Crystal Singer

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Too long and not long enough,” the Yarran replied, his jolly face lengthening into sadness. He sighed heavily, taking the fresh beaker and sipping at it slowly. How the man could become homesick on one glass of flat beer, Killashandra wasn’t certain. “However, it was of my choosing, and we Yarrans make the best of everything and everything of the best.”

  Unexpectedly the harsh buzzer that announced watch changes penetrated the room. Killashandra took that opportunity to excuse herself from the mess.

  Tac, for she’d seen Tic go off with the duty crew, guided Killashandra through the maze of companionways to her cell. As she slipped out of her caftan, she wondered how she was going to endure six days of this. And how was she going to replenish her symbiont on the gundge that was served? She was thinking that flat Yarran beer had a more soporific effect than the proper stuff as she fell asleep.

  The next morning, it abruptly occurred to her that if Pendel had Yarran beer in his private supplies, he might have other delicacies, so she asked Tic, then on duty, to lead her to the supercargo’s office.

  She felt crystal as she passed a sealed and barred hatch, grinning over the useless precautions. For who could steal crystal in space? Or were the Trundies afraid of crystal’s ensnaring the unwary? She experienced a start of amazement as Tic, after merely rapping on the panel, pulled it aside and entered. Presumably, Yarrans did not object to casual invasions of their privacy. Pendel was on his feet and full of genial welcomes in a cabin only slighter larger than hers. All three had to stand in close proximity to fit beside the bunk table. There were, however, a basket of fruit and a half-finished beaker of Yarran beer on the shelf.

  “How may I serve you?” Pendel asked, smiling at Tic as he waved her out and closed the panel behind her.

  Killashandra explained, giving him the list of Antona’s suggested diet.

  “Ah, I can supply you with these and more. What they choose to eat”—and he waved his hand in the general direction of the control section amidships—“is well enough if one is not used to better. But you, Guild Member—”

  “Killashandra, please . . .”

  “Yes? Well, thank you, Killashandra. You have been accustomed to the very best that the galaxy has to offer—”

  “So long as my immediate dietary requirements are met”—and Killashandra pointed to Antona’s list—“I will have no complaint.” She could not help eying the fruit basket wistfully.

  “Haven’t you eaten yet this morning?” Appalled, Pendel deposited the basket in her hands, turning past her to haul back the panel and roaring at Tic, standing on guard. “Breakfast, immediately, and none of the glop.” He glanced at the list. “Rations twenty-three and forty-eight and a second issue of fruit.”

  Consternation at having to relay such an order warred with fear in Tic’s face.

  “Go on, girl. Go on. I’ve given the order!” Pendel assured her.

  “And I have seconded it!” Killashandra added firmly. Then she bit into a red fruit to ease the gnawing in her belly.

  Pendel slid the panel closed and smiled with anticipatory glee. “Of course, we’ll have Chasurt down in a pico . . .” The super rubbed his hands together. “Those rations are his. He’s the medic,” Pendel grimaced as he added, “with far more experience in space-freeze and laser burn. The rations contain just what your list specifies, high in trace minerals, potassium, calcium and such like.”

  The food and the medic arrived at the same time. But for Pendel’s smooth intervention, Killashandra’s breakfast would have been confiscated from Tic’s nerveless hands by the irate Chasurt.

  “Who gave orders to release my rations?” Chasurt, a stolidly built, blank-faced man of the late middle decades, reminded Killashandra of Maestro Valdi in his outraged indignation.

  “I did!” said Pendel and Killashandra in chorus. Pendel took the tray from Tic’s shaking hands and smoothly transferred it to Killashandra, who, moving herself and Chasurt’s rations to the farthest corner of the cabin, left Pendel to impede Chasurt’s effort at retrieval.

  Eating with a speed not entirely generated by hunger, Killashandra consumed the hot cereal and nutmeat compound. Pendel was trying to get Chasurt to examine Antona’s list, and Chasurt was demanding to know what he was to do if a real emergency were to occur, one in which sick people would need the rations that this—this—obviously healthy woman was devouring. The medic did not approve of Killashandra’s haste. That Pendel had the right to order such rations seemed to infuriate Chasurt even more, and by the time Killashandra had finished the second dish, she felt obliged to interfere.

  “Lieutenant Chasurt—”

  “Captain! Guild Member,” and, puce with the added insult, the man pointed to the rank emblem at his neck.

  “All right, Captain.” Killashandra accorded him an apologetic inclination of her head, “Pendel is acting on my behalf, obeying my instructions, which were firmly impressed on me by Chief Medical Research Officer Antona of the Heptite Guild Ballybran. It was understood by my Guild Master and myself that my requirements would be met on this voyage. If I am physically unfit to complete the installations, all your efforts will have been an expensive waste, and your system still incommunicado. I am given to understand that the journey to your system is not a long one, so I cannot think that my modest dietary needs will seriously deplete the resources of a newly commissioned 78. Will they?”

  Chasurt’s face had reflected several emotions as she spoke, and Killashandra, though not as adept as Lanzecki in reading body language, received the impression that Chasurt would have preferred the system to lose the interplanetary link. But that was an irrational premise, and she decided that Chasurt must be one of those officious people who must constantly be deferred to and flattered. She remembered Amon’s advice and realized its merit with this sort of personality.

  “Not wishing to remind you, Captain Chasurt, that in the Federated Sentient Planets’ hierarchy, as a Guild Member traveling on Heptite Guild business, I outrank everyone on this ship, including Captain Francu, I will suggest that you check your data retrieval under Crystal Singers and be thus reassured in your dealings with me on this journey. Now, just pass me the fruit.”

  Chasurt had intercepted that basket, delivered during Killashandra’s reply.

  “Trace minerals are especially important for us,” she said, smoothly reaching out to take the basket. She had to secure it with a bit of a jerk. Chasurt was livid. Killashandra nodded pleasantly at Tic and dismissed her before closing the panel on Chasurt’s fury.

  Pendel raised his Yarran beer in salute to Killashandra as he leaned against the wall.

  “We’ll have the captain next, you know.”

  “You seem to manage them rather well,” Killashandra said between bites of the tangy redfruit.

  “They can’t get rid of me,” Pendel chuckled, pressing the side of his nose and winking at her. “I’m employed by the Mining Consortium, not the Trundie Council. The MC is still keying the priorities. Oh, they’re not bad sorts for parochial chaps with metal on the mind. They’ll change. They’ll change now for sure.” Pendel swept his beaker from her to the sealed cabin where the crystal was secured.

  “Do I have the suspicion that not all concerned wish to change?”

  Pendel gave a laugh. “And when has that been news?”

  A peculiar squawk was emitted by the communit, and Pendel winked at Killashandra.

  “Captain here, super. What’s this about special rations being issued without consultation?”

  “Captain Francu”—Pendel’s tone was a drawl, just short of insult—“I believe the orders read that Guild Member Ree’s requirements are to be met by the—”

  “They told me she didn’t require anything special.”

  “Guild Member Ree doesn’t require anything special, but as I’ve been telling you, the mess served on this ship isn’t universally nourishing or satisfying. Chasurt has more than enough in stores. I should know. I buy for him.”

  There wa
sn’t an audible click at the end of the exchange, but the captain’s complaint had been dismissed. Killashandra regarded Pendel with more respect.

  “Hard worker, that Francu. Runs a tight ship. Never lost a person. Just the sort of man to trust the newest ship to.” Pendel rubbed the side of his nose, his broad grin implying all the negative facets of Captain Francu that he did not voice.

  “I appreciate your cooperation and support, Pendel, almost as much as the beer. One more favor, if it’s possible. Do I have to listen to all the ship’s business?” Another harsh buzz punctuated her request.

  “Just leave it with me, Killashandra,” Pendel said comfortably. “I’ll send round some handy rations for you in the meantime.” He gestured apologetically at the plates and chips piled on the printouts on his desk, and she took the hint. She also took the second bowl of fruit, winking at Pendel as she left.

  The man contrived well and shortly after Tic led her back to her dinky cabin, the unnerving sounds of command were muted.

  Tic arrived, tapping politely and waiting for Killashandra’s acknowledgment, with parcels of plain plastic in both hands. One was a variety of the special rations, the other an array of food. Tic kept her eyes averted from that luxury, but Killashandra perceived that any generosity from her would be ill advised. She thanked Tic and dismissed her until evening mess. Killashandra knew that she had to put in at least one appearance a day and sighed at the thought of such boredom. While she munched on Chasurt’s prized packages, she occupied herself by studying the deck plan of the 78. Even as she watched, certain sections were updated and changed for purposes that escaped her. Was this to be a cargo ship, a passenger liner, or a training vessel? Its specifications meant nothing to her, but the length of the numericals was impressive.

  She was duly escorted to the officers’ mess, Chasurt and Francu mercifully absent, so she chatted with Tallaf, an agreeable enough young man without his captain’s presence to inhibit him, though when he got flustered, his neck had the tendency to puff out. He admitted to being planet-bred, educated for his duties as executive in theoretics rather than the practical. Most of the other officers and crew members were space or station born. His tone was a shade wistful, as if he regretted the difference between himself and his shipmates.

  “I understand that your system has been isolated due to poor communications,” Killashandra said conversationally.

  Tallaf looked anxiously around him.

  “I also understand that a step forward is not generally popular.”

  Tallaf regarded her with awe.

  “Oh, come now, Tallaf,” Killashandra said in a teasing voice, “that’s been obvious to me since I boarded. I assure you, it’s not an unusual phenomenon.”

  “Crystal Singers get to go everywhere, don’t they?” An ingenuous envy flickered across his face.

  “Not necessarily. This is an unusual assignment for an unusual world and unusual circumstances.” Tallaf preened a little at the implied compliment to his system. “Quite an achievement for an emergent political unit”—Killashandra was a little awed by her own eloquence—“to purchase a 78 and black crystals.”

  She watched Tallaf keenly as she spoke and decided that the young engineer was evidently for instant interstellar communications. She wondered briefly how the split of support went—spacers against planetaries or parochials against galactics. She sighed, wishing someone had given her more data on the Trundies. Perhaps there just wasn’t much in the galactography.

  Pendel arrived, smiling pleasantly to the small groups of officers standing around. It was then that Killashandra realized that she and Tallaf had formed a solitary pair. She smiled more graciously at Tallaf for his fortitude as a crewman appeared from the galley with two beakers of Yarran ale. Tallaf drifted away discreetly, and Killashandra toasted Pendel, whose jolly self evidently masked considerable prestige.

  Pendel chuckled. “Good boy, that Tallaf.”

  “He’s for crystal?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. That’s why he’s exec this trip. His first.” Pendel’s affable smile was truly in place as he glanced around the messroom. Killashandra was certain he knew exactly who should be there and who wasn’t. “Not bad at all for a shakedown crew.” Killashandra wondered what the deficiencies were. “A man looks for certain goals at certain times of his life,” and his eyes caught hers over the rim of the Yarran beer glass. “Adventure brought me to this system two and a half decades ago. My timing was right. They urgently needed an experienced supercargo. They were being done out of their sockets on cargo rates.” Pendel’s tone was laden with remembered indignation. Then he smiled. “Can’t do business properly without proper communication.”

  “Which is why crystal and this 78 are so important!” She tilted her glass toward him as if Pendel had single-handedly accomplished all. “You Yarrans are known for your perspicacity. Quite a few from your system have become Crystal Singers . . .” She was subtly aware of Pendel’s reaction. “Oh, come now, Pendel,” she continued smoothly, for if she couldn’t have this man’s support, she might well be left in Chasurt’s hands, and that wouldn’t suit. “Surely you don’t believe the spaceflot about Crystal Singers?” She contrived a very amused gurgle of laughter.

  “Of course not,” and Pendel shrugged negligently, though his smile was not quite as assured.

  “Especially now you’ve met and talked with me and discovered a Crystal Singer is as human as anyone on board this ship. Or”—and Killashandra glanced about the messroom and its subdued occupants—“perhaps a bit more so.”

  Pendel surveyed his fellow officers and grimaced.

  “At least I can appreciate a proper brew,” Killashandra continued, inwardly suppressing both apprehension and amusement. Pendel was nowhere near as cosmopolitan as he liked to appear, though in contrast to the other Trundies, he was tolerably informed about the galaxy. Somehow Killashandra must contrive to keep a friendly distance from him. “I do give them credit,” and she glanced around her with an air of compliment.

  “So evidently does the Heptite Guild.” Pendel had recovered his basic optimism. “But none of us expected a Crystal Singer would install the things.”

  “The Federated Sentient Planets have their own schedule of priorities. Ours not to reason why.” Killashandra couldn’t remember where that line came from, but it seemed to apply.

  Fortunately, the steaming platters and trays of their evening meal arrived, and Killashandra noted that only she and Pendel were served the one appetizing selection.

  Without the repressive presence of Captain Francu and Chasurt, Killashandra managed to draw into conversation most of the older officers. Though the youngsters were far too shy to speak, she could sense that they were listening very closely and storing every word exchanged. The subs were still malleable, and if she could influence them favorably and maintain Pendel’s good will by judicious flattery, she’d have done more than she’d been contracted to do. And the Trundies would need more crystal.

  That night, as she stretched out on the appallingly hard bunk, she reviewed her extravagant performance of that evening. “Crystalline cuckoo” and “silicate spider,” Maestro Valdi had called Crystal Singers. She thought she knew why now: the survival instincts of the symbiont. And judging from Pendel’s subconscious reaction to her, she knew why the symbiont remained a trade secret. There were, she decided, more invidious threats than giving space and survival to a species that paid good value with the rent.

  CHAPTER 12

  Killashandra made good use of her next five days, having Tic or Tac lead her on exercise walks about the cruiser, dropping hints about the exacting nature of her work and how she had to keep fit. The silicate spider preparing its web for a Passover sleep. She had a few uncomplimentary thoughts about the Guild, mainly Lanzecki, for sending her among the uninformed without a hint that the Trundimoux were so parochial.

  She did a great deal of listening to the subordinates when they relaxed enough to talk in her presence and to the gener
al conversations, mostly good-natured slagging among work teams. She learned a great deal about the short and awesome history of the Trundimoux system and stopped referring to them as Trundies in the privacy of her thoughts.

  As it had Pendel, the system had attracted many restless and adventurous people, a percentage of them either physically or temperamentally unsuited to the hazards. The survivors bred quickly and hugely, and natural selection again discarded the weaknesses and the weaker, some of whom could usefully work in the relative safety of the larger mining units. The second generation, who survived the rigors of knocking likely chunks of the suburanic metals out of orbit and jockeying their payloads into long drone strings, those hardy souls perpetuated their genes and became yet another variant of human. This system was, in its own way, as unique as Ballybran’s, its entrance requirements as stringent and its workers as rigorously trained.

  One night while juggling those elements in her mind—the dangers of space as opposed to the physical tests on Shankill—Killashandra waxed philosophical. The galaxy was not merely physical satellites circling flaming primaries but overlapping and intertwining metaphysical ones. She was currently the bridge between two such star systems and two totally opposite mental attitudes. She’d use the charm of one to survive in the other.

  The Trundimoux had already developed some strong traditions, the evening’s solemn dedication of the officers to their system’s survival, the worship of water, a callousness toward death, a curious distrust of out-system manufactured equipment. This, Killashandra thought, was why they were so assiduously altering the 78’s interior. Then, after she’d seen some tri-di’s of the mining stations and the space-built edifices themselves, she understood. In spatial sense, the Trundimoux were adapting constantly to the needs of their hostile environment. In another, they were refusing to admit that any other system, hers included, had something worthwhile to offer them that couldn’t be improved on.

  Killashandra listened, too, to subtler opinions on the wisdom of instant interstellar communications. Some were skeptical that the crystals would work, due, it was claimed, to some peculiarity of the Trundimoux system that was designed to keep them isolated. Others thought it a shocking waste of time, effort, and precious metal-credit. The division of thought split age groups, first- and second-generation representatives, and even contracted extraplanetaries on local assignment.