“I didn’t think you did,” and his reply was amused acceptance, “once you dropped the Keralawian accent.” She warned herself to watch what she said. “Where do you belong, Carrigana?”
“Besides in your arms?” Then the honesty of the moment began to close in on her. “I don’t really know, Lars.” These moments were out of context with any previous part of her life on Fuerte or Ballybran: totally divorced from Killashandra, Crystal Singer. Pragmatically she knew the euphoria would end all too soon but the desire to prolong it consumed her. “How about you, Lars? Where do you belong?”
“The Islands don’t actually hold me any more. I’ve come to realize that over the past few months. And think that my father recognizes it, too. Oh, I’m partner in an interisland carrier service that’s reasonably profitable – useful to the islanders certainly.” He grinned. “But three years in the City at the Complex taught me discipline, order, and efficiency and the easy way of islanders irritates me. I can’t see me settling in to City life, either . . .”
Killashandra raised herself on her elbow, looking down at his face. The muscles were relaxed but the strength and character in his features were not the least bit diminished.
“Aren’t you going to appeal the Master’s decision?” Her fingers traced his clearly defined left brow.
“No one appeals their decision, Carrigana,” he said with a contemptuous snort. Then he drew both eyebrows together: her finger followed to caress away his scowl. “They did, damn their souls to everlasting acid, have the incredible gall to suggest that, if I performed a slight service for them, they might consider. And like a childish fool I believed them.” Incensed by his memories, he swung to a sitting position, arms clasping his knees tightly to his chest, his mouth in a bitter line. “A real fool but so desperate to have my composition accepted – not so much for my own prestige as to prove that an islander could succeed at the Complex and to vindicate the support the islanders had given me during those years.” He twisted his torso around to face her. “You’d never guess what this slight service was.”
“I wouldn’t?” Killashandra was quite certain what he would say.
“They wanted me to make an assault on a visiting dignitary. Possibly the most important person to set foot on this forsaken mudball.”
“Assault? On Optheria? On whom? What visiting dignitary?” Killashandra was astonished at the surprise and concern in her voice, a genuine enough response to Lars’s shocking statement
“You heard that Comgail had died, shattering a manual of the Festival Organ?” When she nodded silently, he continued. “You may not know that the damage was deliberate.” It was easy for her to react suitably, for a death involving crystal would not have been painless. “There are a lot of people who believe that they – we,” and he grinned humorlessly, admitting to his complicity, “have an inalienable right to leave this planet in order to achieve professional fulfillment. And that right should be enjoyed by more than disappointed composers, Carrigana. This restriction is stagnating intelligent people all over this world. People who have tremendous gifts which have no channel whatever on this backward natural mudball.
So, it was decided to manufacture a situation that would require the presence of an extraplanetary official. An impartial but prestigious person who could be approached to register our protest with the FSP. Oh, letters have been smuggled out but letters are ineffective. We’re not even sure that they reached their destinations. What we needed was someone who could be shown examples of this stagnation, talk to people like Theach, Nahia, and Brassner, see what they have been developing in spite of strictures of federal bureaucracy.”
Lars gave a rueful laugh. “It’s rather depressing to realize how little Optheria requires. The founding fathers wrought too well. We’re a population expert in making do with the meanest possible natural resources. Good old polly!
“It was Comgail who proposed what had to be done to force the government to bring in a foreign technician. A manual on the Festival Organ would have to be shattered. The Government would be forced to have that replaced in time for the Summer Festival tourists.
“Did you ever realize how dependent the Government is on tourism?” His eyes glinted with malicious amusement. “Theach researched the economics. He can do the most phenomenal computations in his head – that way, there’s no written proof of his alienation from the Optheria way of life! That tourist income is absolutely essential to purchase the high tech items which cannot be manufactured here. And without which all the federal machinery would grind to a halt. Even the barrier arc at the shuttleport is fashioned from imported components.
“Mind you, Comgail did not intend to be a martyr. But he didn’t draw back when the moment was on him. So the Government was forced to apply to the Heptite Guild for a complete and very expensive new crystal manual. And this is where Comgail’s sacrifice becomes relevant; he was also the only technician on Optheria capable of installing the replacement. They’d have to have the services of – at the very least – a highly skilled technician or ideally a crystal singer to make the repair. Once the crystal singer was on Optheria, we’d make sure there’d be an opportunity to present our desparate situation and ask that it be submitted to the FSP Council. A singer has access to the Council, you know.”
“Go on, Lars . . .” A nasty suspicion began to form in Killashandra’s mind, recalling Ampris’s snide remarks about islanders.
He inhaled, closing his eyes briefly against unpleasant memories. “The crystal singer arrived on the Athena the day after my audition. Only the Elders weren’t sure of her identity.”
“That sort of I.D. cannot be forged, Lars.”
He gave a contemptuous snort. “I know it, you know it, but you must also know how paranoid our Elders are. And Torkes is now in Communications.” Again his words elicited a nodded reaction from her. “Oh, the urgency behind this slight favor was subtly presented to me. A crystal singer is known to have great recuperative powers. A minor scratch would be no inconvenience to a crystal singer but would unconditionally reveal an imposter. Since islanders are known,” his voice dripped with sarcasm, “to live primitive and violent lives, accustomed to handling dangerous weapons, it was thought that I was admirably suited to perform this small favor for the Masters, in return for their reevaluation of my composition.”
“And did they promise you immunity from reprisal as well?”
“I’m not quite that naive, Carrigana. They did not require a frontal assault. So, I picked a window on the upper storey where I’d have a good view of the arrival. I’ve been winning competitions with the star-blades since my father first allowed me one. A simple flick and the blade angles at the right trajectory. It caught her on the arm. I think a little higher than I’d planned for she moved just as I had completed the throw.” His was expression was chagrined and he gave Killashandra a quick defensive glance. “Oh, she was all right, Carrigana. I scooted round to the infirmary the back way and she was walking out of the surgery without so much as a bandage showing.” He smoothed her arm reassuringly. “Crystal singers really do heal with unbelievable speed. She seemed more annoyed with her escort than the incident.
“The next morning, of course, I was told that on due reconsideration, the Masters had to abide by their original decision. The omnipotent, omniscient Masters, speaking from their immense and encyclopedic knowledge of all forms of music and their total understanding of the universe and Man’s subliminal relationship with the Natural World, do not believe that this facet of Optherian life needs to be celebrated at any point in the year, certainly not during the Summer Festival when off-worlders might possibly hear something evoking a valid Optherian subculture and more original than variations on the usual pre-predigested pap that ‘accredited’ composers churn out.”