Noise and bustle, his tone of voice told Killashandra, were the unpleasant concomitants of space travel. “How wise of you,” Killashandra replied.
“Optherian’s founding fathers planned for every contingency,” Thyrol said smugly. “No effort has been spared to conserve our planet’s natural beauty.”
The vehicle had reached the top of the gap and Killashandra had an unimpeded view of the broader valley below them, in which nestled the felicitous arrangement of pastel colored buildings, domes, and round towers that comprised Optheria’s capital settlement, known as the City. From that height, the impressive view drew a surprised exclamation from Killashandra.
“It is breathtaking!” Thyrol chose to interpret her response his way.
Beautiful was a fair adjective, Killashandra thought, but breathtaking, no! Even at that distance something was too prim and proper about the City for her taste.
“None of the indigenous trees and bushes were removed, you see,” Thyrol explained, gesturing with his whole hand rather than a single finger, “when the City was constructed, so that the natural, unspoiled landscape could be retained.”
“And the river and that lake? Are they natural features?”
“But of course. Nature is not distorted on Optheria.”
“Which is as it should be,” Polabod added. “The entire valley is as it was when Man first landed on Optheria.”
“The City Architect planned all the buildings and dwellings in the unoccupied spaces,” Mirbethan said proudly .
“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.”