“Exports fish oils and glue,” was the semi-disgusted reply.
“Water world?”
“Not total. Has the usual balance of land and ocean. ...”
“Tropical?”
“It has a very pleasant tropical zone. All water sports, tasty foods if you like a high fruit/fish diet.”
“Book me.” Crystal singers could be high-handed, at least on Ballybran.
“Blast-off at 2230 today,” Port Authority told her.
“Grand.” And Killashandra broke the connection.
She drew on the soberest garments in the press, randomly selected half a dozen, tossed them into a vapak, and closed it. She hesitated, mid-room, glancing about incuriously. It was, of course, the standard member room, and sterile. No trace of anything personal, of Killashandra.
“Because,” Killashandra said out loud as if her voice might at least be imprinted on the room, “I’m nothing but a crystal singer with only a present to live in.”
She slammed the door as she left but it didn’t do much to satisfy her discontent.
She had time to get the refracting lenses removed from her eyes. It didn’t change her outlook much. In fact, Ballybran looked duller than usual as she flitted to the Port Authority Terminal. She left the flit for any other crystal singer who might need transport from the terminal. She remembered at the last to punch through to the Guild Hall and give her off-planet destination. And she withdrew her priority rights on the Milekey lode until her return. If someone, and she felt it would be Larsdahl, wanted to try their luck there, they could for all of her. They might even make a good haul, now that the latest storm had changed the frequencies again.
Briefly her body ached for those resonances, for the dazzle of rainbow light prisms dancing off variegated quartz, for the pure sweet sound of crystal waking in the early morning sun, or sighing in the cold virginal light of one of the larger moons, for the subsonic hum that ate through bone in black cold night.
Then she dealt with the formalities of lifting off-world and settling in her cabin.
She entered the common room for the first time the third day out, having enjoyed a deep drug-sleep to purge the last of crystal sound from her blood and bone. She was hungry, for more than food, a hunger she could keep leashed as far as she herself was concerned. But the eight male passengers and the two crewmen who circulated in the transit territory were affected by her sensuality. There wasn’t anyone she wanted so she retired to her cabin and remained there the rest of the trip.
Armagh III’s Port Authority Terminal smelled of fish oil and glue. Great casks were being trundled into the hold of the freighter as she bade an impatient farewell to the passenger steward. She flashed her general credentials and was admitted unconditionally to the planet as a leisure guest. No problem so she hadn’t had to use her guild membership. Armagh III was an open planet.
She rented a flit and checked into the Touristas for a list of resorts. It was too lengthy and so she closed her eyes, and bought a ticket to the destination on which her finger settled: Trefoil, on the southeastern coast. She paused long enough to obtain a quick change of Armagh clothing, bright patterns in a lightweight porous weave, and was off.
Trefoil was small, a fishing town. Ships under sail were tacking across the harbor. She thought she’d seen sailships before but, of course, she couldn’t be sure. Her curiosity roused, she sauntered down to the docks to watch a huge two-master beat up the channel to the wharves, its crew bustling about the decks, which glinted with an almost crystalline sheen.
“What makes the decks shine?” she asked another observer.
“Fish oils,” was the somewhat terse reply and then the man, a red-bearded giant, took a second look. Men usually did at Killashandra. “First time on Armagh?”
Killashandra nodded, her eyes intent on the sailship.
“Been here long?”
“Just arrived.”
“Got a pad?”
“No.”
“Try the Golden Dolphin. Best food in town and best brewman.”
Killashandra turned to look at him then. “You pad there?”
“How else could I judge?” the man replied with charming candor.
Killashandra smiled back at him, neither coldly nor invitingly. Neutral. He reminded her of someone. They both turned back to watch the docking ship.
Killashandra found the process fascinating and silently applauded the well-drilled crew: each man seemed to perform his set task without apparent instruction from the man in the bridge house. The big hull drifted slowly sideways toward the wharf. The sails flapped, empty of wind, and were quickly gathered and fastened along the booms. Two crewmen flung lines ashore, fore and aft; then leaped after them when the distance closed, flipping the heavy lines deftly around the bollards and snubbing the ship securely.
Armagh men ran to height, tanned skins, and strong backs, Killashandra noticed approvingly. Redbeard was watching her out of the corner of his eye. He was interested in her all right. Just then, the nearest sailor turned landside, and waved in her direction. His teeth were startlingly white against the mahogany of his skin. He tossed back a streaked blond curly mane of hair and waved again. He wore the long oil-shiny pants of his profession and an oddly fashioned vest, which left chest and arms bare and seemed stiff with double hide along the ribs. He looked incredibly muscular. Was he waving at her? No, at Redbeard beside her, who now walked forward to meet his friend. A third man, black-bearded and tangle-maned, joined them, was embraced by Redbeard. The trio stood, facing the ship, talking among themselves until a fearsome machine glided along rails to their side of the dock. It extruded a ramp out and down, onto the deck of the boat, where it hovered expectantly. The two sailors had jumped back aboard, the blond man moving with the instinctive grace of the natural athlete so that the black-haired man looked clumsy in comparison. As a team, they heaved open the hatch. The hesitant ramp extruded clamps that fastened to the deck and the lip of the opened hold. More ramp disappeared into the maw of the ship. Moments later the ramp belt moved upward and Killashandra saw her first lunk, the great oil fish of Armagh, borne away on its last journey.
She became absorbed in the unloading process, which, for all the automated assistance of the machine, still required the human element. The oil scales of the huge fish did not always stay on the rough surface of the ramp belt and had to be forced back on manually. The blond used an enormous barbed hook, planting it deep in what was actually the very tough hide of the elusive fish and deftly flipping the body into place again. Redbeard seemed to have some official position for he made notes of the machine’s dials, used the throat mike often, and seemed to have forgotten her existence entirely. Killashandra approved. A man should get on with his work.
Yes, especially when he worked with such laudable economy of motion and effort. Like the young blond.
In fact, Killashandra was rather surprised when the ramp suddenly retracted and the machine slid sideways to the next hold. A small barefoot rascal of a lad slipped up to the crewmen, a tray of hot pies balanced on his head. The aroma was tantalizing and Killashandra realized that she’d not eaten since breaking fast on the freighter that morning. Before she could signal the rascal to her, his merchandise had been bought up by the seaman. Irritated, Killashandra looked landward. The docks couldn’t be dependent on the services of small boys. There must be other eating facilities nearby. There were, of course, but off-dock. With a backward glance at her blond sailor, contentedly munching from a pie in each hand, she left the wharf.
As it happened the eating house she chose displayed a placard advertising the Golden Dolphin. The hostelry was up the beach, set back amid a grove of frond-leaved trees, far enough around a headland from the town and the wharf so that commercial noise was muted. She took a room with a veranda looking out over the water. She changed into native clothing and retraced her steps along the quiet corridor to the public room.