal workers, tuners, artificers of crystal drive components and interstellar resonating units, meditechs, programmers, mechanics, therapists, agronomists, caterers . . .” the list continued down to menial functions.

  So, once committed to Ballybran, only Singers left. Well, she’d be a Singer. Killashandra pushed aside the console and, knitting her fingers behind her head, leaned back on the narrow bolster.

  What contributed to that subtle difference between Singer and support staff? Particularly if perfect pitch was a prerequisite to leaving the planet. If infrasonic cutters were used to extract the crystal from the rock face, sheer strength wasn’t the second requisite. Attitude? Aptitude?