Computers had to deal with fact, and she had one advantage that wouldn't compute: a sensitivity to black crystal – Keborgen's black crystal. Computers did not volunteer information, either, but she had few doubts that with the news of Keborgen's death, the opening of his rich claim would be widely known. Only 39 Singers had come in from that same storm. She couldn't know how many other Singers had returned from leave and were available to search. She knew that the odds against her finding the claim were good on the one hand and unlikely on the other. The delivery of her cutter she took as propitious.
She was waiting for the lift when she heard her name called in an incredulous shout.
“Killashandra! I'm recovered. I'm a Singer, too.”
Herself astonished, she turned to find Rimbol striding toward her.
“Rimbol!” She returned his enthusiastic embrace, acutely aware that she hadn't given him any thought at all in several days.
“I was told you'd got through the transition satisfactorily, but no one else's seen you. Are you all right?” Rimbol held her from him, his green eyes searching her face and figure. “Was it just the fever, or did you come see me at one point?”
“I did at several points,” she replied with perfect truth and instinctive diplomacy. “Then I was told that I was interfering with your recovery. Who else is through?”
Rimbol's expression changed to sorrow. “Carigana didn't make it. Shillawn is deaf and has been assigned to research Mistra, Borton, Jezerey, bless the pair; in total twenty-nine made it. Celee, the spacer, made only a tolerable adjustment, but he's got all his senses, so he's been shunted to shuttle piloting. I don't think that goes against his grain, anyway.”
“And Shillawn? Does he mind?” Killashandra knew her voice was sharp, and Rimbol's face clouded until she hugged him. He was going to have to learn not to care so much about people now. “I really think Shillawn will be happier in research than cutting. Celee was already a pilot, so he's lost nothing . . . Antona told me Carigana wouldn't surrender to the spore.”
Rimbol frowned, his body stiffening so that she released him.
“She rebelled against everything, Rimbol. Didn't you ask Antona?”
“No.” Rimbol ducked his head, a silly grin on his face. “I was afraid to while others were going through transition.”
“Now it's all over. And you're installed on Singer level.” She saw the wrist-band and showed him hers. “Where 're you bound for now?”
“To be fitted with my cutter.” His green eyes brightened with enthusiasm.
"Then we can go together. I'm to collect mine. They had entered the lift, and Rimbol half turned in surprise.
“Collect it?”
“They did tell you how long you've been ill. didn't they?” Killashandra knew her quick question was to give herself time. Rimbol's eyes mirrored surprise and then perplexity. “Oh, I lucked out. I had what Antona calls a Milekey transition, so they pushed me out of the infirmary to make room for someone else and put me into training to keep me out of mischief. Here we are, and don't mind the technician's manner. He hates to be kept from his fishing.”
They had come to the cutter office and found Jezerey, Mistra, and two others.
“Killashandra! You made it!”
Killashandra thought there was a note of unwelcome surprise in Jezerey's voice. The girl looked gaunt and had lost her prettiness.
“Quiet out here,” the Fisher said, his voice cutting through Killashandra's attempt at reply. He had a cutter in his hand, patently new.
“You Killashandra,” and he beckoned her brusquely to the counter as the others stepped back.
Killashandra was uncomfortably aware of the attention focused on her as she accepted the device. Then she curled her fingers around the power grip, the right hand on the guide, and forgot embarrassment in the thrill of being one step closer to the Crystal Ranges. She gave a little gasp as she saw that her name had been incised in neat letters on the plas housing that covered the infrasonic blade.
“Bring that back to be serviced after every trip, D'you hear? Otherwise, don't fault me when it doesn't cut proper. Understand?”
Killashandra would have thanked him, but he had turned to the others, beckoning to Borton. Cutter in hand, Killashandra turned and saw the indignation in Jezerey's eyes, the hurt, surprise, and betrayal in Rimbol's.
“Antona tossed me out of the infirmary,” she said, more to Rimbol than the others, but they all seemed to accuse her, “So the Guild put me to work.”
Holding her head high, she gave them all a polite smile and left the office.
As she marched down the hall to the lift shafts, she was perversely angry with herself, with their ignorance, and with the Guild for thrusting her ahead of the others. She remembered similar scenes in the Music Center when she had achieved a role or an instrumental solo after unremitting practice and knew that the majority of her peers had favored another. Then she had been responsible. Now, though she had done nothing, consciously, to provoke her fellow recruits, she was being faulted because she'd had a bit of luck, just as she'd been blamed at the Music Center for hard work. What was the use!
“Watch that fardling cutter!” A savage tone interrupted her mortified self-pity, and someone shoved her to the right with unnecessary force. “I said, watch it!”
The man backed hastily away from her, for Killashandra had instinctively raised the cutter at the aggressive voice. Her confusion was further complicated by the knowledge that she had been careless and now was acting the fool. To be brought to task did not improve her temper.
“It's not on.”
“It's bloody dangerous, on or off. Haven't you had the proper guidance with that?” The tall man glaring at her was Borella's companion from the shuttle.
“Then complain to Borella! She instructed us.”
“Borella?” The Singer stared at her with a perplexed frown. “What has she to do with you?”
“I was one of her recent 'catch,' I believe was her word.”
His frown increased as his eyes flicked over her, pausing at the wristband.
“Just received your cutter, my dear?” He smiled now with supercilious condescension. “I'll forget any charge of discourtesy.” With a slight bow and a sardonic grin, he strode on to the workshop.
She stared after the man, aware again of the strange magnetism of the Crystal Singer. She'd been furious with him, and yet her anger had been partially fed by his diffidence and her wish to impress him. Had Carrik once been like that, too? And she too green to know?
She continued to the lift and entered. The encounter with the Singer had restored some perspective to her. Whatever else, she was a Crystal Singer: more of one than the rest of her class by a physical anomaly and a time factor that were no connivance of hers.
As she entered training room 47, she received another surprise. Trag was there, leaning against a heavy plastic table, arms folded across his chest, obviously awaiting her.
“I'm not late?” she asked, and experienced a second jolt of confusion, for the tones of her question seemed to echo sourly in the room. Then she saw the unmistakable plasfoam cartons on the table behind Trag. “Oh, how curious?”
“Soured crystal,” he said, his deeper voice resounding as hers had. Then he extended his hand for her cutter.
She released it to him, somewhat reluctantly since it was so recent an acquisition. He inspected every part of the device, even unsheathing the infrasonic blade, which he gave the keenest scrutiny. He moved to her left side, proffering the cutter and watching as she took it by the grips. He checked her hand position and nodded.
“You are familiar with the controls?” he asked, although he must have known that the Fisher had carefully explained them. “And the process of tuning?” She nodded again, impatient with the catechism.