‘You studied music?’
An odd shadow flickered through his eyes. ‘Probably. I don’t rightly remember. Another time, another life perhaps.’ Then his charming smile deepened, and a warmth came into his expression that she found rather unsettling. ‘Tell me, what’s on this planet that’s fun to do?’
Killashandra considered for a moment and then blinked. ‘You know, I haven’t an earthly.’
‘Then we’ll find out together!’
What with the wine, his cajoling importunities, her own recklessness, Killashandra could not withstand his invitation. She ought to do so many things, she knew, but ‘ought’ got suspended someplace during the third bottle of that classic vintage. After spending the rest of the night in his arms in the most expensive accommodation of the spaceport hostelry, Killashandra decided that she’d suspend duty for a few days and be kind to the charming visitor.
The travel console popped out dozens of cards on the resort possibilities of Fuerte, more than she’d ever suspected the planet boasted. But then her means had been limited and so had her time. She’d never water-skiied so Carrik decided they’d both try that. He ordered a private skimmer to be ready within the hour. As he sang cheerily at the top of a dammed good bass voice, floundering in the elegant sunken bathtub of the suite, Killashandra recalled some vestige of self-preserving shrewdness and tapped out a few discreet inquiries on the console.
‘“Crystal singer” - colloquial/universal euphemism for the members of the Heptite Guild, planet-based Ballybran, Regulus System, A-S-F/128/4. Ballybran crystals, vital to the production of coherent light, and as modules in tachyon drive components, are limited to the quartz mountains of Ballybran.’ She skimmed the intricate geological assay. ‘The cutting of Ballybran crystal is a highly skilled art and requires the inherent ability of perfect pitch. Crystal cutters are perforce members of the Heptite Guild which trains and maintains its applicants, exacting ten percent tithe from all working members. The current membership of the Guild is 425 but fluctuates considerably. Aspirants are advised that this profession is rated “highly dangerous” and the Heptite Guild is required to give full particulars of the dangers involved before contracting new members.’
Four hundred and twenty-five was an absurdly small membership for a universal Guild supplying an element essential to galactic intercourse, Killashandra thought. Most guilds ran to four hundred million on a universal basis. But that explained why Carrik had been insistent to know if she’d perfect pitch. ‘Full particulars of the dangers involved’ didn’t dissuade Killashandra one iota. Danger was relative.
There was more to the print out, mainly about the type of crystal cut, the types of subsonic cutters especially developed to slice the living quartz from the mountains, technical information which was beyond Killashandra’s musically oriented education. She aborted the rest of that tape and asked for a check on Heptite Guildman Carrik. Anyone could pose as a member of a Guild - chancers often produced exquisitely forged documentation but a computer check could not be forged. She got the affirmation that Carrik was a member in good standing of the Heptite Guild, currently on leave of absence, and a repro of Carrik rolled out of the console, dated a scant five days before. Well, he was who he said he was, and doing what he said he was doing. His being a bona fide Guild member was a safeguard for her so she could relax in his offer of an honest invitation to share his holiday. He’d not leave her to pay the charges if he decided to skip off-world unexpectedly. She smiled to herself, stretching sensuously. Carrik thought himself lucky, did he? Well, so did she. The last vestige of ‘ought’ was the fleeting thought that she ‘ought to’ register herself with the Fuertan Central Computer as a transient but, as she was by no means obligated to do so as long as she didn’t require subsistence, she did nothing.
At that moment several of her classmates began to experience some twinges of anxiety for her. Everyone knew Killashandra must have been terribly upset by the examiners’ verdict. While it served her right, in some opinions, for being such an overbearing conceited grind, the kinder of heart felt oddly disquieted about her disappearance. So did Maestro Esmond Valdi.
They probably wouldn’t have recognized Killashandra sluicing about on waterskis on the southern waters of the western continent, or swathed in elegant clothes, escorted by a tall distinguished man to whom the most supercilious hoteliers deferred.
It was a glorious feeling for Killashandra to have unlimited funds. Carrik encouraged her to spend and practice permitted her to suspend what few scruples remained to her from years of barely getting by on student credits. She did have the grace to protest his extravagance at the outset.
‘Not to worry, pet, I’ve got it to spend,’ Carrik reassured her. ‘I made a killing in dominant thirds in the Blue Range about the time some idiot revolutionists blew half a planet’s reactors out of existence.’ He paused, his eyes narrowed as he recalled something not quite pleasant. ‘I was lucky on shape, too. It’s not enough, you see, to catch the resonances when you’re cutting. You’ve got to chance what shape to cut and that’s where you’re made or broken as a crystal singer. You’ve got to remember political scenes. Like that revolution on Hardesty.’ He pounded the table in emphasis, obtusely pleased with that memory. ‘I did remember that all right when it mattered.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He gave her a quick look. ‘Not to worry, pet.’ His standard evasive phrase. ‘Come give me a kiss and get the crystal out of my blood.’
There was nothing crystalline about his love-making nor the enjoyment he got out of her body, so Killashandra elected to forget how often he avoided answering her questions about crystal singing. At first she felt that, well, the man was on holiday and wouldn’t want to talk about his work. Then she had the feeling that he resented her questions as if they were distasteful to him and that he wanted, above all other things, to forget crystal singing. That didn’t forward her ends but Carrik was not a malleable adolescent, imploring her grace and favor. So she helped him forget crystal singing.
Which, in the pursuit of the pleasure of herself and Fuerte, he was patently able to do until the night he awakened her with his groans and writhings.
‘Carrik, what’s the matter? Those shell fish from dinner? Shall I get the medic?’
‘No, no!’ He twisted about frantically and caught her hand from the comunit. ‘Don’t leave me. It’ll pass.’
She held him in her arms as he cried out, clenching his teeth against an internal agony. Sweat oozed from his pores and yet he steadfastly refused to let her get competent help. The spasms racked him for almost an hour before they passed, leaving him spent and weak in her arms. Somehow, in that hour, she realized how much he had come to mean to her, how much fun he was to be with, how much she had missed by denying herself any such intimate relationships before.
After he’d slept, she ventured to ask what had possessed him.
‘Crystal, my girl, crystal.’ His manner, terse to sullen, and the haggard expression on his face - he suddenly looked very old - made her drop the subject.
He was himself ... almost ... by the afternoon. But some of his spontaneity of spirit was missing. He seemed to go through the motions of enjoying himself, of egging her on to more daring exercises on the waterskis while he only splashed in the shallows.
They were finishing a leisurely meal at their favorite seaside restaurant when he broke the news that he must return to work.