“What could they do to you if you had?” Shillawn asked, swallowing nervously as if he envisioned himself muffing it in a similar instance.
“I don't know.”
“Something bizarre, I'm sure,” Borton said. “Those Singers don't spare anyone if their cuttings are mishandled. I was lucky enough to be the sorter who did Uyad's cut.” Borton grinned. “I hid in the storage behind enough cartons, so I didn't get much of the back blast.”
“So that's where you were,” Jezerey asked, teasing.
“Bloody well told. I'm not here to bucket someone else's bilge.”
Conversation continued about the variety of cuts and sizes and colors of the crystals from the Brerrerton and Milekey Ranges. Killashandra added nothing else, considering it more discreet to remain silent. When she could do so without attracting attention, she rose and went to her room. She wanted to think and recall the sensation of handling that massive black crystal. It hadn't been really black, not black at all, nor clear the way the rose or indeed any of the other crystals had been. She had accepted the designation at the time, for surely Enthor knew his crystals, and certainly the black quartz was different.
She tapped data retrieval for all information on black quartz crystal and specimens there of. The data included black crystal in segmented units, none quite like the dodecahedron. Another display showed an octagon in its luminous, unchanged state, then the same form shading gradually to a matte black as it responded to thermal changes artificially induced. The data began to take up the lecture Tukolom had given, and she switched it off, lying back and recalling the sensation of her first contact with black crystal.
The next day, recovery teams brought in the cargo from sleds that had not reached the safety of the Guild Complex, and depression settled over the sorting room when the cartons, dinged, scarred, and discolored, were deposited on sorting tables. The mood was partially lightened when two containers disgorged some good triple and quadruple black crystal.
“What happens to them?” Killashandra asked Enthor in a low voice.
“To what?”
“The crystal of the Singer who didn't make it.”
“Guild.” Enthor's terse reply seemed to imply that this was only fair.
“But doesn't a Guild member have the right to dispose of the . . . things of which he dies possessed?”
Enthor paused before opening the carton before him.
“I suppose so,” he finally answered. “Problem is most Singers out live their families by hundreds of years; they tend to get very greedy; don't make many friends off-world and are unlikely to remember them if they have. I suppose some do. Not many.”
Half way through the next day, the backlog of crystal cartons having been substantially reduced, the recruits were assigned to help the hangar crew clean and resupply the Singers' sleds, for the storm was blowing itself out. There was some disgruntlement, but the hangar officer hadn't the look of someone to antagonize. It seemed to Killashandra that discretion was necessary.
“I'm not going to clean out someone else's filth for the nardy day's credits that gives,” Carigana said. “No one ever cleaned up for me in space, and I'm not doing it on the ground. Pack of vermin, that's all they are, for all their airs and arrogance.” She glared at the others, daring them to follow her example. Her contempt as she walked off was palpable.
Remembering the state of some of the sleds, Killashandra would have been sorely tempted to follow – if anyone other than Carigana had set the example.
“We do get paid. And it's better than twiddling your fingers!” Shillawn caught at Killashandra's arm as if he had divined her thoughts.
“Doesn't matter to me,” the hangar officer went on, forgetting Carigana the instant she was out of sight, “but there is a bonus for every rank finished. The first eight are already done. Singers can make life intolerable for those who don't assist them. This storm is nearly blown out, and there'll be Singers frothing to get into the ranges. Met'll give 'em clearance by midday tomorrow. Get on with it. Get 'em cleaned and stocked and the Singers out where they belong.”
He resumed his seat at the control console, peering out at the vast orderly ranks of air sleds where the regular suppliers were already at work. He frowned as his gaze rested briefly on the undecided recruits; the grimace deepened as he saw a damaged sled being hoisted for repair.
“There must be some way the Guild handles dossers like Carigana,” Borton said, squinting after the space worker. “She can't get away with it!”
“We don't have to clean up after a bunch of shitty Singers,” said Jezerey, her eyes flashing her personal rebellion. “I remember some of those sleds. Faugh!” and she pinched her nose shut with two fingers.
“I want a closer look at some of the equipment inside the sleds,” Rimbol said, turning on his heel toward the sled racks.
“Closer smell, too?” asked Jezerey.
"You get used to any stinks in time," Rimbol said, waving off that argument." 'Sides, it keeps my mind off other things."
“Those sleds will keep your mind off many things,” Jezerey snapped back.
They were all silent a moment, knowing exactly what Rimbol meant. They were near the earliest day of onset of the symbiotic fever.
“We do get paid. And the hangar officer mentioned a bonus . . .” Shillawn let his sentence fall off, swallowing nervously.
“Hey, you, there. You recruits. I could use some help.”
A supplier, by the shade of his uniform, leaned out of an upper level. Jezerey continued to grumble, but she followed the others toward the array of cleaning equipment.
Not since Killashandra had left her family's small tree farm on Fuerte had she had to muck out on this scale. By the fifth sled, as Rimbol had suggested, she had become inured to the various stenches. It was also, as he had said, worth the chance to examine a Crystal Singer's air sled first hand: at its worst and, after proper restoration, at its best.
The sled's control console took up the bow section, complete with pilot safety couch. Built into the couch's armrests were an assortment of manual over ride buttons. Alongside the main hatch were the empty brackets for the crystal cutter; the instruments were serviced after each trip to the ranges. The main compartment was the Singer's inrange living accommodations, adequate if compact. A thick webbing separated the forward sections from cargo storage and the drive section.
Her supplier, to give the ancient man his proper title, was so deaf that Killashandra had to shake him violently to get his attention. However, once she had asked a question (for his lip reading was good), she received an encyclopedic answer and a history of the particular sled and its Singer. The fellow might be elderly, but he worked so swiftly that Killashandra was hard-pressed to do her share in the same time.
The supplier, for he admitted no name to Killashandra's polite inquiry, seemed to have a passion for orderly, gleaming, well-stocked vehicles. Killashandra wondered at his dedication since the order he cherished would so soon deteriorate to slime and shit.
«One can always get at crystal,» the old man said. He invariably pointed out the five hatches: the one into the main compartment, the bottom through the drive area, and the two on either side and the top of the storage compartment. «Strongest part of the sled as well. On purpose, of course, since it's crystal is important. If a Singer gets injured, or worse» – and he paused reverently – «especially if Singer's injured, the crystal can be salvaged, and he isn't out of credit. Singers get very incensed, they do, if they're done on crystal, you know. Maybe you will. You be a recruit, don't you? So this is all new to you. Might be the only time you see a sled. Then again, it might not – no safety net is always fastened.» He did the catches himself a mild reproof to her quickness in stowing the empty crystal containers. «Can't have these, full or empty, bouncing about in flight or in a storm.»