“Killashandra Ree?” The bass voice was unmistakably Trag’s.

  “Yes, Trag?” She switched on vision.

  “You have been restored to the active list.”

  “I’m going off-world as soon as I can arrange transport, Trag.”

  Expressionless as ever, Trag regarded her. “A lucrative assignment is available to a singer of your status.”

  “The Optherian manual?” As Trag inclined his head once, Killashandra controlled her surprise. Why was Trag approaching her when Lanzecki had definitely not wanted her to take it?

  “You’re aware of the details?” For the first time Trag evinced a flicker of surprise.

  “Rimbol told me. He also said he wasn’t taking it. Was he your first choice?”

  Trag regarded her steadily for a moment. “You were the logical first choice, Killashandra Ree, but until an hour ago you were an Inactive.”

  “I was the first choice?”

  “Firstly, you are going off-world in any event and do not have sufficient credit to take you past the nearer inhabited systems. Secondly, an extended leave of absence is recommended by Medical. Thirdly, you have already acquired the necessary skills to place white crystal brackets. In the fourth place, your curriculum vitae indicates latent teaching abilities so that training replacement technicians on Optheria is well within your scope.”

  “Nothing was said about training technicians. Borella and Concera both have considerably more instructional experience than I.”

  “Borella, Concera, and Gobbain Tekla have not exhibited either the tact or diplomacy requisite to this assignment.”

  Killashandra was amused that Trag added Gobbain to the list. Had Bajorn told Trag who had inquired about transport to Optheria?

  “There are thirty-seven other active Guild members who qualify!”

  Trag shook his head slowly twice. “No, Killashandra Ree, it must be you who goes. The Guild needs some information about Optheria—”

  “Tactfully and diplomatically extracted? On what subject?”

  “Why the Optherian government prohibits interstellar travel to its citizens.”

  Killashandra let out a whoop of delight. “You mean, why, with their obsession for music, there isn’t a single Optherian in the Heptite Guild?”

  “That is not the relevant issue, Killashandra. The Federated Sentient Council would be obliged if the Guild’s representative would act as an impartial observer, to determine if this restriction is popularly accepted—”

  “A Freedom of Choice infringement? But wouldn’t that be a matter for—”

  Trag held up his hand. “The request asks for an impartial opinion on the popular acceptance of the restriction. The FSC acknowledges that isolated individuals might express dissatisfaction, but a complaint has been issued by the Executive Council of the Federated Artists Association.”

  Killashandra let out a low whistle. The Stellars themselves protested? Well, if Optherian composers and performers were involved, of course the Executive Council would protest. Even if it had taken them decades to do so.

  “And since the Guild’s representative would certainly come in contact with composers and performers during the course of the assignment, yes, I’d be more than willing to volunteer for that facet.” Was that why Lanzecki had been against her going? To protect her from the iron idealism of a parochial Optherian Council? But, as a member of the Heptite Guild, which guaranteed her immunity to local law and restrictions, she could not be detained an any charges. She could be disciplined only by her Guild. That any form of artistry might be limited by law was anathema. “There’ve been Optherian organs a long time …”

  “Popular acceptance is the matter under investigation.”

  Trag was not going to be deflected from the offical wording of the request.

  “All right, I copy!”

  “You’ll accept this assignment?”

  Killashandra blinked. Did she imagine the eagerness in Trag’s voice, the sudden release of tension from his face.

  “Trag, there’s something you’ve not told me about this assignment. I warn you, if this turns out to be like the Trundie—”

  “Your familiarity with elements of this assignment suggests that you have already done considerable background investigation. I have informed you of the FSC request—”

  “Why don’t you leave it with me for a little while, Trag,” she said, studying his face, “and I’ll consider it. Lanzecki gave me the distinct impression that I shouldn’t apply for it.”

  There. She hadn’t imagined that reaction. Trag was perturbed. He’d been deliberately tempting her, with as subtle a brand of flattery as she’d ever been subjected to. Her respect for the Administration Officer reached a new level for she would never have thought him so devious. He was so completely devoted to Guild and Lanzecki.

  “You’re asking me without Lanzecki’s knowledge?” She did not miss the sudden flare of Trag’s nostrils nor the tightening of his jaw muscles. “Why, Trag?”

  “Your name was first on the list of qualified available singers.”

  “Stuff it, Trag. Why me?”

  “The interests of the Heptite Guild are best served by your acceptance.” A hint of desperation edged Trag’s voice.

  “You object to the relationship between Lanzecki and me?” She had no way of knowing in what way Trag had adapted to Ballybran’s symbiont or in what way he expressed thought that such respect required additional outlets. If jealously prompted Trag to remove a rival …

  “No.” Trag’s denial was accompanied by a ripple of his facial muscles. “Up till now, he has not allowed personal consideration to interfere with his judgment.”

  “How has he done that?” Killashandra was genuinely perplexed. Trag was not complaining that Lanzecki had awarded her another valuable assignment. He was perturbed because he hadn’t. “I don’t follow you.”

  Trag stared at her for such a long moment she wondered if the screen had malfunctioned.

  “Even if you just go to Rani, it will not be far enough away or long enough. Lanzecki is long overdue for a field trip, Killashandra Ree. Because of you. Your body is so full of resonance he’s been able to delay. But your resonance is not enough. If you’re not available, he will be forced to cut crystal again and rejuvenate his body and his symbiont. If you have a real regard for the man, go. Now. Before it’s too late for him.”

  Killashandra stared back at Trag, trying to absorb the various implications—foremost was the realization that Lanzecki was genuinely attached to her. She felt a wave of exultation and tenderness that quite overwhelmed her for a moment. She’d never considered that possibility. Nor its corollary: that Lanzecki would be reluctant to cut crystal because he might forget his attachment. A man who’d been in the Guild as long as he had would be subject to considerable memory loss in the Ranges. Had he learned his duties as Guild Master so thoroughly that the knowledge was as ingrained in him as the rules and regulations in a crystal-mad brain like Moksoon’s? It was not Lanzecki’s face that suddenly dominated her thoughts, but the crisscross tracings of old crystal scars on his body, the inexplicable pain that occasionally darkened his eyes. Antona’s cryptic admission about singers who could not break crystal thrall echoed in her head. She puzzled at the assortment of impressions and suddenly understood. She sagged against the back and arms of her chair for support. Dully she wondered if Trag and Antona had been in collusion. Would the subject of crystal thrall have come up at that lunch hour even if Rimbol had not arrived?

  There was little doubt in Killashandra’s mind that Antona knew of Lanzecki’s circumstances. And she did doubt that the woman knew about their relationship. She also doubted that Trag would mention so personal an aspect of the Guild Master’s business. Why couldn’t Lanzecki have been just another singer, like herself? Why did he have to be Guild Master and far too valuable, too essential to be placed in jeopardy by unruly affection?

  Why, the situation has all the trappings of an operatic tragedy! A genuine one-solution tragedy, where hero and heroine both lose out. For she could now admit to herself that she was as deeply attached to Lanzecki as he was to her. She covered her face with both hands, clasping them to cheeks gone chill.

  She thought of Antona’s advice, to put down everything—including love—Killashandra writhed in her chair. Antona couldn’t have known that Killashandra would so shortly be faced with such an emotional decision. Which, Killashandra realized with a flicker of ironic amusement, was one to be as deeply and quickly interred and forgotten as possible.

  One thing was sure—no matter how long the journey to Optheria, it wouldn’t be long enough to forget all the wonderful moments she had enjoyed with Lanzecki the man. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of encountering him when she returned, and, perhaps, finding no recollection of her in his dark eyes. Nor feel his lips again on her hand …

  “Killashandra?” Trag’s voice recalled her to his watching presence on the viewscreen.

  “Now that I know the ramifications of the assignment, Trag, I can hardly refuse it.” Her flippant tone was belied by the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Do you go with him to break the thrall?” she asked when her throat opened enough to speak again.

  At any other time, she would have counted Tag’s startled look as a signal of victory. Maybe if she found someone to sing with, she would also find such a passionate and unswerving loyalty. She must remember that.

  “When’s the next shuttle to Shanganagh, Trag?” She rubbed her cheeks dry with an urgent impatience. “Tell Lanzecki—tell him … crystal resonance drove me to it.” As she spun off her chair, she heard herself give a laugh that verged on the hysterical. “That’s no more than the truth, isn’t it?” Driven by the need just to do something, she began to cram clothes into her carisak.

  “The shuttle leaves in ten minutes, Killashandra Ree.”

  “That’s great.” She struggled to secure the fastenings on the bulging sak. “Will you see me aboard again, Trag? That seems to be your especial duty, rushing me onto shuttles to Shanganagh for unusual assignments all over the galaxy.” She was unable to resist taunting Trag. He was the author of her misery and she was being strong and purposeful in a moment of deep personal sacrifice and loss. She glanced up at the screen and saw that it was dark. “Coward!”

  She hauled open her door. She decided that slamming it was a waste of a grand gesture. She had just enough time to get to the shuttle.

  “Exit Killashandra. Quietly. Up stage!”

  Trag had timed Killashandra’s departure well for she and the three crates of white crystal were on board a freighter bound for the Rappahoe Transfer Satellite within four hours of their confrontation. She didn’t think about it at the time for she was totally immersed in the strong emotions of self-sacrifice, remorse for her effect on Lanzecki, and a perverse need to redeem herself in Trag’s eyes. Even though she had permitted herself to be borne on the tide of circumstance, she kept hoping that Lanzecki might somehow get wind of her defection and abort the mission.

  To insure that her whereabouts were known, she rummaged through the shopping area of Shanganagh Base like a mach storm. She bought necessities, fripperies, and foodstuffs, accompanying each purchase with a running dialogue at the top of her voice and spelling out her name for every credit entry. No one could fail to know the whereabouts of Killashandra Ree. After adding a few items of essential clothing to the garments she had stuffed into her carisak, her keen instinct for survival asserted itself in the base’s victuallers. She had vivid memories of the monotonously nutritious diet on the Selkite freighter and the stodge supplied by the Trundomoux cruiser. She did have to consider her palate and digestive system.

  Sadly, no deferential shopkeeper tapped her on the arm to tell her of an urgent call from the Guild Master. In fact, people seemed to keep their distance from her. A chance glimpse of her gaunt, harrowed face in a mirror provided one explanation—she’d have needed no cosmetic aids to play the part of any one of a number of harried, despairing, insane heroines. At that point her humor briefly reasserted itself. She had often thought that the make-up recommended for, say, Lucia, or Lady Macbeth, or Testuka and Isolde was totally exaggerated. Now, at last having had personal experiences with the phenomenon of losing one’s great love through selfless sacrifice, she could appreciate the effect which grief could have on one’s outward appearance. She looked awful! So she purchased two brilliant multihued floating kaftans of Beluga spider-silk, and hastily added their fingerlength cases to her bulging carisak, then a travel-case of fashionable cosmetics. She’d nine days to travel on the first freighter and it would only be civil to remedy her appearance.

  Then the boarding call for the Pink Tulip Sparrow was broadcast and she had no option but to proceed to the loading bay. In an effort to delay the inevitable, she walked at a funereal pace down the access ramp.

  “Singer, we’ve got to get moving! Now, please, hurry along.”

  She made an appearance of haste but when the Mate tried to take her arm and hurry her into the lock, her body arched in resistance. Abruptly he let go, staring at her with an expression of puzzled shock—his arms were bare, and the hairs on them stood erect.

  “I’m awaiting purchases from Stores.” Killashandra was so desperate for a last-minute reprieve that any delay seemed reasonable.

  “There!” The Mate conveyed frustrated disgust and impatience as he pointed to a stack of odd-size parcels littering the passageway.

  “The crystals?”

  “Cartons all racked and tacked in the special cargo hold.” He made a move as if to grab her arm and yank her aboard, but jingled his hands with frustration instead. “We’ve got to make way. Shanganagh Authority imposes heavy fines for missed departure windows. And don’t tell me, Crystal Singer, that you’ve got enough credit to pay ’em.” Abruptly she abandoned all hope that Lanzecki, like the legendary heroes of yore, would rescue her at the last moment from her act of boundless self-sacrifice. She stepped aboard the freighter. The airlock closed with such speed that the heavy external hatch brushed against her heels. The ship was moving from the docking bay before the Mate could lead her out of the lock and close the secondary iris behind them.

  Killashandra experienced an almost overpowering urge to wrench open the airlock and leap into the blessed oblivion of space. But as she had deplored such extravagant and melodramatic actions in performances of historical tragedy, integrity prevented suicide despite the extreme anguish which tormented her. Besides, she had no excuse for causing the death of the Mate who seemed not to be suffering at all.

  “Take me to my cabin, please.” She turned too quickly, stumbled over the many packages in the passageway and had to grab the Mate’s shoulder, to regain her balance. Ordinarily she would have cursed her clumsiness, and apologized but cursing was undignified and inappropriate to her mood. From the pile, she chose two packages with the victualler’s logo, and waved negligently at the remainder. “The rest may be brought to my cabin whenever convenient.”

  The Mate wended a careful passage through the tumbled parcels as he passed her to lead the way. She noticed that the hair on his neck, indeed the dark body hairs that escaped the sleeveless top he wore, were piercing the thin stuff, all at right angles to his body.

  This was no longer an amusing manifestation. Just another fascinating aspect of crystal singing that you don’t hear about in that allegedly Complete Disclosure! It should be renamed “A Short Introduction to what’s really in store for you!” One day, no doubt, she would be in the appropriately damaged state to give All the Facts.

  The Mate had stopped, flattening himself against the bulkhead, and gestured toward an open door.

  “Your quarters, Crystal Singer. Your thumbprint will secure the door.” He touched his fingers to a spot above his right eye and disappeared around the corner as if chased by Galormis.

  Killashandra pressed her thumb hard into the door lock. She was pleasantly surprised by the size of the cabin. Not as big as any accommodation she had enjoyed on Ballybran but larger than her student room at Fuerte and much more spacious than that closet on the Trundomoux cruiser. She slid the door shut, locked it, and put the packages down on the narrow writing ledge. She looked at the bunk, strapped up to the wall in its daytime position. Suddenly she was light-headed with fatigue. Strong emotion is as exhausting as cutting crystal, she thought. She released the bunk and stretched herself out. She exhaled on a long shuddering sob and tried to relax her taut muscles.

  The hum of the ship’s crystal drive was a counterpoint to the resonance between her ears, and both sounds traveled in waves up and down her bones. At first her mind did a descant, weaving an independent melody through the bass and alto, but the rhythm suggested a three-syllable word—Lan-zec-ki—so she changed to an idiot two-note dissonance and eventually fell asleep.

  Once she got over the initial buoyancy of self-sacrifice aboard the Pink Tulip Sparrow, Killashandra vacillated between fury at Trag and wallowing in despair at her “Loss.” Until she concluded that her misery was caused by Lanzecki—after all, if he hadn’t made such a determined play for her affections, he wouldn’t have become so attached to her, nor she to him, and she wouldn’t be on a stinking tub of a freighter. Well, yes, she probably would. If all Trag had told her about the Optherian assignment was true. In no mood to be civil to either the crew or the other passengers, she stayed in her cabin the entire trip.

  At Rappahoe Transfer Point, she boarded a second freighter, newer and less unpleasant than the Pink Tulip Sparrow, with a lounge for the ten passengers it carried. Eight were male and each of them, including the only attached man, stood quickly at her entrance. Plainly they were aware that she was a crystal singer. Equally apparent was the fact that they were willing to put scruples aside to discover the truth of the space flot about singers. Three of them desisted after their first hour of propinquity. Two more during the first evening’s meal. To have one’s hair constantly standing on end seems like a little thing but so is a drop of water patiently wearing away a stone. The bald Argulian was the most persistent. He actually grabbed her in the narrow companionway, pressing her close to his body in an ardent embrace. She didn’t have to struggle for release.