Killashandra caught all of the images that were broadcast, as sharp and as clear as if a hologram had been suspended for inspection of a tri-d screen. The subliminals seemed etched on her retina. Something to do with her symbiont’s rejection of this superimposition?

  When the lights came up, Killashandra elected to seem to be affected by the performance as she should have been.

  “Guildmember?” Mirbethan asked in a soft eager voice.

  “Why, it was charming. So soothing, such a lovely scene. I declare that I could smell new grass, and spring blossoms.” Lars tried to step on her toe. She struggled up out of the clutch of her seat and peered around him. “Why, Lars Dahl, it is everything you told me it would be!” He tapped twice, getting her message.

  A second performer strode out on the stage, his manner so militant that Killashandra laid a private bet with herself: one of the Germans or an Altairian, if Prosno-Sevic’s bombastic compositions had been composed before the Optherians had settled this planet.

  The music was an uninspired melange of many of the martial themes, each new one buffeting the captive audience so that she found herself twitching away from the onslaught of the music, and wondering if she would survive the subliminals. She did, but her eyeballs ached with visions of Torkes and an improbably robust Pentrom urging the faithful onto the path to victory and planetarianism, defending the credo of Optheria to the death.

  An audible sigh—of relief?—preceded the applause this selection engendered. So the audience was being soothed to trust, encouraged to resist subversive philosophies: now what, Killashandra wondered?

  An alarmingly thin and earnest young man, swallowing his Adam’s apple convulsively as he crossed the stage, was the next performer. He looked more like a wading bird than a premier organist. And when he took his seat and lifted his hands, they splayed to incredible lengths, making the soft opening notes ludicrous to Killashandra’s mind, especially when she recognized the seductive phrases of a French pianist. The name escaped her momentarily but the erotic music was quite familiar. She held her breath against the first image and choked on the howl of laughter as the subliminal image of Ampris-the-seducer was superimposed, in reds and oranges, on the viewers’ abused senses. Fortunately, the notion of Ampris making love to her, or anyone, was so bizarre that the eroticism—even magnified by scent and sensory titillation—failed to achieve its full effect. Lars’s continual tapping—was he succumbing to the illusion, keeping the beat, or trying to distract her from the powerful sensuality—against her toe kept reminding her how perilous their position was at the moment.

  Bolero! The name returned to her as the lights came up. And fury at this arrant manipulation set a flush in her cheeks that matched those in Mirbethan’s as the delighted woman turned to inquire breathlessly how Killashandra had enjoyed the concert.

  The seats were all tilting forward, releasing their occupants once more into the cold cruel world of reality.

  “I have never so totally experienced music before in my life, Mirbethan,” Killashandra said in ringing, heartfelt tones. What she felt in her breast was not what the performance was expected to generate. “A balanced and professional performance. The artists were magnificent. Excellent adaptations to the Optherian organs.”

  “Adaptations? Oh, no, Guildmember, this was the first performance of three brilliant new compositions,” Mirbethan said and Killashandra could only goggle at her.

  “That music was totally original? Composed by the performers?” Killashandra’s surprised was misinterpreted by Mirbethan as the proper expression of awe. Lars squeezed her arm warningly and she managed to contain her outrage.

  “A truly brilliant concert,” Trag said, joining them as the audience was dispersing. “An experience I would not willingly have foregone.”

  Never having heard so much warmth in his voice, Killashandra looked sharply at Trag. Surely, if her symbiont had protected her …” Now she stared at Trag’s flushed face, his bright eyes, and noticed that a smile had reshaped his lips. Killashandra grabbed at Lars’s arm, before anyone else could see her dismay, she pulled them both into the crowd, away from Trag and the two Elders who escorted him.

  “Easy, Killa,” Lars murmured in her ear. “Don’t give it away. Not now!”

  “But he—”

  His hand twisted her fingers cruelly, reminding her of the danger they were in.

  “That last piece will send them all to their beds, alone if necessary,” Lars continued, breaking up the sentence into quick short phrases as he hurried her away from the hall. “No one is expected to linger. Not after that dose of eroticism.” They turned a corner, Killashandra accepting Lars’s direction. “Trag’s coming.”

  “Don’t you understand? No one here composed that music. It was all stolen!”

  “I know, I know.”

  Yours wasn’t stolen. It was original. The only bloody original music I’ve heard on this fardling mudball!”

  “Shush now, Killa. Only one more corridor and we’re home safe and then you can rant and rave.”

  “I get the cold shower first.”

  “What and waste the music?”

  She tried to kick him but they were walking so fast she would have lost her balance if she’d succeeded.

  “I will not be manipulated …” and the last word she roared in the privacy of their suite. She was hauling the Beluga spidersilk kaftan over her head as she reached the bathroom door and, flipping on the cold water, stood in its frigid torrent until she could feel her flesh shriveling. Lars pulled her out, handing her a towel as he took her place.

  “I think it’s a shame to waste all their hard work and effort—”

  “Did you want to go to bed with an image of Ampris?” she demanded at the top of her voice.

  “Oh, I saw Mirbethan,” Lars said ingenuously, toweling himself dry,.

  “Mirbethan?”

  “Yes, didn’t you know that was why she was included in your welcoming committee? She’s bi—”

  “What?” Killashandra screeched that at the top of her lungs.

  “Compose yourself, Killashandra Ree,” said the cool voice of Trag from the doorway. “You and Lars Dahl are in every bit as much danger as you thought. We must talk.”

  “First,” Trag said as Killashandra and Lars joined him in the main room, and he pointed to the monitors. Lars held up the jammer. “Very good. Secondly, I need to hear an account of your adventures here, Killashandra. Then I can separate the fact from the fiction presented by Ampris and Torkes. Both are clever men.”

  “A drink, Killa?” Lars asked and his voice was rough with either anger or anxiety.

  “I would appreciate something stronger than that tasteless beer, please, Lars Dahl,” Trag said. “My pleasure, Trag.”

  Killashandra could feel the tension release in her belly and she let out a lungful of air as Trag’s courteous request gave her a reassuring measure of his attitude. She took a quick pull at the polly liqueur which Lars handed her before he sat on the couch, not touching her but with one arm protectively along the back. She began with her arrival on the Athena and her suspicions about Corish. Nor was she any less than candid about the fit of pique with Optherian bureaucracy which had led her to leave the Conservatory grounds, her subsequent kidnapping, escape, and her second meeting with the young islander. She was as forthright about Lars’s effect on her sexuality as she was about the impact Nahia, Hauness, and Theach had had on her sympathies. Crystal singing tended to peel off unnecessary veneers and conditioned attitudes, not that she had been afflicted by many, having been raised on Fuerte.

  During her recitation, Trag had sipped his drink, any reaction hidden by his hooded eyes. He finished the last of the polly liqueur which Lars had elected to serve him as she concluded the summary and he gestured politely to Lars for a refill.

  “They are clever, those old men, but they have not dealt with crystal singers before,” Trag said. “They have outsmarted themselves this time. Whom the Gods would destroy, they first make mad.”

  Killashandra regarded Trag in mild astonishment and then Lars, wondering if his habit was contagious. But Trag’s adage was eminently applicable.

  “Or think themselves impervious to the slings and arrows of outraged fortune,” Lars said with a mischievous grin. Killashandra groaned in protest.

  “Tomorrow I shall offer to realign the Conservatory instrument,” Trag said. “I distinctly heard a burr—the first sign of a souring crystal.”

  “Will they permit you?” Killashandra asked.

  “They are greedy. And they have no qualified crystal tuner until we haved trained some. I have already resolved the point that the Guild contracted to supply the crystals and technical assistance, without reference to the number of appropriate technicians supplied. Therefore no further sum is to be paid by them. Until they received that reassurance from me, they were trying to make out that you were in breach of contract—”

  “In breach? Me? When they placed me in jeopardy? First by hiring an assailant to prove my Heptite origination? Then they hinder me in the execution of my assignment? And they malign my competence?” Killashandra quickly switched to malicious amusement. “Not that they will really appreciate the level of competence we have exhibited! Nor the caliber of the technical assistance they’ve bought!” She grinned at Trag. “So, what other knotty problems did you solve at dinner?”

  “Your incorruptible dedication to your Guild.”

  “What!” Killashandra’s irritation rekindled. “Of all the—”

  Trag held up his hand, a gleam in his eye that suggested to Killashandra that he was enjoying her discomfiture. Firmly she controlled herself. It didn’t help to notice, out of the corner of her eye, that Lars was struggling to suppress his own amusement.

  “Coming as I do from Guildmaster Lanzecki’s office, I am,” Trag paused unexpectedly, shooting a glance at Killashandra which she could only interpret as sly, “above reproach. I am also male. Apparently the Elders trust few women in any but the most traditional or subordinate capacities. I assured them that not only were you Guildmaster Lanzecki’s first choice for such a delicate and crucial installation, but you were mine as well.”

  Killashandra sniffed but gave him a long hard look, to remind him exactly why Killashandra Ree had been Trag’s first choice.

  “Your praise, Guildmember, is only surpassed by your concern for the welfare of the Guild,” she said demurely.

  “In a matter affecting the Guild reputation, I am, too, incorruptible,” Trag replied, neatly parrying her thrust.

  “So tomorrow are Lars and I permitted to continue with the Festival organ?” Trag nodded. “And you will reorganize the second instrument?”

  “In the best interests of the guiding precepts of the Federated Sentient Planets Council, yes, I certainly shall. Otherwise I assure you that these Elders would not receive unreimbursed and gratuitous services from the Heptite Guild.”

  “Bravo!” Lars called.

  “Their greed blinds them,” Trag said. “So, following a recent example, we shall take the opportunity that is presented,” he added, nodding toward Lars who returned the compliment. “Basically they have trite minds. Security, pride, and sex! Imagine! Inflicting such prurience on tonight’s audience.”

  Killashandra regarded Trag with mild astonishment. The man was positively garrulous, volunteering comments not to mention uncontracted services. Or was he simply responding to the backlash of that maladroit rendition of the Bolero? She’d have thought Trag made of sterner stuff, especially since he’d been forewarned of the subliminals.

  “Oh, that’s a common diet for the Conservatory,” Lars said. “For the masses, they have other themes, sometimes so indigestible I wonder how they can be swallowed, even conditionally. Mainlanders are often subjected to a spectrum ranging from xenophobia,” Lars began ticking the subjects off on his fingers, “a fear of races in their own territories, to claustrophobia to nip any budding interest in space-faring, to fear of disobedience, fear and disgust of acts that are ‘unnatural,’ fear of committing an illegal action, rational or not. They’ve even constructed a negative-feedback loop to inhibit thinking along lines the Elders have suddenly decided are subversive. A dislike of the color red was achieved a year or so ago.

  “Then,” and Lars was really warming to his subject, “the tourists get a different menu: love of the simple life, very little eroticism—which would follow, wouldn’t it? All sorts of nebulous goodnesses to be obtained by staying on here. Immense credit balances are constantly flashed luringly at the most bizarre moments. Naturally the disadvantages aren’t mentioned at all.”

  “No lecture on Full Disclosure?” Killashandra shot Trag a glance but he ignored her.

  “Have you a reliable contact in the Conservatory, Lars?” Trag asked him.

  “I wouldn’t dare contact any of them after tonight’s subliminal messages. I could try the marketplace—”

  Trag shook his head. “It was politic to agree with Ampris and Torkes that you, Killashandra, have undoubtedly fallen under this young man’s insidious spell.” He raised his hand at Killashandra’s guffaw. “Neither of you are to be allowed to leave the Conservatory without escort. For your safety, of course, Killashandra.”

  “Of course!”

  “What works in your favor, though, in this infatuation—”

  “Trag!”

  “I’m not Ballyblind, Killashandra,” Trag said in a stern voice, “and, if the Elders consider you two self-absorbed to the exclusion of other, more treacherous activities, it is a safeguard, however tenuous. At least while we are still on Optheria.” Trag turned to Lars. “Once we leave, Lars Dahl, you are in grave jeopardy.”

  Lars nodded and, when Killashandra closed her fingers about his, he smiled down at her. “All I need is a half-day’s start on any pursuit; no one will ever find me in the islands.”

  Trag managed to look skeptical without changing a muscle in his face. “Not this time, I think. This time the islanders are to be disciplined to a final and total obedience to the Optherian Council.”

  “They have to catch us first,” Lars said calmly, although anger flared in his eyes and his fingers tightened on Killashandra’s. In an abrupt change he shrugged. “The threat of wholesale reprisal is scarcely new.”

  “Trag has that warrant …” Killashandra suggested but caught the obstinate set of Lars’s face.

  “May I remind you, Killashandra,” Trag said, “that a Federated Council warrant is not a writ one exercises with impunity. If I am forced to use it, Lars, and whoever else it includes, would be charged with your abduction and subject to the authority of the FSP Council.”

  “If I don’t press charges, once they’re off Optheria—”

  “If you perjure yourself in a Council Court, Killashandra Ree, not even the Heptite Guild can rescue you from the consequences.”

  “I repeat, and listen to me this time,” Lars interrupted firmly, jiggling Killashandra’s arm for her attention, “I only need a head start and there isn’t a captain on this planet who could catch me. Look, Trag, it’s not your affair, but if you’re willing to disorganize the Conservatory projector, would you consider doing others? There are quite a few two-manual organs on the Mainland. To have two sabotaged will already be a considerable boon, but the more Mainlanders who are freed from subliminal manipulation, the more chance we’d all have of surviving until the Federated Council moves.

  “The Elders can blandly puff on about disciplining islanders, but first they have to jizz enough Mainlanders up to the point of a punitive action. Mainlanders are a passive bunch, after so many years of the pap they’ve been subjected to.” He grinned maliciously. “You saw last night which of the three pressures the audience responded to the most—Not the martial pride! So, psyching a punitive force up would take time, a clever program, and sufficient audience saturation. The smaller the net the subliminals cast, the longer it will take the Elders to mount any sort of expedition to the islands.

  “Now,” and Lars leaned forward urgently, “you and Killa have to make a report to the Federated Council? Well, I would find it hard to believe that any Council acts fast. Right?”

  Trag nodded. “Speed is determined by the physical threat to the planet involved.”

  “Not to the population?” Killashandra asked, surprised at Trag’s emphasis.

  Trag shook his heavy head. “Populations are easy to produce, but habitable planets are relatively scarce.” He indicated that Lars should continue.

  “So, your report will be considered, deliberated upon, and then?”

  “It may indeed take time, Lars Dahl, but the Federated Council has outlawed the use of subliminal conditioning. There is absolutely no question in my mind that action will be taken against the Optherian Elders. A government which must resort to such means to maintain domestic satisfaction has lost the right to govern. Its Charter will be revoked.”

  “There’s no danger that you and Killashandra will be restrained from leaving?” Lars asked abruptly.

  “Why should we be? Can they have any suspicion that someone knows that they maintain control by illicit means?”

  “Comgail did,” Killashandra said, “even if he was killed before he could pass on the information. Whoever killed the man must wonder if Comgail had accomplices.”

  Lars shook his head positively. “Comgail’s only contact was Hauness and Hauness didn’t reveal that until after Comgail’s death. I knew that some drastic measure was planned. Not what it was.”

  “Tell me, Lars,” Trag asked, “does any one suspect that you are aware of the subliminals?”

  Lars shook his head vigorously. “How? I always pretended the correct responses after concerts. Father didn’t warn me until I was sent to the Mainland for my education. His warning was accompanied by a description of the retribution I would suffer, from him as well as the Council, if I ever revealed my knowledge unnecessarily.” Lars grinned. “You may be sure I told no one.”