Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Crystal touches that way, too,” she said when she could talk.

  “I know,” he murmured, his voice oddly rough, and as if to forestall her reply, he began to kiss her in a fashion that excluded opportunity.

  She awoke alone, as she had expected, and much later than she had planned, for the time was late evening. She yawned prodigiously, stretched, and wondered if another radiant bath would further her restoration. Then her belly rumbled, and she decided food was the more immediate concern. No sooner had she dialed for a hot drink than a message was displayed on her screen for her to contact the Guild Master when convenient.

  She did so promptly before she considered convenience, expedience, or opportunity.

  Her reply was cleared immediately, and her screen produced a visual contact with the Guild Master. He was surrounded by printout sheets and looked tired.

  “Have you rested?” Lanzecki asked. Belatedly, Killashandra activated her own screen. “Yes, you look considerably improved.”

  “Improved?”

  A slight smile tugged at his lips. “From the stress and fatigue of your dramatic return.” Then his expression changed, and Lanzecki became Guild Master. “Will you please come to my office to discuss an extraplanetary assignment?”

  “Will,” not “would,” Killashandra thought, sensitive to key words.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve eaten and gotten dressed.” He nodded and broke contact.

  As she sipped the last of the drink, she took a long look at herself in the mirrors of the tankroom. She’d never been vain about her appearance. She had good strong face bones, wide cheeks, a high forehead, and thick, well-arched eyebrows, which she had not narrowed, as the natural emphasis made a good stage effect. Her jaw was strong, and she was losing the jowl muscles formed by singing. She slapped at the sides of her chin. No flab. Whatever produced the gaunt aspect of her face was reflected in her body. She noticed how prominent her collarbones were. If her appearance was now an improvement, according to Lanzecki, whatever had she looked like the previous day? Right now, she wouldn’t have needed face paint to play Space Hag or Warp Widow.

  She found something loose and filmy to wear, with ends that tied about her neck and wrists and a long full skirt. She stood back from the mirrors and did a half turn, startled by her full-length reflection. Something had changed. Just what she couldn’t puzzle out; she had to see the Guild Master.

  She was almost to the lift shaft when a group emerged from the Commons.

  “Killashandra?”

  “Rimbol?” Killashandra mocked his surprised query with a light laugh. “You ought to know me!”

  Rimbol gave her an odd grin that relaxed into his usual ingenuous smile. Jezerey, Mistra, and Barton were with him.

  “Well, you’re more like yourself this evening than you were yesterday,” Rimbol replied. He scratched his head in embarrassment, grinning ruefully at the others. “I didn’t believe Concera when she kept saying singing crystals makes a big change, but now I do.”

  “I don’t think I’ve changed,” Killashandra replied stiffly, annoyed that Rimbol and, by their expressions, the others could perceive what eluded her.

  Rimbol laughed. “Well, you’ve used your mirror”—and he indicated her careful grooming—“but you haven’t seen.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Rimbol made a grimace of apology for her sharp tone.

  “Singers are notorious for their irritability,” Jezerey said with an uncordial look.

  “Oh, pack that in, Jez,” Rimbol said. “Killa is just in off the ranges. Is it as bad as it’s made out, Killa?” He couched that question in a quiet tone.

  “I would have been fine if I hadn’t had to deal with Moksoon.”

  “Or the Guild Master.” Rimbol was sympathetic.

  “Oh, you stayed on?” Killashandra decided to brazen through that episode. “He was quite right, of course. And I pass on that hard-learned lesson. Save your own sled and skin in the ranges. Will you be around later, Rimbol? I’ve got to see Lanzecki now.” She allowed her voice to drop, expressing dread and looking for sympathy in their expressions. “I’d like to join you later if you’re in the lounge.”

  “Good luck!” Rimbol said, and he meant it. The others waved encouragingly as she entered the lift.

  She had much to think about during the short drop, and none of it about her interview with Lanzecki. How could she have changed so much in the past few days just by cutting crystal? Jezerey had never been overly friendly, but she had never been antagonistic. She was annoyed with herself, too, for that offhanded reassurance to Rimbol. “I would have been fine without Moksoon.” Yet how could she possibly have explained the experience that had annealed her, confirmed her as a Crystal Singer? Maybe, alone with Rimbol, she would try to explain, forewarn him that once past the curious unpainful agony of the initial cut, there was an elevation to a totally bizarre ecstasy that could only be savored briefly or it overwhelmed mind, nerve, and senses.

  She sighed, standing before the door to the Guild Master’s office. In the second between the announcement of her presence and the panel’s smooth retraction, she remembered how hard Concera had tried to explain some facets of crystal singing. She recalled the odd harsh tone in which Lanzecki had admitted knowledge of the tactile feel of crystal.

  “Killashandra Ree.” Lanzecki’s voice came from the corner of his large office, and she saw him bent over a spotlighted work surface, layers of printout in front of him. He did not look up from his research until she reached him. “Did you have enough to eat?” he asked with more than ordinary courtesy and a close scrutiny of her face.

  “I had a high-protein and glucose cereal—” she began because, as soon as he mentioned eating, she felt hungry again.

  “Hmmm. A bowl was all you had time for, I’m sure. You’ve slept sixteen hours, so you’ve missed considerable nourishment already.”

  “I did eat in the ranges. Really I did,” she protested as he took her hand and led her to the catering console.

  “You’ve still wit enough to feed yourself, but you can’t know how immensely important it is to replenish reserves at this point.”

  “I won’t be able to eat all that.” She was appalled at the number and variety of dishes he was dialing.

  “I get peckish myself, you know,” he said, grinning.

  “What happens that I need to eat myself gross?” she asked, but she helped him clear the catering slot of its first deposit, sniffing appreciatively at the enticing mixture of aromas from the platters.

  “You’ll never see a plump Singer,” he assured her. “In your particular case, the symbiont is only just settled into cell tissue. A Milekey transition may be easier on the host, but the spore still requires time to multiply, differentiate, and become systemically absorbed. Here, start with this soup. Weather and other considerations compelled me to direct you into the ranges prematurely as far as the process of your adaptation is concerned.” He gave her a sardonic glance. “You may one day be grateful that you had only two days on your claim.”

  “Actually three. I didn’t spend two with that twithead Moksoon. He’s utterly paranoid!”

  “He’s alive,” Lanzecki replied succinctly, with sufficient undertone to make the statement both accusation and indictment. “Three days! In ordinary training, you would not have gone out into the ranges until the others were also prepared.”

  “They won’t make it out before the Passover storms now.” Killashandra was dismayed. If she had had to wait that long . . .

  “Precisely. You were trained, eager and clever enough to precipitate the event.”

  “And you wanted that black crystal.”

  “So, my dearling, did you.”

  The caterer chimed urgently to remind them to clear the slot for additional selections. Lanzecki slapped a hold on the remainder of the programmed order.

  “Even with your help, I’ll never eat all this,” Killashandra said after they had filled the small table a
nd three more dishes remained in the slot.

  “Listen to me while you eat. The symbiont will be attenuated after intense cutting. I could see that in your face. Don’t talk. Eat! I had to be sure you ate last night, once the radiant fluid had eased your nerves. Your metabolism must be efficient. I would have thought you’d been awakened by hunger a good four hours ago.”

  “I was eating when I got your message.”

  He grinned as he inserted a steaming, seeded appetizer into his mouth. He licked his fingers as he chewed, then said, “My message was programmed the moment your caterer was used.” He stuffed another piece of appetizer into her mouth. “Don’t talk. Eat.”

  Whatever it was he fed her was exceedingly tasty. She speared another.

  “Now, several unexpected elements are in display. One”—and he ate a spoonful of small brilliant green spheres—“you brought in five medium black crystals for which we have received an urgent request.” He waved his empty spoon at the printout layers on his desk. “Two, you have no sled, nor can Manufacturing produce a replacement before the Passover storms. Which, by the way, were heralded by that unpredicted blow in the Bay area. Short, hard, but destructive. Even though conjunction occurs over the seas north and east of this continent, Passover is going to be particularly nasty, as it coincides with spring solstice. Weather is generally cyclical on Ballybran, and the pattern which has been emerging coincides with ’63 . . . 2863GY, that is—eat, don’t gawk. Surely you have wandered through data retrieval, Killashandra, and discovered how long I’ve been a member. Fuerte cannot have eradicated human curiosity, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  She swallowed as the significance of his qualifying the century occurred to her.

  “But not how long you’ve been Guild Master.”

  He chuckled at her quick reply, passing a dish of stewed orange-and-green milsi stalks to her. “Excellent for trace minerals. The Passover turbulence will be phenomenal even in terms of Ballybran’s meteorological history. Which, I might add, goes back further than I do. Don’t choke now!” he rose to give her a deft thump between her shoulder blades. “Even the infirmary level will shake. You, so recently exposed to crystal for the first time, will be severely affected by the stress. I can, as Guild Master, order you off Ballybran,” and his face fell into harsh immobile lines, impersonal and implacable. But his mouth softened when he saw her determined expression. “However, I would prefer that you cooperate. The five blacks you brought in are currently, if you’ll forgive the pun, being tuned and should be ready for shipment. I would like to assign you to take them to the Trundimoux System and install them.”

  “This duty will provide me with the margin of credit for my future foolishness?”

  Lanzecki chuckled appreciatively.

  “Think about the assignment while you eat some fried steakbean.”

  “It is, then, a suggestion?” she asked around a large mouthful of tasty legume.

  “It is—now—a suggestion.” His face, mouth, and tone were bland. “The storms will soon be hammering the ranges and forcing Singers in. Others would undertake the assignment happily, especially those who haven’t cut enough crystal to get off-world at Passover.”

  “I thought Passover was an incredible spectacle.”

  “It is. Raw natural forces at their most destructive.” A lift to his shoulders suggested that it was a spectacle to which he was inured and yet . . .

  “Do you leave during Passover?”

  He gave her a keen glance, his dark eyes reflecting the spotlights over his work desk.

  “The Guild Master is always accessible during Passover.” He offered her some lemon-yellow cubes. “A sharpish cheese, but it complements the steakbean.”

  “Hmmm. Yes, it does.”

  “Help yourself.” He rose and took the next dishes from the catering slot, which had been maintaining them at the appropriate heat. “Will you have something to drink?”

  “Yarran beer, please.” She had a sudden craving for the taste of hops.

  “Good choice. I’ll join you.”

  She glanced at him, arrested by some slight alteration of tone, but his back was to her.

  “Rimbol’s from Scartine, isn’t he?” Lanzecki asked, returning with a pitcher and two beakers. He poured with a proper respect for the head of foam. “He should cut well in the darker shades. Perhaps black, if he can find a vein.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “A question of resonance, also of the degree of adaptation. Jezerey will do lighter blues, pinks, paler greens. Borton will also tend to cut well in the darker. I hope they team up.”

  “Do you know who will cut what?”

  “I am not in a position to imply anything, merely venture an informed guess. After all, the Guild has been operating for over four hundred years galactic, all that time collecting and collating information on its members. It would show a scandalous want of probity not to attempt more than merely a determination of probability of adjustment to Ballybran spore symbiosis.”

  “You sound like Borella’s come-all-ye pitch,” Killashandra replied.

  Lanzecki’s lips twitched in an amusement that was echoed by the sparkle in his brilliant eyes. “I do believe I’m quoting—but whom, I’ve forgotten. How about some pepper fruit? Goes with the beer. I’ve ordered some ices to clear the palate. A very old and civilized course but not one taken with beer.” As he passed her the plate, the tangy scent of the long thin furry fingers did tempt her to try one. “As I was saying, by the time candidates are through the Shankill checkpoint, as many variables as can be resolved have been.” He began to pile empty plates and dishes into one untidy stack, and she realized that while he had sampled everything, she had eaten far more. Yet she didn’t feel uncomfortably full. “You ought to have been shown the probability graph,” he said, frowning as he rose. He tossed the discards deftly into the waste chute before pausing yet again at the catering slot.

  “We were.” She nibbled at another pepper fruit while wondering why his face showed no trace of aging. He wasn’t singing crystal anymore, but that was the ostensible reason for the specious youthfulness. “We were told nothing about individual capabilities or forecasts.”

  “Why should you be? That would create all sorts of unnecessary problems.” He set two dishes of varicolor sherbets, two wine glasses, and a frosty bottle on the table.

  “I couldn’t eat another thing.”

  “No? Try a spoonful of the green. Very settling to the stomach and clears the mouth.” He seated himself and poured the wine. “The one critical point is still adaptation. The psychological attitude, Antona feels, rather than the physical. That space worker, Carigana, should not have died.” Lanzecki’s expression was one of impersonal regret. “We can generally gauge the severity of transition and are prepared for contingencies.”

  Killashandra thought of the smooth disappearances of Rimbol and Mistra during the night, of meditechs collecting Jezerey before she had fallen to the plascrete. She also recalled her indignation over “condition satisfactory.”

  “How do you like the wine?”

  “Does it have to be so mechanical?”

  “The wine?”

  “The whole process.”

  “Every care is taken, my dear Killashandra,” and Lanzecki’s tone reminded her incontrovertibly that he was Guild Master and that the procedure she wished to protest was probably of his institution.

  “The wine’s fine.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate it.” His response was as dry as the wine. “Not much is left to chance in recruiting. Tukolom may be a prosy bore, but he has a curious sensitivity to illness which makes him especially effective in his role as tutor.”

  “Then it was known that I—”

  “You were not predicted.” He used the slightest pause between each word for emphasis, and raising his glass to her, took a sip.

  “And . . .” it was not coquetry in Killashandra that caused her to prompt him but the strongest feeling that he had been a
bout to add a rider to that surprise comment.

  “And certainly not a Milekey, nor resonant to black crystal. Perhaps”—and his quick reply did, she was positive, mask thoughts unspoken—“we should initiate handling crystal with recruits as soon as possible. But”—and he shrugged—“we can’t program convenient storms which require all-member participation.”

  “Rimbol said you couldn’t have planned that storm.”

  “Perceptive of him. How did those ices go down?”

  “They went.” She was surprised to find dish, bottle, and wine glasses empty.

  “Fine. Than we can start on more.”

  “More?” But already a pungent spicy odor emanating from the caterer had sharpened her appetite. “I’ll bloat.”

  “Very unlikely. Had you gone out with your class, this is exactly what would have been served on your return from the ranges. Yarran beer, since you have cultivated a taste for it, would be appropriate to wash down the spicefish.” He dialed for more. “Beer has also, for millennia, had another normal effect on the alimentary system.”

  His comment, delivered in a slightly pompous tone, made her laugh. So she ate the spicefish, drank the beer, responded to certain natural effects of it, and, at one point, realized that Lanzecki had coaxed, diverted, bullied her into continuously consuming food for nearly three hours. By then, her satiation was such that when Lanzecki casually repeated his suggestion that she install the black crystal, she agreed to consider it.

  “Is that why you’ve stuffed and drunken me?” she demanded, sitting erect to feign indignation.

  “Not entirely. I have given you sufficient food to restore your symbiont and enough drink to relax you.” He smiled away her defective grammar and any accusation of coercion. “I do not wish you to endure Passover’s mach storms. You might be ten levels underground, buffered by plascrete a meter thick, but the resonances cannot be”—he paused, averted his face, searching for the precise word—“escaped.” He turned back to her, and his eyes, dark and subtly pained, held hers, his petition heightened by the uncharacteristic difficulty in expressing his concern.