Because Ballybran was an old world, with few respectable mountain ranges, a storm literally raced around the planet, gathering terrific speed—often exceeding the sound barrier (hence the designation “mach storm”). The other three small planets in the system had asymmetrical orbits, occasionally exerting a malefic pull on the largest sibling of their sun. And the primary of Ballybran was given to spectacular gaseous eruptions. The resultant “sunspots” exerted undue gravitational effects on poor Ballybran: any and all combinations of the above contributed to the birth of the mach storms.
Warning devices were numerous and, Killashandra decided privately, it was a case of crying wolf in such chorus that the warnee mentally tuned out the claxons. She determined to keep only one monitor operative and thus more effective. She was also warned against considering this.
“You can’t be warned too much about a mach storm,” she was told repeatedly by Lanzecki, by the various technicians, by her only undeaf instructor. The woman had briefly been a crystal singer. She’d inadvertently cut off most of her right hand.
The day came when Killashandra could tolerate no further classroom antics. In theory she knew all there was to know about cutting crystal. She’d returned half the planet’s crystals in practice and the mere thought of tracking another mach storm or reciting a Guild rule made her apoplectic.
“Lanzecki, if you remind me once more that I asked to join this benighted Guild, I’ll rearrange your face,” Killashandra told the Guildmaster when he declined, again, to let her solo.
“There isn’t a singer available to shepherd you, Killashandra,” he said, sighing heavily. He was as weary of her complaints as she was of making them.
“I thought I was to solo.”
He shook his head. “Not your first time out in the ranges. And don’t remind me how well versed you are in theory. What you have in your mind is not reliable in the crystal hills. Theoretical knowledge must be transmuted into reflex actions along with instinctive reactions in the successful crystal singer, not conscious considerations.”
Killashandra made a rude noise and started to comment on her eidetic memory.
“Memory distortion,” Lanzecki was saying. “Well now, Killashandra, most of our active members, and inactive ones too had that eidetic faculty at one time. It is as if that is a corollary of perfect pitch. . . . But memory distortion is one of the cruel facts of crystal singing, girl. Sensory overload is no joke and no crystal singer is immune to it. I wish to the gods one of you was. But I can’t permit you to venture forth the first time without a seasoned singer along. Oh, you’ll be in your own flitter and you’ll undoubtedly be sent off on your own in a few days but you will have had the benefit of watching the actual work in the ranges. And we have to wait until a reliable singer is available. Ah, speaking of which. . . .”
A panel behind them was flashing brilliant red/ orange/white. All warning devices on Ballybran activated color as well as sound. Lanzecki turned in his chair, gesturing Killashandra to attend. The panel blanked briefly and then a meteorological chart was superimposed on a blow-up of the Milekey Mountain Range, showing the incredibly fast spread of a high-intensity mach storm.
“They’ll be coming in from this. Mach 4, at that.” Lanzecki’s dour face reflected both concern and satisfaction. “I hope someone remembered to cut subtonic cylinders. You may help me compute their cargoes. Nineteen singers are signed out to the Milekeys at the moment.”
Killashandra had, in the course of her training, assisted Lanzecki before. In fact, she had met most of the current active members who were not off-planet. There were two hundred forty-three members capable of singing crystal, but of that number almost half were off-world on leave.
Those who had come in with partial loads immediately got as drunk as possible and stayed drunk until their flitters were serviced and refueled, at which point they went straight back into the crystal ranges. Those who had caught the market at a good price got as drunk as possible until they could catch a ship off-world for leave.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that I had to have a guide my first time out?” Killashandra asked, remembering that there were one or two men who could make passable partners.
“You hadn’t been sufficiently saturated with theory which they wouldn’t remember to tell you.”
So she sat with Lanzecki as the flitters came in and precious crystal was duly weighed, assessed and the market price established. Twelve made small fortunes. Of the remainder, only two singers were considered possible guides for her: a rather striking brunette with wild hair and eyes to whom Killashandra took an instant dislike. (The woman reminded her of a Stellar contralto in the Trans-Romantic Repertoire company.) And an intensely sullen yellow-skinned Coombsite with whom Killashandra had previously had a long drunken argument.
“He’s good in the upper registers, which would be an asset for you,” Lanzecki told her, but he wasn’t keen on Ardlor Bart at all. “Ibray is really less disoriented despite her appearance.”
“I’d rather pair with the man.”
“You could wait another. . . . No, I see you couldn’t. I’ll speak to Bart.”
Bart had no great desire to double with her his next trip out, Lanzecki reported. The man was determined to make enough crystal to get off-world and he didn’t want anyone around.
“He says the fee’s only a drop in the bucket of what he needs,” Lanzecki went on, when Killashandra pointed out that aspect, Section 14, Paragraph 9. “I’d forget him and go with Ibray. She cuts well in the Tortugal Hills and she’s much more reliable.”
Killashandra was adamant.
“Then you’ll have to convince Ardlor yourself,” Lanzecki told her, shrugging off further responsibility.
Killashandra found such convincing rather elementary although Ardlor had a marked tendency to call her by any name other than her own.
Three days later as she was in her flitter, checking it and her gear, the special ear-padded helmet that offered some protection against the worst of the sensory overload, the eye-lenses that filtered the blinding light refractions from open-face quartz mining, Lanzecki made a final attempt to persuade her to go with Ibray.
“Then don’t trust Ardlor’s memory about anything,” Lanzecki warned her. “He’s cut crystal too long and sung too long alone now.”
“Then why must I go with him or anyone?”
“His hands will remember. Watch what he does, not what he says. If he’s difficult, you can switch on the Playback. That’ll be official recall. And don’t—for the sake of your sanity—turn off any of the mach storm alarms. Remember that!”
Then to her surprise, Lanzecki gave her a warm and hearty handshake and said that she’d been one of his keenest students.
Ardlor had shown her on the range charts where he intended to take her.
“That storm will have bared some rose quartz. Lanzecki told me to remember about rose quartz. In octagon.” Ardlor’s face twisted with the effort of implanting that fact in his spongy mind. “It was octagons, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“No sunspot activity,” he told her, riffling through the pre-flight reports in his hand. “That last storm was planetary conjunction stuff. So long as there’s no sun-spot activity there’ll be clear days of cutting.” He winced. “I gotta remember rose quartz.” He tapped a scrawled note to that effect on the top of the p-f flimsies. “Not everyone can cut it. But you’ve a good upper register, haven’t you? I remember that.” He pulled nervously at his fringe of hair saying, “Now you follow me. Remember,” and then darted off to his craft.