Killashandra (3 page)

A tinny version of Trag’s bass voice issued from the device. “I was to inform you when the preliminary testing stations reported,” the Administration Officer said.

“Any interesting applicants?”

Although Lanzecki sounded diffident, even slightly
bored, the curious tension about his lips and eyes alerted Killashandra. She pretended to continue eating in a courteous disregard of the exchange, but she didn’t lose a syllable of Trag’s reply.

“Four agronomists, an endocrinologist from Theta, two xenobiologists, an atmospheric physicist, three former spacers”—Killashandra noted the slight widening of Lanzecki’s eyes which she interpreted as satisfaction—“and the usual flotsam who have no recommendations from Testing.”

“Thank you, Trag.”

Lanzecki nodded his head at Killashandra to indicate the interruption was concluded and finished off the dish of fried Malva beans.

“So what is the glitch in the Optherian assignment? A lousy fee?”

“On the contrary, such an installation is set at twenty thousand credits.”

“And I’d be off-world as well.” Killashandra was quite impressed with the latitude such a credit balance would give her to forget crystal.

“You have not been awarded the contract, Killa. I appreciate your willingness to entertain the assignment but there are certain aspects which must be considered by the Guild as well as the individual. Don’t commit yourself rashly.” Lanzecki was being sincere. His eyes held hers steadily and a worried crease to his brows emphasized his warning. “It’s a long haul to the Optherian system. You’d be gone from Ballybran nearly a full year …”

“All the better …”

“You say that now when you’re full of crystal resonance. You can’t have forgotten Carrik yet.”

His reminder conjured flashing scenes of the first crystal singer she had met: Carrik laughing as they swam in Fuerte’s seas, then Carrik wracked by withdrawal
fever and finally the passive hulk of the man, shattered by sonic resonance.

“You will in time, I’ve no doubt, experience that phenomenon,” Lanzecki said. “I’ve never known a singer who didn’t try to push himself and his symbiont to their limits. A major disadvantage to the Optherian contract is that you would lose any resonance to your existing claims.”

“As if I
had
a decent claim among the lot.” Killashandra snorted in disgust. “Rose is no good to anyone and the blue petered out after two days’ cutting. Even the white vein skips and jumps. I cut the best of the accessible vein. With the kind of luck I’ve been enjoying, the storm has probably made a total bollix of the site. I am not—not, I repeat—spending another three weeks in a spade and basket operation. Not for white. Why can’t Research develop an efficient portable excavator?”

Lanzecki cocked his head slightly. “It is the firm opinion of Research that any
one
of the nine efficient, portable and durable,” a significant pause, “excavators already field-tested ought to perform the task for which it was engineered … except in the hands of a crystal singer. It is the opinion of Research that the only two pieces of equipment that do not tax the mechanical aptitude of a singer are his cutter—though Fisherman does
not
concur—and his sled, and you have already heard section and paragraph from the Flight Engineer on that score. Haven’t you?”

Killashandra regarded him stolidly for a few moments, then remembered to chew what was in her mouth.

“Overheard him,” she said, with a malicious grin. “Don’t try to distract me from this Optherian business.”

“I’m not. I am bringing to your notice the several overt disadvantages to an assignment that involves a
long absence from Ballybran for what might, in the long run, be inadequate compensation.” His expression changed subtly. “I’d rather not be professionally at odds with you. It interferes with my private life.”

His dark eyes caught hers. He reached for her hands, lips curved in the one-sided smile that she found so affecting. She no longer shared a table with her Guild Master but with Lanzecki the man. The alteration pleased her. On numerous occasions, during sleepless nights in the Milekey Ranges, she had fondly remembered their love-making. Now, seated opposite the charismatic Lanzecki, she found that her appetite for more than food had been completely restored.

Her smile answered his and together they rose from the little table and headed for the sleepingroom.

K
illashandra pushed herself back from the terminal and, balancing on the base of her spine, stretched arms and legs as far from her body as bone and tendon permitted. She had spent the morning immersed in the Optherian entry of the
Encyclopedia Galactica
.

Once she had got past the initial exploration and evaluation report to the release of the Ophiuchine planet for colonization, and the high-flown language of its charter—“to establish a colony of Mankind in complete harmony with the ecological balance of his adopted planet: to ensure the propagation thereon of the Species in its pure, unadulterated Form.” She kept waiting for the fly to appear in the syrupy ointment of Optheria’s honey pot.

Optheria was an old planet in geological terms. A near-circular orbit about an aging sun produced a temperate clime. There was litle seasonal change since the axial “wobble” was negligible, and modest glaciers
capped both poles. Optheria was inordinately proud of its self-sufficiency in a civilization where many planets were so deeply in debt to mercantile satellites that they were almost charged for the atmosphere that encapsulated them. Optherian imports were minimal … with the exception of tourists seeking to “enjoy the gentler pleasures of old Terra in a Totally Natural World.”

Killashandra, reading with an eye to hidden significances, paused to consider the implications. Although her experience with planets had been limited to two—Fuerte, her planet of origin, and Ballybran, she knew enough of how worlds wagged to sense the iron idealism that probably supported the Optherian propaganda. She tapped a question and frowned at the negative answer: Optheria’s Charter Signers were not proselytizers of a religious sect nor did Optheria recognize a federal church. As many worlds had been colonized for idealist forms of government, religiously or secularly oriented, as for purely commercial considerations. The guiding principle of foundation could not yet be considered the necessary criterion for a successful subculture. The variables involved were too numerous.

But the entry made it clear that Optheria was considered efficiently organized and, with its substantial positive galactic balance of payments, a creditably administered world. The entry concluded with a statement that Optheria was well worth a visit during its annual Summer Festival. She detected a certain hint of irony in that bland comment. While she would have preferred to sample some of the exotic and sophisticated pleasures available to those with credit enough, she felt she could tolerate Optheria’s “natural” pastimes in return for the sizeable fee and a long vacation from Ballybran.

She considered Lanzecki’s diffidence about the assignment. Could he be charged with favoritism if he gave her another choice off-world assignment? Who would
remember that she had been away during the horrendous Passover Storms, much less where? She’d been peremptorily snatched away by Trag, shoved onto the moon shuttle, and without a shred of background data about the vagaries of the Trundomoux, delivered willy-nilly to a naval autocracy to cope with the exigencies of installing millions of credits’ worth of black communication crystal for a bunch of skeptical spartan pioneers. The assignment had been no sinecure. As Trag was the only other person who had known of it, was he the objector? He very easily could be, as Administration Officer, yet Killashandra did not think that Trag could, or did, influence Guild Master Lanzecki.

A second wild notion followed quickly on the heels of that one. Were there any Optherians on the roster of the Heptite Guild to whom such a job might be assigned? … The Heptite Guild had no Optherian members.

From her ten years in the Music Department of Fuerte’s Culture Center, Killashandra was familiar with the intricacies of Optherian sensory organ instruments. The encyclopedia enlarged the picture by stating that music was a planetwide mania on Optheria, with citizens competing on a planetary scale for opportunities to perform on the sensory organs. With that sort of environment, Killashandra thought it very odd indeed that Optheria produced no candidates with the perfect pitch that was the Heptite Guild’s essential entry requirement. And, with competitions on a worldwide scale, there would be thousands disappointed. Killashandra smiled in sour sympathy. Surely some would look for off-world alternatives.

Her curiosity titillated, Killashandra checked other Guilds. Optherias did not go into the Space Services or into galactic mercantile enterprises, nor were embassies, consulates or legates of Optheria listed in the Diplomatic Registers. There she lucked out by discovering
a qualifier: As the planet was nearly self-sufficient and no Optherians left their home world, there was no need for such services. All formal inquiries about Optheria had to be directed to the Office of External Trade and Commerce on Optheria.

Killashandra paused in perplexity. A planet so perfect, so beloved by its citizens that no one chose to leave its surface? She found that very hard to believe. She recalled the encyclopedia’s entry on the planet, searching for the code on Naturalization. Yes, well, citizenship was readily available for those interested but could not be rescinded. She checked the Penal Code and discovered that, unlike many worlds, Optheria did not deport its criminal element: any recidivists were accommodated at a rehabilitation center.

Killashandra shivered. So even perfect Optheria had to resort to rehabilitation.

Having delved sufficiently into Optheria’s history and background to satisfy her basic curiosity, she turned to research the procedure necessary to replace a fractured manual. The installation posed no overt problems as the bracketing was remarkably similar to that required by the black communications crystal. The tuning would be more complex because of the broad-frequency variable output of the Optherian organ. The instrument was similar to early Terran pipe organs, with four manuals and a terminal with hundreds of stops, but a performer on the Optherian organ read a score containing olfactory, neural, visual, and aural notes. The crystal manual was in permanent handshake with the multiplex demodulator, the synapse carrier encoder, and the transducer terminal networks. Or so the manual said; no schematic was included in the entry. Nor could she remember one from her days at the Fuerte Music Center.

Dedicated Optherian players spent lifetimes arranging music embellished and ornamented for reception by
many senses. A skilled Optherian organist could be mass-psychologist and politician as well as musician, and the effect of any composition played on the fully augmented instruments had such far-reaching consequences that performances and practitioners were subject to Federal as well as artistic discipline.

Bearing that in mind, Killashandra wondered how the manual could have been fractured—let alone have killed the performer at the same time, especially as that person had also been the only one on the planet capable of repairing it. Was there perhaps a spot of rot on the Optherian apple of Eden? This assignment could be interesting.

Killashandra pulled her chair back to the console and asked for visual contact with the Travel Officer. Bajorn was a long, thin man, with a thin face and a thin nose with pinched nostrils. He had preternaturally long, thin fingers, too, but much was redeemed by the cheerful smile that broke across his narrow face. and his complete willingness to sort out the most difficult itinerary. He seemed to be on the most congenial terms with every transport or freight captain who had ever touched down at or veered close to the Shanganagh Moon base.

“Is it difficult to get to the Optherian System, Bajorn?”

“Long old journey right now—out of season for the cruise ships on that route. Summer Festival won’t be for another six months galactic. So, traveling now, you’d have to make four exchanges—Rappahoe, Kunjab, Melorica, and Bernard’s World—all on freighters before getting passage on a proper liner.”

“You’re sure up to date.”

Bajorn grinned, his thin lips almost touching his droopy ears. “Should be. You’re the fifth inquiry I’ve had about that system. What’s up? Didn’t know the Optherians went in for the sort of kicks singers like.”

“Who’re the other four?”

“Well, there’s no regulation against telling …” Bajorn paused discreetly, “and as they’ve all asked, no reason why you shouldn’t be told. You,” and he ticked names off on his fingers, “Borella Seal, Concera, Gobbain Tekla, and Rimbol.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Bajorn, that’s real considerate of you.”

“That’s what Rimbol said, too.” Bajorn’s face sagged mournfully. “I do try to satisfy the Guild’s travel requirements, but it is so depressing when my efforts are criticized or belittled. I can’t help it if singers lose their memories … and every shred of common courtesy.”

“I’ll program eternal courtesy to you on my personal tape, Bajorn.”