panel to the keyboard. »Now the actual keyboard is beyond that panel, so

the right-hand box houses the stops and voicing circuitry. And is that,«

she pointed to the largest unit, »the CPU? The induction modulator and

mixer must be in that left-hand cabinet.«

        »You are knowledgeable about organ technology?« Thyrol´s expression

assumed a wary blankness. For the second time since her arrival,

Killashandra perceived empathic emanations from an Optherian: this time a

strong sense of indefinable apprehension and alarm.

        »Not as much about organs as I do about interface techniques,

sensory simulators, and synthesizer modulators. Crystal singing requires a

considerably wide range of experience with sophisticated electronic

equipment, you know.«

        He obviously didn´t or he wouldn´t have nodded so readily.

Killashandra blessed her foresight in utilizing the sleep-teaching tapes

she had copied from the Athena´s comprehensive data retrieval system. Her

answer reassured Thyrol and the shadow of his fear slowly dissipated.

        »Of course there is a double handshake between the program,« and he

tapped the black case by him, »and the composition memory banks.

Composition,« and he walked from one to the other, his hand lightly

brushing the surfaces, »of course leads directly into the recall excitor

stimulator, for that uses the memory symbology of the median individual

member of any audience so that a composition is translated into terms which

have meaning to the auditors. Naturally the subjective experience of a

program for Optherians would differ greatly from the experience a nonhuman

would have.«

        »Of course,« Killashandra murmured encouragingly. »And the

information from the crystal manual goes? . . .«

        Assuming the pose of a pompous lecturer, Thyrol pointed to the

various units in flow sequence. »Into the synapse carrier encoder and

demodulator multiplexer, both of which feed into the mixer for the sensory

transducer terminal network.« Beaming with pride, he continued, »While the

composition memory bank primarily programs the sensory synthesizer, the

feedback loop controls the sensory attenuator for maximum effectiveness.«

        »I see. Keyboard to CPU, direct interface with manual and synapse

carrier encoder, plus the double handshakes.« Killashandra hid her shock --

this emotion manipulator made the equipment at Fuerte look like preschool

toys Talk about a captive audience! Optherian concertgoers hadn´t a chance.

The Optherian organ could produce a total emotional override with a

conditional response unequaled anywhere. And a sufficient gauge of the

audiences´ basic profile could be ascertained by matching ID plates and

census data. Killashandra wondered that FSP permitted any of its citizens

to visit the planet, much less to expose themselves to full-scale emotional

overload at Festival time. »I can see why you´d need many soloists. They´d

be emotionally drained after each performance.«

        »We recognized that problem early on-the performer is shielded from

the full effect of the organ in order to retain a degree of objectivity.

And, of course, in rehearsal the transducer system is completely bypassed

and the signals inserted into a systems analyzer. Only the best

compositions are played on the full organ system.«

        »Naturally. Tell me, are the smaller organs amplified in this

fashion?«

        »The two-manual organs are. We have five of them, the rest are all

single manual with relatively primitive synthesizer attentuator and excitor

capability.«

        »Remarkable. Truly remarkable.«

        Thyrol was not blind to the implied compliment and looked about to

smile as the outside door opened to admit the work party. Behind them came

three more men, their stance and costume identifying them as security. The

work party stopped along the wall while the security trio tramped stolidly

down to where Thyrol and Killashandra stood by the sensory feedback

transponder.

        »Elder Thyrol, Security Leader Blaz needs to know what disposition

is to be made of the debris.« He saluted, ignoring Killashandra´s presence.

        »Bury it deep. Preferably encapsulated in some permaform. Sea

trench would be ideal,« Killashandra answered and was ignored by the

security leader, who continued to look for an answer from Thyrol. Abruptly

Killashandra´s captious temper erupted. She slammed her right hand into the

leader´s shoulder, forcefully turning toward her. »Alternatively, insert it

in your anal orifice,« she said, her voice reasonable and pleasant.

        With a wave of astounded gasps sounding in her ear, she made her

exit.

 

Chapter 7

 

As Killashandra started across the stage to retrace her steps to the

Complex, she decided that that was the last place she wanted to go in her

state of mind After all, Trag had chosen her because she could be more

diplomatic than Borella. Not that Borella mightn´t have handled that

security fardle-face with more tact, or effectiveness. However, the

Optherians were stuck with her and she with them, and just then she didn´t

wish to see one more sanctimonious, self-righteous, smug Optherian face.

        She strode to the edge of the stage, peered over at the ten-foot

drop to the ground, saw the heavy doors at each end of that level and made

her decision. She lay at the edge, swung her legs down, gripping the

overhang, and let go.

        Her knees took the jar and she leaned against the wall for a moment

just as she heard the men emerge from the organ room.

        »She´ll have gone back to the Complex, ‘ Thyrol said, breathless

with anger. He hurried across the stage, followed by the others. »Simcon,

if you have offended the Guildmember, you may have jeopardized far more

than you have protected . . .« The heavy door closed off the rest of his

reprimand.

        Somewhat mollified by Thyrol´s attitude and pleased with her timely

evasion, Killashandra dusted off her hands and moved toward the clearly

marked exit door at the outer edge of the amphitheater. Even the soft sound

of the brushing was echoed by the fine acoustics. Grimacing. Killashandra

stepped as cautiously and as silently as she could toward the exit. The

heavy door had the usual push-bar on the inside, which she depressed,

holding her breath lest it be locked from a control point. The bar swung

easily out. She opened it only wide enough to permit her egress and it

closed with a thunk behind her. Its exterior was without handle or knob for

reentry and a flange protected it from being forced open -- if such a

circumstance ever arose on perfect Optheria.

        Killashandra now found herself on a long ledge which led to one of

the switchback paths she had seen yesterday, though this one was at the

rear of the Complex. From that height she had a view of an unpretentious

area of the City, to judge by the narrow streets and the small single-story

buildings crowded together. Between it and the Complex heights lay a

stretch of cultivated plots, each planted with bushy climbing plants and

fenced off from its neighbors, and most of them neat. In several, people

were busily watering and hoeing in the early morning sunlight. A rural

scene served as a restorative to Killashandra´s exacerbated nerves.

        She began her descent.

        As she reached the valley floor, her nose was assailed by the

unmistakable aroma of fermenting brew. Delighted, Killashandra followed the

odor, squeezing past an old shed, traversing the narrow path between

allotments, nodding polite greetings to the gardeners who paused in their

labors to regard her with astonishment. Well, she was wearing a costume

which marked her as alien to Optheria, but surely these people had

encountered aliens before. The aroma lured her on. If it tasted half as

good as it smelled, it would be an improvement on the Bascum brew. Of

course it could be Bascum, for breweries were often situated in suburbs

where the fumes would not irritate the fastidious.

        She reached the dirt road that served as main artery for the

settlement, deserted at that morning hour except for some small,

peculiar-looking animals basking in the sun. She was aware of being

watched, but as that was only to be expected, she continued her inspection

of the unprepossessing buildings facing the road. The brew-smell continued

to permeate the air but intensified to her right. Common sense indicated

that the wide gray structure on the far side of the road some thousand

meters away was probably the source. She headed there.

        As she walked she heard doors and windows open behind her, marking

her passage to her objective. She permitted herself a small smile of

amusement. Human nature did not change and anything new and unusual would

be marked in a society as dull and repressed as she suspected Optheria´s

was.

        The brew-smell was almost overpowering by the time she reached the

gray building. An exhaust fan was extracting the air from the roof, its

motor laboring. Although there was no sign or legend on the building to

indicate its purpose, Killashandra was not deterred. A locked front door,

however, did pose an obstacle. She rapped politely and repeated her knock

when it brought no immediate response. Thumping on the door also produced

no results, and Killashandra felt determination replace courtesy.

        Was brewing illegal in Optheria´s largest city? Or could it be

brewing without due license? After all, Bascum originated on Optheria and

might have a monopoly. To be sure, she hadn´t paid much attention to what

plants were being so carefully tended in the gardens. Home industry?

Thwarting the ever vigilant and repressive Elders?

        Quickly she stepped around the building and toward its rear, hoping

to find a window. She caught a glimpse of a running juvenile body and heard

it raise its voice in warning. So she raced around the corner to find the

rear doors folded back on a scene of much industry as men and women

supervised the bottling of a brew from an obviously improvised vat. The

young messenger took one look at her and fled, ducking down the nearest

alley.

        »May a thirsty stranger to this planet have a sample of your brew?

I´m perishing for lack of a decent glass.«

        Killashandra could, when she exerted herself, be smoothly charming

and ingratiating. She´d played the part often enough. She glanced from one

stony expression to the next, holding her smile.

        »I´ll tell you it was some shock to discover this planet doesn´t

import anything spirituous or fermented.«

        »Shuttle got in yesterday,« someone in the group said.

        »Too early for tourists.«

        »Those clothes aren´t local.«

        »Nor island.«

        »I´m not a tourist,« Killashandra inserted in the terse comments.

»I´m a musician.«

        »Come to see the organ, have you?« The man´s voice was so rich in

contempt, disapproval, cynical skepticism, and malicious amusement that

Killashandra tried hard to spot him in the hostile group.

        »If I can judge by my reception above, that sour lot permits few

favors. A body really needs a brew here.« Again she fortified her smile

with winning charm. And licked dry lips.

        Later, in reviewing the scene at her leisure, Killashandra decided

that it might have been that unconscious reflex that won her case. The next

thing she knew an uncapped bottle was thrust at her. She reached to her

belt pouch for the Optherian coins she had acquired on the Athena but was

curtly told to leave off. Money didn´t buy their brew.

        Although some had turned back to their job, most watched while she

took her first sip. It was rich despite its clandestine manufacture,

slightly cool, undoubtedly improved by a proper chilling but superior to

the Bascum and almost on a par with Yarran.

        »Your brewmaster wouldn´t happen to be of Yarra origin?« she asked.

        »What do you know of Yarra?« Once again the question was posed

anonymously though Killashandra thought the speaker was on her left, near

the vat.

        »They make the best beer in the Federated Sentient Planets. Yarran

brewmasters have the best reputation in the Galaxy.«

        A rumble of approval greeted this. She could feel the tension ease

though the work continued at the same swift pace. Above the rattle of

bottles, and the noise of crating the full containers, Killashandra heard a

gasping wheeze to her right, on the roadway, and then a dilapidated

vehicle, its sides scarred and rusting, pulled up to the open door.

        Immediately crates were loaded into it, Killashandra helping, for

she´d finished her bottle and wondered how she could wheedle another,

others, from them. Thirst properly quenched, she´d find it easier to deal

with the reproaches of Thyrol and the others. No sooner had the load bed

been filled than the vehicle moved off and another, equally disreputable,

slid into its place. Of course this patently unauthorized operation proved

conclusively to Killashandra that the population of Optheria had not all

stagnated. But how much of a minority did they constitute? And did any of

them actually wish to leave Optheria! Some people enjoy thwarting their

elected/established/appointed governments out of perversity rather than

disloyalty or dislike.

        When the third transport had been loaded, only a few crates

remained. And the vat and its attendant paraphernalia had been dismantled

and reassembled in different form entirely. Killashandra gave the brewers

full marks for ingenuity.

        »You expect a search?«

        »Oh yes. Can´t mask brewing completely, you know,« said a

sun-wrinkled little man with a twinkle in his eye. He offered Killashandra

a second bottle, gesturing to the loaded vehicle in explanation of his

generosity.

        As she inadvertently glanced in the same direction, Killashandra

noticed that his workers, each laden with a crate, were disappearing up and

down the street and into the alleys. Just audible was an odd siren. He

cocked his head at the sound and grinned.

        »I´d take that with me, were I you. Won´t help you to be found in

my disreputable company.«

        »You´ll be making another batch soon?« Killashandra asked

wistfully.

        »Now that I couldn´t say.« He winked. The siren became more

insistent and louder. He began to fold over the doors.

        »What´s the quickest way back to the City?«

        »Over two ranks and then to your left.« He closed the last lap of

the door behind him and she heard the firm click of the lock.

        The vehicle with the siren was moving at a good clip so

Killashandra made rapid progress in the direction the brewer had indicated.

She had just reached the next parallel road when she heard the sound of air

brakes engaging and considerable shouting. She ducked around the corner and

was on another deserted block. When she heard the pounding of booted feet,

she realized that she might not have time to explain her possession of the

illegally brewed beer if she was caught out on the streets.

        The first door she approached was locked and her quick rap met with

no response. The second door was jerked open just as she got to it. She

needed no urging to step into the sanctuary. Indeed, not a moment too soon

for the searchers came pounding around the corner and stormed past the

door.

        »That was a bit foolish, if you ask me,« said the woman beside her

in a hoarse accusation. »You may be an alien but that wouldn´t matter to

them did they apprehend you down here.« She gestured for Killashandra to

follow her to the rear of the little house. »You must have some thirst to

go roaming about Gartertown in search of quenching. There are places which

legally serve drink, you know.«

        »I didn´t, but if you could tell me -- «

        »Not that the hours you can drink are that convenient, and our

brew´s superior to anything out of the Bascum. The water, you know! This

way.«

        Killashandra paused because a crate of the illegal bottling was

sitting in the middle of the floor of the rear room, right by a section of

flooring which had been removed.

        »Give me a hand, would you? They might do a house-to-house if

they´re feeling particularly officious.«

        Killashandra willingly complied and, when the crate was stored, the

section replaced, the hiding place was indistinguishable.

        »Don´t like to rush a body´s enjoyment of a brew, but . . . .«

        Killashandra would have preferred to savor the second bottle, but

she downed it in three long swallows. The woman took the empty and chucked

it toward the disposal. With a loud crunch the evidence was disposed of.

Killashandra drew her fingers down the corners of her mouth, and then

belched yeastily.

        The woman took a position by her door, ear to the panel, listening

intently. she jumped back just as the door swung in wide enough to admit a

fall figure.

        »They were recalled,« the man said. »And there´s some sort of

search going on in the City -- « He broke off then because he had turned

and caught sight of Killashandra standing in the doorway.

        She was as motionless with surprise as he for she recognized him,

by garb and stance, as the young man from the infirmary corridor. He

recovered first while Killashandra was considering the advisability of

dissembling.

        »You´re making this far too easy,« he said cryptically, striding up

to her. Surprised, she saw only his fist before a stunning blackness

overcame her.

 

        She roused the first time, aware of a stuffy atmosphere, the

soreness of her jaw, and that her hands and feet were tied. She groaned,

and before she could open her eyes, she felt a sudden pressure on her arm

and her senses reeled once more back into unconsciousness.

 

        She was still tied when she woke the second time, with an awful

taste in her mouth and the tang of salt in her nostrils. She could hear the

hiss of wind and the slap of water not far from her ears. Cautiously she

opened her eyes a slit. She was on a boat, all right, in an upper berth in

a small cabin. She was aware of another presence in the room but dared not

signal her consciousness by sound or movement. Her jaw still ached though

not, she thought, as much as on her previous awakening. Whatever drug they

had given her was compounded with a muscle relaxant, for she felt

exceedingly limp. So why did they bother to keep her bound?

        She heard footsteps approaching the cabin and controlled her

breathing to the slow regularity of the sleeper just as an outer hatch was

flung open. Spray beaded her face. A warm spray so that her muscles did not

betray her.

        »No sign?«

        »No. See for yourself. Hasn´t moved a muscle. You didn´t give her

too much, did you? Those singers have different metabolisms.«

        The inquisitor snorted. »Not that different, no matter what she

said about alcoholic intake.« Amusement rippled in his voice as he

approached the bed. Killashandra forced herself to remain limp though anger

began to boil away the medically induced tranquillity as she reacted to the

fact that she, a member of the Heptite Guild, a crystal singer, had been

kidnapped. On the other hand, her kidnapping seemed to indicate that not

everyone was content to remain on Optheria. Or did it?

        Strong fingers gripped her chin, the thumb pressing painfully on

the bruise for a moment, before the fingers slid to the pulse-beat in her

throat. She kept her neck muscles lax to permit this handling. Feigning

unconsciousness might result in unguarded explanations being exchanged over

her inert body. And she needed some before she made her move.

        »That was some crack you fetched her, Lars Dahl. She won´t

appreciate the bruise.«

        »She´ll have too much on her mind to worry about something so

minor.«

        »Are you sure this scheme is going to work, Lars?«

        »It´s the first break we´ve had, Prale. The Elders won´t be able to

fix the organ without a crystal singer. And they´ve got to. So they must

apply again to the Heptite Guild to replace this one, and that will require

explanations, and that will bring FSP investigators to this planet. And

there´s our chance to make the injustice known.«

        What about the injustice you did me? Killashandra wanted to shout.

Instead she twitched with anger. And gave herself away.

        »She´s coming round. Hand me the syringe.«

        Killashandra opened her eyes, about to argue for her freedom when

she felt the pressure that brooked no argument.

 

        Her final awakening was not at all what she had been expecting. A

balmy breeze rippled across her body. Her hands were untied and she was no

longer on a comfortable surface. Her mouth tasted more vile than ever, and

her head ached. She controlled herself once more, trying to sort out the

sounds that reached her ears. Wind soughing. Okay. A rolling noise? Ocean

waves breaking on shore line not far away. The smells that accosted her

nostrils were as varied as the wind and wave, subtle musty floral

fragrances, rotten vegetation, dry sand, fish, and other smells which she´d

identify later. Of human noises or presences she had no input.

        She opened her eyes a fraction and it was dark. Encouraged, she

widened her vision. She was lying on her back on a woven mat. Sand had

blown onto it, gritty against her bare skin, under her head. Overhead,

trees bent their fronds, one sweeping against her shoulder in a gentle

caress. Cautiously she lifted her torso, propping herself up on one elbow.

She was no more than ten meters from the ocean, but the high-tide mark was

safely between her and the sea, to judge by the debris pushed into an

uneven line along the sand.

        Islanders? What had Ampris said about the islanders. That they´d

had to be disciplined out of autonomous notions? And the young man of the

corridor who had assailed her. He had been suntanned. That was why his skin

was so dark in comparison to the other onlookers.

        Killashandra looked around her for any sign of human habitation,

knowing that there wouldn´t be any. She had been abandoned on the island.

Kidnapped and abandoned. She got up, absently brushing the sand off her as

she swung about, fighting her conflicting emotions. Kidnapped and

abandoned! So much for the prestige of the Heptite Guild on these backward

planets. So much for another of Lanzecki´s off-world assignments!

        Why hadn´t she left a message for Corish?

 

Chapter 8

 

Killashandra grimaced as she crossed off yet another week on the immense

tree under which she had erected her shelter.

        She sheathed the knife again and involuntarily scanned the horizon

in all directions, for her polly tree dominated the one elevation on the

island. Once again she saw distant sails to the northeast, the orange of

the triangles brilliant against the sky.

        »May their masts snap in a squall and their bodies rot in the briny

deep!« she muttered and then kicked at the thick trunk of the tree. »Why

don´t you ever fish in my lagoon?«

        Morning and night she threw in her hook and line and was rewarded

by wriggling fish. Some she had learned to throw back, for their flesh was

either inedibly tough or tasteless. The small yellowbacks were the sweetest

and seemed to throw themselves with selfless sacrifice on her hook.

        The bronzed young man had not stranded her without equipment. When

dawn had come on that bleak first day, she had discovered hatchet, knife,

hooks, line, net, emergency rations in vacuum pack, and an illustrated

pamphlet on the resources of the ubiquitous polly tree. She had cast that

contemptuously to one side until boredom set in three days later.

        For someone who had been as active as Killashandra, enforced

idleness was almost a crippling punishment. To pass the time she had

retrieved the pamphlet and read it through, then decided to see if she

could make something out of this so-universal plant. She had already

noticed that many of the tree´s multiple trunks had had satellite trunks

removed at an early age. Her manual said that these were cut for the tender

heart or the soft pith. both nutritious. Was the locals´ interference with

»nature« one of the reasons for their discipline by the mainland?

        And how far away was the mainland? She couldn´t even hazard a guess

as to how long she had been unconscious. More than a day, at the least. She

wished she´d studied the geography of Optheria more closely, for she

couldn´t even guess at the location of her island on the planet´s surface.

In her first days, she had prowled the island´s perimeter ceaselessly, for

there were neighboring ones tantalizingly visible even though they were

also small. Hers at least boasted a bubbling spring that flowed from its

rocky source mid-island into the lagoon. And, if she could trust her

judgment, hers was the largest in the cluster.

        Before she immersed herself in polly tree studies, she had swum to

the nearest of the group. Plenty of polly trees but no water. And beyond

that islet more were scattered in careless abundance across the clear

aquamarine sea -- some large enough to support only a single tuft of polly

trees so she had returned to her island, the best of a bad lot.

        Working with her hands and for a varied diet did not prevent

Killashandra from endless speculations about her situation. She had been

kidnapped for a purpose -- to force an investigation of Optherian

restrictions. The FSP, much less her own Guild, would not tolerate such an

outrage. If -- and here her brief knowledge of the Optherians let her down

-- the Optherians admitted to FSP and the Heptite Guild that she had been

abducted.

        Still, the Elders needed an operative organ by the time of the

Summer Festival, and to do that they needed a crystal singer to make the

installation. The crystal they had, but surely they wouldn´t attempt such a

delicate job. Well, it wasn´t that delicate, Killashandra knew, but the

crystal would prove difficult if not handled properly. So, grant that the

Optherians would be searching for her, would they think to search on the

islands? Would the islanders be in contact with the Ruling Elders about the

terms of her ransom? If so, would the extortion be successful?

        Probably not, Killashandra thought, until the Ruling Elders had

abandoned any hope of finding her within the next two months. Of course,

that could throw their timetable off. It would take nearly three months for

a replacement Guild Member to reach Optheria, even if the Optherians

admitted the loss of the one already dispatched to them. On her own part,

she´d be stark raving lunatic if she was left on this island for several

months. And if the Optherians acquired another singer to install their

wretched white crystal, that didn´t mean that they´d continue their efforts

to find her!

        After much deliberation, silent as well as vocal, Killashandra

decided that the smart thing to do was rescue herself. Her kidnapper had

overlooked a few small points, the most important of which was that she

happened to be a very strong swimmer with lungs well developed from singing

opera and crystal. Physically, too, she was immensely fit. She could swim

from island to island until she found one that was inhabited, one from

which she could be rescued. Unless all the islanders were in on this

insidious kidnap scheme.

        The hazards that she must overcome were only two: lack of water was

one, but she felt that she could refresh herself sufficiently from the

polly fruit -- the tree flourished on all the islands she could see. Too,

the larger denizens of the sea constituted a real problem. Some of them,

cruising beyond her lagoons, looked deadly dangerous, with their pointed,

toothy snouts, or their many wire-fine tentacles which seemed to have an

affinity for the same yellowback fish she favored. She had spent enough

time watching them to know that they generally fed at dawn and dusk. So, if

she made her crossings at midday, when they were dormant, she thought she

had a fairly good chance to avoid adding herself to their diet.

        Three weeks on the island was long enough! She had a few of the

emergency food packets left and they would be unharmed by a long immersion.

        Following the directions in her useful little pamphlet, she had

made several sturdy lengths of rope from the coarse fiber of the polly

tree, with which she could secure the hatchet to her body. Her original

clothing was down to shreds which she sewed with lengths of the tough stem

into a halter and a loin cloth. By then she had become as tan as her

abductor and was forced to use some of the oilier fishes to grease her hide

for protection. She would coat herself thoroughly before each leg of her

swim to freedom.

        Having made her decision, Killashandra implemented it the next day

at noon, swimming to her first destination in less than an hour´s time. She

rested while she made up her mind which island of the seven visible would

be next. She found herself constantly returning to the one farthest north.

Well, once there, none were far away if she decided she´d overshot the

right line to take.

        She made that island by mid-afternoon, dragging herself up onto the

narrow shore, exhausted. Then she discovered some of the weak points in her

plans: there weren´t many ripe polly fruits on the island; and fish

wouldn´t bite on her hook that evening.

        Because she found too few fruits, she was exceedingly thirsty by

morning and chose her next point of call by the polly population. The

channel between was dark blue, deep water, and twice she was startled by

dimly seen large shapes moving beneath her. Both times she floated face

down, arms and legs motionless, until the danger summoned by her flailing

limbs had passed.

        She rested on this fourth island all the rest of that day and the

next one, replenishing her dehydrated tissues and trying to catch an oily

fish. To her dismay, she could only attract the yellowbacks. Eventually she

had enough of them to provide some oil for her raddled skin.

        On her voyage to the fifth island, a fair sized one, she had her

worst fright. Despite the sun´s being at high noon, she found herself in

the midst of a school of tiny fish that was being harvested by several

mammoth denizens. At one point she was briefly stranded on a creature´s

flank when it unexpectedly surfaced under her. She didn´t know whether to

swim furiously for the distant shore or lie motionless, but before she

could make a decision the immense body swirled its torpedo tail in the air

and sounded. Killashandra was pulled under by the fierce turbulence of its

passage, and she swallowed a good deal more water than she liked before she

returned to the surface.

        As soon as she clambered up on the fifth island, she headed for the

nearest ripe polly fruit only to discover that she had lost her hatchet,

the last packets of emergency rations, and the fish hooks. She slaked her

thirst on overripe polly fruit, ignoring the rank taste for the sake of the

moisture. That need attended to, she gathered up enough dry fronds to

cushion her body, and went to sleep.

        She woke sometime in the night, thirsting for more of the overripe

fruit which she hunted in the dark, cursing as she tripped over debris and

fell into bushes, staggering about in her search until she had to admit to

herself that her behavior was somewhat bizarre. About the same time she

realized that she was drunk! The innocent polly fruit had been fermenting!

Given her Ballybran adaptation, the state could only have been allowed by

her weakened constitution. Giggling, she lay down on the ground, impervious

to sand or discomfort and fell into a second drunken sleep.

        Much the worse for her various excesses, Killashandra awoke with a

ghastly headache and a terrible need for water. Number five was a much

larger island than her other way stops and she was searching so diligently

to relieve her thirst that she almost passed the little canoe without its

registering on her consciousness.

        It was only a small canoe, pulled up beyond the high tide mark, a

paddle angling from the narrow prow. At another time and without her urgent

need, Killashandra would not have ventured out on the open sea in such a

flimsy craft. But someone had already brought it from wherever they came so

it could as easily convey her elsewhere, too. Her need for water diminished

by this happy discovery, Killashandra climbed the nearest polly tree and,

hanging precariously to the ridged trunk, managed to saw through several

stems with her short knife blade.

        She didn´t waste time then, but threw the fruit into the small

craft, slid it into the gentle waves, and paddled down thc coast as fast as

she could, just in case the owner should return and demand the return of

his canoe.

        While she no longer needed to wait until noon to cross to the next

island in her northern course, Killashandra´s previous day´s fright made

her cautious. She keenly felt the loss of her hatchet. But good fortune

continued to surprise her for, as she paddled around a narrow headland, she

spotted the unmistakable sign of a small stream draining into the sea. She

could even paddle a short way up its mouth and did so, pausing to scoop up

a handful of sweet water before she jumped out of the canoe and pulled it

out of sight under the bushes. Then she lay down by the water and drank

until she was completely sated.

        By evening, just before the sun suddenly settled below the horizon

in the manner characteristic of tropical latitudes, she stood out on the

headland, deciding which of the island masses she would attempt to reach

the next day. The nearest ones were large, by comparison, but the distant

smudge lay long against the horizon. The water lapped seductively over her

toes and she decided that she had fooled around with the minor stuff long

enough. With the canoe, a fair start in the morning, and plenty of fruit in

her little craft, she could certainly make the big island, however distant.

        She had the foresight to weave herself a sun hat, with a fishtail

down her back to prevent sunstroke, for she wouldn´t have the cooling water

about her as she had while swimming. She had no experience with currents or

riptides, nor had she considered the possibility of sudden squalls

interrupting her journey. Those she encountered halfway across the deep

blue stretch of sea to the large island.

        She was so busy trying to correct her course while the current

pulled her steadily south that she was unaware of the squall until it

pelted against her sunburned back. The next thing she knew she was waist

deep in water. How the canoe stayed afloat at all, she didn´t know. Bailing

was a futile exercise but it was the only remedy she had. Then suddenly she

felt the canoe sinking with her and, in a panic lest she be pulled down,

she swam clear, and had no way to resist the insidious pull of the current.

        Once again the stubborn survival instinct came to Killashandra´s

aid, and wisely she ceased struggling against the current and the run of

the waves, and concentrated on keeping her head above water. She was still

thrashing her arms when her legs grated against a hard surface. She crawled

out of the water and a few more meters from the pounding surf before

oblivion overcame her.

        Familiar sounds and familiar smells penetrated her fatigue and

allowed her to enjoy the pangs of thirst and hunger once again. Awareness

of her surroundings gradually increased and she roused to the sound of

human voices raised in a happy clamor somewhere nearby. She sat up and

found herself on one end of a wide curving beach of incredible beauty, on a

harbor sheltering a variety of shipping. A large settlement dominated the

center of the harbor, with commercial buildings at the center gradually

giving way to residences and a broad promenade that paralleled the beach

before retreating into the polly plantations.

        For a long time Killashandra could only sit and stare at the scene,

rendered witless by her great good fortune. And then not at all sure what

her next step should be. To arrive, announcing her rank and title,

demanding transport back to the City? How many people had been privy to her

abduction? An island weapon had made the first assault against her. She had

better go cautiously. She had better act circumspectly.

        Yes, indeed she should, she realized as she stood up and found

herself without a shred of clothing on her body. Nudity might not be

appreciated here. She was too far away to notice how much or how little

clothing the happy group on her side of the bay was wearing. So she would

get close enough to discover.

        She did that with little trouble, and also discovered abandoned

clothing, shirts and long, full skirts of decoratively painted polly fiber

as well as undecorated underskirts. So she took several of those, picking

from different piles, and a conservatively marked shirt and dressed

herself. She also filched several packets of food, spoiling someone´s

picnic lunch but filling the void in her belly. No footwear had been left

on the beach, so she concluded that bare feet would not be distinctive and

her soles were sufficiently callused now not to trouble her. The off-white

of her underskirts set off the fine brown of her tanned skin.

        She tucked her knife under the waistband, then set off on the

well-marked path toward the main settlement.

 

Chapter 9

 

What Killashandra required most was a credit outlet. She would need more

clothing -- a proper, decorated overdress -- if she was to blend in with

the islanders. As well, she needed some sort of accommodation and enough

credit to get her back to the mainland or wherever the City was located.

        None of the commercial buildings facing thc harbor appeared to have

credit outlets, though all had intake units. One of them had to, or this

planet was more backward than she´d previously thought. Every inhabited

planet utilized the standard credit facilities.

        She had a bit of a fright, too, while she was making her initial

reconnaissance -- the sight of herself in a reflective surface. Sun had

streaked the top layer of her dark hair almost blonde, had bleached her

eyebrows to nonexistence. This, plus the deep brown of her tan, altered her

appearance so that she had almost not recognized herself. The whites and

the intense green of her eyes with the filtering lenses were emphasized by

the tan and dominated her face. The exertions of the last few days had

thinned all the flesh which she had acquired with easy living on the

voyage. She was as gaunt as if she´d been in the Crystal Ranges for weeks.

Furthermore she felt like she had. Why was it, when she was tired, she

still felt the crystal surging through her bones?

        There was only one other building on the waterfront, set off a

little from the others, looking rather more prosperous. A factor´s

residence? She made for it, having little choice, ignoring the covert

glances of the few pedestrians. Was the community so small that any

stranger was remarkable? Or was it indeed her lack of the proper attire

that occasioned their scrutiny?

        She recognized the building´s function as soon as she climbed the

short flight of stairs to the wide verandah which surrounded all four

sides. The smell of stale beer and spirits was manifest, as well as a

burned-vegetable odor, pungent and not altogether unpleasant. It was always

good to know where the brew was served.

        The main room of the tavern was empty and dark and, despite the sea

breezes wafting through, stank of a long night´s drinking. Chairs were

neatly piled on the tables, the floor had been swept and glistened wetly to

one side, where mop and pail propped open a door. She gave the room a

sweeping glance, which stopped at the reassuring shape of a credit outlet.

        Hoping she could make her transaction in private, she glided across

the floor on her bare feet. Slipping her I.D. under the visiplate, she

tapped out a modest credit demand. The sound of the outlet´s whirring and

burping was unnaturally loud in the deserted room. She grabbed the credit

notes, compressing them quickly into a wad in one hand while she tapped out

the security code that would erase the transaction from all but the central

credit facility on the planet.

        »Ya wanted something?« An unshaven face peered around the half-open

door.

        »I got it,« Killashandra said, ducking her head and making a speedy

exit before she could be detained.

        While this island town had more in the way of merchandise

establishments that catered to fishermen and planters, she had marked the

soft goods store in her search for the credit outlet. It was unoccupied and

automated so that she didn´t need to manufacture explanations to a

salesperson. It only struck her then that in none of the shops on the

waterfront had she seen human attendants. She shrugged it off as another

island oddity. She bought two changes of the brightly decorated, and rather

charmingly patterned, outer garments, additional underskirts -- for custom

apparently demanded a plethora of female skirts -- sandals of plaited polly

tree fiber, a matching belt and pouch, and a carisak of a similar

manufacture. She also got some toilet articles and a tube of moisturizing

cream for her dry skin.

        The little shop boasted a rather archaic information unit, a

service Killashandra needed almost as badly as credit. She dialed first for

hostel information and was somewhat daunted by the fact that all the listed

facilities were closed until the Season. Well, she´d slept on island

beaches for nearly four weeks and come to no harm. She queried about eating

places and found that these also were closed until the Season. Irritated

because she didn´t wish to spend time gathering food in a large settlement,

she tapped out a request for transport facilities.

        Quite an astonishing variety of ships were available for charter:

for fishing, pleasure cruising, and underwater assisted exploration »with

requisite official permits. Travel documents are required for passengers or

cargo. Apply Harbor Master.«

        »Which I can´t do until I know more about this place,« Killashandra

muttered as a stately woman entered the premises. »And how many in sympathy

with my kidnappers.«

        »Did you find all you needed?« the woman said in a liquidly melodic

voice, her large and expressive brown eyes showing concern.

        »Yes, yes, I did,« Killashandra said, surprised into a nervous

response.

        »I´m so glad. We don´t have much here yet. No call, with everyone

making their own, and the Season not started.« She tilted her head, her

long thick braid falling over her shoulder. Her fingers moved to check the

position of the blossom twisted into the end of the plait. Her smile was

luminous. »You´ve not been here before?« The question was asked in such a

gentle voice that it was almost a statement of fact and not an intrusion on

Privacy.

        »I just came in from one of the outer islands.«

        »That´s lonely.« The woman nodded gently.

        »Lost my canoe in that squall, » Killashandra said and began to

embroider slightly. »Came ashore with nothing to my name but my I.D.« She

flashed her left wrist at the woman who nodded once again.

        »If you´re hungry, I´ve fresh fish and greens, and there´s

whiteroot to make a good fry.«

        »No, I couldn´t,« Killashandra began, even as her mouth was

watering. When the woman tilted her head again, a broad smile spreading

across her serene features, Killashandra added, »But I certainly would

appreciate it.«

        »My name is Keralaw. My man is mate on the Crescent Moon, been gone

four weeks and I do miss company.« She rolled her eyes slightly, her grin

twisting upward another fraction of an inch so that Killashandra knew very

well what Keralaw missed.

        »My name is Carrigana.« Killashandra suppressed her amusement; the

former owner of that name would be livid at her presumption.

        Keralaw led her to the back of the shop, through the storage

section to the living quarters in the rear: a small catering area, a small

toilet room, and a large living room that was open on three sides, screened

against the depredations of insects. The furnishings consisted of low

tables, many pillows. and hammocks secured to bolts in the ceiling. Of the

modern accoutrements there was only a small screen, blank, with a fine

coating of dust and a very primitive terminal. On the one solid wall hung a

variety of spears, their barbed heads differing in design and weight, a

small stringed instrument, a hand drum that looked well used, four wooden

pipes of different lengths and circumferences, and an ancient tambourine,

its trailing ribbons sun-faded to shades of gray and beige.

        Keralaw led her through this room, out the screened door to the

rear and to a stone hearth. Checking the position of the sun over her

shoulder, Keralaw altered the arrangement of a mirror and a bright metal

sheet to her satisfaction and began to arrange the fish and white root on

the sheet.

        »Won´t be long with the sun right in position. Beer or juice?«

        »Island brewed?«

        »Best there is.« Keralaw´s smile was proud. She went to the heavy

bushes growing beyond the solar hearth and, pushing them aside, disclosed a

dull gray container a meter high and half that wide. Lifting its heavy

insulated lid, she extracted two beaded bottles.

        »Been a long time dry,« Killashandra said, receiving her chilled

bottle with considerable anticipation. She flipped back the stopper and

took a swallow.

»Whhhhoooee but it´s good.« And it was-the equal of a Yarran! But

Killashandra stopped herself from making that comparison aloud just in

time, smiling instead at Keralaw.

        Already the sun was broiling their lunch and the smell was a

suitable accompaniment to the taste of the cool beer. Killashandra began to

relax. Keralaw tossed the greens into a wooden bowl, slipped two wooden

platters to the hearth side, along with two-tined forks and knives with

intricately carved handles accentuating the natural dark grain of the wood,

and divided the now completed meal.

        »That was what I needed most,« Killashandra said, closing her eyes

in a sincere appreciation for the simple but satisfying meal. »I´ve been

living too long off the polly tree!«

        Keralaw chuckled fruitily. »You and your man farming? Or are you

fishing for the gray?«

        Killashandra hesitated, wondering what cover story wouldn´t become

an embarrassment later. She felt a curious reluctance to mislead Keralaw.

        Keralaw reached over and touched Killashandra´s forearm, just the

barest touch, her mobile face suddenly expressionless.

        »Don´t need to tell me, woman. I been out in the islands and I know

what can happen to humans out there. Sometimes the credit ain´t worth the

agony getting it. I won´t pry.« Her smile returned. »Not my place to,

anyhow. You picked a good day to land on Angel Island. Schooner´s making

port this evening!«

        »It is!« Killashandra picked up the cue to wax enthusiastic.

        Keralaw nodded, pleased to surprise. »Beach barbecue and a keg of

beer for sure! That´s why the harbor´s so deserted.« She chuckled again, an

earthy rich laugh. »Even the little ones are out foraging.«

        »Everyone contributes to the barbecue?«

        Keralaw nodded, her smile wide with anticipation. »How well do you

weave polly?« she asked, tilting her head sideways. When Killashandra

groaned, Keralaw looked sympathetic. »Well, perhaps you cut and strip while

I weave. Chore goes fast in company.«

        With fluid gestures, she collected a hatchet hanging from a nail

under the eaves and a large cariall, which she handed to Killashandra. With

a grin and a jerk of her head, she indicated the way.

        The expedition suited Killashandra in may ways: Keralaw could

supply her far more information than any terminal, however well programmed,

and the little one in Keralaw´s shop was intended for tourists and had

limited memory. Killashandra could doubtless discover just how closely the

Harbor Master stuck to the letter of the law in granting travel permits.

Just like the Optherians to need to know who went where and when. Though

why they bothered, since their citizens weren´t allowed off the planet,

Killashandra couldn´t see. She also needed more general information about

the islanders and their customs if she was going to pass as one that

evening.

        For her purposes, the barbecue couldn´t have come at a better time;

with everyone relaxed by a full belly and plenty of beer, she could

discover more about the islanders´ politics and, just possibly, something

about her abduction.

        By the time they had returned from the polly plantation that

evening, both laden with platters and baskets woven at speed by Keralaw´s

deft hands, Killashandra knew a great deal more about island life, and had

tremendous respect for it.

        The easygoing gentleness of the style would be abhorrent to the

persnickety mainlanders. In the early days of their subjugation of the

islanders, the mainlanders had even tried to prohibit the use of the polly

tree in their strict adherence to the letter of their Charter. The polly

tree itself worked against the restriction, for it grew with such rapidity

and profusion that pruning back the plantations was absolutely essential.

The casual islander habit of cutting as needed to provide the essentials

for daily life prevented overgrowth. The vigorous polly tree would take

root on even a square meter of soil, which accounted for its proliferation

in the islands.

        Killashandra had been hard pressed to cut and strip enough polly

fronds to keep up with Keralaw´s agile weaving but the crystal singer

learned as she watched and, to support her adopted identity, wove a few

baskets herself. The manufacture, which seemed to be easy when one watched

an adept, took considerable manual strength and dexterity, which,

fortunately, Killashandra possessed. Seeing the clever way in which Keralaw

finished off her mats and baskets taught Killashandra the necessary final

touches that spoke of long practice.

        As they passed a small freshwater lake on their way back, Keralaw

suddenly dropped her burden, shucked her clothing, and dashed into the

water. Killashandra was quick to follow. Nudity was not, then, a problem.

And the soft water was refreshing after the concentrated work of the day.

        The tantalizing aroma of roasting meat reached them as they neared

Keralaw´s dwelling. The rolled her eyes and smacked her lips

appreciatively.

        »Mandoll´s the cook!« Keralaw said with satisfaction. »I can smell

his seasoning anywhere in the islands. Porson sure had better catch him a

smacker to go with it. Nothing better than long beef and smacker. Oho, but

we eat good tonight!« She rolled her eyes again in anticipation. »We´ll

drop these off,« and she swung the tangle of baskets on their string, »and

then we get us pretty. A barbecue night´s a good night for Angel Island!«

And she winked broadly at Killashandra, who laughed.

        Two barbecue pits had been dug on the beach front. In one a very

long animal carcass was slowly turning over the sizzling coals. Four men

were good-naturedly attempting to raise a massive fish onto the spit

braces, urging each other to greater effort while the onlooking women

taunted them for weakness.

        Prominently centered on the beach was a long low table, already

being laid with garlands of flowers, baskets of fruit and other delicacies

which Killashandra couldn´t identify. An immensely plump woman, with a most

luxurious growth of hair spilling down to her knees, greeted Keralaw with

delight, chattering about the quantity and quality of the baskets and

plates, and then fell silent, cocking her head inquiringly at Killashandra.

        »Here is Carrigana, Ballala,« Keralaw said, taking Killashandra´s

arm. »In from the outer islands. She wove with me.«

        »You picked the right time to come,« Ballala said approvingly. »We

have some good barbecue tonight. Long beef and a smacker!«

        Suddenly a siren split the air with a hoot that occasioned loud

cheers from everyone on the beach.

        »Schooner´s on the last tack: Be here right quick,« Keralaw said

and then began smoothing her arm in an absent minded way.

        Killashandra cast it a quick look -- all the fine hair was standing

up. Killashandra rubbed her own brown arms to deflect comment. But Keralaw

apparently did not notice the phenomenon.

        »Come, Carrigana, we must get pretty now.«

        Getting pretty meant decorating their hair with the scented flowers

that grew on the low bushes under ancient polly trees. There seemed to be a

community of possessions on Angel Island, for Keralaw visited several back

gardens to find the colors she wanted for her own long tresses. And she had

decided that only the tiny cream flowers would do as a garland for

Killashandra´s head, since Killa´s hair was not long enough to braid.

Keralaw offered to trim the dried ends, tutting over the exigencies that

had deprived Killashandra of so many amenities on her distant island.

        Then Keralaw decided that they´d have time to make some wreaths of

the fragrant blossoms. Fortunately Killashandra was able to delay starting

a wreath until she saw how Keralaw began hers and then the two twisted and

tucked the stems in comfortable silence. Eventually, festive sounds drifted

back to their ears from the beach and then cheering broke out.

        »Schooner´s in.« Keralaw cried, jumping to her feet, her braids

bouncing their floral tips against her waist. She grabbed Killashandra´s

hand, jerking her up. »Pick yourself a handsome one, Carrigana. Of course,

they´re all handsome on the schooner,« she said with an earthy giggle. »And

away in the morning with no harm done, coming or going.«

        Killashandra followed willingly, clutching her wreaths in her hand,

hoping her crude manufacture would not break apart from the jostling.

        There could be few sights more impressive than a schooner sailing

effortlessly into the beautiful azure waters of a harbor under an evening

sky rich with sun-tinged clouds, while colorfully dressed and beflowered

people lined the pier and the beach. The odors of a delicious meal

permeated the air and all present were happily anticipating an evening

spent in joyful pursuits -- of all kinds. Killashandra had no wish to

resist the enticements so lavishly available and she cheered as hard as the

rest of the inhabitants of Angel Island as sailors on the yard arms reefed

the sails while the schooner glided toward the pier, and the shoremen

waited to secure the lines tossed to them. She jumped about, yelling at the

top of her lungs, as everyone else was doing, waggling at arm´s length her

wreaths, as seemed to be the custom.

        Then, suddenly, out of the crowd two men stood apart, grinning at

the enthusiastic display but not joining in. Killashandra gasped, clutched

the wreaths close to her face and stared, incredulous.

        Corish von Mittelstern of the Beta Jungische system, purportedly in

search of his uncle, was standing next to the bronzed young man of the

corridor who had abducted and abandoned her on a miniscule island in the

middle of nowhere!

        Even as she reacted to their presence, she saw Corish was glancing

about the crowd. Before she could duck, his gaze touched her face . . . and

passed on without a blink of recognition.

 

Chapter 10

 

Shock rooted Killashandra in the sand. She ignored the surge of the

islanders toward the pier, the vanguard already throwing their wreaths

about the disembarking sailors. Fury that Corish didn´t recognize her --

and relief that he didn´t -- warred in her. To judge by his deep tan,

Corish had been in the islands as long as she had. He looked comfortable in

the shorts and sleeveless half-vest that the island men preferred, though

his was modestly decorated. Not so the one Lars Dahl wore, which was thick

with many-hued embroidery.

        Common sense quickly tempered her initial strong reactions. She

hadn´t recognized herself in the mirror, why would Corish or Lars Dahl?

Further, neither man could logically have expected to see Killashandra Ree

on the beachfront at Angel Island. She relaxed from the tense half-poised

stance she had assumed.

        »Come on, you´ll want to catch a good one,« Keralaw said, tugging

Killashandra by the sleeve. She paused, seeing the objects of

Killashandra´s riveted attention. »Lars Dahl is very attractive, isn´t he?

But he´s committed to the Music Conservatory -- the first Angel Islander to

be admitted!«

        »The other one?« Killashandra stood fast, though Keralaw plucked

urgently at her to move.

        »Him? He´s been around the last few weeks. A pleasant enough man

but . . .« Keralaw shrugged diffidently. »Come on, now, Carrigana, I want a

live one!«

        Now Killashandra permitted herself to be drawn, holding her breath

as first Corish then Lars Dahl looked toward them. When there was still no

sign of recognition from either man, Killashandra grinned, then waggled her

fingers at them and brandished the wreaths invitingly. Lars Dahl smiled

back, gesturing a good-humored rejection of her offer before he renewed his

conversation with Corish.

        As Clorish did not turn away, she swung her hips in her best

imitation of a seductress, and cast one last longing look over her shoulder

before Keralaw was hauling her through the crowd toward the approaching

sailors.

        Joyfully Keralaw deposited her garlands on a lean, brown-black man

and, with a half-reproachful, half-apologetic glance at Carrigana,

accompanied him toward a distant section of the beach in the gathering

dusk. Other couples had the same idea while many more made for the barbecue

area and the kegs of beer, and jugs of fermented polly fruit in jackets of

woven polly fronds which were now being circulated. Many of the islanders

had paired off, and the disappointed drifted back to the imminent feast,

all still in the best of good spirits.

        »What about garlanding me?« a male voice grated in her ear.

        Killashandra turned her head toward the speaker, only far enough to

catch the stench of his breath, before she deftly avoided his importunities

with a giggle, slipping past a group of women. He paused there and someone

less fastidious crowned him. Killashandra continued to glide forward and

toward the shadows cast by the polly trees growing above the high tide

line. The joyous sensuality of the islanders amused and frustrated her.

Crystal resonance was slowly abating, and consequently her body´s normal

appetites were returning.

        Corish and Lars Dahl were still deep in conversation at the water s

edge. She was level with them now, though shadowed from their notice and

she could observe unobtrusively. She sank to the warm sand, the unused

garlands fragrant in her loose grip. Ignoring the happy roistering at the

barbecue pits, she concentrated on the two men.

        What could be of such fascination to them in the midst of all this

jollity? Her original instinct about Corish had been correct: he was an FSP

operative. Unless she was fooling herself and his association with the

impertinent Lars Dahl was a coincidence. She doubted that vigorously. Did

Corish know that Lars Dahl had abducted her? And why? Had Corish taken some

covert part in that kidnapping? Had Corish known who she was? Killashandra

chuckled to herself, amused by the possibility although everything pointed

to Corish having accepted her in the role she had played for him. Then she

thought of how her earlier shipmates had reacted to the knowledge that she

was a crystal singer. She doubted that Corish was less a man, particularly

in his ease on the Athena. who would not make the most of his chances.

        Keralaw had said that Lars Dahl was the first Angel Islander to

reach the Music Conservatory. That explained his presence in the infirmary

corridor, and his unconventional clothes, for the islanders appeared to

prefer the browns and tans that emphasized their sunned skins. Why had he

appeared so unexpectedly in Gartertown? Though he certainly maximized his

opportunities. Had the original note of dissatisfaction with Optheria

originated in these islands? That appeared logical, now that she had seen

the different styles and standards, and had heard Elder Ampris´s

disparaging remarks about the islanders´ early rebellion against the

Optherian authoritarianism.

        A shout went up by the long beef pit, and people surged toward it,

platters in hand. The aroma was tantalizing and slowly Killashandra rose to

her feet. A full stomach was unlikely to improve her understanding of the

puzzle, but it wouldn´t hinder thought. Corish and Lars Dahl seemed to have

succumbed to the enticement as well.

        In that instant, Killashandra decided to approach her problem in a

direct fashion. Altering her direction, she intercepted the two men.

        »You´ve had your natter,« she began, mimicking Keralaw´s throaty

drawl and speech pattern, »now enjoy. Angel´s a good island for feasting.«

She flung one garland on Corish, the other about Lars Dahl´s neck, making

her smile as seductive as possible. Before they could respond, though

neither removed her flowers, she linked her arms in theirs and propelled

them toward the pit, grinning from one to the other, daring them to break

away.

        Corish shrugged, smiled tolerantly down at her, accepting her

impudence. Lars Dahl, however, covered her hand on his arm and, just then,

their thighs brushed and she lurched against him, abruptly aware of

receiving an intense shock. Startled, she glanced up at Lars Dahl, his face

illuminated by the pit fires, his lazy smile appreciating the contact shock

they had both felt. His long fingers curled tightly around hers with a hint

of possessiveness. His blue eyes sparkled as his gaze challenged her. His

arm fastened hers to his smooth warm waist as Killashandra candidly

returned his glance. He sidestepped suddenly, pulling Killashandra with him

so that she had to drop Corish´s arm.

        »I´ve certainly done enough talking,« he said, grinning more

broadly at the success of his maneuver and maneuvering. »Corish find

yourself another one. You´re mine, aren´t you, Sunny?«

        Corish gave a slightly contemptuous snort but continued on while

Lars Dahl stopped, swinging Killashandra into a strong embrace, his hands

caressing her back, settling into her waist to hold her firmly against him

as he bent his head. The flowers were crushed between them, their fragrance

spilling into her senses. With an inadvertent gesture of acceptance.

Killashandra´s hands slid up his bare warm chest, her fingers caressing the

velvet skin, taking note of the strong pectoral muscles, the column of his

throat. His lips tasted salty, but firm, parting hers as he settled his

mouth against her, and once again the shock of their contact was almost

like . . . crystal. Hungrily Killashandra surrendered to his deft kiss,

trying to meld her body against the strong, lean length of him. She altered

her arms, stroking the silky skin of his hard-muscled back, all her senses

involved in this simple act.

        They parted slightly, his hands still caressing her, one hand on

the bare skin beneath her shirt as she gently stroked his shoulders,

breathless and unable to leave his supporting arms. If his embrace had

begun as perfunctory, it wasn´t now. There was about his grasp a sense of

astonishment, wonder, and discovery.

        »I must know your name,« he said softly, tipping her chin up to

look into her eyes.

        »Carrigana,« she managed to remember to say.

        »Why have I never seen you before?«

        »You have,« she said with a rich, suggestive chuckle, amused by her

own presumption, »but you are always too busy with deep thoughts to see

what you look at.«

        »I am all eyes now . . . Carrigana.« A slight tremor in his soft

tone sent one through her body, as his hands renewed their grip,

encouraging her body to conform to his.

        Part of her mind recognized the sincerity in his voice while

another section wondered how she could make the most of this encounter. All

of her didn´t care what else happened to either of them if they could just

enjoy this one evening. She was so hungry . . . it had been months since

she´d made love.

        »Not yet, sweet Sunny, not yet,« he said determinedly but gently

disengaging himself. »We´ve the whole night before us,« and his low voice

lilted with promise. »You´ll know I cannot absent myself so soon. And we´ll

both be the stronger after a good meal« -- his laughter rippled with

sensuality -- »for our dalliance.«

        She let herself be swung again to his side, his arm tucking hers

against his ribs, his warm hand stroking hers as he guided her to the

barbecue pits. She had no argument against his so firm decision. Although

she murmured understanding, she seethed with abruptly interrupted

sensations, forcing herself to an outward amity. Perhaps it was as well,

she told herself, as they collected platters from one of the long tables

and joined those awaiting slices of roasted meat. She´d need time to

recover and buffer herself against the charisma of the man. He was as

potent as Lanzecki. And that was the first time she´d thought of the

Guildmaster in a while!

        What did Lars mean in saying she´d know why he couldn´t absent

himself so soon? How important was he within the island society, aside from

being its first citizen to get into the Conservatory?

        Then they were in the midst of the eager diners, with Lars

exchanging laughing comments, teasing acquaintances, his rich lilting

laughter rising above theirs. Yet he kept a firm grip on Killashandra and

she tried to compose her expression against the surprise in the women´s

faces and the curiosity of the men. Who was this Lars Dahl when he wasn´t

kidnapping crystal singers?

        Once thin slices of the juicy meat had been served them, Lars Dahl

escorted her back to the table and they sank to the sand. Lars kept his

left hand lightly on her thigh as he filled their plates from the foods

displayed in the center of the table: breaded fried fish bits, steaming

whiteroots, chopped raw vegetable, large yellow tubers which had been baked

in polly leaves and exuded a pungent spiciness. He snagged a jug as it was

being passed and filled their cups, deftly pouring without losing so much

as a drop. Killashandra was aware of furtive glances the length of the

table for Lars Dahl´s partner. She looked for Keralaw for her support but

there was no sign of her friend. Nor could she discern any animosity in the

scrutinies. Curiosity, yes, and envy.

        »Eat. I guarantee you´ll need your strength . . . Carrigana.«

        Though she gave him a gleaming smile, she wondered why he had

hesitated with the name, as if he was savoring the sound of it, the way he

had rolled the rs and lengthened the final two as. Was he dissembling? Had

he recognized her? He knew she´d been injured by that island star-knife . .

.

        She almost pulled away from him, startled by a sudden knowledge

that he had thrown that vicious starblade at her. She shook her head,

smiling to answer his sudden quizzical look, and applied herself to the

heaped food. His hand soothed her thigh, the fingers light and caressing.

        You sure can pick ‘em, Killashandra, she thought, pulled by intense

and conflicting emotions. She couldn´t wait to roll with him, somewhere in

the warm and fragrant plantation, with the surf pounding in rhythm with her

blood. She wanted to solve the conundrums he represented, and she was

determined to resolve each one to her advantage -- and furious that he

didn´t even recognize the woman he had first injured and then abducted.

        Yet, with all apparent complaisance, she sat, smiled, and laughed

at his rather clever comments. Lars Dahl seemed to miss nothing that went

on about him, and ate hugely. A beaming plump man wearing half a dozen

garlands passed about a platter of the black flesh of the smacker fish,

nudging Lars Dahl with a lewd whisper for his ear only, while Lars was

lightly kneading her thigh, and then the plump man winked broadly at her,

dumping a second slice of the fish onto her plate.

        She was indeed grateful for the second slice of the smacker for it

was succulent and highly unusual in taste, having nothing oily or fishy

about it. The fermented polly juice was more subtle than the overripe fruit

she had eaten on the island. Lars kept her cup filled, though she noticed

that he only sipped at his while appearing to imbibe more freely than the

level in his cup suggested.

        When she admitted that she could eat no more of the cooked foods,

he carefully picked one of the large, dark red melons, and, with one hand

-- someone called aloud with a quick guess as to where his other hand was

-- he split it with his knife, glancing expectantly at her. Out of the

corner of her eye she had seen another woman so served scoop the seeds from

her halved melon. Laughingly she did the same service, settling Lar´s half

in his plate before taking her own. Then, before she could lift her spoon,

he had made a thin slice which he lifted to her lips. The flesh of the

melon was the sweetest she had ever tasted, velvety, dripping with juice

once the flesh was pierced. He took his first bite on top of hers, his

even, strong teeth leaving a neat semi-circle all the way to the rind.

        It was not the first time eating had been part of her love-making,

but never before so many, even if all the pairings were performing much the

same ritual. Or was that why the air was electric with sensuality?

        »A song, Lars. A song while you can still stand on your feet.«

        Suddenly there was the loud roll of drums and tambourine, and

applause, while half a dozen stringed instruments strummed vigorously to

presage the advent of evening entertainment. Then the applause settled into

a rhythmic beat and the feasters began to chant.

        »Lars Dahl, Lars Dahl, Lars Dahl!«

        Giving her thigh a final squeeze, Lars Dahl rose to his feet,

spreading his arms for silence, smiling compliance at the chanters and

abruptly the clamor ended, a respectful silence awaited his pleasure.

        Lars Dahl lifted his head, a proud smile curving his lips, as he

surveyed his audience. Then, taking one backward step, he raised his arms

and hit an A, clear, vibrant, beautifully supported. Utterly astounded,

Killashandra stared up at him, the half-formed suspicion solidifying into

confirmation just as his voice glided down the scale. There couldn´t be two

tenor voices of similar caliber on one planet. This was her unknown tenor

of that spontaneous duet. Fortunately Lars Dahl took the expression on her

face as pleasure in his performance. He swung into a rollicking sea ballad,

a song as gay, as nonchalant as himself, a song that was instantly

recognized and appreciated by his audience.

        At the verse, voices joined his in harmony, people swaying to the

tempo of the song. Hastily Killashandra joined in, mouthing words until she

learned the simple chorus. She took good care to sing in her alto register.

If she could recognize his tenor, he´d know her soprano. And she didn´t

want him to be tipped to her true identity -- at least not until morning.

Now she relaxed into the music, letting her alto swell in a part singing

she hadn´t enjoyed since her early adolescence on Fuerte. Suddenly she

remembered family outings in the summer in the mountain lakes, or at the

ocean shore, when she had led the singing. Was that what Antona had had in

mind for Killashandra to keep as enriching memories? Well, there were

aspects of even those mellow evenings which Killashandra would have as soon

forgot. For her older brothers had always teased her about screeching at

the top of her lungs, and showing off and preening herself in public.

        Even before this evening, Killashandra had been aware that some

melodies seem to be universal, either recreated within a planet´s musical

tradition or brought with the original settlers and altered to fit the new

world. Words might be changed, tempo, harmony, but the joy in listening, in

joining the group singing was not: it struck deep nostalgic chords. Despite

her musical sophistication, despite her foreswearing that same background,

there was no way Killashandra could have remained silent. Indeed, not to

participate in the evening would have marked her as antisocial. For the

Angel Islanders, singing was a social grace.

        Nor was the singing simple, for the islanders added embellishments

to choruses and songs, six-part harmonies and intricate descants. Lars Dahl

functioned as both stage manager and conductor, pointing to the people

expected to rise and sing or perform on their instruments: performing to a

high degree of musical competence on such unexpected instruments as

trumpet, a woodwind that looked like a cross between an oboe and an ancient

French horn, and on a viola with a mellow, warm tone that must have arrived

with the early settlers. The hand drums were played with great skill and

showmanship, the three drummers executing a whirling dance in time to their

intricate rhythms.

        Even when the rest of the audience was not actively participating,

their attention was rapt, and their reaction to the occasional mistake

immediate and understanding. There were songs about polly planters: one

sung by two women, humorously itemizing the necessary steps to make one

polly plant produce everything needed by their family. Another tune, sung

by a tall thin man with a deep bass voice, told of the trials of a man bent

on catching an ancient granddaddy smacker fish which had once demolished

his small fishing boat with a negligent flick of its massive tail. A

contralto and a baritone sang a sad haunting ballad on the vicissitudes of

gray fishing and the vagaries of that enormous and elusive quarry.

        »You´ve dallied long enough, Lars, you and Olav sing it now,« a man

demanded from the shadows at one point. A wave of cheering and handclapping

seconded that order.

        Grinning amiably, Lars nodded, beckoning to someone seated to

Killashandra´s left. The man who came to stand beside Lars had to be

related to him for their features were similar, if differently arranged.

Though the older man had a thin, long face, the nose was the same, and the

set of the eyes, the shape of the lips, and the firm chin. Neither man

could really be called handsome, but both exuded the same unusual quality

of strength, determination, and confidence that made them stand out as

individuals.

        A respectful silence fell and the instruments began the overture.

Killashandra had a good musical memory: she could hear a composition once

and remember not only the theme, if there was one, but the structure. If

she had studied the score in any detail, she would know the composer and

performances, what different settings or arrangements the music had had

over the years, and possibly which Stellars had performed it and where.

        Before the men began to sing, she recognized the music. The words

had been altered but they suited the locality: the search for the lost and

perfect island in the mists of morning, and the beautiful lady stranded

there for whose affections the men vied. Lar´s beautiful tenor paired well

with the older man´s well produced baritone, their voices in perfect

balance with each other and the dynamics of the music.

        Nevertheless, at song´s end Killashandra stared at Lars in

amazement. He had the most outrageous gall . . . until she also remembered

that he had been required to sing it, however appropriate it might also be

to her circumstances. And Lars Dahl had not had the grace to look abashed.

        Why should he? The performer in her argued with her sense of

personal outrage. The music was beautiful, and so obviously a favorite of

the islanders that the last chorus trailed off into reverent silence.

        Then the baritone held out his hand, into which was placed a twelve

stringed instrument that he presented to Lars Dahl.

        »The Music Masters may not have approved your composition for the

Summer Festival, Lars, but may we at least hear it?«

        Plainly the request distressed Lars Dahl, for his mouth twitched

and he had ducked his head against the compelling level gaze. Nevertheless,

he took a deep breath, reluctantly accepting the instrument. His lips were

pressed into a thin line as he strummed a chord to test the strings. Lars

did not look at Olav, though he could not refuse the older man´ s request,

nor did he look out at the audience. His expression was bleak as he inhaled

deeply, concentrating onward to the performance. The rankling

disappointment, the pain of that rejection, and the sense of failure which

Lars had experienced were as clear to Killashandra as if broadcast. Her

cynical evaluation of him altered radically. She was possibly the only one

in the entire assembly who could empathize, could understand and appreciate

the deep and intense conflict he had to overcome at that moment. She also

could approve heartily of the professionalism in him that unprotestingly

accepted the challenge of an excruciating demand. Lars Dahl possessed a

potentially Stellar temperament.

        Despite her proximity to him, she almost missed the first

whispering chords which his strong fingers stroked from the strings. A

haunting chord, expanded and then altered into a dominant, just like the

dawn breeze through the old polly tree on her island of exile. Soft gray

and pink as the sky lightened, and then the sun would warm the night-closed

blossoms, their fragrance drifting to beguile senses: and the rising lilts

of bird, the gentle susurrus of waves on the shore, and the lift in the

spirit for the pleasure of a new day, for the duties of the day: climbing

the polly for the ripe fruit, fishing off the end of a headland, the bright

sun on the water, the rising breeze, the colors of day, the aroma of frying

fish, the somnolence of midday when the sun´s heat sent people to hammock

or mat . . . an entire day in the life of an islander was in his music,

colored and scented, and how he managed that feat of musical conjuring on a

limited instrument like a twelve-string, Killashandra did not know. How

that music would sound on the Optherian organ was something she would give

her next cutting of black crystal to hear!

        And the Music Masters had rejected his composition? She was

beginning to understand why he might wish to assassinate her, and why he

had kidnapped her: to prevent the repair of the great organ and, perhaps

other less worthy compositions, from being played by anyone. And yet there

was nothing in her brief association with Lars Dahl, in this evening´s

showmanship, even in his reluctant acquiescence to the demands of his

island, to suggest such a dark vengeful streak in the man.

        When the last chord, heralding moon-set, had faded into silence,

Lars Dahl set the instrument down carefully and, turning on his heel,

stalked away. There were murmurs of approval and regret, even anger in some

faces, a more complimentary reaction to the beauty of what they had been

privileged to hear than any wild applause. Then, people began to talk

quietly in little groups, and one of the guitars tried to repeat one of the

deceptively simple threnodies of Lars´s composition.

        With a glance to be sure no one was observing her, Killashandra

rose to her feet and slipped out of the flickering torch light. Adjusting

her eyes to the night, she saw movement off to the right and moved toward

it, almost turning her ankle in one of the footprints that Lars´s angry

passage had gouged in the soft sand.

        She saw his figure outlined against the sky, a dark tense shadow.

        »Lars . .« She wasn´t sure what she could say to ease his distress

but he shouldn´t be alone. he shouldn´t feel his music had not been

appreciated, that the totality of the picture that he had so richly

portrayed had not come across to his listeners.

        »Leave me -- « his bitter voice began, and then his arm snaked out,

and catching her outstretched hand, pulled her roughly to him. »I need a

woman.«

        »I´m here.«

        Holding tight to her hand, he pulled her into a lope. Then, pushing

at her shoulder with his, he guided her at right angles to the beach, up

toward the thick shadow of the polly grove on the headland, near where she

had beached that morning. When she tried to slow his headlong pace, his

hand shifted to her elbow. His grip was electric, his fingers seemed to

transfer that urgency to her and anticipation began to course through her

breast and belly. How they avoided running into a polly tree trunk, or

stumbling over the thick gnarled roots, she never knew. Then suddenly he

slowed, murmured a warning to be careful. She could see him lift his arms

to push through stiff underbrush. She heard the ripple of a stream, smelt

the moisture in the air, and the almost overpowering perfume emanating from

the creamy blossoms before she followed him, pushing through the bushes.

Then her feet were on the coarse velvet of some kind of moss, carpeting the

banks of the stream.

        His hands were urgent on her and the initial physical attraction

she had felt for him was suddenly a mutual sensation. He put her at arm´s

length, staring down at her, seeing her not as a vessel from which he

expected the physical relief, but as a woman whose femininity had aroused

an instinctive and overpowering response.

        »Who are you, Carrigana?« His eyes were wide with his amazement.

»What have you done to me?«

        »I´ve done nothing yet,« she replied with a ripple of delighted

laughter. No one else had awakened such a response in her, not even

Lanzecki. And if Lars had somehow sensed the crystal shock in her, so much

the better: it would enhance their union. She had been celibate far too