"Think about the assignment while you eat some fried steakbean."

"It is, then, a suggestion?" she asked around a large mouthful of tasty legume.

"It is - now - a suggestion." His face, mouth, and tone were bland. "The storms will soon be hammering the ranges and forcing Singers in. Others would undertake the assignment happily, especially those who haven't cut enough crystal to get off-world at Passover."

"I thought Passover was an incredible spectacle."

"It is. Raw natural forces at their most destructive." A lift to his shoulders suggested that it was a spectacle to which he was inured and yet . . .

"Do you leave during Passover?"

He gave her a keen glance, his dark eyes reflecting the spotlights over his work desk.

"The Guild Master is always accessible during Passover." He offered her some lemon-yellow cubes. "A sharpish cheese, but it complements the steakbean."

"Hmmm. Yes, it does."

"Help yourself." He rose and took the next dishes from the catering slot, which had been maintaining them at the appropriate heat. "Will you have something to drink?"

"Yarran beer, please." She had a sudden craving for the taste of hops.

"Good choice. I'll join you."

She glanced at him, arrested by some slight alteration of tone, but his back was to her.

"Rimbol's from Scartine, isn't he?" Lanzecki asked, returning with a pitcher and two beakers. He poured with a proper respect for the head of foam. "He should cut well in the darker shades. Perhaps black, if he can find a vein."

"How could you tell?"

"A question of resonance, also of the degree of adaptation. Jezerey will do lighter blues, pinks, paler greens. Borton will also tend to cut well in the darker. I hope they team up."

"Do you know who will cut what?"

"I am not in a position to imply anything, merely venture an informed guess. After all, the Guild has been operating for over four hundred years galactic, all that time collecting and collating information on its members. It would show a scandalous want of probity not to attempt more than merely a determination of probability of adjustment to Ballybran spore symbiosis."

"You sound like Borella's come-all-ye pitch," Killashandra replied.

Lanzecki's lips twitched in an amusement that was echoed by the sparkle in his brilliant eyes. "I do believe I'm quoting - but whom, I've forgotten. How about some pepper fruit? Goes with the beer. I've ordered some ices to clear the palate. A very old and civilized course but not one taken with beer." As he passed her the plate, the tangy scent of the long, thin furry fingers did tempt her to try one. "As I was saying, by the time candidates are through the Shankill checkpoint, as many variables as can be resolved have been." He began to pile empty plates and dishes into one untidy stack, and she realized that while he had sampled everything, she had eaten far more. Yet she didn't feel uncomfortably full. "You ought to have been shown the probability graph," he said, frowning as he rose. He tossed the discards deftly into the waste chute before pausing yet again at the catering slot.

"We were." She nibbled at another pepper fruit while wondering why his face showed no trace of aging. He wasn't singing crystal anymore, but that was the ostensible reason for the specious youthfulness. "We were told nothing about individual capabilities or forecasts."

''Why should you be? That would create all sorts of unnecessary problems." He set two dishes of varicolor sherbets, two wine glasses, and a frosty bottle on the table.

"I couldn't eat another thing."

"No? Try a spoonful of the green. Very settling to the stomach and clears the mouth." He seated himself and poured the wine. "The one critical point is still adaptation. The psychological attitude, Antona feels, rather than the physical. That space worker, Carigana, should not have died." Lanzecki's expression was one of impersonal regret. "We can generally gauge the severity of transition and are prepared for contingencies."

Killashandra thought of the smooth disappearances of Rimbol and Mistra during the night, of meditechs collecting Jezerey before she had fallen to the plascrete. She also recalled her indignation over "condition satisfactory.

"How do you like the wine?"

"Does it have to be so mechanical?"

"The wine?"

"The whole process."

"Every care is taken, my dear Killashandra," and Lanzecki's tone reminded her incontrovertibly that he was Guild Master and that the procedure she wished to protest was probably of his institution.

"The wine's fine."

"I thought you'd appreciate it." His response was as dry as the wine. "Not much is left to chance in recruiting. Tukolom may be a prosy bore, but he has a curious sensitivity to illness which makes him especially effective in his role as tutor."

"Then it was known that I - "

"You were not predicted." He used the slightest pause between each word for emphasis, and raising his glass to her, took a sip.

"And . . ." It was not coquetry in Killashandra that caused her to prompt him but the strongest feeling that he had been about to add a rider to that surprise comment.

"And certainly not a Milekey, nor resonant to black crystal. Perhaps" - and his quick reply did, she was positive, mask thoughts unspoken - "we should initiate handling crystal with recruits as soon as possible. But" - and he shrugged - "we can't program convenient storms which require all-member participation."

"Rimbol said you couldn't have planned that storm."

"Perceptive of him. How did those ices go down?""They went." She was surprised to find dish, bottle, and wine glasses empty.

"Fine. Than we can start on more."

"More?" But already a pungent spicy odor emanating from the caterer had sharpened her appetite. "I'll bloat."

"Very unlikely. Had you gone out with your class, this is exactly what would have been served on your return from the ranges. Yarran beer, since you have cultivated a taste for it, would be appropriate to wash down the spicefish." He dialed for more. "Beer has also, for millennia, had another normal effect on the alimentary system."

His comment, delivered in a slightly pompous tone, made her laugh. So she ate the spicefish, drank the beer, responded to certain natural effects of it, and, at one point, realized that Lanzecki had coaxed, diverted, bullied her into continuously consuming food for nearly three hours. By then, her satiation was such that when Lanzecki casually repeated his suggestion that she install the black crystal, she agreed to consider it.

"Is that why you've stuffed and drunken me?" she demanded, sitting erect to feign indignation.

"Not entirely. I have given you sufficient food to restore your symbiont and enough drink to relax you." He smiled away her defective grammar and any accusation of coercion. "I do not wish you to endure Passover's mach storms. You might be ten levels underground, buffered by plascrete a meter thick, but the resonances cannot be" - he paused, averted his face, searching for the precise word - "escaped." He turned back to her, and his eyes, dark and subtly pained, held hers, his petition heightened by the uncharacteristic difficulty in expressing his concern.

"Do you ever . . . escape?"

The delicate bond of perception between them lasted some time, and then, leaning across the table, he kissed her question away.

He escorted her back to her quarters, made certain she was comfortable in the bedroom, and suggested that in the morning she take her cutter down to be checked and stored, that if she was interested in weather history, she could review other phenomenal Passover storms in the met control the next day at eleven and see something of Storm Control tactics.

The next morning, she reflected during her shower and notably hearty breakfast on Lanzecki's extraordinary attentions to her, sensual as well as Guild. She could see why Lanzecki, as Guild Master, would exploit her eagerness to get into the ranges and secure Keborgen's priceless claim. She'd succeeded. Now, in an inexplicable reverse, Lanzecki wanted her off-planet. Well, she could decide this morning when she watched the weather history, whether that was the man or the Guild Master talking. She rather hoped it was the former, for she did like Lanzecki the man and admired the Guild Master more than any man she had so far encountered.

What had he meant when he said she was unpredicted? Had that been flattery? The Guild Master indulging a whimsy? Not after he had assisted her in getting out into the ranges; not after she had successfully cut black crystal? Especially, not after Lanzecki had very forcefully defined to her in the Sorting Room the difference between the man and the Guild Master.

She winced at the memory. She had deserved that reprimand. She could also accept his solicitousness for her health and well-being. He wanted more black crystal - if that was his motive. All right, Killashandra Ree, she told herself firmly, no section or paragraph of the Charter of the Heptite Guild requires the Master to explain himself to a member. Her ten years at Fuerte Music Center had taught Killashandra that no one ever does a favor without expecting a return. Lanzecki had also underscored self-preservation and self-interest with every object lesson that was presented.

She didn't really want to leave Ballybran, though it was probably true that she could use the credit margin of an off world assignment. She looked up the payment scale: the credit offered was substantial. Perhaps it would be better to take the assignment. But that would mean leaving Lanzecki, too. She stared grimly at her reflection in the mirror as she dressed. Departing for that reason might also be wise. Only she'd better mend her fences with Rimbol.

Grateful that she would not have the additional expense of replacing the cutter or facing the Fisher with that request, she brought the device up to Engineering and Training. As she entered the small outer office, she saw two familiar figures.

"I'm not going to be caught here again during Passover," Borella was saying to the Singer Killashandra remembered from the shuttle.

"Doing your bit again on recruits, Borella?" the man asked, negligently shoving his cutter across the counter and ignoring the technician's sour exclamation.

"Recruits?" Borella stared blankly.

"Remember, dear" - and the man's voice rippled with mockery - "occasionally, you pass the time briefing the young hopefuls at Shankill station."

"Of course, I remember," Borella said irritably. "I can do better than that this time, Olin," she went on smugly. "I cut greens in octave groups. Five of them. Enough for an Optherian organ. Small one, of course, but you know that that addiction will last a while."

"I'm rather well off, too, as it happens." Olin spoke over her last sentence.

Borella murmured something reassuring to him as she handed over her cutter to the technician, but showed a shade more concern for the device. Then she linked her arm through Olin's. As they turned to leave, Killashandra nodded politely to Borella, but the woman, giving Killashandra's cutter a hard stare, walked past with no more sign of recognition than tightening her clasp on Olin's forearm.

"Of course, there are those unfortunate enough to have to stay here." Her drawl insinuated that Killashandra would be of that number. "Have you seen Lanzecki lately, Olin?" she asked as they left the room.

For a moment, Killashandra was stunned by the double insult, though how Borella would have known where the Guild Master spent his time was unclear. She resisted the insane urge to demand satisfaction from Borella.

"Are you turning that cutter in or wealing it?" A sour voice broke through her resentment.

"Turning it in." She handed the cutter to the Fisher carefully, wishing she didn't have to encounter him as well.

"Killashandra Ree? Right?" He wasn't looking at her but inspecting the cutter. "You can't have used this much," and he peered suspiciously at handle and blade casing. "Where'd you damage it?"

"I didn't. I'm turning it in.

The Fisher was more daunting than Borella and her rudeness.

"You could have left it in your sled, you know," he said, his tone not quite so acerbic now that he had assured himself that one of his newest cutters had not been misused. "No one else can use it, you know," he added, obviously making allowance for her ignorance.

She was not about to admit to anyone that she had lost the sled.

"I'm going off-planet for Passover," she said and belatedly realized that he had no such option.

"Go while you can, when you can," he said gruffly but not unkindly. Then he turned and disappeared into his workroom.

As she made her way back to the lift, Killashandra supposed she ought to be relieved that someone remembered her. Possibly the Fisher was able to associate her with a device he had so recently crafted. Or perhaps it was common knowledge through the Guild that Lanzecki had berated a new Singer.

She shouldn't let the encounter with Borella rankle her. The woman had inadvertently confirmed Lanzecki's advice. Furthermore, if Moksoon could not remember Killashandra from moment to moment, how could she fault Borella? How long did it take for a Singer's memory to disintegrate? Killashandra must learn to overcome habits and values acquired on Fuerte in the Music Center. There one sought to put people under obligation so they could be called in as support for this role or that rehearsal room, to form a trio or quartet, throw a party on limited credit, all the myriad arrangements that require cooperation, good will! and . . . memory of favors past. As Lanzecki had pointed out, "Gratitude depends on memory." The corollary being "memory lasts a finite time with a Singer." The only common bond for Crystal Singers was the Guild Charter and its regulations, rules, and restrictions - and the desire to get off Ballybran whenever one could afford that privilege.

Carigana shouldn't have died? Now why did that come to mind, Killashandra wondered as she stepped out of the lift at Meteorology. According to the ceiling-border message panel, the viewing was already in progress in the theater. As she hesitated, another lift, this one full of people, opened its door, and she accompanied the group to their mutual destination.

The theater was semidark and crowded, people standing along the walls when all seating was occupied. On the wide angle screen, cloud patterns formed and reformed with incredible speed. At one point, Killashandra saw Rimbol's face illumined; beside him were Borton and Jezerey. She recognized other members of Class 895 and the weather man who had taken them to the sensor station. The turbulence of the storm was not audible. Instead a commentator droned on about pressure, mach-wind velocities, damage, rain fall, snow, sleet, dust density, and previous Passover tempests while a print display under the screen kept pace with his monologue. Killashandra managed to find space against the far wall and looked over the engrossed audience for Lanzecki's face. She hoped he hadn't made his offer of the off-planet trip to anyone else. If he was being magnanimous, surely he would also give her first refusal.

Then she became caught up in the storm visuals, thinking at first they must have been accelerated - until she compared wind velocities and decibel readings. She was aghast at the fury of the storm.

"The major Passover storm of 2898," voice and print informed viewers, "while not as severe or as damaging as that of 2863, also formed in the northeast, during spring solstice, and when Shilmore was over the Great Ocean in advance of Shanganagh and Shankill. The inauspicious opposition of the two nearest planets will emphasize the violence of this year's storm. Seeding, improved emulsions, and the new wave disrupter off the coasts of Buland and Hoyland should prevent the tsunami drive across the ocean which caused such widespread havoc on the South Durian continent."

The screen switched frequently from satellite pictures to planetary weather stations where the wind shifts were marked by waves of debris flung in vertical sheets. Killashandra fell into that mesmerized state that can befuddle the mind, and for one hideous second she almost heard windshriek. A particularly frenzied cross-current of detritus shattered the trance by inducing motion nausea. She hastily left the theater, looking for a toilet. The moment she reached the soundproof stability of the quiet corridor, her nausea waned, only to be replaced by the gnawing of severe hunger.

"I had breakfast," she said through clenched teeth "I had plenty of breakfast."

She entered a lift, wondering just how long the postrange appetite remained critical. She punched for the infirmary level and swung into the same anteroom she had entered barely four weeks before.

No one was on duty.

"Is anyone here?" she demanded acidly.

"Yes," the verbal address system responded.

"I don't want you. I'd like to see - "

"Killashandra Ree?" Antona walked through the right hand door panel, an expression of surprise on her face. "You can't have been injured?" The chief medic took a small diagnostic unit from her thigh pocket and advanced toward Killashandra.

"No, but I'm starving of the hunger."

Antona laughed, slipping the instrument back into her pocket. "Oh, I do apologize, Killashandra. It's not the least bit funny! For you." She tried to compose her face into a more severe expression. "But you put it aptly. You're "starving of the hunger" for several reasons. While the others were convalescing from the fever, we could administer nutritional assists. You had no fever, and then you were sent out to cut. The appalling hunger, you realize, is quite normal. No, I see you don't, and you look hungry. I'm just about to have a morning snack. The lounge will be deserted, as everyone's peering at last year's storms. Join me? I can think of nothing more boring than to be compelled to eat mountains and gulp them down in solitary confinement. You did remember, of course" - and by this time Antona had guided her back to the lift and, at their destination, down the length of the lounge to a catering area as she talked - "that the symbiont takes twenty weeks to establish itself thoroughly. We have never managed to find out the average spore intake per diem since so much depends on the individual's metabolism. Now, let's see . . ." Antona pressed menu review. "You don't mind if I order for you? I know exactly how to reduce that hunger and restore the symbiont." Antona waited for Killashandra's agreement and then toured the catering area, dialing several selections at each post before signaling Killashandra to take a tray and start collecting the items delivered.

Food enough for the entire final year student complement of the Music Center presently covered two large tables, and Killashandra ravenously started to eat.

"If it's any encouragement, your appetite will slack off especially after the symbiont has prepared for Passover." She smiled at Killashandra's groan. "Don't worry. You'll have no appetite at all during the height of Passover - the spore buries itself in crevices." Antona smiled. "In the Life lab, we have rock crabs and burrow worms over four hundred years old." Antona's grin became wry. "I don't suppose that aspect of Ballybran's ecology figured in your orientation. There isn't much life on this mudball, but what there is lives in symbiotic relation to the spore. That's how it keeps itself alive, by increasing the survival mechanisms of whatever host it finds. It behooves Us, the new dominant life form, to study the indigenous."

As she ate, Killashandra found Antona's ramblings more interesting than Tukolom's lectures. It did cross her mind that Antona might just be indulging in the luxury of a captive audience. Antona was not lazy with fork and spoon, so her "morning snack" must have answered a real need if not as urgent as Killashandra's.

"I keep trying" - and Antona emphasized that word "to correlate some factor, or factors, which would once and for all allow us to recruit without anxiety." She paused and looked with unfocused eyes to one corner of the dining area. "I mean, I knew what I was to do before I came here, but if I had made the complete adjustment, I'd've been required to sing crystal." Antona made a grimace of dislike, then smiled radiantly. "The prospect of having all the time in the world to delve into a life form and carry through a research program was such a gift - "

"You didn't want to be a Crystal Singer?"

"Shards and shades, girl, of course not. There's more to life here than that."

"I had the impression, that crystal singing was the function of this planet."

"Oh, it is," and Antona's agreement rippled with laughter. "But the Crystal Singers could scarcely function without support personnel. More of us than you, you know. Takes five and three-quarters support staff to keep a Singer in the ranges. Furthermore, the Guild doesn't have the time or the facilities to train up members in every skill needed. There are plenty of people from the Federated Sentient Planets quite willing to risk adaptation and the possibility of having to sing crystal to come here in other capacities."

"I'm a little confused . . ."

"I shouldn't wonder, Killashandra. You do come from Fuerte, and that conservative government had off notions about self-determination. I did wonder how you came to be recruited, though you are one of our nicer surprises." Antona patted Killashandra's arm reassuringly. "The Fuertans we've had in previous decades also made good hosts." Suddenly, Antona frowned, eyeing Killashandra speculatively. "I really must run your scans again. I've developed five separate evaluation tests, two at the primary level, which, if I say so myself - and Antona smiled modestly - "have increased the probability figures by 35%."

"I didn't think the Guild was permitted active recruiting," Killashandra said, doggedly returning to that blithe comment.

Antona looked startled. "Oh, nothing active. Certainly less blatant than service programs. The FSP definitely frowns on any sort of conditioning or coercion due to the specific adaptation, you see. That's a direct contradiction of the freedom of movement in the FSP Charter. Of course, when FSP recruits, no one dares complain but it's common knowledge what Service people do." She emitted a sort of giggle. "Freedom of movement, indeed. Most good citizens of the FSP never leave or want to leave their home worlds, but they have to be able to do so according to FSP, and that forces us to use the Shankill clearing point."

"Don't you mind being restricted to this planet?"

"Why should I?" Antona did not appear to be resigned.