“Let’s see if we can get its attention. Do we both happen to know a ceremonial roll?”
“I do.” Lars proceeded to beat it out.
“Show-off. Now, let’s do it together.” They did, heads up to see if there was any reaction in the Junk.
“I think you got through,” Brendan said. “A hemisemi-demiquaver of a response, but definitely just after your roll duet.”
Lars grinned drolly at Killashandra. “Having said that, what do we say next?”
“Howdy?”
Hunger drove them from the cave, and once they got back into the B&B, sheer fatigue required them to stay. They had beat every tempo they knew, with all the power in their arms, until their muscles had protested. Brendan kept reporting reaction, and once or twice, a repeat—at a much faster speed—of what the two crystal singers had just tapped out. Other patterns of response made no sense to Brendan. But as Killa and Lars reboarded the ship, he told them that he was trying to figure out any code, or pattern, in the Junk’s response to their rolls. When he started to tell them, they begged a reprieve.
“Save it, will you, Bren?” Lars said, an edge to his voice.
“Sorry about that. You’ve seemed indefatigable. I was beginning to think you were crystal analogues. You have, after all, only been on the go today for twenty-seven hours. I’ll reprise after you’ve had some sleep. And I mean, sleep.”
“Wicked little man,” Killashandra said, struggling out of her suit and tiredly cramming it into the cleanser. Lars had to prop himself up against the wall to balance while he pulled off his suit.
As she stumbled into the main cabin, she yawned, feeling those twenty-seven hours in every sinew in her body—and especially in her weary hands. “I’m almost too tired to eat,” she said, but roused herself when the aromas of the feast Brendan had prepared wafted through the main cabin.
“I’m never too tired to eat during Passover,” Lars announced, and picked up the biggest bowl. He half collapsed into the chair, then settled back with a plate on his chest so he didn’t have so far to reach to get food into his mouth. “Can you analyze any particular response from the Junk?”
“In all the caves, it has stopped retreating,” Brendan said. “And while I do perceive a definite pattern in the rhythm of its tremors, that’s the problem. You could never rap fast enough to ‘speak’ to them, and they can’t seem to slow down enough to ‘speak’ to you.”
“How about us recording something, and you play it back at their tempo, Bren?” Killa asked. “Use one of your extendable tools to hammer the message home?”
Lars tipped respectful fingers in her direction for that notion. “Yeah, but what exactly are we trying to tell them?”
Killa shrugged, her mouth too full to answer just then. She swallowed. “We’re singers, not semanticists. I think we’ve done very well!”
“I concur,” Brendan added stoutly. “There are specialists who could handle it from here, now you’ve established an avenue.”
“Yeah, but what about the disease?”
“The specialists do not need to exit their vehicle. I’ve just monitored the dust your suits left in the cleanser’s filters. I can find no contaminants. So the planet must be safe enough. Remember, the geologists had that specimen on board to examine, and I doubt they thought of keeping it shielded.”
“You know,” Killashandra began, interrupting herself with a great yawn. “We forgot to put the piece back.” Her head lolled back.
They fell asleep as they were, half-empty plates balanced on their chests. Brendan decided that he had not been scrupulous enough in monitoring them today—he’d been as fascinated as they had by their attempts to communicate with the Junk. In future, he must remember that singers had phenomenal powers of concentration, as well as appetite.
Then Brendan noticed that weary fingers had left splotches on chairs and carpet. Though he could send the cleaner ’bot to attend to floor spillage, he resigned himself to spots on the chairs until they reached port again. Not that Boira was any neater all the time. He dimmed the lights and raised the ambient temperature, since he couldn’t exactly arrange covers for them. Being a ship had a few limitations in dealing with passengers who insisted on falling asleep off their bunks.
He was also obscurely delighted by their resolve to restore the specimen to the Junk. It was one thing to take samples of inanimate objects, but to do so to a living, feeling, communicating sentience was quite another matter in his lexicon. Singers were not as insensitive and unfeeling as he had been led to believe. In fact, his opinion of the breed had been raised by several singular leaps.
He must remember to mention it—adroitly, of course, for even to imply that he had had his doubts about this mission, and them, was embarrassing. He had a lot to relate to Boira when she was restored to him.
As soon as they returned to the original site with the excised “finger,” Killashandra and Lars noticed the increase of the luminescence.
“Well, we fed it, didn’t we?” Killa said. “Big Junk looks fatter, too, don’t you think?”
Lars shrugged. “Brendan?”
“Ambient light has increased in your present location, but, as you both know, I can read nothing of the Junk itself.”
“It should look fatter after all we gave it to eat yesterday,” Killashandra repeated, more to herself than to the others.
“I don’t see as much expansion on the rib we cut, though,” Lars remarked, peering up at it. That extrusion had not moved from the position into which it had retracted.
“Muhlah! I hope we haven’t done irremedial harm,” she said with genuine remorse.
“The other end had no trouble absorbing what we gave it to eat. Maybe it can …” Lars began.
“Can, can, cannibal?”
“Omnivorous, certainly,” Lars replied wryly.
“It didn’t exactly ‘eat,’ it sort of absorbed substances,” Killa said.
Lars took the “finger” out of the duraplas sack with duraplas calipers and reached up, his extended arm not quite long enough. “Damnation!”
“If you hoist Killa to your shoulders, Lars, that will give you sufficient height,” Brendan said.
Lars eyed his partner. She was a lean-bodied woman, and long in the leg.
“C’mon, lover boy, play acrobat. That’ll be dead easy in point-seven gravity.”
“Just don’t wriggle around on my back. Be careful of my oxygen tanks.”
“Hmmm. You’ve got a point. Whoops!”
Lars handed her the tongs and the “finger,” then ducked under her legs and, in an athletic heave, raised her from the ground.
“Don’t obscure my vision!” he exclaimed. Involuntarily, she had grabbed at his helmet before he steadied her with his hands on her belt.
“Two steps forward, and one slightly …” Killa caught her balance. “To the left and … here we are. Steady!” Even with his most two meter neight, she had to stretch to reach the end of the rib.
“You’re wiggling!”
“Am not! I’m stretching. You’re the one who’s wiggling. To your right half a step. There!” And she whistled in disbelief as, before her very eyes, the Junk turned even more liquid and flowed over the amputated piece, reabsorbing it. Lars started to waver. “Hey!” She dropped the tongs and clung to him. “Don’t move!”
“I’m not moving!” And suddenly Lars was down on one knee, Killa falling forward off his shoulders.
“Wooof!” she muttered as she lay sprawled on the ground, automatically checking the panel of lights that ringed the bottom of the helmet join. They were all green, not a flicker into the orange.
“You okay, Ki?” Brendan asked, his tone anxious. “That was a quake, not a tremor!”
“Quite a thank-you!” Killashandra got to her feet.
“Certainly a reaction,” Brendan said. “Lars?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Lars replied, checking both knees. “Well, lookee there,” he added, pointing to the ceiling. “Come home, all is f
orgiven!”
Neither could see a demarcation on the rib end.
“Absorption? Not the same reaction though,” Killashandra said, “as it gave when we offered it merely metal. Should we recommend that the other piece be returned?”
“After four years or more?”
“It’s worth a try—as a peace offering.” She grinned at the deliberate pun. Lars groaned.
“It would establish human bona fides,” Brendan said. “That the people who return it have recognized the attempt as mutilation?”
“Not merely amputation for the sake of investigation,” Killa said in a caustic voice.
“So? What do we do for an encore?” Lars asked.
Killa shrugged. “Have we been in all the caves that have Junk?”
“All those recorded,” Brendan said.
“And we still haven’t found the source, if there is one?”
“That wasn’t in our brief, was it?” Lars asked, brushing his gloved hands. “We were to discover if this stuff had some commercial value to the Heptite Guild.”
“It doesn’t belong under the Guild’s aegis. It’s sentient,” Killa said with more vehemence than she intended.
“We don’t know that for a fact,” Bren said, “but while it may not be animal, it doesn’t appear to be mineral in the strict definition of the word.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Lars said, turning to his partner.
“ ‘And beings animalculus,’ ” Killa murmured. “There’s something …” She struggled with the vague notion she was trying to verbalize and then shrugged. “I dunno, but one sure thing, you can’t mine it the way we can crystal, or other gemstones and ores. What’s your opinion, Brendan?”
“I’m a minder, not a miner.”
“Yes, but you’ve been a big help.”
“As a caterer …”
“Yuckh!” The very thought of food suddenly nauseated Killashandra. She and Lars locked eyes. “Oh, blast it.”
“I’d say the timing was pretty good,” Lars said.
“You’re ready for the Sleep phase?” Brendan asked.
“Undeniably,” Killa said, moving toward the exit of the cavern. “We’ve done what we were supposed to, and now it’s up to the xenos! This isn’t a Heptite matter. So …” She looked expectantly toward her partner. “Where are we going to spend all those lovely credits we’ve just earned, Lars? And if you say ‘water world,’ I’ll excise a few chunks of you.”
Following close behind her, Lars rapped her helmet. “No, it’s your turn to pick.”
“I’ll pick after I’ve slept on it,” Killashandra said.
“In a week I’ll be out of this system,” Brendan said. “Which way do I go?”
“Turn left then straight on till morning,” Killa said facetiously.
“If that’s your wish, it is my command,” the ship said.
Once back aboard the ship, the lingering odors of previously delectable meals made them gag.
“You weren’t joking, were you?” Brendan said. “Ah, you can restrain the compulsion?” he added urgently.
“Don’t worry. We never disgrace ourselves,” Lars said grimly, depressing his nausea as he stripped off the suit and stuffed it in the cleanser.
Killashandra had a very set look to her face and swallowed constantly as she peeled off not only her suit but the mesh undergarment.
“Hey!” Lars had not taken off his briefs and stared after her as she strode—regally, he thought—across the lounge.
“Brendan won’t mind,” Killa said absently.
“Indeed I don’t, but I find it difficult to see that all that food—”
“Don’t!” Killa held both hands up toward his column. “Don’t even think that word!” She gagged and hurried to their cabin and into the sanitary unit.
“Anything I can get you?” the ship asked solicitously as Lars hurried after his partner.
“Not a damned thing, Bren,” Lars said resignedly.
Killa was already in the shower, sluicing her body down, staggering occasionally as even the mild force of the water unbalanced her. When Lars entered the enclosure, they clung to each other, until they had soaped and soaked themselves clean.
Wrapping the generous towels about their bodies, they reeled to the wide bunk and, with groans of immense relief, crawled on and sprawled across it. As Brendan watched, their limbs relaxed despite what he considered to be uncomfortable postures. They were oblivious to any externals.
“These crystal singers don’t do anything by halves. As bad as Boira in some respects.” His voice echoed in the silent living quarters.
Delicately, as a mother will carry her sleeping babe to its cot, the Brendan/Boira-1066 lifted off Opal, though his passengers wouldn’t have stirred no matter what G force he used in takeoff. A week of sleep? Well, if he “turned left”—now why was that sentence vaguely familiar—made one Singularity Jump and headed straight on, he would reach the Lepus sector, which offered the system Nihal. The primary was G2, and it had an inhabited third planet. Taking that route, Brendan would also have the chance to get a closer look at the very red Mira variable R. Leporis. Boira would be interested in his observations of that anomaly.
Serendipitously, it occurred to him that he was under no obligation to return immediately to Regulus Base. From the last report piped to him, Boira had another six or seven weeks to go in rejuvenation and then time in rehab and retraining. He really didn’t have to take another short-term assignment or jump about on a courier route: they’d cleared all 1066’s indebtedness with the bonus and danger money from the assignment that had put Boira in hospital.
But was the Nihal system where Killashandra meant to go? She’d told Lars that she’d pick after she’d had some sleep. Brendan accessed his galactic encyclopedia. Nihal’s third planet had some unusual recreational facilities and was regarded as an ideal honeymoon planet. Killa and Lars were well past that stage of a partnership, but they might still appreciate a place like that for the extended vacation they intended to take from Ballybran and singing crystal. If he had misinterpreted her remark—and Killa’s somewhat incoherent directions had sounded a bit like a quotation—they could change their minds when they woke up.
Then he remembered to do the medscans that he had been programmed to carry out, to insure that the symbiont was indeed protecting the singers. What would the Heptite Guild do if they had been contaminated? Exile them? Where? In those Crystal Ranges, until the next storm took care of the problem? The Guild was known to be ruthless, arrogant, and powerful. This pair had been the best company he’d had the entire time he’d been solo—he’d hate to see them mistreated … or worse. But just as the dust of their suits had shown no contaminants, neither did their bodies. Reassured, he added the medical data of this latest investigation to the private file.
“Nihal? Never heard of it,” Killashandra said between sips of the fruit beverage she had requested of Brendan. Lars was still slumbering beside her.
“That’s where we’re going on the heading you gave me.”
“What heading?” Killashandra skewed around on the wide bunk until she could see through the open cabin door to his column.
“ ‘Turn left then straight on till morning.’ ” Brendan’s search through his library files had made him no wiser.
“Shards! That wasn’t a direction, Bren.”
“So you were quoting?”
Killashandra snickered. “And you couldn’t find the source? How far back do your files go? No, abort that. I don’t want to know. It’s from an old children’s story, and I didn’t even remember that I remembered it. And that spurious direction leads us to Nihal? What’s there?”
“A rather nice climate, temperate to cold, recreational, excellent—ah, can I use the f-word now?”
“Food? Oh, yeah, but we won’t need anything more than liquids for a day or two.”
“So was that a direction from your subconscious?”
Killashandra finished the last of her drink an
d yawned. “I’ll know when we get there. How long did I sleep?”
“Five days.”
“Wake me in another two, huh?” And she was asleep before Brendan could propose that he stay with them a while longer.
“Have a brain ship as our private yacht?” Lars exclaimed, sipping a clear soup.
“Well, I would have to ask you to pay for fuel, supplies, and landing fees,” Bren answered tentatively. “You see, Boira and I have bought ourselves free …”
Lars recalled that the brain ships could do so, working off the immense debt with Central Worlds occasioned by their early childhood care and the cost of the ship itself. Some partners never did discharge the debt, but a good pair could earn enough in bonuses to do so. “My sincere congratulations on that feat, Brendan!”
“But I don’t want to go into our savings.”
“Medical expenses high?” Lars asked solicitiously. Most humans complained about services singers never required.
“Oh, that! Repairs and injuries are part of our contract, and the contractor has to pay the full tab of Boira’s rejuv since they neglected to inform us of the hazards inherent in the assignment.” Bren sounded both irritated and smug. “So, all her expenses are paid. I just have to—well, sing for my supper.”
“How long a contract did you have with Heptite?”
“To the conclusion of your investigations plus travel time to return you to Shankill Moon Base and me to my base.”
“And you wouldn’t object to carting us about?”
“If you defray my costs …”
“Sure, we can do that. Any sailing on this Nihal planet?”
“It’s more known for its mountain sports.”
“Oh!” Lars took the last gulp of his soup, yawned, and settled back down under the thermal beside Killashandra. “Lemme sleep on it, wouldja, Bren? ’S a great ideeeeee … ah … mmm.”
When Killashandra woke from her second sleep, she woke alert, with that sense of having slept deeply and well—and of being mildly hungry. She rolled out of the bunk so as not to rouse Lars and made it to the sanitary facility before she burst. She showered and shrugged into the loose, colorful striped robe she preferred to wear in transit.
Crystal Universe - [Crystal Singer 03] - Crystal Line Page 5