Anne McCaffrey
MILEKEY MOUNTAIN
AS A planet, thought Killashandra, Ballybran rated the parenthesized question mark in the Galactic Guidebook. It made even fusty Fuerte, her birthworld and one she’d previously maligned, seem a pleasure planet in comparison. Fuerte at least looked interesting from space, which Ballybran with its lowish rounded hills and monotonous plains didn’t.
“There’s not much on Ballybran,” she’d been told repeatedly as she shepherded the mindless Carrik back to the tender loving care of the Heptite Guild after his brain-blowing supersonic overload.
She’d been tremendously impressed by the Guild’s omnipotence: high-rank medicorps men had awaited her inert charge at every intermediary port and she herself had been accorded the most deferential treatment. She’d been required to do very little more than check the life support cradle which carried Carrik; i.v. feeding, therapy, bathing, etc., had all been expertly managed by appropriately trained personnel. Nothing, apparently, was too good for a Heptite Guild member. Or his escort. She had open credit in the ships’ stores and preferential treatment when they transferred ships. She was at every captain’s table. Except for the fact that she was left strictly alone she thoroughly enjoyed her position.
She did learn a good deal about crystal singing and Ballybran: not all of it encouraging but certainly nothing that Carrik hadn’t warned her about previously. Crystal singers did, indeed, have tremendous credit when they went off-world. They whooped it up, big spenders, fun people. Until the shakes started.
“I hear tell,” one transport captain told her while deep in his puce-colored wine, “that crystal gets into your blood. Keeps you young, but you gotta sing it again. You sure you want that? There’re lots of other professions that don’t have inherent addiction.”
Killashandra had smiled and led him to expand. He was young and virile and he’d’ve been willing if Carrik hadn’t been witless down the corridor. There were disadvantages to her present occupation.
“I’ve done this journey-leg nineteen times now,” the captain went on after a gulp of wine, “and I’ve had quite a few crystal singers on board, both in and out. Out they can’t wait to get to civilization.” He snorted. “Can’t blame ‘em. There’s nothing but ploddy dull-witted clods on Ballybran. Their conversation is limited to the size of their crop and who could grow the largest what-ever-you-call the long green thin things they pickle in vats down there. The only item they can export is crystals. And singers.”
“D’you see many coming back like Carrik?” she asked.
He shook his head, uncomfortably glancing down the corridor that led to the master cabin assigned to Killashandra and Carrik.
“He’s the first like that. They’re usually awfully shaky, though. What happened to him? He wait too long?”
“No, but when we were about to ship out, a shuttle came in with sour crystals ready to explode. He got caught in the sensory overload.”
“Good of you to come back with him.”
“I owed him that.” Killashandra meant it. She was in Carrik’s debt for introducing her to the notion of being a crystal singer. She might have a flawed voice, too grating for the career of a solo singer, but she had perfect pitch, which was the first requirement for singing crystal. Taking any risk involved in this profession was more preferable to Killashandra than being a second-rate chanter with neither prestige nor the chance to make Stellar rating.
“Are you certain”—and the captain was dubious and uneasy—”you want to be a crystal singer, too? I mean, I’ve seen enough of ‘em to know the crazy rumors are space-drek, but. . . ,” and he shook his head.
She shrugged. “We’ll see. I’ll analyze the situation when I reach Ballybran.”
He turned the conversation to other matters then, such as what would Killashandra do after she’d safely delivered Carrik to his Guild’s care. There was no doubt in her mind what he had on his mind, so she’d smiled enigmatically.
Whatever reception she’d subconsciously hoped to receive was vastly different from the one she got from Lanzecki, the Resident Master of the Heptite Guild. He was at the space portal when the ship opened its airlock: a dour-faced man with a swarthy complexion and a squat figure, clothed in dull colors. The only things bright and active about him were his wide-set piercing brown eyes. They seemed to move incessantly, seeing more in one darting glance than they ought.
He gestured to the two men with him (they were dun-colored, too), who silently paced down the corridor to Carrik’s cabin.
“Thank you, Killashandra Ree. You have an open ticket to whatever destination you desire and a credit of 1,000 galactic units.” He proffered her two vouchers, each emblazoned with the Heptite Guild crest of a quartz crystal. He accorded her a deferential bow and then, as the men conducting the air-cushion stretcher with Carrik returned, he preceded them back through the portal and down the accordioned entrance maw.
For a long stunned moment, Killashandra stared after him, the two metallic slips limp in her fingers.
“Guildmaster? Lanzecki, sir? Wait. . . .”
The stately progress continued without pause.
“Of all the ungrateful. . . .”
“I’d not call them ungrateful,” said the captain, stopping beside her and craning his neck to glance at the vouchers.
“I didn’t expect a brass band,” exclaimed Killashandra, “but a word or two. . . .”
“The important words are there,” the captain said, pointing to the slips. “But they are an odd lot,” he went on, staring at the retreating figures. “You hear all kinds of rumors about that Guild, like I said. But I see lots of strange things in my profession and I don’t believe the half of it.” Suddenly he slid an arm around her shoulders. “Now that the dead meat’s gone, how about you and me. . . .”
“Later, later,” Killashandra said, irritably pushing his hand away. “I want a word or two with that Guildmaster.” And she strode rapidly after the trio guiding Carrik.
She never did see Carrik again, though his name appeared on the membership rolls as inactive for a good many years. Not that she remembered the name past the first four. Eventually the only face she could recognize and name was Lanzecki’s. And that was for a variety of curious reasons, most of which were credit-oriented.
Right now she had tremendous difficulty getting an interview with Lanzecki. Though she arrived at the Guildhall a mere quarter of an hour after he did, he was “occupied.” Well, she could understand that. She waited two hours in the prism-like reception chamber of the Guildhall. Hunger got the better of her then.
“They don’t want you,” said the captain after her third try. “Leave. That travel voucher’ll take you anywhere. There’s sure nothing on this planet to hang around for.” He looked around the public house where they were dining—the food was superb—at the dull faces.
“I’ve never met such sullen, rude, disinterested people in my life,” Killashandra said, thoroughly piqued, “but I’m not leaving until I see Lanzecki and that’s that!”
It nearly was, but at the sixth refusal she lost her temper.
“I’ve got perfect pitch,” she said on a clear B-flat, the characteristic grating of her voice thrown back at her from the multisided reception hall. “I’ve been informed of all the hazards, including indifference, ingratitude, and rudeness. I’m going to join!”
The poor receptionist cringed away from the operatic announcement.
“I can’t help you,” the woman said piteously. “You have to see Guildmaster Lanzecki.”
“Then let me see him! And don’t”—Valkyries had chanted in whispers in comparison to Killashandra’s projection—”come back without him.” She dropped to a conversational pitch. “I’ve been informed that I’ve a voice that can shatter glass. Shall I try?” And she waved at the hall with its crystal mirrors and chandeliers.