As the lift door opened on the deserted lobby of the main singer level, not a singer was in sight. The storm had blown itself out. She paused to glance through to the dining area and saw only one lone diner. Pulling the robe more tightly about her, she hurried down the corridor to the blue quadrant and her apartment.

  The first thing she did was call up her credit balance, and felt the knot that had been tightening in her belly dissolve as the figures 12,790 rippled onto the screen. She regarded the total for a long moment, then tapped out the all-important query: how far away from Ballybran would that sum take her?

  The names of four systems were displayed. Her stomach rumbled. She shifted irritably in her chair and asked for details of the amenities in each system. The replies were not exciting. In each system the Terran-type planets were purely industrial or agricultural, having, at best, only conservative leisure facilities. From comments she had overheard, Killashandra gathered that because of their proximity the locals had seen quite enough of their neighbors from Ballybran and tended to be either credit crunchers or rude to the point of dueling offense.

  “The only thing that’s good about any of them,” Killashandra said with disgust, “is that I haven’t been there yet.”

  Killashandra had thought to take her long-overdue holiday on Maxim, the pleasure planet in the Barderi system. From all she’d heard, it would be very easy to forget crystal resonance in the sophisticated amusement parks and houses of hedonistic Maxim. But she hadn’t yet the credit to indulge that whimsy.

  Exasperated, she rubbed her palms together, noticing that the thick calluses from cutter vibrations had been softened by her long immersion. The numerous small nicks and cuts that were a singer’s occupational hazard had healed to thin white scars. Well, that function of her symbiont worked efficiently. And the white crystal would assure her some sort of an off-planet holiday.

  White crystal! Enthor has said something about a fractured manual! Optherian sense organs used white Ballybran crystals and she had cut forty-four from the half centimeter on up in half-centimeter gradients.

  Lanzecki had asked her a question.

  “Would Optheria be far enough?” The words, remembered in his deep voice, sprang to mind.

  She grinned with tremendous relief at retrieving that question and turned to the viewscreen to punch up his code.

  “—Killa?” Lanzecki’s hands were poised over his own terminal, surprise manifested by his raised eyebrows. “You haven’t used the catering unit.” He frowned.

  “Oh, programmed to monitor that, did you?” she replied with a genuine smile at that reminder of their amorous alliance before her first trip into the Ranges. On her return from the Trundomoux System, they had had only a few days together before Lanzecki was swamped with work and she had to venture back into the Ranges. Since then, she had returned to the Complex only to replenish supplies or wait out a storm. Their reunions had consequently been brief. It was reassuring to realize that he wished to know when she was back.

  “It seemed the ideal way to make contact. After thirty-two hours in a tank, you should be ravenous. I’ll just join you, if I may …” When she nodded assent, he typed a quick message on his console and pushed his chair back, smiling up at her. “I’m hungry, too.”

  As further reassurance of her unimpaired memory, Killashandra had no trouble remembering Lanzecki’s tastes. She grinned as she ordered Yarran beer. Though her stomach gurgled impatiently, she’d had no desire for food in so long that she was as glad to be guided by Lanzecki’s preferences.

  She was just slipping a brilliantly striped robe over her head when her door chimed an entry request. “Enter!” she called. On the same voice cue, the catering slot disgorged her order. The aroma of the dishes aroused her already voracious appetite.

  She wasted no time in taking the steaming platters from the dispenser, grinning a welcome at Lanzecki as he joined her.

  “The Commissary has asked me to relay a few well-chosen words of complaint about the sudden fad for Yarran beer,” he said, taking the pitcher and the beakers to the table. He seated himself before filling the two glasses. “To your restoration!” Lanzecki lifted his glass in toast, his expression obliquely chiding her for that necessity.

  “Antona’s already scolded me, but I had to cut enough marketable crystal to get off-planet this time.”

  “You’ve certainly succeeded with that white.”

  “Don’t I remember you saying something about Optheria just as I passed out?”

  Lanzecki took a swallow of the Yarran beer before he replied. “Quite likely.” He served himself a generous helping of fried Malva beans.

  “Don’t the Optherians utilize white crystal in that multi-sense organ of theirs?”

  “They do.”

  So Lanzecki chose to be uncommunicative. Well, she could be persistent. “Enthor said that an entire manual was fractured.” Lanzecki nodded. She continued. “And you did ask me would Optheria be far enough?”

  “I did?”

  “You know you did.” Killashandra hung on to her patience. “You never forget anything. And the impression I got from your cryptic comment was that someone, and the inference was me”—she pressed her thumb into her chest—“would have to go there. Am I correct?”

  He regarded her steadily, his expression unreadable. “Not long ago you gave me to understand that you would not undertake another off-world assignment—”

  “That was before I’d been stuck on this fardling planet—” She noticed the wicked gleam in his eyes. “So, I’m right. A crystal singer does have to make the installation!”

  “It was a shocking incident,” Lanzecki said diffidently as he served himself more Malva beans. “The performer who damaged the organ was killed by the flying shards. He was also the only person on the planet who could handle such a major repair. As is so often the case with such sensitive and expensive equipment, it is a matter of planetary urgency to repair the instrument. It’s the largest on the planet and is essential to the observances of Optheria’s prestigious Summer Festival. We are contracted to supply technicians as well as crystal.” He paused for a mouthful of the crisp white beans. He was definitely baiting her, Killashandra knew. She held her tongue. “While the list of those qualified does include your name …”

  “The catch can’t be the crystal this time,” she said as he purposefully let his sentence dangle unfinished. She watched his face for any reaction. “White crystal’s active, reflecting sound …”

  “—Among other things,” Lanzecki added when she paused.

  “If it isn’t the crystal, what’s the matter with the Optherians, then?”

  “My dear Killashandra, the assignment has not yet been awarded.”

  “Awarded? I like the sound of that. Or do I? I wouldn’t put it past you, Lanzecki, to sucker me into another job like that Trundomoux installation.”

  He caught the finger she was indignantly shaking at him, pulling her hand across the laden table to his lips. The familiar caress evoked familiar responses deep in her groin and she tried to use her irritation with his methods to neutralize its effect on her.

  Just then a communit bleep startled her. With a fleeting expression of annoyance, Lanzecki lifted his wrist unit to acknowledge the summons.

  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.

  Killashandra 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.