Crystal Line

by Anne McCaffrey

  And, when her tears had dried on her face, he kissed her again, with an urgency that must be answered. And was, as fully and sweetly as ever.

  The summons came two days later. Biyanco tracked them in the cove and told her only that she had an urgent message. She was grateful for that courtesy, but she hated the brewman for bringing the message at all.

  It was a Guild summons all right: a large order for black crystal had been received. All who had sung black crystal were needed in the Ranges. Implicit in the message was a Guild warning: she'd been away too long from crystal. What crystal gave, it took away. She stared at her reflection in the glass panel of the message booth. Yes, crystal could take away her appearance of youthfulness. How long would Shad remember the old woman she would shortly become?

  So she started out to say goodbye to him. Best have it done quickly and now! Then back to Ballybran and forgetfulness in the crystal song. She felt cold all over.

  He was sitting by the lagoon, strumming his guitar, absorbed in a melody he had composed for her. It was a pretty tune, one that stayed in the mind and woke you humming it the next day.

  Killashandra caught back her breath. Shad had perfect pitch—he could come with her, to Ballybran. She would train him herself to be a crystal singer.

  "Don't," said Biyanco, stepping to her side.

  "Don't what?" she asked coldly.

  "If you really love the boy, Killashandra, don't. He'll remember you this way. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  It was, of course, because she wouldn't remember him. So she stood there, beside Biyanco, and listened to Shad sing, watched the boyish intensity on his beloved face, and let cruelty wash hope out of her.

  "It never works, does it, Killashandra?" Biyanco asked gently.

  "No." She had a fleeting recollection of Lars Dahl. They had met somewhere, off-world. Hadn't they? His had been a water world, too. Hadn't it? Had she chosen another such world, hoping to find Lars Dahl again? Or merely anyone? Like Shad Tucker. Had she herself been lured to Ballybran by some ageless lover? Perhaps. Who could remember details like that? The difference was that now she was old enough not to play the siren for crystal. Old enough to leave love while he was young, and still in love enough to remember her only as a woman.

  "No one forgets you, Killashandra," Biyanco said, his eyes dark and sad, as she turned to leave.

  "Maybe I can remember that much."

  Chapter 8

  "The Guild has received the biggest order ever requested, to facilitate the colonization and exploitation of seven new systems," the Guild Master told the twenty singers he had called back from their travels. "We must be able to fill these orders for black crystal. All of you"—and his blue eyes settled on one after the other—"have cut black crystal from time to time."

  "When I could find it," someone said facetiously.

  "The chosen few," another added.

  He wasn't really all that much like Shad, Killashandra thought, her mind jumping as much from crystal deprivation as deliberate inattention because it was Lars Dahl who was talking in his Guild Master role. Just because they both have blue eyes and love the sea, that doesn't make them comparable. Or it shouldn't. And if any of us could find black crystal, we would, without him having to order us!

  "To facilitate that search," Lars Dahl continued as the screen behind him lit up with a variety of paint emblems, "the Guild is canceling the markers of singers who, for one reason or another, are not actively working in the Ranges." That caused a stir and some consternation. "I should amend that—singers who have been known to bring in black crystal," he went on, raising his voice slightly over the murmuring. "We must follow up every potential source of black crystal."

  "Leaving no stone unturned?" the wit asked, rousing some laughter and groans.

  Lars Dahl grinned in response. "That's it. Now"—he gestured behind to the screen—"these are the canceled markers. If, however, one of you finds black on the claim of a still-existing singer . . ."

  "Can't regress 'em back far enough to tell you where they cut black yet, eh, Lars?" someone asked, ending with a malicious laugh.

  Regress? The word reverberated, jogging an uneasy memory, and Killa sat upright, trying to locate the speaker. "Regress"? Why should that word alarm her?

  "I'll be forced to use that option, Fanerine, if you sane and active ones can't cut the blacks the Guild is obligated to supply. As I was saying, if an existing singer's claim is worked, there'll be a levy of twenty-five percent on your cut which is to go to the original claimant." He held up his hand to interrupt the sharp protests. "That will include the Guild tithe, so you aren't losing much to gain a viable site. Of course, you have to find it, first." Killashandra rather liked that droll touch. Lanzecki had reserved his humor for private moments. "Now, here're copies of these released markers for you to take with you. Secure it somewhere highly visible and try to remember why the sheet's there. First comer to any of these reopened clams has possession: mark it with your own colors."

  "Most of you realize that we've just had Passover so that's one hazard that won't interrupt the search. Met says there's a period of stable weather due us—isn't it always after Passover?" His remark generated a few polite chuckles, but Killashandra regarded him stony-faced.

  He shouldn't think he could jolly them into doing the impossible even with that ploy of reopening worked claims that might possibly be black crystal. Why was the Guild "obligated" to supply anything? Worlds should be grateful for whatever the singers cut. She flicked her gaze around the room from one face to the next. Of the twenty, she recognized two or three. She ought to be able to recognize more. The buzz in her body made it hard for her to think. On the other hand, did any of the twenty recognize her? But then, she was seated at the back and hoping to get this meeting over with. She hugged herself, wishing she could squeeze out the itch. Maybe she could sneak out, but there was someone standing right in front of the door. To prevent premature exits?

  Resignedly she listened to Lars go through his act, stirring the singers up to do the impossible—find enough black crystal to fill those contracts. Muhlah! She gave a humorless snort. He was doing a good job of communicating the urgency of this search. She couldn't recall another such all-out effort! Or that Lanzecki had ever thrown open unused claims before the paint marker was completely obliterated.

  She rose when the others did, but was not unduly surprised when her name was called out. The Guild Master pushed his way through to her.

  "Killa, can we let bygones be and cooperate duo on this?" he asked in a quiet voice so that only she could hear him.

  She was unnerved to have the regard of those intense and brilliant blue eyes focused on her alone. That was one difference between Shad and Lars Dahl—Shad's eyes were kinder, milder, undemanding. She turned her face away.

  Damn that Biyanco! She shouldn't have let herself be persuaded out of a good partner by sentiment. True, even if she had brought Shad back with her, he wouldn't have been ready for a massive search this soon, even if had he been lucky enough to have a Milekey Transition. But she would have had such fun shepherding him, deftly guiding him to learn the intricacies of a new trade, watching his sensitive face perceiving new and marvelous things . . . and especially hearing the dawn song of crystal with someone as gentle and loving as Shad Tucker. And how he would have enjoyed the seas of Ballybran. What sort of a ship would he have bought with his first big cut?

  "Killa!"

  Someone had her by the shoulders, firm hands giving her a shake to focus her attention.

  "Killa?"

  "What?"

  The Guild Master frowned at her with concern. "One thing is sure, Killashandra Ree, you've got to get back to the Ranges whether you sing black, green or pink! You left your return mighty late. How do you stand the itch?" The sudden tender concern in his voice startled her, but she gave no hint of that surprise.

  "I'll be all right as soon as I make the Ranges," she said wearily, her spine twisting with crystal hung
er.

  "If you can in this condition. So I'm not asking permission now. I am coming with you. It'd be outright murder to send you out solo in your present state. I'll meet you at the Hangar. Donalla . . ."

  Killa peered at the woman who stepped forward. Her face was vaguely familiar, and although her smile was warm and friendly, Killa felt a flash of anxiety.

  "Glad to see you safely back, Killashandra." When Killa recoiled slightly, the woman smiled reassuringly. "We're only going straight to the Hangar. You really can trust me that far, you know."

  "I'll need . . ." Killa pulled at the clothes she was wearing—they wouldn't last an hour in the Ranges. "I've no boots . . ."

  "Let Donalla take care of the details, Sunny, will you?" The loving tone of the Guild Master was gently supportive.

  Some part of Killa was unconvinced, but the other, more dominant need for a respite from the crystal itch made that hesitation short. The hands that replaced Lars's were gentle, warm and subtly persuasive. It was easier to submit and be guided.

  Killa rubbed at her forehead. How could she have let herself get in such a state? She ought not to be led about like a child. Surely, she wasn't that bad, that decrepit? She had walked off the transport ship on her own, hadn't she? Found the shuttle bay with no trouble! Why was she suddenly incapable of managing something as simple as getting to the Hangar? Her feet ought to know the way even if her head didn't.

  But she let herself be taken. She really couldn't think straight with all that noise in her head and that buzz along her veins, spiking into her heart and lungs—a crystal shiver that no amount of radiant fluid would reduce, only cutting crystal.

  She hated to admit it, even to herself, but the Guild Master had been correct. She had cut it fine. She ought to have started back to Ballybran the day she had felt the first shock of crystal deprivation. And that was what was shorting out her decision-making faculty, too.

  Now that she put a reason to her mazedness, she also knew how to cure it: cut crystal! Let it sing through her body, bones, and blood. Let it clear the confusion in her mind and strengthen her flagging energies. Crystal! The worst addiction in the galaxy: difficult to live with and impossible to live without.

  She stumbled and Donalla's helping hand steadied her.

  Then the noise and ordered confusion of the Hangar swirled about her. Faces peered at her; large blurred objects moved slowly past. She was gently propelled into a space that shut out much of the noise. Hands turned her body this way and that as she was inserted into a shipsuit; her feet were pushed into the familiar restriction of boots.

  "My cutter . . ."

  Her right hand was pressed against a hard, cold surface, and her fingers, of their own accord, fitted themselves around the grip, slipping into grooves exactly carved to fit her grasp. The tension within her eased further.

  She was settled into the appropriate contour chair, and the harness was buckled about her. Passive now, because she didn't have to make any movement or decision, she waited. The air around her smelled familiar—and new, of paint and oil with enough of the pungent fuel odor to be acrid—and somehow comforting.

  A sudden burst of noise, and a wave of fuel– and grease-laden air whooshed across the sensitive skin of her face. Someone had entered the sled, not so much noisily as confidently. She felt the throb of engines revving up, increasing the stink of fuel in the air, which also oddly reassured her. The sled moved forward, and she sighed with relief. Slowly she was pushed back against the seat cushions as the sled gathered speed. Sunlight pierced the windows, too brilliant for her tired eyes, and she made a protest as she closed them against the glare. Had she remembered to put in the refractive lenses? She blinked. She had, but it always took a few seconds for them to alter to the necessary refractory index. The blaze diminished, the backward pressure of takeoff eased, and she opened her eyes, suddenly more aware of her surroundings. Lars's lithe figure occupied the pilot's chair.

  "Get some rest, Sunny," he said as he had so often said as they departed the Guild for the Ranges.

  Because it was easier to obey than resist, she wriggled into the cushions, dropped her head back against the rest, and let herself slip into sleep.

  "Eeny meeny, pitsa teeny . . ." The old choosing phrase roused her.

  "Muhlah! Any time I need to blackmail the Guild Master . . ." she murmured.

  Lars laughed, the infectious laugh that had been one of his most endearing traits, and despite herself, she felt her mouth curving up in a grin.

  "Works every time," he replied, and when she gargled a denial at him, he amended it. "Well, sooner or later, it works."

  She struggled upright in the seat, biting her lip as the movement stirred up the crystal sting that pinched at blood and bone. She was in the Ranges and it would ease soon . . . ease when she finally cut again. She released the harness and peered out at the steeples and ridges of deep Range.

  "Where are we?"

  "Scouring the parameters of an old claim."

  She frowned, stared at him until recent memory returned. "Oh? Whose?"

  Lars grinned. "Such details are irrelevant. The marker's on the list: that's enough."

  "Where did you find a statute of limitation in Rules and Regs?"

  "In the Guild Master's prerogatives." Lars grinned at her. When she snorted derisively, he added, "Why have the rule and not put it into effect? The Guild has to supply legitimate demands. Like Lanzecki, I use every trick I'm allowed—"

  "You're not Lanzecki!"

  "Thank you for that vote of confidence," he replied, and the buoyancy had gone out of his voice. After a long silence while she rubbed surreptitiously to ease the crystal sting, he asked, "Is it bad?" His tone held genuine concern.

  "I've been worse," she said diffidently—though, candidly, she doubted that. She would have remembered it—and tried to avoid a repetition.

  "Ha! Try that on someone who doesn't know you as well as I do, Sunny. Take heart. We're nearly there."

  "Where?" Her voice had an edge on it. "Oh, quick! Mark there!" And she pointed imperiously to starboard. The evening sunlight had just briefly glinted off crystal shard.

  Lars gave an appreciative chuckle. "You may be writhing with crystal itch, but your eye's as keen as ever." He veered to the right, slowing the sled and neatly landing it on the bottom of the ravine. "You're one of the best in the Guild," he murmured as they saw the unmistakable evidence of a cutter's discards.

  Killa could not control the trembling that racked her body. She fumbled with the door release, managed it the second time, and half fell from the sled.

  "Careful now, Sunny," Lars called, rapidly flicking through essential landing procedures at the console.

  She stumbled forward to the shards, crouching to gather handfuls, closing her fingers about them, oblivious to the sharp edges, even grateful for the caressing cut of crystal, grateful to spill blood and ease the sting that made artery, vein, and capillary itch.

  "Easy, Sunny, easy," Lars cried, and gripped her firmly by the shoulders, pulling her to a standing position.

  "Muhlah!" she sighed with relief. "I needed that!"

  "I don't think you need go to extremes, however," Lars said dryly. He leaned down and picked up a hunk that had crazed in faulty cutting. He tilted her bloody hands to tip the fragments out and replaced them with the larger, blunter piece. Putting his arm about her, he guided her back into the sled and washed each hand, while she held the shaft against her in the other like the talisman it was. The tiny crystal slices were already healing as he finished.

  "You'd better eat, Sunny," Lars went on, still using that gently matter-of-fact tone. And he prepared a meal while she sat rocking the crystal against her, feeling it draw the sting from her, damaged as it was, as contact warmed it to her body temperature.

  As she mechanically ate the meal he placed in front of her, she kept up her rocking motion, shifting the crystal to her thighs, bending her knees so the crystal touched her belly. She didn't resist when he pu
t her to bed, letting her wrap herself around the crystal in a semifetal position. And that was how she spent the long night, comforted by crazed crystal.

  When crystal song woke her the next morning, the damaged shaft sent out painful emanations. With a cry, she unwound, pushing the crystal from her as if it were polluted. Lars picked it up and flung it from the sled, relieving her of the sudden agony.

  Then he spread himself across her body—she was arching in the agony of crystal song, too long away from it to be stimulated in the usual way.

  "It'll ease, Sunny, it'll ease . . ." he murmured, struggling to keep her from straining herself in the paroxysms that were shaking her. If she had been alone in such a state, she would have launched herself to the nearby lode. In such disorientation, compelled by the irresistible need to reestablish contact with the ecstasy of sun-warmed singing crystal, she could have done herself a fatal injury.

  Writhing against his restraint, she screamed at him, desperate to get to the crystal face and ease the intolerable sting and achings.

  "Let me go! I'm begging you, Lars, let me go! I've got to get to—"

  "You do and you're dead," he yelled back at her, resetting his hands on her wrists, managing, each time she nearly squirmed free, to cover her body with his and deny her freedom. "Hang on, Sunny. It won't be long now. Just let the sun get up!"

  She twisted and bit at him, tried to knee his crotch, but he was quicker, stronger, and fitter than she and evaded her savage attempts to inflict enough pain to get free.

  Abruptly the dawn chorus ended as the sun's rays flicked up and over the surrounding ridges and lit the ravine. She sagged against the hands that held her, limp, weeping because the itch was back, intensified. The compulsion to seek crystal, however, had eased. Wearily, she rubbed sweat and tears from her face on the quilt beneath her.

  "Let me up, Lars," she said dully.

  He kept his grip a moment longer, and then his fingers slowly released her wrists and he slid off her.