A sigh attracted Killashandra's attention, and she turned to find a young man standing beside her. He would have deserved a second look anywhere, for he possessed close curled red hair, a recessive trait rarer now than the true blond. He had evidently watched the interchange between the space worker and the Guild programmer as if he had anticipated such a confrontation. His sigh had been one of relief.
“She made it,” he murmured under his breath, and then, noticing Killashandra, smiled at her. His unusually light green eyes twinkled in mischief. The antipathy Killashandra had instinctively felt for the space worker was replaced by an instant affinity to the young man. “She's been in a snit, that one, the whole journey here. Thought she'd go through the debarkation arch like a projectile when it started laying on the formality. And after all that . . .” He spread his hands wide to express his astonishment at her ease.
“There's more to it than going through a doorway,” Killashandra said.
«Don't I just know it, but there was no telling Carigana. For starters, she was annoyed that I got to do the prelim at Yarro on Beta VI. As if it were a personal affront to her that she had to come all the way here.» He stepped closer to Killashandra as a knot of people, buyers from their varied manner of dress, entered. «Have you taken the plunge yet?» And then he held up his hand, grinning so winningly when Killashandra stiffened at such a flagrant breach of privacy that she couldn't, after all, take offense. «I'm from Scartine, you know, and I keep forgetting manners. Besides, you don't look like a buyer» – his comment was complimentary for he gestured with good-humored contempt at the finery of most of the other occupants of the hall – «and transients would never venture further than the catering area, so you must be interested in crystal singing . . .» He raised his eyebrows as well as the tone of his voice in question.
It would have taken a far more punctilious person than Killashandra to depress his ingenuous manner, but she answered with the briefest of smiles and a nod.
“Well, because I've been through the prelim, I've only to report my presence, but if I were you, though I'm not, and it's certainly not my wish to invade your privacy, I'd give Carigana a chance to get organized before I followed her in.” Then he cocked his head, grinning with a sparkle at odds with his guilelessness. “Unless you're hanging back with second thoughts.”
“I've thoughts but none of them second.” Killashandra said. “You did the prelim at Yarro?”
“Yes, you know the tests.”
“SG-1's, I hear.”
He shrugged diffidently. “Medigear feels the same for all levels, and if you're adjusted, the psych is nothing. Aptitude's aptitude and a fast one, but you look like you've done tertiary studies, so what's to knot your hair over?” His expression was sharp as his eyes flicked to the wall through which Carigana had passed. “If you've got hair!”
«Those tests – they're not complicated, or painful, or anything?. . .» The tall nervous young man had sidled up to them without either noticing his approach.
Killashandra frowned slightly with displeasure, but the other young man grinned encouragingly.
“No sweat, no stress, no strength exerted, man. A breeze,” and he planed his hand in a smooth gesture indicating ease. “All I got to do now is go up to the panel, knock on the door, and I'm in.” He snapped the shoulder strap of his carisak.
“You've been given the full disclosure?” the dark-haired man asked.
“Not yet.” The red-head grinned again. “That's the next step and only done here.”
“Shillawn Agus Vartry,” the other said formally, raising his right hand, fingers spread in the galactic gesture that indicated cooperation without weapon.
“Rimbol C-hen-stal-az” was the red-head's rejoinder.
Killashandra wasn't in the mood to be drawn into further conversation about applying for Guild membership, not with this Shillawn swallowing and stammering his way to a decision. She accorded Rimbol a smile and the salute as she backed away courteously before veering toward the module with more assurance than she felt. Once there, she spread her fingers wide where the movement would catch the woman's eye.
“I'd like to apply for membership to the Heptite Guild,” she said when the woman raised her head. Killashandra had meant to say she wanted to become a Crystal Singer, but the words had shifted in her mind and mouth with uncharacteristic discretion. Perhaps Carigana's very bad example had tempered her approach.
The programmer inclined her head in acknowledgment of the request, her fingers flashing across the terminal keys. “If you will proceed through that entrance.” She motioned toward the opening panel in the wall.
Killashandra could just imagine how anti-climactic that mild phrase must have been for the storming Carigana. She smiled to herself as the panel closed behind her without so much as a sigh. Exit Killashandra Ree softly and with no fanfare.
She found herself in a short corridor, with a series of color-coded and design-patched doors on either side, and made for one that opened quietly. Just as she entered the room from one door, a man with an odd crook to one shoulder entered from another. He gave her such a quick searching look that she felt certain he had had to greet Carigana.
“You agree to submit to SG-1 examinations of physical, psychological, and aptitudinal readiness? Please state your name, planet of origin, and whatever rank you hold. This information is being processed under the Federated Sentient Planets' conditions regarding admission into the Heptite Guild of Ballybran.” He ran through the speech in two breaths, staring expectantly at her while her mind caught up with his rote comments.
“Yes, I, Killashandra Ree of Fuerte, agree to the examinations. Rank, tertiary student in performing arts, released.”
“This way, please, Killashandra Ree.” She followed him into an anteroom, the usual examination facility. The panel on one door blazed red, and Killashandra supposed that Carigana was within, being subjected to the same tests she was about to undergo.
She was shown to the next cubicle, which held the couch and hood that were standard physical diagnostic equipment for her species. Without a word, she settled herself on the couch as comfortably as possible, inured since childhood to the procedures, to the slightly claustrophobic sensation as the upper half of the diagnostic unit swung down over her. She didn't mind the almost comforting pressure of the torso unit or the tight grip across one thigh and the hard weight on her left shin, but she never could get used to the constricting headpiece and the pressures against eyes, temple, and jaw. But cerebral and retinal scanning were painless, and one never felt the acupuncture that deadened the leg for the blood, bone marrow, and tissue samples. The other pressures for organ readings, muscle tone, heat and cold tolerances, sound sensitivity, were as nothing to the final pain-threshold jolt. She had heard about but never experienced the pain-threshold gamut – and hoped never to have to do so again.
Just as she was about to scream from the stimuli applied to her nerve centers the apparatus abruptly retracted. As her nervous system tingled with the after effect, she did groan and massaged the back of her neck to ease muscles that had tensed in that split second of measurable agony.
“Take this restorative now, please,” the meditech said, entering the room. He gave her a glass of carbonated green liquid. “Set you right. And if you'll just sit here,” he added as a comfortable padded chair rolled to the center of the room while the medigear slid to the left. “When you are recovered, press the button on the right chair arm, and the psychological test will begin. A verbal address system is used. Responses are, of course, recorded, but I'm sure you're familiar with the procedures by now.”