She thought, at first, that it was the unfamiliar wine that made her nerves jangle so. But the discomfort increased so rapidly that she sensed it couldn't be just the effect of alcohol. Rubbing her neck and frowning, she looked around for the source of irritation. Finally, the appearance of a descending shuttle's retroblasts made her realize that her discomfort must be the result of a sonic disturbance, though how it could penetrate the shielded restaurant she didn't know. She covered her ears, pressing as hard as she could to ease that piercing pain. Suddenly, it ceased.
“I tell you, that shuttle's drive is about to explode. Now connect me to the control supervisor,” a baritone voice cried in the ensuing silence.
Startled, Killashandra looked around.
“How do I know? I know!” At the screen of the restaurant's service console, a tall man was demanding: “Put me through to the control tower. Is everyone up there deaf? Do you want a shuttle explosion the next time that one is used? Didn't you hear it?”
“I heard it,” Killashandra said, rushing over to plant herself in the view of the console.
“You heard it?” The spaceport official seemed genuinely surprised.
«I certainly did. All but cracked my skull. My ears still hurt. What was it?» she asked the tall man, who had an air of command about him, frustrated though he was by officious stupidity. He carried his overlean body with an arrogance that suited the fine fabric of his clothes – obviously of off-world design and cloth.
“She heard it too, man. Now, get the control tower.”
“Really, sir. . .”
“Don't be a complete subbie,” Killashandra snapped.
That she was obviously a Fuertan like himself disturbed the official more than the insult. Then the stranger, ripping off an oath as colorful as it was descriptive of idiocy, flipped open a card case drawn from his belt. Whatever identification he showed made the official's eyes bulge.
“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize, Sir.”
Killashandra watched as the man pressed out a code, then his image dissolved into a view of the control tower. The off-worlder stepped squarely before the screen, and Killashandra politely moved back.
"Control? The shuttle that just landed can't be permitted to take off; it's resonating so badly half the crystals in the drive must be overheating. Didn't anyone up there hear the beat frequency? It's broadcasting secondary sonics. No, this is not a drunk and not a threat. This is a fact. Is your entire control staff tone deaf? Don't you take efficiency readings for your shuttles? Can't you tell from the ejection velocity monitor? What does a drive check cost in comparison to a new port facility? Is this shuttle stop world too poor to employ a crystal tuner or a stoker?
“Well, now that's a more reasonable attitude,” said the stranger after a moment. “As to my credentials, I'm Carrik of the Heptite Guild, Ballybran. Yes, that's what I said. I could hear the secondary sonics right through the walls, so I damn well know there's over heating. I'm glad the uneven drive thrust has registered on your monitors, so get that shuttle decoked and retuned.” Another pause. “Thanks, but I've paid my bill already. No, that's all right. Yes . . .” and Killashandra observed that the gratitude irritated Carrik. “Oh, as you will.” He glanced at Killashandra. “Make that for two,” he added, grinning at her as he turned from the console. “After all, you heard it as well.” He cupped his hand under Killashandra's elbow and steered her toward a secluded booth.
“I've a bottle of wine over there,” she said, half protesting, half laughing at his peremptory escort.
“You'll have better shortly. I'm Carrik and you're . . . ?”
“Killashandra Ree.”
He smiled, gray eyes lighting briefly with surprise. “That's a lovely name.”
“Oh, come now. You can do better than that?”
He laughed, absently blotting the sweat on his forehead and upper lip as he slid into his place.
“I can and I will, but it is a lovely name. A musical one.”
She winced.
“What did I say wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
He glanced at her skeptically just as a chilled bottle slid from the service panel.
Carrik peered at the label. «A '72 – well, that's astonishing.» He flipped the menu vidifax. «I wonder if they stock Forellan biscuits and Aldebaran paste? – Oh, they do! Well, I might revise my opinion of Fuerte.»
"Really, I only just finished – "
"On the contrary, my dear Killashandra Ree, you've only just begun.
“Oh?” Any of Killashandra's associates would have modified his attitude instantly at that tone in her voice.
«Yes,» Carrik continued blithely, a sparkling challenge in his eyes, «for this is a night for feasting and frolicking – on the management, as it were. Having just saved the port from being leveled, my wish, and yours, is their command. They'll be even more grateful when they take the drive down and see the cracks in the transducer crystals. Off the true by a hundred vibes at least.»
Her half-formed intention of making a dignified exit died, and she stared at Carrik. It would take a highly trained ear to catch so small a variation in pitch.
“Off a hundred vibes? What do you mean? Are you a musician?”
Carrik stared at her as if she ought to know who or what he was. He looked around to see where the attendant had gone and then, leaning indolently back in the seat, smiled at her enigmatically.
“Yes, I'm a kind of musician. Are you?”
“Not anymore.” Killashandra replied in her most caustic tone. Her desire to leave returned immediately. She had managed very briefly to forget why she was at a spaceport. Now he had reminded her, and she wanted no more such reminders.
As she began to rise, his hand, fingers gripping firmly the flesh of her arm, held her in her seat. Just then, an official bustled into the restaurant, his eyes searching for Carrik. His countenance simulated relief and delight as he hurried to the table. Carrik smiled at Killashandra, daring her to contest his restraint in front of the witness. Despite her inclination, Killashandra realized she couldn't start a scene. Besides, she had no real grounds yet for charging personal-liberty infringement. Carrik, fully aware of her dilemma, had the audacity to offer her a toast as he took the traditional sample sip of the wine.
“Yes, sir, the '72. A very good choice. Surely, you'll . . .”
The serving panel opened on a slightly smoking dish of biscuits and a platter of a reddish-brown substance.
“But, of course, Forellan biscuits and Aldebaran paste. Served with warmed biscuits, I see. Your caterers do know their trade,” Carrik remarked with feigned surprise.
“We may be small at Fuerte in comparison to other ports you've seen,” the official began obsequiously.
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Carrik brusquely waved the man away.
Killashandra stared after the fellow, wondering that he hadn't claimed insult for such a careless dismissal.
“How do you get away with such behavior?”
Carrik smiled. “Try the wine, Killashandra.” His smile suggested that the evening would be long, and a prelude to a more intimate association.
“Who are you?” she demanded, angry now.
“I'm Carrik of the Heptite Guild,” he repeated cryptically.
“And that gives you the right to infringe on my personal freedom?”
“It does if you heard that crystal whine.”
“And how do you figure that?”
“Your opinion of the wine, Killashandra Ree? Surely your throat must be dry, and I imagine you've a skull ache from that subsonic torture, which would account for your shrewish temper.”