“Killashandra Ree? Right?” He wasn't looking at her but inspecting the cutter. “You can't have used this much,” and he peered suspiciously at handle and blade casing. “Where'd you damage it?”
"I didn't. I'm turning it in.
The Fisher was more daunting than Borella and her rudeness.
“You could have left it in your sled, you know,” he said, his tone not quite so acerbic now that he had assured himself that one of his newest cutters had not been misused. “No one else can use it, you know,” he added, obviously making allowance for her ignorance.
She was not about to admit to anyone that she had lost the sled.
“I'm going off-planet for Passover,” she said and belatedly realized that he had no such option.
“Go while you can, when you can,” he said gruffly but not unkindly. Then he turned and disappeared into his workroom.
As she made her way back to the lift, Killashandra supposed she ought to be relieved that someone remembered her. Possibly the Fisher was able to associate her with a device he had so recently crafted. Or perhaps it was common knowledge through the Guild that Lanzecki had berated a new Singer.
She shouldn't let the encounter with Borella rankle her. The woman had inadvertently confirmed Lanzecki's advice. Furthermore, if Moksoon could not remember Killashandra from moment to moment, how could she fault Borella? How long did it take for a Singer's memory to disintegrate? Killashandra must learn to overcome habits and values acquired on Fuerte in the Music Center. There one sought to put people under obligation so they could be called in as support for this role or that rehearsal room, to form a trio or quartet, throw a party on limited credit, all the myriad arrangements that require cooperation, good will! and . . . memory of favors past. As Lanzecki had pointed out, «Gratitude depends on memory.» The corollary being «memory lasts a finite time with a Singer.» The only common bond for Crystal Singers was the Guild Charter and its regulations, rules, and restrictions – and the desire to get off Ballybran whenever one could afford that privilege.
Carigana shouldn't have died? Now why did that come to mind, Killashandra wondered as she stepped out of the lift at Meteorology. According to the ceiling-border message panel, the viewing was already in progress in the theater. As she hesitated, another lift, this one full of people, opened its door, and she accompanied the group to their mutual destination.
The theater was semidark and crowded, people standing along the walls when all seating was occupied. On the wide angle screen, cloud patterns formed and reformed with incredible speed. At one point, Killashandra saw Rimbol's face illumined; beside him were Borton and Jezerey. She recognized other members of Class 895 and the weather man who had taken them to the sensor station. The turbulence of the storm was not audible. Instead a commentator droned on about pressure, mach-wind velocities, damage, rain fall, snow, sleet, dust density, and previous Passover tempests while a print display under the screen kept pace with his monologue. Killashandra managed to find space against the far wall and looked over the engrossed audience for Lanzecki's face. She hoped he hadn't made his offer of the off-planet trip to anyone else. If he was being magnanimous, surely he would also give her first refusal.
Then she became caught up in the storm visuals, thinking at first they must have been accelerated – until she compared wind velocities and decibel readings. She was aghast at the fury of the storm.
“The major Passover storm of 2898,” voice and print informed viewers, “while not as severe or as damaging as that of 2863, also formed in the northeast, during spring solstice, and when Shilmore was over the Great Ocean in advance of Shanganagh and Shankill. The inauspicious opposition of the two nearest planets will emphasize the violence of this year's storm. Seeding, improved emulsions, and the new wave disrupter off the coasts of Buland and Hoyland should prevent the tsunami drive across the ocean which caused such widespread havoc on the South Durian continent.”
The screen switched frequently from satellite pictures to planetary weather stations where the wind shifts were marked by waves of debris flung in vertical sheets. Killashandra fell into that mesmerized state that can befuddle the mind, and for one hideous second she almost heard windshriek. A particularly frenzied cross-current of detritus shattered the trance by inducing motion nausea. She hastily left the theater, looking for a toilet. The moment she reached the soundproof stability of the quiet corridor, her nausea waned, only to be replaced by the gnawing of severe hunger.
“I had breakfast,” she said through clenched teeth “I had plenty of breakfast.”
She entered a lift, wondering just how long the postrange appetite remained critical. She punched for the infirmary level and swung into the same anteroom she had entered barely four weeks before.
No one was on duty.
“Is anyone here?” she demanded acidly.
“Yes,” the verbal address system responded.
"I don't want you. I'd like to see – "
“Killashandra Ree?” Antona walked through the right hand door panel, an expression of surprise on her face. “You can't have been injured?” The chief medic took a small diagnostic unit from her thigh pocket and advanced toward Killashandra.
“No, but I'm starving of the hunger.”
Antona laughed, slipping the instrument back into her pocket. «Oh, I do apologize, Killashandra. It's not the least bit funny! For you.» She tried to compose her face into a more severe expression. «But you put it aptly. You're «starving of the hunger» for several reasons. While the others were convalescing from the fever, we could administer nutritional assists. You had no fever, and then you were sent out to cut. The appalling hunger, you realize, is quite normal. No, I see you don't, and you look hungry. I'm just about to have a morning snack. The lounge will be deserted, as everyone's peering at last year's storms. Join me? I can think of nothing more boring than to be compelled to eat mountains and gulp them down in solitary confinement. You did remember, of course» – and by this time Antona had guided her back to the lift and, at their destination, down the length of the lounge to a catering area as she talked – «that the symbiont takes twenty weeks to establish itself thoroughly. We have never managed to find out the average spore intake per diem since so much depends on the individual's metabolism. Now, let's see . . .» Antona pressed menu review. «You don't mind if I order for you? I know exactly how to reduce that hunger and restore the symbiont.» Antona waited for Killashandra's agreement and then toured the catering area, dialing several selections at each post before signaling Killashandra to take a tray and start collecting the items delivered.
Food enough for the entire final year student complement of the Music Center presently covered two large tables, and Killashandra ravenously started to eat.
«If it's any encouragement, your appetite will slack off especially after the symbiont has prepared for Passover.» She smiled at Killashandra's groan. «Don't worry. You'll have no appetite at all during the height of Passover – the spore buries itself in crevices.» Antona smiled. «In the Life lab, we have rock crabs and burrow worms over four hundred years old.» Antona's grin became wry. «I don't suppose that aspect of Ballybran's ecology figured in your orientation. There isn't much life on this mudball, but what there is lives in symbiotic relation to the spore. That's how it keeps itself alive, by increasing the survival mechanisms of whatever host it finds. It behooves Us, the new dominant life form, to study the indigenous.»
As she ate, Killashandra found Antona's ramblings more interesting than Tukolom's lectures. It did cross her mind that Antona might just be indulging in the luxury of a captive audience. Antona was not lazy with fork and spoon, so her “morning snack” must have answered a real need if not as urgent as Killashandra's.