“How exceedingly clever!” Killashandra was wearing the contact lenses recommended for Optheria’s sunlight and wondered if the planet would be improved, viewed via augmented Ballybran vision. Just then it was very, very, blah! Killashandra had to delve a long way for an adequate expression which, tactfully, she did not voice. Would Borella have restrained herself? Would she have noticed? Ah, well, Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder! For Optheria’s sake, she was glad that someone loved it.
While it might have been laudable of the Founding Fathers to wish to preserve the entire valley as it was when Man first landed, it must have given the architects and construction crews a helluva lot of trouble. Buildings wrapped around copses of trees, straddled brooks, incorporated boulders and ledges. Probably the floors on upper levels were even but it must have been bumpy going at ground level. Fortunately the airfoils of her vehicle were up to the uneven surface in the suburbs but the ride became rather bouncy as they proceeded deeper into the City.
Pausing at the intersection of a huge open square – open except for the many thorn bushes and scrawny trees – Killashandra could not fail to notice that the ground floor of one corner building made uneven arches over repulsively greasy-looking bushes whose thorny branches were obviously a hazard to pedestrians; something was to be said for the curtailment of natural “beauty.” She could learn to hate the City quite easily. No wonder some of the natives were restless. Just how did the Summer Festival compensate for the rest of the Optherian year?
Once past the open square, the road climbed gently to a cluster of buildings evidently uninhibited by natural beauties, for they seemed to have an architectural integrity so far lacking in the City.
“It was necessary,” Thyrol said in a muted voice, “to add the merest trace of a ramp to ascend to the Music Center.”
“I wouldn’t have known it if you hadn’t told me,” Killashandra said, unable to restrain her facetiousness.
“One ought to approach on foot,” Pirinio went on in a repressive tone, “but some latitude is permitted so that the audience may assemble punctually.” His gesture called Killashandra’s attention to the many small switchback paths to one side of the promontory.
Killashandra repressed a second facetious remark which Pirinio’s tone provoked. It wouldn’t be the installation on Optheria, not the organ, nor the planet which were hazardous: once again it was the inhabitants. Was she always to encounter such intolerant, inflexible, remorseless personalities?
“What sort of local brew do you have here on Optheria?” she asked, keeping her tone casual. If the reply was “none,” she’d book out on the next available craft.
“Well, ah, that is, possibly not at all to your taste, Guildmember.” Mirbethan’s startled reply was hesitant. “No beverages can be imported. I’m sure you saw the notice in the Port Authority. Our brewmasters produce four distinct fermented beverages: quite potable, I’m told. Spirits are distilled from the Terran grains which we have managed to adapt to Optherian soil, but I’ve been told that these are raw to educated palates.”
“Optheria produces excellent wines,” Pirinio said rather testily, with a reproving glance at Mirbethan. “They cannot be exported and indeed, some do not travel well even the relatively short distance to the City. If wine is your preference, a selection will be put in your quarters.”
“I’ll try some of the brews, too.”
“Wine and beer?” Polabod exclaimed in surprise.
“Crystal singers are required to keep a high blood-alcohol content when absent from Ballybran. I’ll have to decide which is the best for my particular requirement.” She sighed in patient forebearance.
“I wasn’t informed that members of your Guild required special diets.” Thyrol was clearly perturbed.
“No special diet,” Killashandra agreed, “but we do require larger intakes of certain natural substances from time to time. Such as alcohol.”
“Oh, I see,” Thyrol replied, although clearly he did not.
Does no one on this repulsive planet have a sense of humor? Killashandra wondered.
“Ah, here we are so soon,” Pirinio said, for the vehicle had swung down the curving drive to the imposing main entrance of the largest building on this musical height
In orderly fashion but in decorous haste, a second welcoming committee formed itself on the wide and shallow marble steps under the colonnaded portico that shielded the massive central doors of the edifice. Although large urns had been planted with some sort of weeping tree to soften the harsh architecture, the effect was forbidding, rather than welcoming.
Killashandra emerged from the vehicle, ignoring Thyrol’s outstretched hand. The Optherian’s obsequious behavior could quickly become a major irritant.
She had just straightened up and turned to step forward when something slammed hard into her left shoulder and she was thrown off balance against the vehicle. The fleshy point of her shoulder stung briefly then began to throb. Thyrol began to bellow incoherently before he attempted to embrace her in the misguided notion that she needed his assistance.
For the next few moments total chaos erupted: Thyrol, Pirinio, and Polabod dashed about, issuing conflicting orders. The throng of dignitaries turned into a terrified mob, splintering into groups which fled, stood paralyzed, or added their shouts to the tumult. A flock of airborne sleds reared up from the plateau to hover above the Music Complex, darting off on diverse errands.
Mirbethan was the only one able to keep her wits. She tore a strip from the hem of her gown, and despite Killashandra’s protestations that she required no aid, bound the wound. And it was she who discovered the weapon, imbedded in the upholstery of the back seat.
“That’s a businesslike piece of wickedness,” Killashandra remarked as she studied the asterisk-bladed object, three of its lethal blades buried in the seat back. The one which had wounded her pointed outward, a strand of her sleeve material laid neatly along the cutting edge.
“Don’t touch it” Mirbethan put out her hand to prevent such action.
“No fear,” Killashandra said, straightening up. “Local manufacture?”
“No.” Mirbethan’s voice took on a note of indignant anger. “An island implement. An outrage. We shall spare no effort to discover the perpetrator of this deed.”
There was a subtle, but discernible, alteration in Mirbethan’s tone between her first two remarks and the last which Killashandra caught but could not then analyze, for the rest of the committee suddenly recalled that there had been a victim of this “outrage” and more attentions were showered on Killashandra by the concerned. Despite her protestations, she was carried into the vaulting entrance hall of the main building, and whisked along a corridor, lined floor to ceiling with portraits of men and women. Even in her swift passage she noticed that they all smiled in the same tight, smug way. Then she was conducted to a lift while dignitaries bickered about who should accompany her in the limited space.
Once again, Mirbethan won Killashandra’s approval by closing the door on the argument. They were met at their destination by a full medical convention and Killashandra was made to lie on a gurney and was wheeled into diagnostics.
At the moment of truth. when the temporary bandaging was reverently unwound from the injury, there was a stunned silence.
“I could have spared everyone a great deal of unnecessary effort,” Killashandra remarked dryly after she glanced at the clean, bloodless cut. “As a crystal singer, I heal very quickly and am not the least bit susceptible to infection. As you can see.”
Consternation was rampant, with all the medics exclaiming over the wound, and others cramming forward in an attempt to witness this miracle of regeneration. Glancing up, Killashandra saw the very smug smile on Mirbethan’s face, so very like the smiles on the portraits.