“Of course,” Ampris said, breaking the heavy silence that ensued, “the organ was developed by an Optherian for Optherian purposes and is, in fact, unique to our planet.”

  “Yes, yes, quite so,” Torkes mumbled just as a mellow chime discreetly ended the reception.

  Torkes made an adroit escape.

  “So, one does not dispute with you Elders here?” Killashandra asked, watching him move off through the throng.

  “It is good for us, I assure you,” Ampris replied with a chuckle. “Fortunately Torkes is more flexible than he sounds, for when he changes Seats, he becomes totally committed to his immediate responsibility.” When Killashandra looked quizzical, he added: “We Elders change our duties every four years, so as not to become too narrow in our understanding of the overview.”

  “I see.”

  “Then you are wiser than your years,” Ampris said, “for I cannot believe that an administrator who is tone deaf can effectively guide Music: or that an Elder who cannot integrate should have charge of the Treasury. However, the governmental mechanism is so weighty that four years of mismanagement generally produce no more than annoying miscalculations and minor blunders easily corrected. The brilliance of the Founding Fathers of Optheria is once more unquestionably elucidated.”

  Thyrol appeared, respectfully inclining his upper body at his interruption.

  “Elder Ampris, Guildmaster Ree, if you will proceed to the dining chamber?”

  The beauty of the hall, the elegantly set table and Elder Ampris’s earlier comment deceived Killashandra into anticipating a far better meal. Although presented in appealing style, the miniscule portions did not appeased Killashandra’s heavy appetite. Nor was she offered enough of any one food to make a positive identification of its constituents or savor its taste. The courses were accompanied by beverages which were so bland that the water had more zest to it—and not a brew or a ferment among them. Killashandra’s exasperated sigh caught the attention of Elder Pentrom, her right-hand dinner partner.

  “Something is amiss?” he asked politely and then stared for a brief moment at her clean plate. He was but halfway through the food on his.

  “Doesn’t Optheria produce brews, or vintages or something with more taste than these, Elder Pentrom?”

  “You mean an alcoholic beverage?” he said, as if she had made a particularly obscene suggestion.

  Killashandra favored him with a longer look and decided that with his prim mouth, sharp chin, and tiny eyes, no other reaction could have been expected.

  “Indeed I do mean alcoholic beverages.” He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word she said, “Alcohol is essential to the proper metabolic function of a crystal singer.”

  “I have never heard that in all my years as Medical Supervisor of this planet.”

  “Have you encountered many crystal singers in your career?” Piqued by yet another dogmatic encounter, Killashandra discarded any semblance of tact. These people needed a set-down and she was in the enviable position of being able to give it with impunity.

  “In actual fact, no—”

  “Then how can you possibly dispute my statement? Or question my requirements? This,” and she waved a scornful hand at the goblet before her, “bilge—”

  “That beverage is a nutritious liquid, carefully combined to supply the adult daily requirements of vitamins and minerals to ensure—”

  “No wonder it tastes so revolting. And may I point out that any brewmaster worth his license provides the same vitamins and minerals in a form palatable enough to satisfy the inner man as well.”

  The Medical Supervisor hitched his chair back, throwing his serviette on the table in preparation for harangue, and suddenly they were the center of attention. “Young woman—”

  “Spare me your condescension, Elder,” Killashandra replied as she rose gracefully to her feet and glared down at him. She swept the table with a reproving look. “I shall retire to my apartment until such time as my dietary requirements can be met with enough food”—she flipped over her empty plate—“to satisfy my appetite and sufficient alcoholic beverages to keep my metabolism functioning. Good evening!”

  In the stunned silence, Killashandra left the room. Doors the size and density of the ones securing the dining chamber did not slam satisfactorily but she had enjoyed her exit so much that she did not miss that part of the finale. In the corridor, she startled minions, lounging against the walls.

  “Does anybody know where my apartments are in this mausoleum?” she demanded. When all raised their hands, she pointed to the nearest. “Take me there.” When he hesitated and looked anxiously at the door, she repeated her order in a louder and more authoritative tone. He scurried forward, more desirous of avoiding her immediate wrath than courting disfavor of an absent authority.

  “Tell me,” she asked in a pleasant tone when they had entered a small lift, “is food plentiful on Optheria?”

  He cast her a very nervous glance and when she smiled winningly at him, relaxed a little, though he kept as far from her in the carriage as possible.

  “There is plenty of food on Optheria. Too much. This year only half the fields may be planted, and I know that early fruit has been left to rot on the vine.”

  “Then why did I get three mouthfuls at dinner?”

  Something approaching levity touched the young man’s face. “All the Elders are old: they don’t eat much.”

  “Hmm! That’s one explanation. But a good brew or a nice dry vintage would have helped!”

  A smile tugged at the young man’s lips. “Well, Elder Pentrom was present and he is death on any sort of alcoholic beverage. Says it saps the energy of the young and disrupts thought in the mature.”

  “And he was my dinner partner!” Killashandra’s crow of malice resounded in the enclosed space. “My timing is, as ever, superb! Well, I’m not under his jurisdiction and, if Optheria really needs that organ repaired, the Elders will have to placate me, not him.” The young man was obviously shocked. “Tell me,” she said in her kindest, most wheedling voice, “you seem to be a knowledgeable fellow, what sort in interesting beverages are produced on this planet?”

  “Oh, there are brews and vintages,” he assured her promptly and with some pride, “and some rather potent spiritous drinks manufactured in the mountains and the islands—but that sort of stuff isn’t permitted in the Conservatory.” The lift’s doors slid open, and the Optherian bustled out.

  “More’s the pity.” Killashandra strode on down the hallway after her guide. “What do you drink? No, abort the question,” and she grinned at his startled glance. “What is the most popular drink?”

  “The most popular one on this continent is a brew called Bascum.”

  “Is Bascum a plant or a person?”

  “Person.” Her guide was warming to his subject. He indicated they take the left-hand corridor at the junction. “One of the Founding Fathers.”

  “So his brewery is allowed to function in the face of the Medical Supervisor’s displeasure?” Killashandra grinned as he nodded. “I infer from your remarks that there are other popular drinks? Any wines?”

  “Oh, yes, the western continent produces some very fine vintages, both white and red, and some doubly distilled liqueurs. I’m not familiar with the wines at all.”

  “And those islands you mentioned, they go for the spiritous liquors?”

  “The polly tree.”

  “The polly tree?”

  “Its fermented fruit makes a brandy which, I’m told, is more potent than anything else in the universe. The polly tree provides foliage for shelter, a fine-grained wood for building, its roots burn for a long time, its bark can be pounded into a fiber which the islanders use for weaving cloth, its pith is extremely nutritious, and its large fruit is delicious as well as nutritious—”

  “When it isn’t fermented—”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the polly tree only grows on the islands?”

  “That’s right, and here is your apartment, Guildmember.” He opened the door.

  “There’s no privacy lock on this?” Killashandra had not noticed the lack in her first hurried inspection.

  “There is no need for such in the Complex.” Her guide appeared surprised at her reaction. “No one would presume to enter without your express permission.”

  “There are no thieves on Optheria?”

  “Not in the Conservatory!”

  She thanked him for his escort and entered her sacrosanct apartment, closing the door behind her with a sigh of relief. Only then did her eye fall on the table. She exclaimed aloud at the display of bottles of all sizes and shapes, at the beakers, goblets, wine glasses that waited in pristine array on the white cloth. A separate tray offered an assortment of tidbits, nuts, and small wafers. A small chest opened to exhibit chilled bottles and two pottery amphoras.

  There was no way the collection could have been assembled and spirited into her apartment in the time elapsed since she stormed out of the dining room. Then she remembered her remarks on the trip from the spaceport. Well, Elder Pentrom might be a prissy, dogmatic, abstemious man, but obviously her every whim was someone’s command.

  Because her guide had mentioned Bascum, her choice among so many finally settled on the neat brown bottle in the cold chest. She flipped the top off and let the mid-brown brew slowly descend into an appropriate beaker. The malty scent that rose to her nostrils suggested good things to come.

  “And about time, too,” she said, scooping up a random selection of nibbles and sinking into the nearest comfortable seat. “To absent friends!” She lifted her beaker high then took her first sip.

  She regarded the brew with respect and delight. “Could Bascum possibly have come from Yarra?” she asked herself. “This might not be so bad an assignment after all!”

  By the time the quick Optherian sunset had finished its evening display, Killashandra had sampled nine beverages, wishing she had someone with whom to share the largesse, especially since there was a prohibition against it. Which brought Corish to mind, and that mythical uncle of his. Unless she could discover how much surveillance she would be having from her discreet quartette—and how easy it would be to outwit it—she didn’t want to risk meeting him. Would they think it odd if she left a message in at the Piper Facility? Corish had considerably piqued her curiosity and she was somewhat motivated by a desire to show him that two could play the exploitation gambit.

  Someone tapped on her apartment door and, when Mirbethan entered on her permission, Killashandra caught the shade of uncertainty in the Optherian’s manner.

  “Since you’re not accompanied by any priss-mouthed ancients, you are welcome. And if that excuse for a meal is a state dinner here, no wonder you’re a lean bunch.”

  Mirbethan flushed. “Since Elder Pentrom graciously accepted our invitation, we are obliged to cater to his dietary preferences. Didn’t Elder Ampris mention this to you?”

  “He failed to put me in the know. However, all this,” and Killashandra waved expansively at the beverage table’s load, “makes up for that deficiency, though solid food would assist my investigations …”

  “There was no time to show you the catering facility.” Mirbethan glided to one of the discreet wall cabinets. Its doors opened on a catering unit. “Alcoholic beverages are not included. Students have a distressing aptitude for breaking restricted codes.” Killashandra decided that she merely thought she detected a note of tolerant humor in Mirbethan’s voice. “That is why we have supplied you with a sampling of the available intoxicants.”

  “In spite of Elder Pentrom.”

  Mirbethan cast her eyes downward.

  “Tell me, Mirbethan, would you happen to know if Bascum the brewmaster originated from the planet Yarra?”

  “Bascum?” Mirbethan looked up, startled, and confused. When Killashandra waved the long-emptied bottle at her, she blushed. “Oh, that Bascum.” Now she glided to a second ornate cabinet which opened into a full size terminal, and a panel in the wall slid aside to reveal a large screen. She typed an entry as Killashandra made a private wager. “Why, how under the suns did you know?”

  “The best brewmasters in the galaxy hail from that planet. I haven’t sampled everything yet,” Killashandra went on, “but I shall be very well suited indeed if you’ll undertake to keep me supplied with Bascum’s brew.”

  “As you require, Guildmember. But for now, the concert is about to start in the Red Hall. Only the single manual organ, but the performer was last year’s prize winner.”

  Killashandra was tempted, but she was a shade hungrier and drier than she liked to be. “The Elders are present?” When Mirbethan solemnly nodded, Killashandra sighed deeply. “Convey my apologies on the grounds of travel fatigue … and the stress of metabolic readjustment after the assault and the wound.” Killashandra ran the silk up her arm, exposing her shoulder where only a thin red line gave evidence of an injury.

  Mirbethan’s eyes widened significantly and then, with a subtle shift, she inclined a bow to Killashandra.

  “Your apologies will be conveyed. Call code MBT 14 if you require any further assistance from myself, Thyrol, Pirinio, or Polabod.”

  Killashandra wished her a pleasant evening and Mirbethan withdrew. As soon as the door had closed on the woman, Killashandra discarded her languor and made for the catering unit. Once again, Optherian peculiarities inhibited her, for when she called up a menu, there was no scrolling of delectable, mouthwatering selections but a set dinner, with only three choices for the main course. She opted for all three, and immediately the catering unit queried her. She repeated her request and, when the unit wanted to know how many were dining, she tapped in “three.” At which point the unit informed her that the apartment was recorded as having a single occupant. She replied that she had guests. Their names and codes were required. She responded with the names of Elders Pentrom and Ampris, codes unknown.

  The food was promptly dispensed, two of the meager servings that she had observed in the dining hall. Fortunately the third one was substantial enough to abort the kick that she had been about to bestow on the catering unit.

  Once she had solid food in her stomach, she continued her liquor sampling. While not in the least inebriated, thanks to her Ballybran-altered digestion, Killashandra was very merry and sang lustily as she ventured into the hygiene rooms and splashed in the scented water of the bath. She continued to sing, her fancy latching onto a riotous ballad generally rendered by a tenor, as she made her way to the bedroom. A lambent radiance augmented the soft lighting and, curious, she went to the window, observing three of Optheria’s four small moons, one near enough for the craters and vast sterile plains to be clearly visible. Entranced, Killashandra broke off the ballad and began the haunting love duet from Baleef’s exotic opera, Voyagers, which seemed particularly appropriate to the setting.

  When a tenor voice joined her on cue, she faltered a moment. Then, despite her astonishment at spontaneity in such a rigidly controlled environment, she continued. Voyagers had been her last opera as a student on Fuerte, so she knew it well enough to divert some of her attention from the words. And a fine, rich, well produced voice he had. Might need a bit more support for the G’s and A’s in the last three measures—she’d be amazed if he could hit the high C along with her—but he had a firm sense of the dynamic requirements and sang with great sensitivity. As the tenor took up the melody, she gathered herself for the taxing finale, delighted to find her singing voice still flexible enough for the dynamics, and the high C. The tenor, with no loss of vibrance, opted for the A, but it was a grand ringing A and she applauded his judgment.

  She sustained her note, perversely wishing him to drop but, as it happened, they broke off at the same instant, as if they had had the innumerable rehearsals such inspired singing required.

  “ ‘When shall our paths cross again?’ ” she asked in the recitative which followed that spectacular duet.

  “ ‘When the moons of Radomah make glorious the sky with measured dance.’ ” The invisible tenor also had a vibrant speaking voice, and, better yet, an appreciation of the humor in their impromptu performance for she caught the ripple of laughter in his chanted phrases. Did he also find the words, and the opera, a trifle ludicrous in the austere setting of the Optherian Complex?

  All of a sudden, the courtyard below was floodlighted. Figures erupted onto the paving, shouting commands for silence. Before she stepped back from the window, Killashandra caught a glimpse of a figure, in a window directly opposite hers but a story above, withdrawing into the shielding darkness. Soprano and tenor exited the stage while the extras made a diligent and vain search for the conspirators.

  Killashandra poured herself a full glass of something which its label identified as a fortified wine. This was an odd music center if impromptu singing, particularly of so high a caliber, was answered by punitive force.

  She downed the drink, doused all the lights in the suite and, in the milky light of the moons, sought the comfort of her bed. Despite a wish for sleep, her mind ranged through the scenes of the Baleef opera and the sorrows of the star-crossed lovers. She must remember to ask Mirbethan who that tenor was. Fine voice! Much better than the pimple-faced little oaf who had sung the role opposite her on Fuerte!

  Morning chimes, soft but insidious, roused her. She lifted herself on one elbow, saw that dawn was just breaking, groaned and, flinging the light coverlet over her head, went back to sleep. A second sequence of chimes, louder, sounded. Cursing, Killashandra strode to the console, coded the number Mirbethan had given her. “Is there any way to stop the wretched chimes in this apartment? Imagine, having to wake up at dawn!”