"Is this Passover going to be that bad?" she asked. Lanzecki took a long draught of the beer before he answered, but his eyes were twinkling, and his mouth fell into an easier line.

"We always plan for the worst and generally are not disappointed. The challenge thus presented by each new Passover configuration is irresistible, forces that are changeless and changing, as unpredictable as such natural phenomena are."

Killashandra was startled by his unexpected philosophizing and wondered if she had been wrong about his mood.

"You actually enjoy this!"

"Hmmm. No - 'enjoy' is not the appropriate word. Stimulated, I think, would be more accurate." He was teasing her. His lips told her that. Teasing, but something more, something deeper, the element that caused the heaviness about him. "Stop thinking and eat. I've ordered up a particular delicacy which I hope you'll enjoy, too. Catering goes to great pains at this time of Ballybran's cycle, and we must respond."

Tonight, his appetite equaled hers as they sampled the marvels of taste and texture that had been conjured from the cuisine's of all the elegant and exotic worlds in the Federation. Lanzecki knew a great deal about food and promised her that one day he would personally prepare a meal for her from raw produce to finished dish.

"When eating is not a necessity, as it is now, but can be enjoyed," and his eyes twinkled at the repetition of that word "in complete leisure."

"We're not at leisure now?"

"Not completely. As soon as I have satisfied my symbiotic self, I must meet with the storm technicians again."

She suppressed an irrational disappointment that their dinner was not a prelude to another loving night.

"Thank you, dear heart," he said.

"Thank me? For what?"

"For being . . . aware."

She stared at Lanzecki for a long moment.

"You're certain telepathy is not in the symbiotic . . ."

"Absolutely not!" Lanzecki's assurance was solemn, but she wasn't sure about his mouth.

Killashandra rapidly catalogued some of her responses to him and sighed.

"Well, I am sorry you're not staying!"

Lanzecki laughed as he reached for her hand and kissed it lightly. Not light enough so that she didn't respond to his touch.

"I have never intended to invade your privacy, Killashandra, by watching the shift and flow of your thoughts and emotions. I enjoy them. I enjoy you. Now" - and he rose purposefully - "if it were anything but storm tactics . . ." He kissed her palm again and then strode swiftly from the room.

She let her hand fall back to her lap, Lanzecki's graceful compliment echoing through her mind. Quite one of the nicest she had ever been paid.

Oddly enough, that he had been invading a Fuertan's treasured privacy, once her most defended possession, did not distress Killashandra. If Lanzecki continued to "enjoy" what he saw - She took a long swallow of beer. How much she had changed since that aimless, aching ride on the pedestrian way to Fuerte's spaceport! How much of the change was due to her "symbiotic self?" That, too, had been an invasion of privacy to which she had, before officialdom of the FSP, agreed.

Now that she had held crystal, vibrant in the palm of her hand, light and sound coruscating off the sun-warmed quartz, she felt no regrets for loss of privacy, no regrets for an invasion that had been entrance into a new dimension of experience.

She laughed softly at her whimsy. She finished the beer. She was sleepy and satiated, and tomorrow would be a wearying day. She hoped that Trag did not get reports from Enthor on the raggedness of her first cuttings.

The next morning, after a sturdy breakfast, she reported to Trag in the cutting room. Other members of Class 895 were already busy under the supervision of Concera and another Guild member. Killashandra greeted Concera and smiled at the others.

Trag jerked his head to a side door, and she followed him. She experienced a double shock, for there on the work table amid installation brackets and pads were five black crystals. And she didn't respond to their presence at all!

"Don't worry!" Trag picked up the nearest one and tossed it negligently at her.

She opened her mouth to scald him with an oath when the object reached her hands and she knew it wasn't black crystal.

"Don't you ever frighten me that way again!" Fury was acid in her belly and throat.

"Surely you didn't think we'd risk the black in practice." Trag had enjoyed startling her.

"I'm too new at this game to know what is risked," she replied, getting her anger under control. She hefted the block in her hand, wanting more than anything else to loft it right back at Trag.

"Easy now, Killashandra," he said, raising a protective hand. "You knew it wasn't black crystal the moment you walked into the room!"

The coolness in Trag's voice reminded her that he was a senior Guild member.

"I've had enough surprises in the ranges without having to encounter them here, too, Trag." As she controlled panic and rage, she also reminded herself that Trag had always been impersonal! Her relations with Lanzecki were clouding other judgments.

"Coping with the unexpected must become automatic for a Singer. Some people never learn how." Trag's eyes shifted slightly to indicate the room behind them. "You proved just now that your instinct for the blacks is reliable. Now" - and he reached out to take the block from her hand - "let us to the purpose for which these were simulated." He put the block among its mates.

Only then did she realize that the five mock crystals had been cast in the image of those she had cut, wiggles, improper angles and size.

"This substance has the same tensile strength and expansion ratio as black crystal but no other of its properties. You must learn today to install crystal properly in its bracketing with enough pressure to secure it against vibration but not enough to interfere with intermolecular flow." He showed her a printed diagram. "This will be the order and the configuration of the Trundimoux link." He tapped the corresponding block as he pointed out its position, repeating what Lanzecki had rattled through. "Number one and two, the smallest, will be on mining stations, number three on the gas planet satellite, number four on the ice planet satellite, and number five, the largest crystal, will be installed on the habitable planet. You and you alone will handle the crystals."

"Is that Guild policy?" How much more did she have to learn about this complex profession?

"Among other considerations, no one in the Trundimoux System is technically capable." Trag's voice was heavy with disapproval.

Killashandra wondered if he considered them "Trundies" or "Moux."

"I would have thought Marketing would handle installation."

"Generally." His stiff tone warned her off further questions.

"Well, I don't suppose I'd've been saddled with the job if I hadn't lost my sled and if Passover weren't so near."

She got no visible reaction from her rueful comment.

"Remember that," Trag advised, and added with an unexpected wryness, "if you can."

Installing crystal in padded clamps was not as simple as it had sounded, but then, as Killashandra was learning, nothing in the Heptite Guild was as simple as it sounded. Nevertheless, by evening, with arm, neck, and back muscles tense and hands that trembled from the effort of small, strong movements, eyes hot from concentration on surface tension readings, she believed she understood the process.

She was philosophical when Trag said they would repeat the day's exercise on the morrow, for she knew she must be motion perfect during the actual installations. Guild members had a reputation to maintain, and she would be up to Trag's standard of performance even if this was the only installation she ever made. Since her notion tallied with Trag's, she was undaunted by his perfectionism.

Lanzecki joined her again for her evening "gorge," but he excused himself as soon as he'd finished. She didn't mind so much that night because she was very tired.

By meal time the following day, she had secured Trag's grudging approval for a deft, quick, and competent installation within a time limit he had arbitrarily set.

"Why not take more time?" she'd asked reasonably. "Installing a link between people ought to be an occasion."

"You won't have time," Trag said. "You'll be on an inbound gravity deflection course. There'll be no time to spare."

He gave her no chance to query his emphasis on time. With a curt nod, he left the room. Maybe Lanzecki would be in an expansive mood. If, she qualified to herself, he joined her for dinner.

Dinner? She was starving for her midday meal. As she passed through the main training room, Rimbol had just finished making a diagonal cut under Concera's tutelage.

"Are you eating soon?" she asked Rimbol and the Older Singer.

"I'm always eating!" Rimbol's reply was half groan, half belch, and Concera laughed.

"Finish the last cut," Concera told him.

"Go save us a table." Rimbol shooed her off, then turned his attention to his cutting.

Killashandra went directly to the Commons and found the dining area well occupied, tables stacked with a variety of dishes that bore witness to the problem of symbiotic instinct. She was about to order something to sustain her during the search for a free table when a large group vacated one of the booths. She ordered hastily, dialing for beer in a pitcher and beaker and setting them about the table to prevent occupation. She had retrieved her first order and was already eating as Rimbol, Concera, and two others of Class 895 joined her.

The meal became a convivial occasion, and all made suggestions of this or that favored delicacy they'd discovered during what Concera styled "the hunger."

"It's so good to have new members," she said in a giddy voice, waving her beaker of beer, "to remind us of things we've forgotten. I can't think, of course, who it was the last time, but Yarran beer is so satisfying."

Rimbol rose, bowed to the entire table. "Be upstanding all. Let us toast to the brewers of Yarran beer. May they always be remembered - by somebody!"

As the company hastily stood, the table was knocked askew, and before the toast could be made, the surface had to be mopped and more beer dialed.

Killashandra was suffused by a sense of camaraderie that she had often observed in the Music Center but had never been part of. She supposed it was Rimbol's special gift that, given half a chance, he could make an occasion of any gathering. She said little, smiled much, and ate with a heartier appetite for such good company.

As she sat facing the dispensing area, she found herself identifying high-ranking Guild members as well as Singers obviously just in from the ranges, some of whom were gaunt, nervous, and confused by the throng of diners. Others, despite the same noise-pollution discomfiture, appeared in very good spirits. The nervous ones hadn't cut enough crystal to get off-planet, Killashandra thought, and the relaxed ones had. Certainly, when Borella entered with Olin and another pair of Singers, they were a vivacious group. Obstreperously so, Killashandra thought, for they would whisper among themselves, then burst into laughter as they looked with mock surreptitiousness at silent diners.

Though Rimbol was joking with Concera and Celee, he had noticed Borella's table.

"D'you know?" he said in an undertone to Killashandra, "she doesn't remember any of us."

"I know. She has been out in the ranges since we were recruited." Killashandra knew she wasn't excusing Borella, and she didn't need to explain to Rimbol.

"I know, I know, but that was only a few months ago." Rimbol's blue eyes were clouded with worry. "Do we lose our memories that quickly?"

"Borella's sung a long time, Rimbol." Killashandra could not reassure herself, either. "Have you started your personal file? Good. That's the way to remember what's important."

"I wonder what she considers important." Rimbol looked at Borella with narrowed eyes.

"Getting off this planet during Passover!" Even to herself, Killashandra sounded sharp. Rimbol threw her a startled look, and then he laughed. "I only know because I heard her talking to that tall fellow, Olin." Killashandra added in an easier manner. "Say, have you been in contact with Shillawn at all?"

"Sure have. In fact, we're meeting here tomorrow. Join us?"

Killashandra met Rimbol's mildly challenging stare.

"If I'm free. I'm scheduled to take some crystals to the Trundimoux system. Evidently, having cut crystal, I'd be particularly susceptible to Passover, so they're whipping me off the planet."

"Once I thought I'd have no trouble keeping up with you, Killa." Rimbol's expression was rueful.

"What D'you mean by that?" Killashandra was aware of a flurry of unexpected feelings: anxiety, surprise, irritation, and a sense of loss. She didn't want to lose her friendship with Rimbol. She put her hand on his arm. "We're friends, remember. Class 895."

"If we remember."

"What is the matter with you, Rimbol? I've been having such a good time." Killashandra gestured at the others laughing and chatting, and the evidences of a hearty meal. "I haven't had a chance to see much of anyone because of that wretched Milekey transition and being shepherded out by that sonic-shorted Moksoon - "

"Not to mention finding black crystal."

She took a deep breath against her seething reaction to Rimbol's implicit accusation.

"When" - she began slowly and in a taut voice - "you have been in the ranges looking for crystal, then you will know what I can not possibly explain to you now." She rose, the tenuous sensation of comradeship abruptly severed. "Give my regards to Shillawn if you'd be so good as to remember."

She excused herself and stalked past a startled Concera, who tried to protest Killashandra's exit.

"Let her go, Concera. She has matters of great importance to attend."

Striding quickly into the main aisle, Killashandra nearly ran into Trag just entering the dining area "Killashandra? Don't you ever watch the call display?" Trag pointed to the moving line above the catering area, and she saw her name flashing. Trag took her arm and hurried her toward the lifts. "The Trundimoux ship is at Shankill. We've been holding the shuttle for you."

"The Trundimoux ship? Leave?" Killashandra glanced back at the table she had so hurriedly left. Only Concera was looking in her direction. She gave Killashandra a little wave for reassurance.

"They made time around their last sun and are here ahead of schedule and can not hold at slow much longer or they'll lose momentum."

"I'll only need a few things . . ."

Trag shook his head impatiently and pushed her into a waiting lift.

"A Carisak is being prepared for you on the Base. Anything else you require, your accommodations and expenses are to be met by the Trundimoux. There's no time to lose now!"

Killashandra's protests waned. Her initial confusion turned quickly to resentment. Not only was she leaving without a chance to vindicate herself in Rimbol's opinion, she wasn't to see Lanzecki either. Or perhaps he had planned so hasty a departure to prevent her from embarrassing him? Soured as she was by Rimbol's accusations, it was easy to include Lanzecki.

That Milekey transition might have appeared to be a blessing, but that bit of "luck" had alienated her from the few friends she had ever made and left her vulnerable to speculations and subtly accused of harsh and indefensible suspicions.

"We were not expecting the Trundimoux to arrive so soon," Trag said, "but that may be fortuitous with Passover not long away." He thrust a sheaf of print out at her as she was puzzling that cryptic remark. "Antona said you were to read this. Medical advice on symbiotic adjustment and replenishment, so examine it carefully. The crystals are already on board the shuttle and locked in the supercargo's security hold. This is your Guild identification" - he offered her a slim folder like the one Carrik had carried "and the Guild band," which he clasped around her right wrist. "With these, you have access to planetary governing organizations, including the Session of the Federated Sentient Planets. Though they're a boring lot, and I can not see this assignment leading to a meeting, it's wise to be prepared for all contingencies."

Access to the Session of the Federated Sentient Planets? Killashandra did not think Trag would joke about such a privilege. The stimulation of such prestige and surprise lifted her depression.

They had reached the hangar level, and Trag's hand under her arm propelled her forward at a good pace toward the waiting shuttle. At the ramp, the boarding officer was gesturing them urgently to hurry. Trag increased his pace, and every inch of Killashandra wanted to resist as she glanced around the immense hangar area for one glimpse of Lanzecki.

"C'mon! C'mon!" the boarding officer exhorted. "Stragglers can be left for tomorrow's shuttle!"

"Quiet!" Trag turned Killashandra just as she put her foot on the ramp. "The Guild Master has considerable confidence in your abilities. I do not think it is misplaced Lanzecki wishes you a good voyage and a safe return! Remember!"

With that, Trag whirled, leaving Killashandra staring after him, his last words echoing in her mind.

"I can NOT close the ramp if you are standing on it," the boarding officer exclaimed petulantly.

Obedient in her confusion, Killashandra hastened into the shuttle. The ramp retracted, and the shuttle's door slid with a ponderous whoosh and hiss across the aperture.

"Don't just stand there. Get a seat." The boarding officer gave Killashandra a little push toward the rear of the shuttle craft.