“I don't understand.”
He gave her a quick look. “Not to worry, pet.” His standard phrase of evasion. “Come, give me a kiss and get the crystal out of my blood.”
There was nothing crystalline about his lovemaking or the enjoyment he derived from her body, so Killashandra elected to forget how often he avoided answering her questions about crystal singing. At first, she felt that since the man was on holiday, he probably wouldn't want to talk about his work. Then she sensed that he resented her questions as if they were distasteful to him and that he wanted, above all, to forget crystal singing, which did not forward her plan. But Carrik was not a malleable adolescent, imploring her grace and favor. So she helped him forget crystal singing, which he was patently able to do until the night he awakened her with his groans.
“Carrik, what's the matter? Those shellfish from dinner? Shall I get the medic?”
“No, no!” He twisted about frantically and took her hand from the communit. “Don't leave me. This'll pass.”
She held him in her arms as he cried out, clenching his teeth against some internal agony. Sweat oozed from his pores, yet he refused to let her summon help. The spasms racked him for almost an hour before they passed, leaving him spent and weak. Somehow, in that hour, she realized how much he had come to mean to her, how much fun he was, how much she had missed by denying herself any intimate relationships before. After he had slept and rested, she asked what had possessed him.
“Crystal, my girl crystal.” His sullen manner and the haggard expression on his face made her drop the subject.
By the afternoon he was almost himself. But some of his spontaneity was gone. He went through the motions of enjoying himself, of encouraging her to more daring exercises on the water skis while he only splashed about in the shallows. They were finishing a leisurely meal at a seaside restaurant when he finally mentioned that he must return to work.
“I can't say so soon!” Killashandra remarked with a light laugh. “But isn't the decision rather sudden?”
He gave her an odd smile. “Yes, but most of my decisions are, aren't they? Like showing you another side of fusty, fogey Fuerte.”
“And now our idyll is over?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but an edge crept into her tone.
“I must return to Ballybran. Ha! That sounds like one of those fisherfolk songs, doesn't it?” He hummed a banal tune, the melody so predictable that she could join in firm harmony.
“We do make beautiful music together,” he said, his eyes mocking her. “I suppose you'll return to your studies now.”
“Studies? For what? Lead soprano in a chorus of annotated, orchestrated grunts and groans by Fififidipidi of the planet Grnch?”
“You could tune crystals. They obviously need a competent tuner at Fuerte spaceport.”
She made a rude noise and looked at him expectantly. He smiled back, turning his head politely, awaiting a verbal answer.
“Or,” she drawled, watching him obliquely, “I could apply to the Heptite Guild as a Crystal Singer.”
His expression went blank. “You don't want to be a Crystal Singer.”
The vehemence in his voice startled her for a moment.
«How do you know what I want?» She flared up in spite of herself, in spite of a gnawing uncertainty about his feelings for her. She might be the ideal partner for lolling about a sandy beach, but as a constant companion in a dangerous profession – that was different.
He smiled sadly. “You don't want to be a Crystal Singer.”
“Oh, fardles with that 'highly dangerous' nonsense.”
“It is true.”
“If I've perfect pitch, I can apply.”
“You don't know what you're letting yourself in for,” he said in a toneless voice, his expression at once wary and forbidding. “Singing crystal is a terrible, lonely life. You can't always find someone to sing with you; the tones don't always strike the right vibes for the crystal faces you find. Of course, you can make terrific cuts singing duo.” He seemed to vacillate.
“How do you find out?” She made her tone ingenuous.
He gave an amused snort. “The hard way, of course. But you don't want to be a Crystal Singer.” An almost frightening sadness tinged his voice. “Once you sing crystal, you don't stop. That's why I'm telling you, don't even think about it.”
“So . . . you've told me not to think about it.”
He caught her hand and gazed steadily into her eyes. “You've never been in a mach storm in the Milekeys.” His voice was rough with remembered anxiety. “They blow up out of nowhere and crash down on you like all hell let loose. That's what that phrase on Retrieval means, 'the Guild maintains its own.' A mach storm can reduce a man to a vegetable in one sonic crescendo.”
«There are other – perhaps less violent – ways of reducing a man to a vegetable,» she said, thinking of the space-port official of the supercargo worrying over drone-pod weights – of teachers apathetically reviewing the scales of novice students. «Surely there are instruments that warn you of approaching storms in a crystal range.»
He nodded absently, his gaze fixed above her head. “You get to cutting crystal and you're halfway through. You know the pitches will be changed once the storm has passed and you're losing your safety margin by the minute, but that last crystal might mean you'd get off-world . . .”
“You don't get off-world with every trip to the ranges?”
He shook his head, frowning irritably at her interruption. “You don't always clear the costs of the trip or past damages, or you might not have cut the right shape or tone. Sometimes the tone is more important than the shape, you know.”
“And you have to remember what'll be needed, don't you?” If she had perfect pitch, and she knew she had an excellent memory, crystal singing seemed an ideal profession for her.
“You have to remember the news,” he said, oddly emphasizing the verb.
Killashandra was contemptuous of the problem. Memory was only a matter of habit, of training, of mnemonic phrases that easily triggered vital information. She had plenty of practice in memorization.
“Is there any chance that I could accompany you back to Ballybran and apply?”
His hand had a vise grip on hers; even his breath seemed to halt for a moment. His eyes swept hers with an intense search. “You asked. Remember that!”
“Well, if my company?”
“Kiss me and don't say anything you'll regret,” he said, abruptly pulling her into his arms and covering her mouth so completely she couldn't have spoken.
The second convulsion caught him so soon after the climax of their lovemaking that she thought, guiltily, that over stimulation was the cause. This time, the spasms were more severe, and he dropped into a fevered, exhausted sleep when they finally eased. He looked old and drawn when he woke fourteen hours later. And he moved like an advanced geriatric case.
"I've got to get back to Ballybran, Killa – " His voice quavered, and he had lost his proud confidence.
“For treatment?”
He hesitated and then nodded. “Recharging, actually. Get the spaceport on the communit and book us.”
“Us?”
“You may accompany me,” he said with grave courtesy, though she was piqued at the phrasing of an invitation that was more plea than permission. “I don't care how often we have to reroute. Get us there as fast as possible.”
She reached the spaceport and routing, and after what seemed an age and considerable ineptitude on the part of the ticket clerk, they were passengers confirmed on a shuttle flight leaving Fuerte in four hours, with a four-hour satellite delay before the first liner in their direction.
He had an assortment of personal things to pack, but Killashandra was for just walking out and leaving everything.