“Actually three. I didn't spend two with that twithead Moksoon. He's utterly paranoid!”
“He's alive,” Lanzecki replied succinctly, with sufficient undertone to make the statement both accusation and indictment. “Three days! In ordinary training, you would not have gone out into the ranges until the others were also prepared.”
“They won't make it out before the Passover storms now.” Killashandra was dismayed. If she had had to wait that long . . .
“Precisely. You were trained, eager and clever enough to precipitate the event.”
“And you wanted that black crystal.”
“So, my dearling, did you.”
The caterer chimed urgently to remind them to clear the slot for additional selections. Lanzecki slapped a hold on the remainder of the programmed order.
“Even with your help, I'll never eat all this,” Killashandra said after they had filled the small table and three more dishes remained in the slot.
“Listen to me while you eat. The symbiont will be attenuated after intense cutting. I could see that in your face. Don't talk. Eat! I had to be sure you ate last night once the radiant fluid had eased your nerves. Your metabolism must be efficient. I would have thought you'd been awakened by hunger a good four hours ago.”
“I was eating when I got your message.”
He grinned as he inserted a steaming, seeded appetizer into his mouth. He licked his fingers as he chewed, then said, “My message was programmed the moment your caterer was used.” He stuffed another piece of appetizer into her mouth. “Don't talk. Eat.”
Whatever it was he fed her was exceedingly tasty. She speared another.
«Now, several unexpected elements are in display. One» – and he ate a spoonful of small brilliant green spheres – «you brought in five medium black crystals for which we have received an urgent request.» He waved his empty spoon at the printout layers on his desk. «Two, you have no sled, nor can Manufacturing produce a replacement before the Passover storms. Which, by the way, were heralded by that unpredicted blow in the Bay area. Short, hard, but destructive. Even though conjunction occurs over the seas north and east of this continent, Passover is going to be particularly nasty, as it coincides with spring solstice. Weather is generally cyclical on Ballybran, and the pattern which has been emerging coincides with '63 . . . 2863GY, that is – eat, don't gawk. Surely you have wandered through data retrieval, Killashandra, and discovered how long I've been a member. Fuerte cannot have eradicated human curiosity, or you wouldn't be here.»
She swallowed as the significance of his qualifying the century occurred to her.
“But not how long you've been Guild Master.”
He chuckled at her quick reply, passing a dish of stewed orange-and-green milsi stalks to her. “Excellent for trace minerals. The Passover turbulence will be phenomenal even in terms of Ballybran's meteorological history. Which, I might add, goes back further than I do. Don't choke now!” he rose to give her a deft thump between her shoulder blades. “Even the Infirmary level will shake. You, so recently exposed to crystal for the first time, will be severely affected by the stress. I can, as Guild Master, order you off Ballybran,” and his face fell into harsh immobile lines, impersonal and implacable. But his mouth softened when he saw her determined expression. “However, I would prefer that you cooperate. The five blacks you brought in are currently, if you'll forgive the pun, being tuned and should be ready for shipment. I would like to assign you to take them to the Trundimoux System and install them.”
“This duty will provide me with the margin of credit for my future foolishness?”
Lanzecki chuckled appreciatively.
“Think about the assignment while you eat some fried steakbean.”
“It is, then, a suggestion?” she asked around a large mouthful of tasty legume.
«It is – now – a suggestion.» His face, mouth, and tone were bland. «The storms will soon be hammering the ranges and forcing Singers in. Others would undertake the assignment happily, especially those who haven't cut enough crystal to get off-world at Passover.»
“I thought Passover was an incredible spectacle.”
“It is. Raw natural forces at their most destructive.” A lift to his shoulders suggested that it was a spectacle to which he was inured and yet . . .
“Do you leave during Passover?”
He gave her a keen glance, his dark eyes reflecting the spotlights over his work desk.
“The Guild Master is always accessible during Passover.” He offered her some lemon-yellow cubes. “A sharpish cheese, but it complements the steakbean.”
“Hmmm. Yes, it does.”
“Help yourself.” He rose and took the next dishes from the catering slot, which had been maintaining them at the appropriate heat. “Will you have something to drink?”
“Yarran beer, please.” She had a sudden craving for the taste of hops.
“Good choice. I'll join you.”
She glanced at him, arrested by some slight alteration of tone, but his back was to her.
“Rimbol's from Scartine, isn't he?” Lanzecki asked, returning with a pitcher and two beakers. He poured with a proper respect for the head of foam. “He should cut well in the darker shades. Perhaps black, if he can find a vein.”
“How could you tell?”
“A question of resonance, also of the degree of adaptation. Jezerey will do lighter blues, pinks, paler greens. Borton will also tend to cut well in the darker. I hope they team up.”
“Do you know who will cut what?”
“I am not in a position to imply anything, merely venture an informed guess. After all, the Guild has been operating for over four hundred years galactic, all that time collecting and collating information on its members. It would show a scandalous want of probity not to attempt more than merely a determination of probability of adjustment to Ballybran spore symbiosis.”
“You sound like Borella's come-all-ye pitch,” Killashandra replied.
Lanzecki's lips twitched in an amusement that was echoed by the sparkle in his brilliant eyes. «I do believe I'm quoting – but whom, I've forgotten. How about some pepper fruit? Goes with the beer. I've ordered some ices to clear the palate. A very old and civilized course but not one taken with beer.» As he passed her the plate, the tangy scent of the long, thin furry fingers did tempt her to try one. «As I was saying, by the time candidates are through the Shankill checkpoint, as many variables as can be resolved have been.» He began to pile empty plates and dishes into one untidy stack, and she realized that while he had sampled everything, she had eaten far more. Yet she didn't feel uncomfortably full. «You ought to have been shown the probability graph,» he said, frowning as he rose. He tossed the discards deftly into the waste chute before pausing yet again at the catering slot.
“We were.” She nibbled at another pepper fruit while wondering why his face showed no trace of aging. He wasn't singing crystal anymore, but that was the ostensible reason for the specious youthfulness. “We were told nothing about individual capabilities or forecasts.”
''Why should you be? That would create all sorts of unnecessary problems." He set two dishes of varicolor sherbets, two wine glasses, and a frosty bottle on the table.
“I couldn't eat another thing.”
“No? Try a spoonful of the green. Very settling to the stomach and clears the mouth.” He seated himself and poured the wine. “The one critical point is still adaptation. The psychological attitude, Antona feels, rather than the physical. That space worker, Carigana, should not have died.” Lanzecki's expression was one of impersonal regret. “We can generally gauge the severity of transition and are prepared for contingencies.”