Conversely, she had been tremendously impressed by the Guild's tacit power: high-rank medicorps men had awaited Carrik at the three intermediary ports. She herself had been accorded the most deferential treatment. She'd had very little to do other than check the life-support cradle that carried Carrik. The cradle was programmed for IV feedings, therapy, bathing, and the necessary drugs. The apparatus was checked by technicians at each port. Nothing, apparently, was too good for a Heptite Guild member. Or his escort. She'd had open credit in the ships' stores, was a member of the captain's private mess on all three ships. Except for the fact that she was left strictly alone, she thoroughly enjoyed the excitement of her first interstellar journey.
Possibly because the trip was nearly over, she had received most of her information from Andurs the previous night as he judiciously nursed a Sarvonian brandy through the evening.
“I hear it often enough to begin to believe it's possible . . . but they say crystal gets into your blood.”
That'd kill you," Killashandra replied though Carrik had used the same phrase.
«I can't tell whether they mean that the credits are so good,» Andurs continued, ignoring her comment. «Crystal Singers really whoop it up – big spenders, fun people – until the shakes start. Funny about that, too, because Crystal Singers are supposed to heal faster than other humans, and they're not supposed to be as susceptible to the planetary goolies and fevers that catch you no matter what immunization you've got. And they stay younger.» That capability annoyed Andurs. «I asked one of 'em about that. He was drunk at the time, and he said it's just part of singing crystal.»
“Then there'd be a lot of people willing to sing crystal . . .”
“Yeah but you also risk the shakes or . . .” Andurs jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Carrik in his cabin, “I'd rather grow old.”
“That doesn't happen often, does it?” Killashandra asked startled. She'd had the impression that Carrik's collapse was unusual.
"He's the first I've seen that bad," Andurs admitted. "Oh, they get the fevers, sometimes bad enough to be packed out in freezebags but not – " and he touched his forehead with one finger. "Not my business, but how did he get that way?"
His question, though an obvious one, startled Killashandra because no one else throughout the journey had asked, as if they were afraid of the answer.
“He was fine until we got to Fuerte Spaceport. Then a shuttle came in with a badly resonating drive. It exploded, and he got caught in the sonic backlash.”
“Good of you to escort him back.”
“I owed him that.” Killashandra meant it. “You said the Guild maintains offices on the moon? Is that where you apply for membership as well?”
He looked at her in amazement. “Oh, you don't want to be a Singer.”
“Why not?”
Andurs leaned toward her, staring hard into her eyes. "You weren't forced to come with him, were you?" I mean, he didn't do anything to you?"
Killashandra didn't know whether to laugh or become angry. “I don't know where you come from, Captain Andurs, but on Fuerte privacy is respected.”
“I didn't mean to imply that it wasn't . . .” Andurs responded hastily, raising his hand to fend off her outrage.
“Do I look as if I've been conditioned?”
«No, actually you don't. It's just that you strike me as a sensible woman, and crystal singing isn't sensible. Oh, I know. I've heard all the fardling rumors, but that's space-flot because all the Singers I've seen – and I've seen a lot in nine years on this run – never bother anyone. They keep to themselves, really. But there is something very peculiar indeed about Ballybran and crystal singing. I do know» – and he glanced over his shoulder, a needless caution since they were alone in the lounge – «that not every one who applies and gets accepted makes it as a Singer. Whoever goes down to that planet» – he pointed toward the floor – «stays there. Only Singers leave. And they always return.»
“How many people apply for entry into the Guild?” Killashandra was remembering the 20,007 technicians as well as the 4,425 Singers, and she wondered what the gross was if the net was so small.
“I can't answer that precisely.” Andurs seemed perplexed as he scratched his head. “Never thought about it. Oh, I get a few applicants almost every trip. Think we've got eight, possibly nine on this flight. You get to know who's commercial traveling, and who's hoping.” Andurs grinned at her. “We do have four Guild-vouched passages besides yours. That means these people have been screened at a Guild center somewhere. You know that tall, thin, black-haired fellow?”
Killashandra nodded, remembering the man who had boarded the ship at the last transfer point. He'd stared at her inquisitively, and once she had found him standing outside her cabin, a strange wild look on his face.
“He's come on his own. I wouldn't say he'd be accepted.”
“Oh?”
Andurs twirled his brandy glass for a long moment before he answered. “Yeah, I don't think he's the type they want.”
“What is the type they want?”
“I don't really know,” Andurs replied after a moment, “but he's not it. The Guild will pay your way back to the nearest transfer point,” he added as if this would be sufficient compensation for rejection. “I'll let you know when we emerge, Killa. Ballybran's one of the more interesting planets to see a moon's eye view of especially if there's a storm in progress.”
Killashandra remained at the view screen until Ballybran was eclipsed by the bulk of its largest moon, Shankill. If you've seen one moon installation, you've seen them all, she thought as she watched the domes and blackened landing pits swivel past. Her attention was briefly arrested by the sight of a second vessel swinging up over the horizon, a shuttle craft from the side of it, small enough to make no work of the landing. She thought she caught a flash of the Heptite Guild dodecahedron on the nose, but the shuttle moved into shadow too quickly for her to check.
Whatever reception she had subconsciously hoped for was vastly different from the one she received from Lanzecki, the Resident Master of the Heptite Guild. He was standing at the portal when the ship opened its airlock: a dour man, with a swarthy complexion and a squat figure clothed in dull colors. The only things bright and active about him were his wide-set piercing brown eyes, which moved incessantly, seeming to catch more in one darting glance than they ought.
He gestured to the two men accompanying him who were dun garbed as well. They silently entered the ship and paced down the corridor, Killashandra in the lead. She had never felt more superfluous. In Carrik's stateroom, Lanzecki used that moment's hesitation to press the panel plate open. He glanced once at the still figure on the carrier, his face expressionless. He motioned the others to enter and take the carrier.
“Thank you, Killashandra Ree. You have an open ticket to whatever destination you desire and a credit of one thousand galactic units.” He proffered two vouchers, each emblazoned with the Heptite Guild dodecahedron black-quartz crystal. He accorded her a deferential bow, and then, as the men guided Carrik past, he followed them down the corridor.