“I expected you might be hungry.”
Killashandra laughed as Lanzecki deposited her in the chair, and she gestured with the over blown gentility of an opera heroine for him to assume the other seat.
Not that evening or ever did Lanzecki ask her if she had found Keborgen's black crystal, though he had occasions later to refer to her claim. Neither did he ask her any details of her first trip to the Milekey Ranges. Nor was she disposed to volunteer any comment. Except one.
Having teased her adroitly, Lanzecki finally gave her the caress she had been anticipating so long, and the sensation was almost unbearable.
“Crystal touches that way, too,” she said when she could talk.
“I know,” he murmured, his voice oddly rough, and as if to forestall her reply, he began to kiss her in a fashion that excluded opportunity.
She awoke alone, as she had expected, and much later than she had planned, for the time was late evening. She yawned prodigiously, stretched, and wondered if another radiant bath would further her restoration. Then her belly rumbled, and she decided food was the more immediate concern. No sooner had she dialed for a hot drink than a message was displayed on her screen for her to contact the Guild Master when convenient.
She did so promptly before she considered convenience, expedience, or opportunity.
Her reply was cleared immediately, and her screen produced a visual contact with the Guild Master. He was surrounded by printout sheets and looked tired.
“Have you rested?” Lanzecki asked. Belatedly, Killashandra activated her own screen. “Yes, you look considerably improved.”
“Improved?”
A slight smile tugged at his lips. “From the stress and fatigue of your dramatic return.” Then his expression changed, and Lanzecki became Guild Master. “Will you please come to my office to discuss an extra-planetary assignment?”
“Will,” not “would,” Killashandra thought, sensitive to key words.
“I'll be there as soon as I've eaten and gotten dressed.” He nodded and broke contact.
As she sipped the last of the drink, she took a long look at herself in the mirrors of the tank room. She'd never been vain about her appearance. She had good strong face bones, wide cheeks, a high forehead, and thick, well-arched eyebrows, which she had not narrowed, as the natural emphasis made a good stage effect. Her jaw was strong, and she was losing the jowl muscles formed by singing. She slapped at the sides of her chin. No flab. Whatever produced the gaunt aspect of her face was reflected in her body. She noticed how prominent her collarbones were. If her appearance was now an improvement, according to Lanzecki, whatever had she looked like the previous day? Right now, she wouldn't have needed face paint to play Space Hag or Warp Widow.
She found something loose and filmy to wear, with ends that tied about her neck and wrists and a long full skirt. She stood back from the mirrors and did a half turn, startled by her full-length reflection. Something had changed. Just what she couldn't puzzle out; she had to see the Guild Master.
She was almost to the lift shaft when a group emerged from the Commons.
“Killashandra?”
“Rimbol?” Killashandra mocked his surprised query with a light laugh. “You ought to know me!”
Rimbol gave her an odd grin that relaxed into his usual ingenuous smile. Jezerey, Mistra, and Borton were with him.
“Well, you're more like yourself this evening than you were yesterday,” Rimbol replied. He scratched his head in embarrassment, grinning ruefully at the others. “I didn't believe Concera when she kept saying singing crystal makes a big change, but now I do.”
“I don't think I've changed,” Killashandra replied stiffly, annoyed that Rimbol and, by their expressions, the others could perceive what eluded her.
Rimbol laughed. «Well, you've used your mirror» – and he indicated her careful grooming – «but you haven't seen.»
“No, I haven't.”
Rimbol made a grimace of apology for her sharp tone.
“Singers are notorious for their irritability,” Jezerey said with an uncordial look.
“Oh, pack that in, Jez,” Rimbol said. “Killa is just in off the ranges. Is it as bad as it's made out, Killa?” He couched that question in a quiet tone.
“I would have been fine if I hadn't had to deal with Moksoon.”
“Or the Guild Master.” Rimbol was sympathetic.
“Oh, you stayed on?” Killashandra decided to brazen through that episode. “He was quite right, of course. And I pass on that hard-learned lesson. Save your own sled and skin in the ranges. Will you be around later, Rimbol? I've got to see Lanzecki now.” She allowed her voice to drop, expressing dread and looking for sympathy in their expressions. “I'd like to join you later if you're in the lounge.”
“Good luck!” Rimbol said, and he meant it. The others waved encouragingly as she entered the lift.
She had much to think about during the short drop, and none of it about her interview with Lanzecki. How could she have changed so much in the past few days just by cutting crystal? Jezerey had never been overly friendly, but she had never been antagonistic. She was annoyed with herself, too, for that off handed reassurance to Rimbol. “I would have been fine without Moksoon.” Yet how could she possibly have explained the experience that had annealed her, confirmed her as a Crystal Singer? Maybe, alone with Rimbol, she would try to explain, forewarn him that once past the curious unpainful agony of the initial cut, there was an elevation to a totally bizarre ecstasy that could only be savored briefly or it overwhelmed mind, nerve, and senses.
She sighed, standing before the door to the Guild Master's office. In the second between the announcement of her presence and the panel's smooth retraction, she remembered how hard Concera had tried to explain some facets of crystal singing. She recalled the odd harsh tone in which Lanzecki had admitted knowledge of the tactile feel of crystal.
“Killashandra Ree.” Lanzecki's voice came from the corner of his large office, and she saw him bent over a spotlighted work surface, layers of printout in front of him. He did not look up from his research until she reached him. “Did you have enough to eat?” he asked with more than ordinary courtesy and a close scrutiny of her face.
"I had a high-protein and glucose cereal – " she began because, as soon as he mentioned eating, she felt hungry again.
“Hmmm. A bowl was all you had time for, I'm sure. You've slept sixteen hours, so you've missed considerable nourishment already.”
“I did eat in the ranges. Really I did,” she protested as he took her hand and led her to the catering console.
“You've still wit enough to feed yourself, but you can't know how immensely important it is to replenish reserves at this point.”
“I won't be able to eat all that.” She was appalled at the number and variety of dishes he was dialing.
“I get peckish myself, you know,” he said, grinning.
“What happens that I need to eat myself gross?” she asked, but she helped him clear the catering slot of its first deposit, sniffing appreciatively at the enticing mixture of aromas from the platters.
“You'll never see a plump Singer,” he assured her. “In your particular case, the symbiont is only just settled into cell tissue. A Milekey transition may be easier on the host, but the spore still requires time to multiply, differentiate, and become systematically absorbed. Here, start with this soup. Weather and other considerations compelled me to direct you into the ranges prematurely as far as the process of your adaptation is concerned.” He gave her a sardonic glance. “You may one day be grateful that you had only two days on your claim.”