Hands take a lot of abuse in the Range: It wasn’t wrinkles at all. Lots of small crystal scars, that’s what. She always got good sharp edges to her cuts, sharp enough to slice anything, particularly flesh.
She was too thin again. Well, you forgot to eat at regular intervals when you worked crystals. Eating wasn’t a habit of hands; it was metabolic custom.
She’d have time to eat now, wouldn’t she?
The bath was cold. She evacuated it and dialed for a second, this time stripping off the remnants of her range suit. Why weren’t the radiants eliminating that nardy tingle along her bones, the marrow-deep ache? Once she got rid of that ache. . . . She wouldn’t, not until she got off-world. She had to have a chance to think! Without crystal impinging. How could anyone think with that low-constant, bone-conducted ripple distracting you all the time?
Before the third immersion had quite cooled, the medic arrived, and despite her curses, pumped her full of restoratives.
“I don’t want energy; I want sleep. I want to get off this farding fool planet and away from you mutes!”
It did her good to scream, but the therapy would have been more beneficial if the deaf medic had been able to react to her vilification. Frustrated, she grabbed his arm, shaking him so that he looked up at her inquiringly.
“I don’t want restoratives. I want to sleep. Sleep!”
He nodded, inserted another vial in the barrel of the air gun, shot it, and before she could suitably catalog his antecedents, she’d slipped into deep slumber.
She woke abruptly, knowing by the manner of waking that she’d been sedated into sleep. She looked at the bed chromo and twenty-six hours had elapsed since she’d been laid there. She wondered what had gone wrong. . . but only briefly, because too many memories flooded back. She cursed viciously because the medic had obviously activated her recall playback. She railed against the Guild for that, too. There were some things, by all that’s holy, you don’t have to remember! You don’t need to remember! You don’t want to remember!
Food popped out of the catering slot, giving rise to another flood of Killashandran vituperation. But the choice dishes were her favorites, printed long ago into her private program and guaranteed to stimulate her appetite. She was ravenous. With each mouthful she macerated, she chewed out curses for Lanzecki, the Guild, everything.
The playback of recent events, some of which she couldn’t imagine why she’d kept, revived perfect recollection of her present dilemma. Twenty-six hours of retrieved data forced back into her crystal-soaked mind. There’d been a time, presumably, when twenty-six hours would’ve replaced every lost memory. Now it only served to remind her how long she’d sung crystal. Well, the next trip into the Milekeys would erase most of it. Ha! She couldn’t take another long trip into the Milekeys, could she, even under Lanzecki’s emergency directive, not until her flitter was refitted with operating gyros.
Sated and somewhat mollified by a clear recollection of her recent past, she rose to dress. And stared at the wealth of garments in the closets. The first group were all too familiar, bought at Taliesin and Rommell, and on that dull trip to Buckwell’s Star. She pushed them along the slide to the back, out of sight. Now the gaudy gauze of a brilliant purple and fuchsia surtout. . . . The feel of the soft springy fiber in her hand touched a respondent chord, but the memory was elusive. Something pleasurable. To the good. Well then, why hadn’t she programmed that into her review?
And this blue-striped affair must reach her ankles, the sleeves hiding her fingers. On what earth had she acquired such a monstrosity? Not her usual choice, certainly, for there’d be no freedom of movement in that constricting thing. It must have been molded to her body. How had she walked? Had she walked in it? And where? The faint whiff of perfume stirred an exciting memory. Now why had she edited that from the tape?
Disused memories, exanimate clothing and defunct odors!
She took the gauze from the press and threw its folds around her body. The set was good, she tossed her thick black locks away from her face, and her hair whispered sensuously against the fabric. She found some footwear in purple, obviously bought to match the gown. One cabinet held perfumes in curious flagons and containers, some marked in unfamiliar alphabets with galactic lingua translations in small printing beneath. None of the fragrances matched that clinging to the blue-striped affair. But fragrance dries up . . . like memories! She shrugged, daubed herself with a spicy mixture that seemed to go with the purple surtout. Her toilet complete, she adjourned to the Guild general hall.
The large, low-ceilinged chamber could have accommodated double the number of active crystal singers and none of the half dozen scattered about the hall looked familiar to her. Not that that actually bothered. The roster of Guild members was subject to change without notice. At one time or another she’d probably met everyone and they, her.
She took a seat in a quiet alcove and dialed the fourth beverage down the caterer, designated a strong euphoric. She recognized the taste as the liquid rapidly dispensed a pleasant lethargy within her. Now, slightly anesthetized to the crystal-echo in other singers’ bones, she could contemplate contact.
She wondered who else of the gradually increasing population in the hall were being summarily forced back into the Ranges to work blues. Should she attempt a revolution and the hell with the fecking blue crystals? She was, unfortunately, aware that crystal singers had never struck. The initial part of the recent playback had been a review of Guild Law and history—Lanzecki-inspired, no doubt. He had the advantage of her in this. If she refused to go back out, she could be disbarred from all member privileges and exiled from Ballybran . . . which amounted to slow death. If she weren’t a crystal singer, she’d’ve opted for exile. She might anyhow, just to be difficult. She physically and mentally couldn’t face another trip into the Ranges without some respite. But she also knew that however much she might crave surcease from crystal song, she couldn’t endure more than a few months away from Ballybran. Crystal was in her blood, her bone, and she required it—symbiotically or parasitically, she had to return to crystal.
However, she could delay as long as possible, with the legitimate excuse of faulty gyros. And the price of blue orthorhombic would rise. Of course, if she delayed too long, Lanzecki could exact a penalty that might whittle down her premiums. She checked through the newly reimpressed knowledge of Guild law and realized that here she did have an advantage. Lanzecki couldn’t deduct any penalties, despite the emergency, unless he could prove she was fit and able to perform her Guild duties. And furthermore. . . . “Killashandra!”
She looked up at the glad exclamation and saw a man in an orange tunic, the shade of which was almost an assault on the eyes, hurrying across the room towards her. His manner was that of an acquaintance of long— and, when he had saluted her with an embrace and kiss, evidently intimate—standing. “Who the hell are you?”
“Fergil! Don’t you remember me?” he replied in a tone that suggested she couldn’t possibly have forgotten him.
“No, I don’t.”
Instantly his attractive face evinced surprise, hurt, embarrassment and then tolerant understanding. “Now, Killashandra, you haven’t been out in the Range that long this trip. And what brought you back so soon? You swore you’d make enough to go off-world.” He’d seated himself as if her invitation were a foregone conclusion. His assurance amused more than it irritated her.
“My gyros are wheezing,” she replied in a daunting tone that ought to send him on his way.