“That Lanzecki! All he wants is cut crystal.” Moksoon snorted in sulky condemnation.
“This time you'll have a bonus to get you off-world.”
The cutter pointed down now, the fingers of the tired old man so slack on the grip, Killashandra hoped he wouldn't drop it. She'd been told often enough how easily the wretchedly expensive things damaged.
“I gotta get off Ballybran. I gotta. That's why I said I'd shepherd.” Head bent, Moksoon was talking to himself now, ignoring the replayed affirmations.
Suddenly, he swung the tip of his cutter up and advanced towards her menacingly. Killashandra scooted back as far as she could on the ledge.
“How do I know you won't pop right back in here when I'm off-world and cut my claim?”
“I couldn't find the bloody place again,” she said, exploding, discretion no advantage in dealing with the fanatic. “I haven't a clue where I am. I had to keep my eyes on you, zipping here and dropping there. Have you forgotten how to pilot a sled? You sure have forgotten a perfectly valid agreement you made only five hours ago!”
Moksoon, his eyes little slits of suspicion, lowered the cutter fractionally. “You know where you are.”
“South at four is all I bloody know, and for all the twists and turns in this ruddy gorge, we could be north at ten. What in damnation does it matter? Show me how to cut crystal and I'll leave in an hour.”
“You can't cut crystal in an hour. Not properly.” Moksoon was scathingly contemptuous. “You don't know the first thing about cutting crystal.”
“You're quite right. I don't. And you'll get a huge bonus for showing me. Show me, Moksoon.”
With a combination of cajolery, outrageous flattery, constant repetition of words like “bonus,” “Lanzecki expects,” “off-world,” and “brilliant Cutter,” she pacified Moksoon. She suggested that he eat something before showing her how to cut and let him think she was fooled into offering from her own supplies. For a slight man, he had a very hearty appetite.
Well fed, rested, and having filled her with what she knew must be a lot of nonsense about angles of the sun, dawn, and sunset excursions down dark ravines to hear crystal wake or go to sleep, Moksoon showed no inclination to pick up his cutter and get on with his end of the bargain. She was trying to think of a tactful way of suggesting it when he suddenly jumped to his feet, throwing both arms up to greet a shaft of sunlight that had angled down the ravine to strike their side just beyond the bow of his sled.
A peculiar tone vibrated through the rock on which Killashandra was sitting. Moksoon grabbed up his cutter and scrambled emitting a joyous cackle that turned into a fine, clear ringing A sharp below middle C. Moksoon sang in the tenor ranges.
And part of the ravine answered!
By the time she had reached him, he was already slicing at the pink quartz face his sled had obscured. Why the old —
Then she heard crystal crying. For all his other failings, Moksoon had an astonishing lung capacity for so old a man. He held the accurate note even after his pitched cutter was excising a pentagon from the uneven extrusion of quartz, which flashed from different facets as the sunlight shifted. The dissonance that began as he got deeper into the face was an agony so basic that it shook Killashandra to her teeth. It was much worse than retuning crystal. She froze at the unexpected pain, instinctively letting loose with a cry of masking sound. The agony turned into two notes, pure and clear.
“Sing on!” Moksoon cried. “Hold that note!” He reset his infrasonic cutter and made a second slice, cropped it, sang again, tuned the cutter, and dug the blade in six neat slashes downward. His thin body shook, but his hands were amazingly steady as he cut and cut until he reached the edge. With an exultant note, he jumped to a new position and made the bottom cut for the four matched crystals. “My beauties. My beauties!” he crooned and, laying the cutter carefully down, dashed off to his sled, reemerging seconds later with a carton. He was still crooning as he packed the pieces. There was a curious ambivalence in his motions, of haste and reluctance, for his fingers caressed the sides of the octagons as he put them away.
Killashandra hadn't moved, as stunned by the experience of crystal as she was by his agile performance. When she did sigh to release her tensions, he gave an inarticulate shout and reached for his cutter. He might have sliced her arm off, but he tripped over the carton, giving her a head start as she raced back to his sled, stumbled into it, and hit the replay button before she slid the door closed. It caught the tip of the cutter.
And Lanzecki had suggested she go with this raving maniac? Lanzecki's voice rolled out, reverberated back, and made a section of the rock face above the sled resonate.
“I'm sorry, Killashandra Ree,” Moksoon said, a truly repentant note in his voice. “Don't break my cutter. Don't close that door.”
“How can I trust you, Moksoon? You've nearly killed me twice today.”
“I forget. I forget.” Moksoon's tone was a sob. “Just remind me when I'm cutting. It's crystal makes me forget. It sings, and I forget.”
Killashandra closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. The man was so pitiful.
“I'll show you how to cut. Truly I will.”
Moksoon's recorded voice was duly affirming his willingness to shepherd her, Section 53. She could break his cutter with one more centimeter of leverage on the door. Her own voice dinned into her ears, affirming and averring to abide by section and paragraph.
“You'd better be able to show me something about cutting crystal that I couldn't learn at the Complex.”
“I'll show you. I'll show you how to find song in the cliffs. I'll show you how to find crystal. Any fool can cut it. You've got to find it first. Just don't close that door!”
“How do I keep you from trying to kill me?”
“Just talk to me. Keep that replay on. Just talk to me as I'm cutting. Give me back my cutter!”
“I'm talking to you, Moksoon, and I'm opening the door. I haven't damaged the cutter.” The first thing he did when she eased up the pressure was examine the tip. “Now, Moksoon, show me how to find song in the cliffs.”
“This way, this way.” He scrabbled to the outcropping. “See . . .” and his finger traced the faultline, barely discernible. “And here.” Now a glint of crystal shone clearly through the covering dirt. He rubbed at it, and sunlight sparkled from the crystal. “Mostly sunlight tells you where, but you gotta see. Look and see! Crystal lies in planes, this way, that way, sometimes the way the fold goes, sometimes at right angles. You sure you can't find your way back here?” He shot her a nervous glance.
“Positive!”
“Rose always drops south. Depend on it.” He ran his finger tips lightly down the precipice. “I hadn't seen this before. Why didn't I see this before?”
“You didn't look, did you, Moksoon?”
He ignored her. At first, Killashandra thought a breeze had sprung up, highly unlikely though that was in this deep gorge. Then she heard the faint echo and realized that Moksoon was humming. He had one ear to the rock wall.
“Ah, here. I can cut here!”
He did so. This time, the crystal cry was expected and not as searing an experience. She also kept herself in Moksoon's view, especially when he had completed his cuts. She got a carton for him, carried it back and stored it, all the time talking or making him talk to her. He did know how to cut crystal. He did know how to find it. The gorge was layered in southerly strips of rose quartz. Moksoon could probably cut his claim for the rest of his Guild life.
When the sun dropped beyond the eastern lip of the gorge, he abruptly stopped work and said he was hungry. Killashandra fed him and listened as he rambled on about flaw lines and cuts and intruders, by which he meant noncrystal rock that generally shattered the crystal vein.