“You mean, that tenor is a reject from your opera school?”
“You misunderstand the situation, Guildmember. All the teaching centers on Optheria emphasize keyboard music.”
“You mean, only that organ?”
“Of course. The organ is the ultimate of instruments,
combining the – ”
“Spare me the hype, Mirbethan.” Killashandra took an obscure pleasure in the shock her statement gave the woman. Then she relented. “Oh, I concur that the Optherian organ is a premier instrument, but that tenor voice was rather spectacular on its own merit.”
“You should not have been disturbed – ”
“Fardles! I enjoyed singing with him.”
Mirbethan’s eyes rounded in a secondary shock. “You . . . were the other singer?”
“I was.” File that for future reference! “Tell me, Mirbethan, if only a few of the hundreds who must study at this Center ever attain the standard required to play the Optherian organ, what happens to those who don’t?”
“Why, suitable situations are found for them.”
“In music?” Mirbethan shook her head. “I’d think that crystal singing would provide a marvelous alternative.”
“Optherians do not care to leave their planet. whatever their minor disappointments. You will excuse me, Guildmember – ” Mirbethan broke the connection.
Killashandra stared at the blank screen for a long moment. Of course, neither Mirbethan nor any of the quartette knew of her early background in music. Certainly none of them could possible know of her disappointment, nor how she would relate that to what Mirbethan had just admitted. If you failed to make the grade at the organ, there was nothing else for you on Optheria?
There was no way in which Killashandra would buy Mirbethan’s statement that frustrated Optherian musicians would prefer to remain on the planet, even if they had been conditioned to the restriction from birth.
And that tenor had sung with absolute pitch. It’d be a bloody shame to muzzle that voice in preference to an organ, however “perfect” an instrument it might be. Hazardous crystal singing might be as a profession, but it sure beat languishing on Optheria. A sudden thought struck her and, with a fluid stride, she went to the terminal, tapped for Library, and the entry on Ballybran. A much expurgated entry scrolled past, ending with the Code Four restriction. She queried the Files for political science texts and discovered fascinating gaps in that category. So, censorship was applied on Optheria. Not that that ever accomplished its purpose. However, an active censorship was not grounds for charter-smashing, and the Guild had only been requested to discover if the planetary exit restriction was popularly accepted.
Well, she knew one person she could ask – the tenor – if he hadn’t gone into hiding after last night’s hunt. Killashandra grinned. If she knew tenors . . .
She had breakfasted – the catering unit did offer a substantial breakfast – and dressed by the time Thyrol arrived to inquire if she had rested, and more importantly, if she would like to start the repairs. He tactfully indicated her arm.
“You’ve apprehended the assailant?”
“Merely a matter of time.”
“How many students in the Complex?” she asked amiably as Thyrol led her down the hall to the lift.
“At present, four hundred and thirty.”
“That’s a lot of suspects to examine.”
“No student would dare attack an honored guest of the planet.”
“On most planets, they’d be the prime suspects.”
“My dear Guildmember, the selection process by which this student body is chosen considers all aspects of the applicant’s background, training, and ability. They uphold all our traditions.”
Killashandra mumbled something suitable. “How many positions are available to graduates?”
“That is not an issue, Guildmember,” Thyrol said with mild condescension. “There is no limit to the number of fully trained performers who present compositions for the Optherian organ – ”
“But only one may play at a time – ”
“There are forty-five organs throughout Optheria – ”
“That many? Then why couldn’t one of those be substituted – ”
“The instrument here at the Complex is the largest, most advanced and absolutely essential for the performance level required by the Summer Festival. Composers from all over the planet compete for the honor and their work has been especially written for the potential of the main instrument. To ask them to perform on a lesser organ defeats the purpose of the Festival.”
“I see,” Killashandra said although she didn’t. However, once she had been admitted through the series of barriers and security positions protecting the damaged organ, she began to appreciate the distinction Thyrol had made.
He had taken her to the rocky basements of the Complex, and then to the impressive and unexpectedly grand Competition Amphitheater which utilized the natural stony bowl on the nether side of the Complex promontory. Some massive early earthfault and a lot of weathering had molded the mount’s flank into a perfect semicircle. The Optherians had improved the amphitheater with tiered ranks of individual seating units, facing the shelf on which the organ console stood. This was accessible only from the one entrance through which Thyrol now guided Killashandra. With a sincere and suitable awe, Killashandra looked about her, annoyed that she was gratifying Thyrol’s desire to impress a Guildmember even as she was unable to suppress that wonder. She cleared her throat, and the sound, small though it was, echoed faithfully back at her. “The acoustics are incredible,” she murmured and, as Thyrol smiled tolerantly, heard her words whispered back. She rolled her eyes and looked about her for an exit from the phenomenal stage.
Thyrol gestured to a portal carved in the solid rock on the far side of the organ console. From his belt pouch he extracted three small rods. With these and his thumb print, he opened the door, the sound reverberating across the empty space. Killashandra slipped in first. As familiar as she was with auditoria of all descriptions, something about this one unnerved her. Something about the seats reminded her of primitive diagnostic chairs which used physical restraints on their occupants, yet she knew that people would cross the Galaxy to attend the Festival.
Lights had come up at their entry and illuminated a large, low-ceilinged chamber. Taking up the floor space in front of the innocuous interlinked cabinets that made up the electronic guts of the Optherian organ were the prominent sealed crates containing the white crystal. Overhead harnesses of color-coded cables formed a ceiling design before they disappeared through conduits to unknown destinations.
Thyrol led the way to the large rectangle containing the shattered remains of the crystal manual.
“How, in the name of all that’s holy, did he manage that?” Killashandra demanded after surveying the damage. Some of the smaller crystals had been reduced to thin splinters. In idle wonder she picked up a handful of the shards, letting them trickle through her fingers, ignoring Thyrol’s cry of alarm as he grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands back. The tiny cuts inflicted by the scalpel-sharp crystal briefly oozed droplets of blood then closed over while Thyrol watched in fascinated horror.
“As you can see, the merest caress of crystal.” She twisted her hands free of Thyrol’s unexpectedly strong grasp. “Now,” and she spoke more briskly, looking down at the mess in the bottom of the cabinet, “I’ll need some tools, some stout fellows, and stouter baskets to remove the debris.”
“An extractor?” Thyrol suggested.
“There isn’t an extractor built on Ballybran or anywhere else that wouldn’t be sliced to ribbons by crystal shards in suction. No, this has to be cleaned in a time honored fashion – by hand.”
“But you . . .”
Killashandra drew herself up. “As a Guildmember, I am not averse to performing necessary manual tasks.” She paused to let Thyrol appreciate the difference. She had done more than enough shard-scrapping on Ballybran to undertake it here on Optheria.