“I’m hungry, that’s all, I’m hungry,” she told herself as she made her way to the caterer.
“Where did you find the subliminal unit, Trag?” Lars asked, pausing at the drinks cabinet.
“Under the stage, but keyed by the same motif. For clever men, the Elders can be repetitive.”
Killashandra gave a contemptuous snort. “Probably can’t remember anything more complicated at their advanced ages.”
“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating them, Killashandra,” Trag said solemnly as he poured himself a blew.
“Let them have that privilege,” Lars added. “Sententious bastards. We’re down to Bascum, Killa.”
“Well, that goes well with the fish, which seems the only thing left on today’s menu.”
Lars guffawed. “It always is. Take the soup instead,” he said in a tone that suggested dire experience. “And don’t, Killa, play my music again in the Conservatory,” he added, waggling a finger at her. “Balderol heard me practice often enough.”
“I won t say I’m sorry,’ Killashandra replied. “It just happened to develop from the previous chord. It’s probably the most original music ever played on that organ if what we heard last night is standard.”
“They don’t want originality, Killa,” Lars said with a twist to his smile. “They want more of the same that they can orchestrate to mind-penetration. Trag, what did Ampris say about your doing the provincial organs?”
“I haven’t suggested it. Yet. There has been no opportunity.”
Lars looked anxious. “I’m the one who’s greedy now. Disabling their program in the City is a big step forward because so many provincials make the trek here in order to say they’ve heard the Festival Organ, But they’re not the ones who’d be recruited to Ampris’s punitive force. So they’re the ones we want to keep unaffected this year.”
“Who else has access to the organ lofts?” Trag asked.
“Only . . . Ah!” Lars’s expressive face altered to triumph. “Comgail never got the chance to make his annual inspection of the other facilities. And maintenance is Ampris’s responsibility, not Torkes. He’ll have to use you and Killa, Trag. He hasn’t anyone else. And he certainly wouldn’t entrust maintenance to the puff heads you’re supposed to initiate into the art of crystal tuning.”
“Especially not you, Lars,” said Killashandra with a laugh.
“Let’s not continue that part of the farce. Killa,” Lars said.
“Why not?” asked Trag. “I think you must realize that we will not leave you on this planet, no matter how cleverly you could hide yourself amid your islands, Lars Dahl. Crystal tuning is a universal skill.”
“So is sailing, Trag.”
“But let us continue as we have started. Farce or not, it keeps you in our company and safe.”
“Trag, are you recruiting?” Even to herself, Killashandra sounded unnecessarily sharp.
Trag turned his head slowly to look at her, his heavy features expressionless. “Recruiting is not permitted by the FSP, Killashandra Ree.”
She snorted, “Neither is subliminal conditioning, Trag Morfane!”
Lars looked from one to the other, grinning at this evidence of unexpected discord. “Here, here, what’s this?”
“An old controversy,” Killashandra replied quickly. “If all the provincial organs need at least basic maintenance, then you and I, Trag, are the only qualified technicians on Optheria. Ampris will have to ask you, for I can’t see him asking me, and that solves that problem, doesn’t it?”
“It should,” Lars replied, grinning at her for her change of subject and the facile solution.
“We shall see.” Trag added, rising to refill his glass.
“I need a bath,” Killashandra said, rising. “After a morning spent with Ampris, I feel unclean!”
“Now that you mention it,” Lars murmured and followed her.
A stolid security man drove the small ground vehicle that evening. Its plasglas canopy gave her an unobstructed view of the City in its tortured sprawl as she was driven sedately down from the Conservatory prominence. The spring evening was mild and the sky cloudless. Quite likely, Killashandra thought, she was seeing the City at its best, for spring growth hazed most of the vegetation with a delicate green, gold, or fawn brown, providing some charm to the otherwise sterile buildings. The residential dwellings often sported vines, now sprouting a bright orange leaf or blossom.
Most of the traffic was pedestrian, though a few larger goods-carrying vehicles intersected their route through the winding streets of the City. There seemed to be no visible roadway controls but her driver slowed to a complete halt at several cross streets. At one, she received incurious glances from the several pedestrians halted on the footpaths. Doubtless all good Optherians were at home with their families at that hour, and the few people that Killashandra did pass looked glum, anxious, or determined. It occurred to Killashandra that she missed the light-hearted islanders with their ready smiles and generally pleasant behavior. She’d seen very few genuine or lasting smiles in the Conservatory: a perfunctory movement of the lips, a show of teeth but no genuine delight, pleasure, or enthusiasm. Well, what else could she expect in such a climate?
She spotted the Piper Facility before the driver turned up the broader thoroughfare to it. It hung, block-square and utilitarian, like hostels anywhere, even Fuerte. She had once thought the native orangy-red sandstone of Fuerte garish and common but she could feel almost nostalgic for its hominess. Certainly the relaxed and random designs of Fuertan architecture were a patch above Optheria’s contorted constructions.
The timepiece above the entrance of the Piper Facility flashed a big 1930 as the driver reduced the forward speed of the vehicle. Precisely then, the main door slid aside and Corish, looking tanned and expectant, emerged. Immediately he saw Killashandra, he smiled a warm and enthusiastic welcome.
“Right on the dot, Killashandra, you’ve improved!” he said, giving her an unnecessary assist out of the vehicle.
“Thank you, driver,” Killashandra said. “I really need to stretch my legs, Corish. Let’s walk to the restaurant if it isn’t far. I felt awfully conspicuous where so few people use ground transport.”
“Have you paid him?” Corish asked, reaching into his belt pouch.
“I told you I could,” she began in a sulky voice and made shooing gestures at the driver. The man reengaged the drive and the vehicle slid slowly away. “I’m being monitored, Corish, and we need to talk,” she said, cocking her head up at him with an apologetic expression on her face.
“I thought so. I’m told to try the Berry Bush so I expect it’s got monitors in the utensils. This way.” Corish cupped his hand under her elbow, guiding her in the right direction. “It’s not far. I’m only just back from Ironwood.”
“Lars is in a swivet about Nahia and Hauness.”
“They’re all right . . .” and Corish’s tone of voice added so far, “but the search and seize continues! Hauness is convinced that the Elders mean to rouse a punitive expedition against the islands. In spite of your safe return.”
“Torkes doesn’t believe in coincidence. More important . . .” and Killashandra broke off, stunned by the look of pure hatred on the face of a woman passing by. Killashandra glanced around but the woman had not paused or accelerated her pace.
“More important?” Corish prompted, his hand impelling her to keep pace with him.
With an effort, Killashandra redirected her attention, but an afterimage of the intensity of that expression burned in her mind.
“The Elders use subliminal conditioning.”
“My dear Killashandra Ree, that is a dangerous allegation.” Corish tightened his fingers on her arm, shocked by her statement. He looked about, to see if any of the few passers-by could have overheard.
“Allegation, fardles! Corish. They blasted last night’s audience with it,” she said, only barely able to keep her intense indignation at the conversation level. “Security, pride, and sex was the dose. Didn’t Olav mention subliminals to you? He knows about them.”