The porcupine of a crystal drive unit dominated the next showcase, but the largest area was devoted to the black crystal, which, indeed, was neither black nor, apparently, a crystal. When she moved on to the next wall of the dodecahedron and squinted through one of the eyeholes, she saw another piece, very definitely black in the special lighting.
Suddenly, the chandelier chimed, and, startled, Killashandra turned to find the tall, thin, nervous man from the spaceship standing at the entrance. He had cleared his throat noisily, and the chandelier was responding to the harsh sound. He now looked as if he were going to dash from the hall in terror.
“Yes?” she asked, forestalling his flight. She might as well find out what was haunting him.
“No mean to break privacy,” he blurted out in a hoarse whisper. He obviously had encountered the peculiar reaction of the chandelier before. “But the man with you on the ship? He was a Singer?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him? That spore get him?”
“No,” Killashandra replied. The poor man's eyes threatened to pop out of his head he was so worried. “He was caught in the sonic backlash when a shuttle blew up. Sensory overload.”
The relief brightened his face, and he mopped at his forehead and cheeks with a film.
"They tell you only so much and not enough. So when I saw him – "
“You want to become a Crystal Singer?”
He gulped, his larynx cartilage bobbing up and down in his nervousness.
“Are you a Singer?” There was awe in his voice. “I thought you must be from the way the captain was treating you.” He wasn't so certain of that now, obviously.
“No, I'm not.”
His attitude changed instantly as he straightened up and thrust his shoulders back.
“Well, I'm going to be,” he stated firmly, and the chandelier echoed him. He glanced nervously above and seemed to draw his head protectively into his shoulders.
“If that's what you want,” Killashandra said equably, and then strode past him. She'd seen all of the hall she wanted and could do with some food.
“You mean, you won't try to argue me out of it?” he asked, following her.
“Why should I?”
“Everyone else does.”
“I'm not everyone else.”
“It's supposed to be very dangerous.”
“I'm not worried.”
“Are you going to apply, too?”
She stopped and turned on him so swiftly that he nearly walked into her.
"You're invading my privacy – "
“Oh, no, no.” He fended off such an accusation with raised arms and a startled expression. “But why else would you be in the Heptite Hall?”
“To buy crystal.”
"You're not a buyer – "
“You're invading my privacy!” She stalked off as fast as she could, half tempted to press the close button on the panel that separated the linking corridor with the catering foyer.
“I just wanted to talk . . .” His voice followed her but he at least had remained behind.
The energy generated by her irritation carried her past the bar area to a T-junction of aisles leading to business stalls and cubicles, some closed by privacy screens. Broadleafed plants lined a short flight of steps into the dining area. Service slots and bright-orange menu panels were positioned against the walls, and she was making her way to the nearest when she heard herself called.
“Over here, Killashandra Ree.” Captain Andurs rose from a group of spacemen to beckon her. “C'mon. Join us.”
Well, he'd at least be protection against that imbecile if he followed her, so she waved back and stepped up to scan the menufax. She was overwhelmed by the selections scrolling on display. When she spotted the seafood casserole she'd eaten that momentous evening at Fuerte, she ordered it.
“Brew's good, too,” Andurs said, coming to assist her. He deftly punched a sequence, paused and tapped again. “Goes down better with some of these.”
She was about to protest his abruptness, all too familiar with the vagaries of over programmed and stubborn student hall catering units, when the service panel slid open to reveal all three orders. Efficiency was a pleasure.
«Here, have a sip of the brew and see if you like it,» Andurs suggested, offering her the liter glass. «No sense making unnecessary trips. Spoils conversations. See, I told you it was good. It's not processed: allowed to age normally, and that means a good brew. They know how here.» Then he dialed up not only a liter glass for her but a large beaker as well. «I'd stick to the brews here or your own planet's ferment or distillations if they stock 'em – and I'd be surprised if they didn't. You could really turn off on some drinks if you have the wrong metabolism, you know.»
“I appreciate the advice,” she said as they made their way back to the others.
“Do you?” Andurs sounded cynical. “We've been scheduled. We'll be on our way tomorrow, 1000 base time. Rush cargo. Bound for Regulus Exchange. You can use that Guild voucher and cross the Milky Way if you've a mind to.”
“I've a mind to stay here and see how it goes.”
“Done any checking?” he asked, lowering his voice, for they were nearly to the table now.
“Enough.”
“No matter what prints out, it wouldn't be enough or all the truth.” Andurs' tone was dourly repressive.
“By FSP law, they have to make full disclosure of the dangers.”
Andurs snorted, but they had reached the table by then and he was disinclined to continue that discussion.
She had only just been introduced to the flight engineer, whom she hadn't met during the journey, when she noticed tension on the faces of the supercargo and the second officer. Curious, she glanced over her shoulder to see what caused their dislike and then half turned in her chair to get a clear look.
Two men and a woman stood there observing the seated diners. It was not their rough, stained garments, the scarred boots, or unkempt hair that caught Killashandra's eye – though these were unusual enough in a society that respected cleanliness – but the trio's imperious bearing, a sort of lofty disdain that excluded everyone else, and the brilliance of their eyes. The tableau, briefly held during the trio's survey, broke up as the three moved purposefully toward a corner table where, as Killashandra followed their progress, two other similarly attired people sat.
«And who do they think they are?» Killashandra asked, as annoyed by their manner as the second officer and supercargo. Even as she spoke, she knew the answer, for she had seen that hauteur, that inner luminosity before – in Carrik.
“Singers, are they?”
“Yes,” said the super flatly.
“Are they always like that?”
“Wasn't your friend Carrik?” Andurs countered.
“Not exactly like that.”
«Then he was most unusual,» the super replied in a daunting tone. «They're at their worst just in from the ranges – as those are. Lucky for us, Andurs, there are two Monasterian ships in. They'll ship out on those.»
Andurs nodded curtly and then, as if to make certain Killashandra did not continue the sore subject of Singers, began a volley of questions about supplies and cargo waybills. Taking the hint, she applied herself to her food but did cast surreptitious glances toward the fascinating group of Singers. Killashandra was all the more surprised that they seemed not to have much to say to each other, though the trio had deliberately sought out the pair. Nor did they leave their table longer than it took one of them to dial and collect several wine beakers at a time. They paid no attention to others in the now – crowded dining area.
Since there was considerable traffic, greeting of friends, and good-natured teasing from table to table, Killashandra could make some discreet evaluations. A good relationship seemed to exist between base residents – Guild members or not – and transients. She recognized the various professions and skills by the distinctive uniform colors and hatchings of coding and rate. The travelers were garbed in whatever suited their fancies, the styles and fashions of two or three dozen cultures and disciplines. Ship personnel always wore the space-dark uniforms, sober counterpoint to the riot of civilian dress. Several life-supported aliens appeared briefly in the main foyer but they quickly retired to the catering level that accommodated their exotic requirements.