Once the ident number went up on the display, the carton was unpacked and each crystal form carefully put on the scale, which computed color, size, weight, form, and perfection. Some crystals Enthor immediately placed on the moving belts, which shunted them to the appropriate level for shipment or storage. Others he himself cocooned in the plastic webbing with meticulous care.
The sorting process seemed boringly simple. Sometimes it was not easy to retrieve the small crystals that had been thrust at any angle into the protective foam. Killashandra almost missed a small blue octagon before Enthor grabbed the carton she was about to assign to replacement.
“Lucky for you,” the sorter said darkly, glancing about him, brows wrinkled over his eyes, “that the Singer who cut this wasn't watching. I've seen them try to kill a person for negligence.”
“For this?” Killashandra held up the octagon, which couldn't have been more than 8 centimeters in length.
“For that. It's unflawed.” Enthor's quick movement had placed the crystal on the scale and checked its perfection. “Listen!” He set the piece carefully between her thumb and forefinger and flicked it lightly.
Even above the rustling and stamping and low-voiced instructions, Killashandra heard the delicate, pure sound of the crystal. The note seemed to catch in her throat and travel down her bones to her heels.
“It's not easy to cut small, and right now this piece's worth a couple of hundred credits.”
Killashandra was properly awed and far more painstaking, risking her fingers to search a plasfoam carton that seemed heavier than empty. Enthor scolded her for that, slapping her gloves across her cheek before he tugged one of his off and showed her fingers laced by faint white scars.
“Crystal does it. Even through gloves and with symbiosis. Yours would fester. I'd get docked for being careless.”
“Docked?”
“Loss of work time due to inadequate safety measures is considered deductible. You, too, despite your being a recruit.”
“We get paid for this?”
“Certainly.” Enthor was indignant at her ignorance. “And you got danger money for unloading yesterday. Didn't you know?”
Killashandra stared at him in surprise.
“Just like all new recruits.” Enthor chuckled amiably
at her discomfort. "Not got over the shock, huh? Get a beaker of juice this morning? Thought so. Everyone does who's worked in a gale. Does the trick. And no charge for it, either." He chuckled again at her. "All medical treatment's free, you know." "But you said you got docked – "
“For stupidity in not taking safety precautions.” He wiggled his fingers, now encased in their tough skin-tight gloves, at her. “No, don't take that carton. I will. Get the next. Fugastri just came in. We don't want him breathing down your neck. He's a devil, but he's never faulted me!”
"You're being extremely helpful – "
“You're helping me, and we're both being paid by the same source, this crystal. You might as well know this job properly,” and Enthors tone implied that she might not have as good an instructor in any other sector. “You might end up here as a sorter, and we sorters like to have a good time. What'd you say your name was?”
“Killashandra.”
"Oh, the person who brought Carrik back! Enthors tone was neither pleased nor approving: he just identified her.
Obscurely, Killashandra felt better: she wasn't just an identity lost in the Guild's memory banks. People besides Class 895 had heard of her.
“Did you know Carrik?”
«I know them all, m'dear. And wish I didn't. – However, it's not a bad life.» He gave another of his friendly chuckles. «A fair day's wage for a fair day's work and then the best possible domestic conditions.» His grin turned to a knowing leer, and he gave her a nudge. «Yes, you might remember my name while you can, for you won't if you become a Singer. Enthor, I am, level 4, accommodation 895. That ought to be easy for you to remember, as it's your class number.»
“What was yours?” Quickly, Killashandra sought a way to turn the conversation away from his offer.
“Class number? 502,” he said. “Nothing wrong with my memory.”
“And you're not deaf.”
“Couldn't sort crystal if I were!”
“Then what did the symbiont do to you?” She blurted it out before she realized she might be invading his privacy.
“Eyes, m'dear. Eyes.” He turned and, for the first time, faced her directly. He blinked once, and she gasped. A protective lens retracted at his blink. She saw how huge his irises were, obscuring the original shade of the pupil. He blinked again, and some reddish substance covered the entire eyeball. “That's why I'm a sorter and why I know which crystals are flawless at a glance. I'm one of the best sorters they've ever had. Lanzecki keeps remarking on my ability. Ah, you'll shortly see what I mean . . .”
Another sorter, a disgruntled look on his face, was walking toward them with a carton and escorted by an angry Singer.
“Your opinion on these blues'?” The Singer, his face still bearing the ravages of a long period in the ranges, curtly took the container from the sorter and thrust it at Enthor. Then the Singer, with the rudeness that Killashandra was beginning to observe was the mark of a profession rather than a personality, blocked the view of the sorter whose judgment he had questioned.
Enthor carefully deposited the carton on his work space and extracted the crystals, one by one, holding them up to his supersensitive eyes for inspection, laying them down in a precise row. There were seven green-blue pyramids, each broader in the base by 2 or 3 centimeters.
“No flaws perceived. A fine shear edge and good point,” Enthor rendered his opinion in a flat tone markedly different from his conversational style with Killashandra. With an almost finicky precision, he wiped and polished a tiny crystal hammer and tapped each pyramid delicately. The fourth one was a half note, instead of a whole, above the third, and thus a scale was not achieved.
“Market them in trios and save the imperfect one for a show piece. I recommend that you check your cutter for worn gaskets or fittings. You're too good a Singer to make such an obvious mistake. Probably the oncoming storm put you off the note.”
The attempt at diplomacy did not mollify the Singer, whose eyes bulged as he gathered himself to bellow. Enthor appeared not to notice, but the other sorter had stepped backward hastily.
“Lanzecki!”
The angry shout produced more than the swift arrival of Lanzecki. A hush fell over the sorting room, and the Singer seemed unaware of it, his savage glance resting on Enthor, who blithely tapped figures into his terminal.
Killashandra felt a hand on her shoulder and stepped obediently aside to allow Lanzecki to take her place by Enthor. As if aware of the Guild Master's presence, Enthor again tapped the crystals, the soft tones falling into respectful silence.
Lanzecki was not listening: he was watching the dials on the scales. One eyebrow twitched as the half tone sounded and the corresponding digits appeared on the display.
“Not a large problem, Uyad,” Lanzecki said, turning calmly to the flushed Singer. “You've been cutting that face long enough to fill in half tones. I'd suggest you store this set and fill it to octave. Always a good price for pyramids in scale.”
“Lanzecki . . . I've got to get off-planet this time. I have got to get away! I won't survive another trip to the ranges. . . not until I've had time off this bloody planet!”