Dedicated Optherian players spent lifetimes arranging music embellished and ornamented for reception by many senses. A skilled Optherian organist could be mass-psychologist and politician as well as musician, and the effect of any composition played on the fully augmented instruments had such far-reaching consequences that performances and practitioners were subject to Federal as well as artistic discipline.
Bearing that in mind, Killashandra wondered how the manual could have been fractured – let alone have killed the performer at the same time, especially as that person had also been the only one on the planet capable of repairing it. Was there perhaps a spot of rot on the Optherian apple of Eden? This assignment could be interesting.
Killashandra pulled her chair back to the console and asked for visual contact with the Travel Officer. Bajorn was a long, thin man, with a thin face and a thin nose with pinched nostrils. He had preternaturally long, thin fingers, too, but much was redeemed by the cheerful smile that broke across his narrow face, and his complete willingness to sort out the most difficult itinerary. He seemed to be on the most congenial terms with every transport or freight captain who had ever touched down at or veered close to the Shanganagh Moon base.
“Is it difficult to get to the Optherian System, Bajorn?”
“Long old journey right now – out of season for the cruise ships on that route. Summer Festival won’t be for another six months galactic. So, traveling now, you’d have to make four exchanges – Rappahoe, Kunjab, Melorica, and Bernard’s World – all on freighters before getting passage on a proper liner.”
“You’re sure up to date.”
Bajorn grinned, his thin lips almost touching his droopy ears. “Should be. You’re the fifth inquiry I’ve had about that system. What’s up? Didn’t know the Optherians went in for the sort of kicks singers like.”
“Who’re the other four?”
“Well, there’s no regulation against telling. “Bajorn paused discreetly, “and as they’ve all asked, no reason why you shouldn’t be told. You,” and he ticked names off on his fingers, “Borella Seal, Concera, Gobbain Tekla, and Rimbol.”
“Indeed. Thank you, Bajorn, that’s real considerate of you.”
“That’s what Rimbol said, too.” Bajorn’s face sagged mournfully. “I do try to satisfy the Guild’s travel requirements, but it is so depressing when my efforts are criticized or belittled. I can’t help it if singers lose their memories . . . and every shred of common courtesy.”
“I’ll program eternal courtesy to you on my personal tape, Bajorn.”
“I’d appreciate it. Only do it now, would you, Killashandra, before you forget?”
Promising faithfully, Killashandra rang off. Lanzecki had said there was a list. Were there only five names! Borella Seal and Concera she knew and she wouldn’t have minded doing them out of the assignment; Gobbain Tekla was a total stranger. Rimbol had been cutting successfully, and in the darker shades just as Lanzecki had predicted. Why would he want such an assignment? So, four people had been interested enough to check Travel. Were there more?
She asked for a list of unassigned singers in residence and it was depressingly long. After some names, including her own, the capital I – for Inactive – flashed. Perhaps unwisely, she deleted those and still had thirty-seven possible rivals. She twirled idly about in the gimbaled chair, wondering exactly what criterion was vital for the Optherian assignment. Lanzecki hadn’t mentioned such minor details in the little he had disclosed. From what she had already learned of the planet and the mechanics of installation, any competent singer could do the job. So what would weigh the balance in favor of one singer?
Killashandra reexamined the list of her known rivals: Borella and Concera had both been cutting a long time. Gobbain Tekla, when she found his position on the Main Roster, was a relative newcomer; Rimbol, like Killashandra, was a rank tyro. When she inquired, she discovered that each of the others had been a redundant or a failed musician. Perhaps that was the necessary requirement. It certainly made sense for the installer to have an instrumental background. She rephrased her question to apply to all thirty-seven available singers. Nineteen fit that category.
Lanzecki appeared reluctant to offer her the assignment but she oughtn’t to fault him. She was acutely aware of past concessions from her Guildmaster. She had no right to expect an interrupted flow of benefits simply because he chose to share his bed with her. Nor, she decided, would she jeopardize their relationship by referring to the assignment again. Lanzecki might well be doing her a favor by not recommending her. She must keep that aspect of the situation firmly in mind. She might not be thrilled to vacation on the four systems to which her available credit would take her, but that was another string in her deplorable luck. She would get a rest from crystal and that was the essential requirement.
Her reawakened appetite reminded her that it had been some hours since breakfast. During lunch, she’d decide where to take herself. When, refreshed and revitalized, she returned to her labors for the Heptite Guild, she’d find a fresh vein of black crystal and then she’d get to the planet Maxim.
Before she could plan her vacation in any detail, Antona rang her from the Infirmary. “Have you eaten, Killa?”
“Is that an invitation or a professional query? Because I just finished a very hearty lunch.”
Antona sighed. “I should have liked your company for lunch. There’s not much doing right now down here. Fortunately.”
“If it’s just the company you want while you eat . . . .”
Antona smiled with genuine pleasure. “I do. I don’t enjoy eating by myself all the time. Could you drop down here first? You’re still listed as inactive and you’ll want that status amended.”
On her way down to the Infirmary level, Killashandra first worried then chided herself for fearing there was more to Antona’s request than a simple record up-date. It might have nothing to do with her fitness to take on the Optherian job. Nor would it be discreet to imply that she knew such an assignment was available. On the other hand, Antona would know more about the amenities of the nearby worlds.
The medical formality took little time and then the two women proceeded to the catering section of the main singer’s floor of the Guild Complex.
“It’s so depressingly empty,” Antona said in a subdued voice as she glanced about the dimly lit portions of the facility.
“I found it a lot more depressing when everyone else was celebrating a good haul,” Killashandra said in a glum tone.
“Yes, yes, it would be, I suppose. Oh, fardles!” Antona quickly diverted Killashandra toward the shadowy side. “Borella, Concera, and that simp, Gobbain,” she murmured as she made a hasty detour.
“You don’t like them?” Killashandra was amused.
Antona shrugged. “One establishes a friendship by sharing events and opinions. They remember nothing and consequently have nothing to share. And less to talk about.”
Without warning, Antona caught Killashandra by the arm, turning to face her. “Do yourself a sterling favor, Killa. Put everything you’ve experienced so far in your life, every detail you can recall from cutting expeditions, every conversation you’ve had, every joke you’ve heard, put everything” – when Killashandra affected surprise, Antona gave her arm a painful squeeze – “and yes, I do mean ‘everything,’ into your personal retrieval file. What you did. what you said, what you felt” – and Antona’s fierce gaze challenged Privacy – “how you’ve loved. Then, when your mind is as blank as theirs, you can refresh your memory and have something with which to reestablish you!” Her expression became intensely sad. “Oh, Killa. Be different! Do as I ask! Now! Before it’s too late!”