He grinned—he had an engaging one, she admitted— and took her hand, stroking her palm in an experienced caress—the sort of caress which she happened to enjoy. She did know him? That recall playback had covered nearly ten standard years . . . and there had been no Fergil.
“You really ought to break down and invest in a new flitter,” he said briskly, “but you never listen to me.”
“Don’t I now?”
His fingers ran excitingly up her forearm, where the skin is soft and tender ... no crystal scars there to deaden sensitivity. Then just as she began to anticipate that stroking, he leaned away from her to dial beverages.
“You’re abstemious for someone just in,” he remarked. “Try your usual. If your gyros are off, you’ll be in for a while.”
Well, he knew her favorite form of liquid poison. She raised the goblet in a toast, but she was positive she’d never met this orange man before. Positive. And yet. . . .
“What brings you back in?” she asked, hoping for a lead. “There’s no storm warning up.”
“You have forgotten. I’ve been on leave.”
“Did Lanzecki call you back?”
“No,” he said, in a jocular fashion as if she ought to have known his movements. “As you said, there’s nothing on this planet, and I hadn’t made enough to go off-world. I just needed”—and he gritted his teeth—”to get away from the ranges...” That glowing smile for her again. “And you—” Suddenly he was very serious, a light hand on her arm but a hand which nevertheless warmed into her flesh in a loverly way. “I know you are the top crystal singer in the Guild, Killa, but I just don’t think we’d last as a duet.”
Killashandra stared at him in utter astonishment.
“Duet?”
He waved aside her startled exclamation, turning his head slightly from her in regret. “I’ve thought a lot about it, Killa. And you’re wrong, I’m afraid. Something happens to a man, and a woman, out in the Ranges: something that can set up antagonistic frequencies in your body—as if your very bones hated each other. No”—and his smile was tender and full of remorse—”I’d rather we stayed friends . . . loving friends, if you will. You’ve meant too much to me already to have the memory soured by hatred.”
Killashandra snorted at his notion of acrimonious memories: of any memories!
“Here, your drink’s empty,” he said solicitously, taking no notice of her diffident response.
Well, she needed another drink; it went on his tab. And he was rather an incredible personality. How could she have forgotten him? And in presumably a relatively short time. She forced her mind back through the replay to which she’d only a few hours before been subjected. Granted that she had dictated that playback and could have been disenchanted with him at that moment. She could recall descriptions of half a dozen other men but no Fergil with the compelling gray eyes, crisp curling brown hair, and the sure touch of a man who knows how to give pleasure and wants to receive it. More importantly, surely she’d have remembered a man with whom she’d considered doubling. Or maybe that presumption alone had sufficed to censor him. Yes, that was possible. She shook her head, because Fergil had begun to stroke her arm again and she could not ignore the fact that she was positively attracted to him . . . and that she needed relief badly.
He gave it—completely and outrageously—disastrously certain of his ability to arouse and satisfy her. She must have known him!
She would have liked to sleep alone after they made love so that she’d play back the review tape. If she’d censored the Fergil chapter of her life, there’d be a large chronological lapse. . . .
“How long has Fergil been singing crystal, Lanzecki?” Killashandra asked the next day when Fergil had finally quit her side to see to the servicing of his own craft.
“Not too long,” Lanzecki replied, in an unusually judicious tone.
“Doesn’t he sing well?”
“Yes. Sings well in the higher registers, in fact.” Abruptly Lanzecki’s face changed and he glanced hopefully at her. “Then you’d consider. . . .”
“Dueting with him?” Killashandra gave a snort of laughter. “Evidently I offered and he . . . refused.”
“Really?” Lanzecki stared off into a middle distance. “I must speak to that young man. Supply,” he went on in his characteristically neutral manner, “has ordered new gyros for your vehicle on a top priority-emergency basis. They should be here in seven days, plus four to install and tune. ...”
“Ha! When you need me, Supply hustles, doesn’t it?”
“It is not my need, Killashandra Ree. Two GCS drive units have been retuned, but the cuts lowered the range and efficiency by a factor of four. As all the blues used in those drive units were quarries from the Ghange Range at the same time, it is not hard to understand the perturbation which exists over the Guild’s inability to furnish immediate replacements.”
“I’ve brought in blues from time to time.”
Lanzecki’s eyes closed briefly in recognition. “There are very few blue cuttings in the Ranges.”
“Nothing more in Ghanges?”
He shook his head. “We’ve examined that possibility thoroughly.”
“I’ll just bet you have.”
“You must go back to your claim as soon as it is possible.” Lanzecki said. “Believe me, I wouldn’t risk sending you out if the situation were not so critical.”
Though he spoke in his customary neutral tone, something in his manner stopped the sarcastic rejoinder Killashandra was going to make.
“I could almost believe you, Lanzecki,” she did say and left.
Out in the hall, she wondered where she could go for eleven days. Nowhere useful. Taliesin was a good four travel days off and she didn’t have to check her review tape to know she’d been there often enough to be too well known. Despite Taliesin’s proximity, the natives subscribed to the galactic myth that crystal singers seduced people into the Guild. The two main planets of the system were musically inclined civilizations so perfect pitch was not uncommon. And since perfect pitch was a requisite of crystal singing, a good many young people, dissatisfied with Taliesin’s limited opportunities, endured the initiation hassle to reap the benefit of high pay and unlimited travel. Taliesin, in her circumstances, was both too far and not far enough.
“Killashandra!” Fergil’s delighted greeting was more suitable to an absence of days, not hours. “Where have you been?”
“Getting Lanzecki’s bad news.”
“What do you mean?” Fergil’s pleasure was replaced by concern.
“Eleven days before I’m thrust back into the Range again.”
“That’s speed!”
“Ha! I can’t even get to Taliesin in that time.”
“Why would you want to go to Taliesin? If you’ve eleven days, you can just take off and he can come after you. I know those engineers. ...”
Killashandra shook her head and answered grimly. “He’s invoked Section forty-seven. . . .”
“Section. . . .” Fergil’s eyes went blank with the effort to associate. His recall was fresh for he whistled appreciatively in a matter of seconds. “Don’t tell me you’ve got blue cuttings?”
She agreed.
He whistled again, his eyes widening with envy. “Do you know what blues are bringing?”
“There are some things, like scrambled brains, not worth any price.”
“Aw, c’mon, Killashandra. A couple crates of those blues...”
“Aw, c’mon, Fergil, you’ve obviously never cut blues. One of the reasons they bring in such top prices is they’re so farding hard to cut. Crack, chip, flaw while you’re working. You’ve got to get deep into the vein before you find any pure stuff. Could take you days and then, up blows a mach storm and shatters the whole face before you can get any real benefit. That is, if you’re unfortunate enough to find blues to begin with.”