"Soon enough not to jeopardize a promising career. Soon enough. Meanwhile, practice makes perfect. This exercise" - and Lanzecki gestured to the boxes of tuned crystal - "is but one of several in which you must excel before you challenge the ranges."

He was gone in one of those fluid movements that was swift enough to make Killashandra wonder if Lanzecki had actually made his visit. Yet his brief appearance was undeniable by the effect he had on her and Trag.

The assistant Guild Master was regarding her with covert interest.

"Take a radiant bath when you reach your quarters." Trag said. "You are scheduled for sled simulator practice this afternoon." He turned away in dismissal.

The training pattern held until the next rest day, though she wished the two elements could have been reversed, with the sled simulation in the morning when her reflexes were fresher and the cutting in the afternoon so she could collapse. There proved to be a reason for that apparently irrational schedule. As she would invariably be flying the sled after she had cut crystal, she must learn to judge blunted reactions.

The radiant baths, the viscous liquid a gentle pressure on her tired body, its thick whirling like the most delicate of massages, did freshen after a morning's intense cutting drill. She checked with the computer and discovered that she was being paid a tuner's wage for her morning work but charged for the flight officer's instruction in the afternoon.

After six days of such an exhausting routine, she looked forward to a day of relaxation. A low-pressure ridge was moving in from the White Sea, so rest day might be cloudy with rain. She had begun to develop the Ballybraners' preoccupation with meteorology, encouraged by Trag's invariable questions about weather conditions at the start of each training session.

Her flight instructor also pressed heavily on weather wise acumen. His insistence made more sense than Trag's since a good deal of her simulation drill involved coping with turbulence of varying degrees and types. She began to distinguish among the tonal differences of the warning equipment with which the simulator was equipped. Sound could tell her as clearly as the met display the kind and scope of the gale her practice flights trained her to survive.

Privately, Killashandra decided the warnings were an over kill situation; after being banged at, rung out, and buzzed, your mind would turn off most of the noise. The nerve tingler, last of the series of cautionary devices, couldn't be ignored.

Meanwhile, her practice performance developed from merely adequate to perfect automatic reaction as she simulated flights over every sector of Ballybran, land, sea, and arctic ice. She learned to identify, within seconds of their being displayed on her plan board, the major air and sea currents everywhere on the planet.

As she practiced, so she learned confidence in her vehicle. The sled was highly maneuverable with VTOL capabilities and a variety of assists to the basic crystalline drive, which had been highly refined for Ballybran's unusual conditions.

Killashandra had had only glimpses of the other members of Class 895. Rimbol had waved cheerfully at her from a distance, and she saw Jezerey scooting across the hangar floor once, but Killashandra wouldn't count on her tolerance unless the girl's temper had markedly improved since the last time they'd met. Jezerey might be more amenable now that she and the others were in full training.

She saw Borton first as she wandered into the Commons hall of the Singers' level. It was an evening when most of the Guild's full members could relax. No storms were expected despite the low-pressure ridge, and Passover - the ominous conjunction of the three moons that produced the fiercest storms - was nine weeks away. Borton didn't see Killashandra, for he and the others in the lounge with him were on the far side. Augmented vision had advantages: see first; plan ahead.

She ordered Yarran beer, a beaker for herself and a pitcher for the group. She was annoyed with herself for anticipating a need for subtle bribery, but an offer made in good faith was unlikely to be refused. Especially of Yarran beer.

Borton saw her coming when she was about twenty meters away. His expression was of mild surprise, and he beckoned to her, speaking to someone hidden from view by the high back of the seating unit. A stir, exclamations, and Rimbol emerged, meeting her with a wide grin. The sense of relief she felt caused the pitcher to wobble.

"Don't waste a drop of good Yarran," he admonished, rescuing it. "Not everyone's down. Some are flaked out in radiant tanks. Shillawn has been transferred to the North Helton continent. That's where they do most of the pure research. Would you believe it, Killa? He doesn't stammer anymore."

"No!"

"Antona said the symbiosis must have corrected the fault in his palate." Rimbol was being determinedly affable, Killashandra thought as she took a place on the wide seating unit. Jezerey, seated in a corner of the unit, acknowledged Killashandra's arrival with a tight smile, Mistra nodded, and Celee and two other men whose names she couldn't call to mind greeted her. All of them looked tired.

"Well, I can't really say I'm sorry Shillawn didn't make it as a Singer because he certainly won't be wasted in research," Killashandra said, raising her beaker in a circular toast to him.

"You mean, you haven't cut crystal yet?" Jezerey asked, a strident note in her voice as she pointed to the wristband evident as Killashandra made her toast.

"Me? Bloody no!" The disgust and frustration in her tone made Rimbol laugh, head thrown back.

"I told you she hadn't got that far," he said to Jezerey. "She only collected the cutter the day we met her."

Killashandra overtly eased the band on her wrist, aware now that it constituted her passport to friendship as well as to Singer levels.

"Furthermore, Jezerey," she went on, letting resentment sharpen her words, "I'll be spending weeks more tuning crystal and simulating gale flights before I'm so much as allowed to put my nose past skimmer chart range. And by then there'll be Passover storms!"

"Oh, yes." Jezerey's attitude brightened, and her smile was complacent. "We'll all be storm bound then."

Killashandra was sensitive to the perceptible change of the atmosphere around her and decided to secure the advantage.

"I may be a little ahead of you in training - you do know that injured Singers take it on only for the bonuses? Good. Well, once you've got those wretched cutters, you'll know what 'tired' means. Cut in the morning, then they send you on simulator flights, and when you're not doing either of those, it's drill; regs, rules, claims, fines - " Groans rose from her listeners. "Ah, I see you're getting the drills."

So what other jollies are we to get? Rimbol asked, his eyes sparkling with an almost malicious delight.

Most of those present were interested in any details she'd give concerning the retuning of crystal. She explained as best she could, truthfully if not fully, for she said nothing about Lanzecki's flattering appearances, her empathy with black crystal, and the rapid progress she seemed to be making in cutting difficult forms. She found it took an effort to be discreet, for she had never practiced tact in the Music Center. She'd be spending the rest of a very long life with these people, had nearly lost their friendship once through circumstances beyond her control, and she wasn't knowingly going to jeopardize it again.

Sufficient beer and other intoxicants were consumed by the recruits to make it a convivial evening. Killashandra found herself ready to be on old terms with Rimbol, and many of the tensions that had built over the past few weeks were dissolved in that most harmonious of activities.

When they woke, rested, they continued, although Killashandra was a trifle surprised to find that they had ended up in Rimbol's quarters. Location made little difference, as the apartments were in every respect similar. He had done little to furbish his rooms and solicited Killashandra's assistance. In this way. they passed agreeable hours and virtuously ended with a game reviewing rules and regulations from the clue of a phrase. In the glow of utter relaxation, Killashandra came very close to mentioning Keborgen's black crystal to Rimbol, rationalizing her evasion later by her desire not to burden her friend with unnecessary detail.

The next week, she suggested to Concera that she join the others in their classes rather than hold Concera up. The Singer's two fingers were complete except for nails.

"You're not holding me up," Concera replied, her eyes sliding past Killashandra's, her mouth pursing with angry frustration. "Those others evidently have priority over a Singer of my long standing. Besides, I only accepted you as a favor, I much prefer single teaching to group learning. Now let's go on to claims and counterclaims."

"I know those paragraphs sideways, frontwise, and backward."

"Then let's start in the middle of one," Concera said with unexpected levity.

As Killashandra really could rehearse claims and counterclaims as well as she boasted, she could also let her mind deal with her biggest problems: how to get her sled, how to get Lanzecki's attention and obtain clearance to cut crystal rather than chant about it. With the prodigious Passover storms looming only nine weeks off, she had to speed up. Research in the data banks about post - Passover problems indicated that it would be weeks before a new Singer would be permitted to claim hunt in ranges made more dangerous than ever by the ravages of Passover. Keborgen's claim could be so altered that her sensitivity to his black crystal might be nullified. Mach storms could damage or substantially alter an exposed crystal face, flawing deep into the vein and rendering it useless. She had to get out soon.

Lanzecki had been in the habit, over the preceding two weeks, of appearing as if teleported, generally when Killashandra was retuning crystal under Trag's scrutiny. Once Lanzecki had sat in the observer's seat of the sled simulator while she flew a particularly hazardous course. Instead of making her nervous, his presence had made her fly with heightened perception. Lanzecki also roamed through the Commons in the evenings, stopping for a word with this or that group, sorter, or technician. Now, when she very much wished him to materialize, he wasn't anywhere to be seen.

The fourth day, she casually asked Concera if she'd encountered the Guild Master and was told that Trag would know better where to find him. Trag was not the easiest person to question or converse with at all except in the handling of cutter or about incisions into crystal. Gathering all her self-assurance, Killashandra resorted to stratagem on the sixth day.

Trag had her shaving cones: she had ruined three the day before and quite expected to spend the morning's lesson avoiding future failures. After she had made a cut, she would look behind her. The fourth time, Trag frowned.

"Your attention span has been longer. What's the matter?"

"I keep thinking the Guild Master will appear. He does, you know, when I least expect it."

"He's on Shankill. Attend to your business."

She did, with less enthusiasm than ever, deeply grateful that the morrow was a rest day. She had half promised to spend that evening and the next day with Rimbol: half promised because her urgency to reach the ranges was in no way shared by the young Scartine. Trag released her at the end of the gruelingly precise session, his impassive face giving her no indication that she had learned to cut cones properly, though she felt in every muscle of her aching hands that she had achieved some proficiency.

She considered a radiant bath before the afternoon's flight practice. Instead, she put in a call for Rimbol: his company would be a soothing anodyne for her increasing frustration. Waiting for his answer, she had a quick hot shower. She paced her apartment, wondering where in hell's planets Rimbol had got to. Her mealtime was nearly gone, and she hadn't eaten. She ordered a quick meal from the catering unit, bolting the hot food, adding a seared mouth to her catalog of grievances before she went to the hangar level.

She was now one of many using the sled simulator so she had to be on time. She knew the flight was only an hour long, but this one, a complicated wind and night problem that kept her preternaturally alert and made her wish she'd taken the radiant bath instead of the shower, seemed endless. She was very pleased to avoid several crashes and emerge unscathed from the simulator. She waved impudently at the flight training officer in his booth above the sled and passed the next student, Jezerey, on her way.

"He's either crash happy or he hates me," Killashandra commented to Jezerey.

"Him? He's crazy. He killed me three times yesterday."

"Kill or cure?"

"That's the Guild's motto, isn't it?" Jezerey replied sourly.

Killashandra watched the girl enter the simulator, wondering. She hadn't been killed yet. She thought of going to the ready room and watching Jezerey's flight. No one else was in the ready room, so she dialed a carbohydrate drink to give her blood sugar level a boost. She was watching Jezerey take off when she became conscious of someone in the doorway. She turned and saw the Guild Master.

"I understand you've been looking for me," he said to compound her astonishment.

"You're on Shankill. Trag told me so this morning."

"I was. I am here now. You have finished your afternoon's exercises?"

"I think they've about finished me."

He stood aside to indicate she should precede him.

"The severity of the drills may seem excessive, but the reality of a mach storm is far more violent than anything we can simulate in the trainers," he said, moving toward the lift while touching her elbow to guide her. "We must prepare you for the very worst that can occur. A mach storm won't give you a second chance. We try to insure that you have at least one."

"I seem to hear that axiom a lot"

"Remember it."

Killashandra expected the lift to plummet to the Singers' level. Instead, it rose and, tired as she was, she swayed uncertainly. Lanzecki steadied her, hand cupped under her elbow.

"The next bad storm is Passover, isn't it?" She was making conversation because Lanzecki's touch had sent ripples along her arm. His appearance in the ready room had already unnerved her. She glanced sideways at him as unobtrusively as possible, but his face was in profile. His lips were relaxed, giving no hint of his thoughts.

"Yes, eight weeks from now is your first Passover."

The lift stopped, and the panels retracted. Killashandra stepped with him out into the small reception area. No sooner had he turned to the right than the third door opened. The large room they entered was an office, with one wall covered by a complex data retrieval system. Printout charts hung neatly from the adjacent wall. Before it, a formidable console printed out fax sheets that neatly folded into a bin. Several comfortable chairs occupied the center of the room, one centered at the nine screens that displayed the meteorology transmissions from the planet's main weather installations and the three moons.

"Yes, eight weeks away," Killashandra said, taking a deep breath, "and if I don't get out to the ranges before it comes, it will be weeks, according to every report I've scanned - "

Lanzecki's laugh interrupted her.

"Sit." He pushed two chairs together and pointed a commanding finger to one.

Amazed that the Master of the Heptite Guild laughed and infuriated because she had not been able to state her case, she dropped without much grace into the appointed chair, her self-confidence pricked and drained. Presently she heard the familiar clink of beakers. She looked up as he handed one to her.

"I like Yarran beer myself, having originated on that planet. I'm obliged to the Scartine for reminding me of it."

Killashandra masked her confusion by drinking deeply. Lanzecki knew a great deal about Class 895. He raised his glass to her.

"Yes, we must get you out to the ranges. If anyone can find Keborgen's claim, it's likely to be you."

Feeling the beaker slip through fingers made nerveless by shock, she was grateful when he took the glass and put it on the table he swung before her.

"Conceit in a Singer - voice or crystal - can be a virtue, Killashandra Ree. Do not let such single-mindedness blind you to the fact that others can reach the same conclusions from the same data."

"I don't. That's why I've got to get out into the ranges as soon as possible." Then she frowned. "How did you know? No one followed me that night. Only you and Enthor knew I'd reacted to Keborgen's crystals."

Lanzecki gave her a long look that she decided must be pity, and she dropped her gaze, jamming her fingers together. She wanted to pound him or stamp her feet violently or indulge in some release from the humiliation she was experiencing.

Lanzecki, sitting opposite her, began to unlock her fingers one by one.

"You played the pianoforte as well as the lute," he said, his finger tips gently examining the thick muscle on the heel of her hand, the lack of webbing between her fingers, their flexible joints and callused tips. If this hadn't been her Guild Master, Killashandra would have enjoyed the semicaress. "Didn't you?"

She mumbled an affirmative, unable to remain quite silent. She was relieved, taking a deeply needed breath as he leaned back and took up his drink, sipping it slowly.

"No one did follow you. And only Enthor and I knew of your sensitivity to Keborgen's black crystal. Very few people know the significance of a Milekey transition beyond the fact that you somehow escaped the discomforts they had to endure. What they will never appreciate is the totality of the symbiotic adjustment."

"Is that why Antona wished me luck?"

Lanzecki smiled as he nodded.

"Does that have something to do with my identifying black crystal so easily? Did Keborgen have a Milekey, too?"

"Yes, to both questions."

"That totality didn't save his life, did it?"

"Not that time," he said mildly, ignoring her angry, impudent question. Lanzecki voice-cued a display screen, and the guild s chronological roster appeared. Keborgen's name was in the early third. "As I told you that evening, the symbiont ages too, and is then limited in the help it can give an ancient and abused body."

"Why Keborgen must have been two hundred years old! He didn't look it!" Killashandra was aghast. She'd had only one glimpse of the injured Crystal Singer's face, but she never would have credited twenty decades to his age. Suddenly, the pressure of hundreds of years of life seemed as depressing to Killashandra as her inability to get into the ranges.

"Happily, one doesn't realize the passage of time in our profession until some event displays a forcible comparison."

"You had a Milekey transition." She shot her guess at him as if it were undeniable.

He nodded affirmation.

"But you don't sing crystal?"

"I have."

"Then . . . why . . ." and she gestured around the office and then at him.

"Guild Masters are chosen early and trained rigorously in all aspects of the operation."

"Keborgen was . . . but he sang crystal. And you have, too." She sprang to her feet, unable to assimilate the impact of Lanzecki's quiet words. "You don't mean . . . I have to train to be . . . You're raving!"

"No, you are raving," Lanzecki replied, a slight smile playing on his face as he gestured her to her seat and pointed at her beer. "Steady your nerves. My only purpose in having a private talk with you is to reassure you that you will go out into the ranges as soon as I can arrange a shepherd for you."

"Shepherd?"

Killashandra was generally quick enough of wit to absorb the unexpected without floundering, but Lanzecki's singular interest in her, his awareness of intentions that she had kept utterly private, and his disclosures of the past few minutes had left her bewildered.

"Oh? Concera neglected to mention this facet of training?"

"Yes, a shepherd, Killashandra Ree, a seasoned Singer who will permit you to accompany him or her to a worked face, probably the least valuable of his claims, to demonstrate in practice what, to that point, has been theory."

"I've had theory up to my eyeballs."

"Above and behind them is better, my dear, which is where your brain is located, where theory must become reflex. On such reflexive knowledge may lie your survival. A successful Crystal Singer must have transcended the need for the conscious performance of his art."

"I've an eidetic memory. I can recite - "