«Here, get rid of the debris» – Rimbol was shoveling dishes and plates together – «and someone order beer and things. Then Killashandra can divulge trade secrets.»
Killashandra was not in a confessional mood, but the mute appeal in Mistra's brown eyes, the wary concern in Rimbol's, and Borton's stiff, blank expression could not be denied by a classmate, no matter what doctrine of self preservation Lanzecki was preaching. Jezerey would find her own level; that was certain. Rimbol, Mistra, and Borton were a different matter.
Celee returned then with pitchers and beakers. “Look, since singing isn't my trade, why don't I just shuttle food for you?” he asked good-natured]y. He winked at Killashandra to emphasize his indifference to the outcome of his adaptation.
Orders were given him, and as he left, complaining that his back would be broken, the others settled at the table and looked expectantly at Killashandra.
"Most of what happens is explained, Killashandra began, not knowing precisely how to describe the phenomenon.
“Theory is one thing. Where does it differ from practice?” Mistra asked gently.
“She doesn't say much but she gets to the point,” Rimbol noted while raising his eyes in comic dismay.
Killashandra smiled gratefully at Mistra.
«Those storm simulation flights – the real thing can be worse. I didn't cut squarely for all the practice I had retuning soured crystal. I suppose your hands get stronger, but don't be surprised if your first block has a reptilian outline.» She was rewarded with a chuckle from Rimbol, who clowned with an exaggerated wriggle of his torso. «You know you've got to be shepherded into the ranges by some experienced Singer? Well, keep one fact perfectly clear: he or she is liable to forget from moment to moment that you are legally supposed to be with him. Mine damned near sliced my leg off. Just keep the tape playing on repeat so he can't forget it. Talk to him all the time, keep yourself in his sight, especially after he's just cut crystal . . .»
“Yes, yes, we've been told that. But when you find crystal . . .” Jezerey interrupted abruptly.
Killashandra looked at her coolly. "When" the girl said. "It's if, not when – "
“But you found crystal. Black crystal,” Jezerey began indignantly.
“Shut up, Jez.” Borton pressed his fingers warningly into her shoulder, but she shrugged off his hold.
“The unexpected starts when you cut your own crystal. You tap for the note on the face and then tune the cutter and then . . .” Killashandra was back in the fault, the first black segment, uneven cut line and all, weighing in her palms, dazzling her with its slow change in sunlight from transparency to the black matte of the thermally responsive crystal, losing herself in the memory of that shimmering resonance, feeling the incredible music in her blood and bones . . .
An insistent tugging on her sleeve finally broke her trance.
"Killa, are you all right? Shall I get Antona? Killa?" Rimbol's urgent and anxious questions brought her to dazed awareness of her present position. "You've been away for – "
“Six minutes, four seconds,” Borton added, tipping his wrist to see the display.
“What?”
«What? she says» – Rimbol turned to the others with a teasing manner – «when she's been visiting her claim on the sly. Look, friends, no visible means of contact and yet our fair lady – Does it truly take that kind of a hold on you, Killa?» He dropped his antic pose and touched her gently on the arm, his face concerned.
“Well, I didn't think it could get me sitting here with my friends, but this advice I will freely give you, having just demonstrated. Cut, and pack! If you don't, you may stand there like I just was and commune with your crystal until the storm breaks over you.”
“Communing with crystal!” Jezerey was impatient, skeptical.
“Well, it might not happen to you.” Killashandra tried to speak mildly, but Jezerey aggravated her. “Got your sled yet?” she asked Rimbol.
“Yes . . .” Rimbol said.
“But we're not allowed to use them,” Jezerey finished, glaring at Killashandra.
“Which might be just as well, considering your performance on the simulator,” Borton said.
“So crystal singing is really addictive? How fast is the habit formed?” Rimbol was off in a seriocomic vein to lighten the tension that was developing. “Can it be broken? Is it profitable?”
“Yes, fast, no, and yes,” Killashandra responded. “Don't let me inhibit your enjoyment of your meal.” She rose quickly, keeping Rimbol from rising by a restraining hand on his shoulder. “See you tonight here?”
She hardly waited for his answer, for she had seen a figure entering the Commons at the far end, moving with Lanzecki's unmistakable stride. She walked to intercept him.
He was Guild Master, she realized, as he scanned the faces in the lounge. He barely paused as she reached him.
“I'd like that assignment.”
“I thought you would.”
No more than that and they had passed each other, he for the catering area and she for the lifts.
CHAPTER 11
It was a relief to be back in her quarters. Somehow the absurdity of the bizarre, tri-atmospheric wall-screen restored to her a sense of the absurd. Her attempt to verbalize her experience of crystal cutting to her friends and its aftermath disturbed her. How could memory, even of such an ecstatic moment, dominate mind and body so? She had broken that first communion with the crystal block by packing it. Or had she? And whom could she ask? Was addiction why it was so easy for a Singer to lose the data retrieval function of the mind?
Had she hesitated over Lanzecki's offer because she actually didn't want to be far from the ranges? She remembered then the longing in Borella's voice to return to the ranges when her wound had healed. On the other hand, Borella could now not wait to get off the planet.
The ambivalence, Killashandra decided, could be explained. Oddly enough, it was analogous to having the starring role in a large company. The applause could be the crystal singing in your hand, fresh from the vein, stimulating, ecstatic. The same emotional high every time you cut, until body and mind were exhausted by the clamor, the concentration. The thrall of crystal confounded by the urgent need of rest and relief.
She had seated herself by the computer keyboard, motivated to record some of her reflections. The automatic time display winked the change of hour. Even thinking about crystal took enormous hunks of time. She'd been back in her room more than two hours.
Briskly sitting upright, she keyed for the original entry she had made and listened dispassionately to her voice rehearsing the few facts she had entered. Then she tapped the record tab.
“I found an abandoned black crystal vein and cut with success. The trick with crystal is to pack it away before the song gets to you in the sun. I lost my sled trying to save old Moksoon. A waste of a good sled. Lanzecki is generous, and I shall be installing the five interlocking segments I cut in the Trundimoux System. That way I avoid Passover storms which are expected to be unusually violent.”
She played back the terse synopsis of her last two weeks. Would the bones of experience remind her of the degree and emotional heights at some later time? She sniggered at her own pretentiousness. Well, she never had considered herself any sort of a playwright.
As she leaned back in the console chair, she became aware of rumbling in her belly.
“Not again!”
To deny the stimulus of hunger, she determinedly dialed a furniture catalog though she had nothing to put on tables or shelves since she had hung her lute on the wall. She thought of playing the instrument which she hadn't done in a long time, but the E string broke the moment she turned the pin. Very carefully, she replaced the lute. Then, clenching her teeth, she made for the caterer in angry strides to assuage her unacceptable appetite.