Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  Sorting took four days of labor as intense as fighting the storm wind, though presenting less physical danger. The recruits, each working with a qualified sorter, learned a great deal about how not to cut crystal and pack it and which forms were currently profitable. These were in the majority, and most of the experienced sorters directed a constant flow of abuse at Singers who had cut quantities of the commodity then most overstocked.

  “We’ve got three ruddy storage rooms of these,” muttered Enthor, with whom Killashandra was sorting. “It’s blues what we need and want. And blacks, of course. No, no, wrong side. You’ve got to learn,” he said, grabbing the carton Killashandra had just lifted to the sorting table. “First, present the Singer’s ident code.” He turned the box so that the strip, ineradicably etched on the side, would register. “Didn’t have that little bit of help and there’d be war unloading, with cartons getting mixed up every which way and murder going on.”

  Once the ident number went up on the display, the carton was unpacked and each crystal form carefully put on the scale, which computed color, size, weight, form, and perfection. Some crystals Enthor immediately placed on the moving belts, which shunted them to the appropriate level for shipment or storage. Others he himself cocooned in the plastic webbing with meticulous care.

  The sorting process seemed boringly simple. Sometimes it was not easy to retrieve the small crystals that had been thrust at any angle into the protective foam. Killashandra almost missed a small blue octagon before Enthor grabbed the carton she was about to assign to replacement.

  “Lucky for you,” the sorter said darkly, glancing about him, brows wrinkled over his eyes, “that the Singer who cut this wasn’t watching. I’ve seen them try to kill a person for negligence.”

  “For this?” Killashandra held up the octagon, which couldn’t have been more than 8 centimeters in length.

  “For that. It’s unflawed.” Enthor’s quick movement had placed the crystal on the scale and checked its perfection. “Listen!” He set the piece carefully between her thumb and forefinger and flicked slightly.

  Even above the rustling and stamping and low-voiced instructions, Killashandra heard the delicate, pure sound of the crystal. The note seemed to catch in her throat and travel down her bones to her heels.

  “It’s not easy to cut small, and right now this piece’s worth a couple of hundred credits.”

  Killashandra was properly awed and far more painstaking, risking her fingers to search a plasfoam carton that seemed heavier than empty. Enthor scolded her for that, slapping her gloves across her cheek before he tugged one of his off and showed her fingers laced by faint white scars.

  “Crystal does it. Even through gloves and with symbiosis. Yours would fester. I’d get docked for being careless?”

  “Docked?”

  “Loss of work time due to inadequate safety measures is considered deductible. You, too, despite your being a recruit.”

  “We get paid for this?”

  “Certainly.” Enthor was indignant at her ignorance. “And you got danger money for unloading yesterday. Didn’t you know?”

  Killashandra stared at him in surprise.

  “Just like all new recruits.” Enthor chuckled amiably at her discomfort. “Not got over the shock, huh? Get a beaker of juice this morning? Thought so. Everyone does who’s worked in a gale. Does the trick. And no charge for it, either.” He chuckled again at her “All medical treatment’s free, you know.”

  “But you said you got docked—”

  “For stupidity in not taking safety precautions.” He wiggled his fingers, now encased in their tough skin tight gloves, at her. “No, don’t take that carton. I will. Get the next. Fugastri just came in. We don’t want him breathing down your neck. He’s a devil; but he’s never faulted me!”

  “You’re being extremely helpful—”

  “You’re helping me, and we’re both being paid by the same source, this crystal. You might as well know this job properly,” and Enthor’s tone implied that she might not have as good an instructor in any other sector. “You might end up here as a sorter, and we sorters like to have a good time. What’d you say your name was?”

  “Killashandra.”

  “Oh, the person who brought Carrik back?” Enthor’s tone was neither pleased nor approving: he just identified her.

  Obscurely, Killashandra felt better: she wasn’t just an identity lost in the Guild’s memory banks. People besides Class 895 had heard of her.

  “Did you know Carrik?”

  “I know them all, m’dear. And wish I didn’t—However, it’s not a bad life.” He gave another of his friendly chuckles. “A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work and then the best possible domestic conditions.” His grin turned to a knowing leer, and he gave her a nudge. “Yes, you might remember my name while you can, for you won’t if you become a Singer. Enthor, I am, level 4, accommodation 895. That ought to be easy for you to remember, as it’s your class number.”

  “What was yours?” Quickly, Killashandra sought a way to turn the conversation away from his offer.

  “Class number? 502,” he said. “Nothing wrong with my memory.”

  “And you’re not deaf.”

  “Couldn’t sort crystal if I were!”

  “Then what did the symbiont do to you?” She blurted it out before she realized she might be invading his privacy.

  “Eyes, m’dear. Eyes.” He turned and, for the first time, faced her directly. He blinked once, and she gasped. A protective lens retracted at his blink. She saw how huge his irises were, obscuring the original shade of the pupil. He blinked again, and some reddish substance covered the entire eyeball. “That’s why I’m a sorter and why I know which crystals are flawless at a glance. I’m one of the best sorters they’ve ever bad. Lanzecki keeps remarking on my ability. Ah, you’ll shortly see what I mean . . .”

  Another sorter, a disgruntled look on his face, was walking toward them with a carton and escorted by an angry Singer.

  “Your opinion on these blues?” The Singer, his face still bearing the ravages of a long period in the ranges, curtly took the container from the sorter and thrust it at Enthor. Then the Singer, with the rudeness that Killashandra was beginning to observe was the mark of a profession rather than a personality, blocked the view of the sorter whose judgment he had questioned.

  Enthor carefully deposited the carton on his work space and extracted the crystals, one by one, holding them up to his supersensitive eyes for inspection, laying them down in a precise row. There were seven green-blue pyramids, each broader in the base by 2 or 3 centimeters.

  “No flaws perceived. A fine shear edge and good point,” Enthor rendered his opinion in a flat tone markedly different from his conversational style with Killashandra. With an almost finicky precision, he wiped and polished a tiny crystal hammer and tapped each pyramid delicately. The fourth one was a half note, instead of a whole, above the third, and thus a scale was not achieved.

  “Market them in trios and save the imperfect one for a show piece. I recommend that you check your cutter for worn gaskets or fittings. You’re too good a Singer to make such an obvious mistake. Probably the oncoming storm put you off the note.”

  The attempt at diplomacy did not mollify the Singer, whose eyes bulged as he gathered himself to bellow. Enthor appeared not to notice, but the other sorter had stepped backward hastily.

  “Lanzecki!”

  The angry shout produced more than the swift arrival of Lanzecki. A hush fell over the sorting room, and the Singer seemed unaware of it, his savage glance resting on Enthor, who blithely tapped figures into his terminal.

  Killashandra felt a hand on her shoulder and stepped obediently aside to allow Lanzecki to take her place by Enthor. As if aware of the Guild Master’s presence, Enthor again tapped the crystals, the soft tones falling into respectful silence.

  Lanzecki was not listening: he was watching the dials on the scales. One eyebrow twitched as the half tone sounded and
the corresponding digits appeared on the display.

  “Not a large problem, Uyad,” Lanzecki said, turning calmly to the flushed Singer. “You’ve been cutting that face long enough to fill in half tones. I’d suggest you store this set and fill it to octave. Always a good price for pyramids in scale.”

  “Lanzecki . . . I’ve got to get off-planet this time. I have got to get away! I won’t survive another trip to the ranges not until I’ve had time off this bloody planet!”

  “This is but one carton, one set, Uyad-vuic-Holm. Your cargo has been very good according to the input here,” for Lanzecki had made use of the terminal even as Uyad’s manner changed from ire to entreaty. “Yes, I think it’ll be sufficient to take you off-planet for a decent interval. Come, I’ll supervise the sort myself.”

  Simultaneously, several things happened: working noises recommenced in the room; Lanzecki was guiding the distressed Singer to another sorting slide, his manner encouraging rather than condescending, which Killashandra could not help but admire in the Guild Master; the other sorter had returned to his position. Enthor swiftly packed the offending pyramids, marked their container, and dealt it to a little-used slide above his head, then, seeing her bemused, gave her a friendly dig in the ribs.

  “An even, pace makes light of the biggest load. Another box, m’dear.”

  Even pace or not, they didn’t seem to be making much of an impression on the mound of containers waiting to be sorted. What made a repetitive day interesting was the tremendous input of information Enthor divulged on crystal, grading, sound, and disposition. When he noticed she was taking a keen interest in the valuations, he chided her.

  “Don’t sweat your head remembering prices, m’dear. Change every day. Value’s computed by the Marketing Office before we start sorting, but tomorrow, values might be totally different. One aspect of crystal’s enough for me to cope with: I leave the merchandising to others. Ah, now here’s beauty in rose quartz! Just look at the shading, the cut. Dooth’s work, or I miss my guess,” and Enthor peered at the carton, blinking his eyes for a lens change. “I don’t. I’d know his cut among the whole roster’s.”

  “Why?” Killashandra leaned closer to inspect the octagon. It was beautiful, a deep pale pink with a purple tinge, but she couldn’t understand Enthor’s enthusiasm.

  The sorter took a deep breath as if to explain and then exhaled sharply.

  “Ah, but if you knew, you’d have my rating, wouldn’t you?” He blinked again and regarded her with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes.

  “Not necessarily,” she replied. “I’d prefer to sing crystal . . .”

  Enthor looked from her to the rose octagon. “Yes, perhaps you would at that. However, I recognize Dooth’s cut when I see it. When—if—you cut crystal, you will know crystal that is so fine, so rare.”

  With both hands, he laid the heavy jewel on the scale plate, running two fingers over his lips as he watched the configurations change and settle.

  “I thought you said there was a surplus of rose crystal . . .”

  “Not of this weight, color, or octagonal,” he said, his fingers tapping out a sequence. “I happen to have heard”— and Enthor lowered his voice—“that someone very highly placed in the Federated Planets is looking for large pieces this hue.” He lifted the octagon to the coating rack where the deep pink was swiftly cocooned from sight with plastic webbing, and at a touch of his finger on the terminal, an identifying code was stippled along the hardening surface.

  At the close of the first day of sorting, Killashandra felt as tired as she had after unloading in the gale. She said as much as Shillawn and Rimbol joined her in a weary trudge to their lounge.

  “We’re getting paid for our efforts,” Shillawn said by way of cheering them.

  “Yesterday we got a danger bonus as well,” Killashandra said, not to be outdone.

  “Making use of the data banks, are you?” Rimbol asked, grinning at her with some malice. Killashandra hadn’t admitted to him that she’d taken a skimmer out the evening before the storm, but he’d known.

  “Told we were. Available to us is the data.” Killashandra so aptly mimicked Tukolom’s ponderous tones that she had the other two laughing. “I’m going for a shower. See you in the lounge later?”

  Rimbol nodded, and so did Shillawn.

  In the catering slot by her bed was another beaker of the lemon liquid. She drank it and had her shower, by the end of which she felt sufficiently revived to enjoy a quiet evening at dice with Rimbol and Shillawn.

  Though no more peevish crystal cutters added excitement to the sorting routine during the next three days, Killashandra did have an unusual slice of luck. Halfway through the second day, Lanzecki and the handsome woman Killashandra guessed must be the chief marketing officer walked swiftly into the sorting room and marched right up to Enthor.

  “Gorren’s conscious. Muttering about black crystal. Have any of his cartons been released to you yet?”

  “By my bones, no!” Enthor was shocked and amazed. Shocked, he later confided to Killashandra, that Gorren’s cuttings had been stored separately and amazed because he hadn’t known that Gorren had returned. He’d half expected to hear, Enthor continued solemnly, that Gorren had been one of the Singers trapped in the ranges by the storm. Gorren’s black crystals were always entrusted to Enthor for evaluation.

  A work force was hastily assembled in the sorting room, checking the labels of the many boxes still waiting evaluation. The group that had unloaded Gorren’s ship—his had been the one to overturn—were identified and summoned. Fortunately, the handlers were regular hangar personnel, and since they had known the cartons were Gorren’s and valuable, they had placed them on a top layer, fifth stack, with buffering layers on either side.

  Reverently, the eleven valuable cartons were handed down. Since it had been impressed constantly on Killashandra that very little could damage these specially constructed boxes or their contents, and she’d seen some of these same men indifferently lobbing cartons through the air to one another, she reflected that the presence of Lanzecki and Chief Marketing Officer Heglana had a salutary effect.

  She was more surprised to see the two officials each take up a carton and was delighted when Enthor, his expression severe, pressed one firmly into her body, waiting until she had grasped the handles tightly.

  Killashandra was elated by Enthor’s confidence in her and walked the short distance back to the sorting room with the black crystal crammed against her breasts. Unaccountably, she was trembling with tension when she deposited her burden safely beside the others.

  Later, she remembered that Enthor had moved with his normal dispatch to unpack: it was probably just because so many important people were watching and she herself caught their suppressed excitement that Enthor appeared to be dawdling. Tension can be transferred, and the sorting room was certainly crackling despite the hush. Those at nearby sorting tables had managed to be in positions to observe the unpacking, while those not directly in the Guild Master’s view had suspended work completely, watching.

  As Enthor lifted the first black crystal from its protecting foam, a sigh rippled through the watchers.

  “Flipped right over, didn’t he?” Heglana remarked, and made a clicking sound in her throat. Lanzecki nodded, his eyes on Enthor’s hands.

  The second black was larger, and to Killashandra’s surprise, Enthor did not place it safely apart from the first but against the first where it seemed to fit securely. She felt a tingle at the very base of her head that spread upward across her skull. She shook her head, and the sensation dissipated. Not for long. A third, the largest crystal, fit against the second, a fourth and a fifth. The tingle in her head became a tightening of the scalp. Or was it her head bones pressing outward against her skin, stretching it?

  “Five matched crystals. Gorren hadn’t imagined it.” Lanzecki’s voice was level, but Killashandra sensed his satisfaction with such a cut. “Quality?”

  “High, Lanzecki,” Enthor re
plied calmly. “Not his best cut, but I dare say the flaws, minute as they are, will not impair the function if the units are not too far separated.”

  “Five is a respectable link,” Heglana said, “for an interplanetary network.”

  “Where are the flaws? In the king crystal?”

  “No, Lanzecki”—Enthor’s fingers caressed the largest of the five as if reassuring it—“in the first and fifth of the cut.” He gestured to either side. “Marginal.” He deftly transferred the interlocking quintet to the scales and ordered his sequence. The display rested at a figure that would have made Killashandra exclaim aloud had she not been in such company.

  Whoever Gorren was, he had just made a fortune. She mentally deducted the requisite 30 percent tithe. So Gorren had a small fortune, and there were ten more cartons to unpack.

  Enthor removed the contents of three containers while Lanzecki and Heglana observed. Killashandra was somewhat disappointed by these, though the two watching nodded in satisfaction. The smaller units were not as impressive, though one set contained twelve interlocking pieces, the “king” crystal no longer than her hand at octave stretch and no thicker than her finger.

  “He may be down to the base of this cutting,” Lanzecki said as the fourth container was emptied. “Proceed, Enthor, but transfer the total to my office for immediate display, will you?” With an inclination of his head to Enthor, he and Heglana swiftly left the sorting room.

  A universal sigh ran about the room and activity picked up on all the other tables.

  “I don’t think we’ve come to the prize yet, Killashandra,” Enthor said, frowning. “The hairs on the crest of m’neckio . . .”