“I wouldn't mind farming in North Ballinteer,” Rimbol confided in her as they ate lunch during the midday break. “Nice productive life, snow sports in the winter . . .”
Killashandra stared at him. “Farmer?”
“Sure, why not? That'd be meters ahead of being a supplier! Or a sorter. Out in the open . . .”
“In mach storms?”
“You heard your geography lesson. The produce areas are 'carefully situated at the edge of the general storm belts or can be shielded at need'.” Rimbol imitated Tukolom's voice and delivery well, and Killashandra had to laugh.
That was when she saw a group moving together with a menacing deliberation, closing off one corner and its lone occupant. Noting her preoccupation, Rimbol swiveled and cursed under his breath.
“I knew it.” He swung out of his chair.
“Why bother, Rimbol? She deserves it.”
“She can t help being the way she is. And I thought you were so big on Privacy on your world. On mine, we don't permit those odds.”
Killashandra had to accede to the merit of that reply and joined him.
"What do I care about that?" Carigana's strident voice rose above the discreet murmur addressed to her by the group's leader. "And why should you? Any of you? They're only biding their time until we get sick. Nothing matters until then, not all your cooperation or attention or good manners or volunteering" – and her scorn intensified – to clean up messes in sleds. Not me! I had a pleasant day – What?" She snapped her head about to the questioner. "Debit?" She tossed her head back and laugher raucously. "They can take it out of my hide – later. Right now, I can get anything I want from stores. If you had any intelligence, you'd do the same thing and forget that stuffed mudhead – "
“You helped unload crystal . . .” Killashandra heard Jezerey's voice.
«Sure I did. I wanted to see this crystal, just like everyone else . . . Only» – and her tone taunted them – «I also got wise. They'll work you at every mean, disagreeable, dirty grind they've got until the spore gets you. Nothing will matter after that except what you're good for.»
“And what do you expect to be good for?” Jezerey demanded.
“Crystal Singer, like everyone else!” Carigana's expression mocked them for the ambition. “One thing sure. I won't be sorting or supplying or mucking in mud or . . . You play along like good cooperative contributing citizens. I'll do what I choose while I still have eyes and ears and a mind that functions properly.”
She rose quickly, pushing herself through the unsympathetic crowd, then pounded down the corridor to her room. The red light flashed on.
“You said something about Privacy?” Killashandra couldn't refrain from asking Rimbol as they turned desultorily away from the silent group.
“She does prove the exception,” he replied, unruffled.
“What did she mean about a mind that functions properly?” Jezerey asked, joining them. She was no longer as confident as she had been when confronting Carigana.
“I told you not to worry about it, Jez,” Borton said, coming behind her. “Carigana's got space rot, anyhow. And I told you that the first time I saw her.”
“She's right about one thing,” Shillawn added, almost unable to pronounce the 'th'. “Nothing really does matter until the symbiont spore works.”
“I wish she hadn't said 'sick',” and Jezerey emphasized her distaste with a shudder. “That's one thing they haven't shown us . . . the medical facilities . . .”
“You saw Borella's scar,” Shillawn said.
“True, but she's got full adaptation, hasn't she?”
“Anyone got headache, bellyache, chills, fever?” Rimbol asked with brightly false curiosity.
“Not time yet.” Jezerey pouted.
“Soon. Soon.” Rimbol's tone became sepulchral. Then he waved his hand in a silencing gesture and jerked his thumb to indicate Tukolom's return. He gave a heavy sigh and then grinned because he inadvertently echoed Carigana. “I'd rather pass time doing something . . .”
That was the unanimous mood as the recruits turned to their instructor. The ordeal of symbiotic adaptation was no longer an explanation delivered in a remote and antiseptic hall on a moon base: it was imminent and palpable. The spore was in the air they breathed, the food they ate, possibly in the contact of everyone they'd worked with over the past ten days.
Ten days, was it? Killashandra thought. Who would be first? She looked about her, shrugged, and forced her mind to follow Tukolom's words.
Who would be first? The question was in everyone's eyes the following morning when the recruits, with the exception of the obdurate Carigana, assembled for the morning meal. They sought each other's company for reassurance as well as curiosity. It was a bright clear day, the colors of the hills mellower, deeper, and no one raised any objection when Tukolom announced that they would visit the succession houses on the Joslin plateau where delicacies were grown.
When they arrived in the hangar for transport, they witnessed the return of a heavy-duty wrecker, a twisted knot of sled dangling from its hoist. The only portion of the air sled that resembled the original shape was the storage area, though the under and right hatch were buckled.
“Do they plan all this?” Rimbol quietly asked Killashandra in a troubled voice.
«The recovered sled? Perhaps. But the storm – C'mon now, Rimbol. Besides, what function would such a display serve? We're stuck here, and we'll be Singers. . . or whatever.» Killashandra spoke severely, as much to reassure herself as Rimbol.
He grunted as if he had divined her anxiety; then jauntily he swung up the ramp to their transport vehicle without another glance at the wreck.
They sat together, but neither spoke on the trip, although Killashandra began several times to point out beautiful clusters of flowering shrubs with vivid, often clashing, shades of red and pink. The gray had completely disappeared from the ground cover, and its rich deep green was now tinged with brown. Rimbol was remote, in thought, and she felt that fancies about flora would be an invasion of his privacy.
The moist humidity and lush aromas of the huge hothouses reminded Killashandra of Fuerte's tropical area, and Carrik. The agronomist demonstrated the baffles that deflected the mach winds from the plasroofs as well as the hydroponics system that could be continued without human assistance. He also lectured on the variety and diversity of fruits, vegetables, grasses, lichens, fungi and exotics available to the Guild caterers. When he went on to explain that research was a part of the Agronomy Department, improving on nature wherever possible in sweetness texture, or size, he led them outside the controlled-climate units.
“We must also improve on nature's whimsy,” he added just as the recruits noticed the work crews and the damage to the next building.
Killashandra exchanged glances with Rimbol, who was grinning. They both shrugged and joined the agronomists in finishing the storm repairs.
“At least, it's only finishing,” Rimbol muttered as he pressed a trigger on a screw gun. “What do they do when they haven't got three decades of recruits to fill up work gangs?”
“Probably draft suppliers and sorters and anyone else unoccupied. At least, here everyone takes a turn,” she added, noticing that both Tukolom and the chief agronomist were heaving plastic as willingly as Borton and Jezerey.
"There, now, you can let go, Killa." He stood back to survey the panel they had just secured. "That ought to hold . . . until another boulder gets casually bounced off the corner.
Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun to her left, Killashandra peered northerly, toward the crystal ranges.
“Don't even think about it,” Rimbol said, taking her hand down and turning her. He gathered up his tools. “I wonder what's in store for us tomorrow?”