A loud whine from the service bays startled Killashandra, but the hangar man didn't flinch. It was then that she realized the man was deaf. A second ear-piercing whine erupted, and she winced, but it elicited no reaction from the man. Deafness must be a blessing in his occupation.

Giving the returned skimmer one last sweep of his hand, the hangar man began to climb to check another vehicle, unconscious of Killashandra's presence. She stared after him. Had his job, his dedication to the presentation of his skimmers, supplanted interest in people? If she received deafness from the symbiont, would she detach herself from people so completely?

She made her way down to the hangar floor, startled each time the engine being repaired blasted out its unbaffled noise. She might have renounced music as a career, but never to hear it again? She shuddered convulsively.

She had been so positive on Fuerte that hers was to be a brilliant career as a solo performer, maybe she'd better not be so bloody certain of becoming a Crystal Singer and explore the alternatives within the Guild.

Suddenly, she didn't want to return to the recruits' lounge, nor did she wish to hear the accounts of the other eight who had skimmed away from the Guild Complex. She wanted to be private. Getting out by herself, to the edge of the range, had been beneficial, the encounter with the hangar man an instructive counter theme.

She walked quickly from the hangar, caught by the stiff breeze and bending into it. The eastern sky was darkening; glancing over her shoulder, she saw banks of western clouds tinged purple by the setting sun. She paused, savoring the display, and then hurried on. She didn't wish to be sighted by the returning skimmers. Finally past the long side of the Complex, she struck out up a low hill, her boots scuffling in the dirt. A warm spicy smell rose when she trod on the low ground cover. She listened to the rising wind, not merely with her ears but with her entire body, planting her boot heels firmly in the soil, hoping to experience again that coil of body-felt sound. The wind bore the taint of brine and chill but no sound as it eddied past her and away east.

There the sky was dark now, and the first faint stars were appearing. She must study the astronomy of Ballybran. Strange that this had not been mentioned in the lectures on meteorology; or was it a deliberate exclusion since the knowledge would have no immediate bearing on the recruits' training.

Shanganagh, the middle moon, rose, honey-colored, in the northeast. She seemed almost to creep out, much as Killashandra was doing, to be away from the more powerful personality of Shankill and the erratic infringements of Shilmore. Killashandra grinned - if Rimbol were symbolized by Shankill, that would make Shillawn, Shilmore. Shanganagh was the odd one out, avoiding the other two until inexorable forces pulled her between their paths at Passover.

Shanganagh paled to silver, rising higher and lighting Killashandra's way until she reached the crest of a rolling hill and realized that she could walk all night, possibly getting lost, to no purpose. Student pranks had been tolerated, in their place, on Fuerte in the Music Center, but it would be quite another matter here where an old deaf hangar man cared more for his vehicles than the people who used them.

She turned and surveyed the crouching hulk of the Guild, its upper stories lit by the rising moon, the remainder sharp black thrusts of shadow. She sat down on the hillside, twisting her buttocks to find some comfort. She hadn't realized how huge the Complex was and what a small portion of it was above the surface. She had been told that the best quarters were deep underground. Killashandra picked up a handful of gravel and cast the bits in a thin arc, listening to the rattle as bush and leaf were struck.

The sense of isolation, of total solitude and utter privacy, pleased her as much as the odors on the wind and the roughness of the dirt in her hand. Always on Fuerte, there had been the knowledge that people were close by, people were seeing, if not intently observing her, impinging on her consciousness, infringing on her desire to be alone and private.

Suddenly, Killashandra could appreciate Carigana's fury. If the woman had been a space worker, she had enjoyed the same sense of privacy. She'd never needed to learn the subtle techniques of cutting oneself from contact. Well, if Killashandra understood something of Carigana's antisocial manner, she still had no wish to make friends with her. She spun off another handful of dirt.

It was comforting, too, to know that on Ballybran, at least, one could take a night time stroll in perfect safety, one of the few worlds in the Federated Sentient Planets where that was possible. She rose, dusted off her pants, and continued her walk around the great Guild installation.

She almost stumbled as she reached the front of the building, for a turf so dense that it felt like a woven fabric had been encouraged to grow there. The imposing entrance hall bore the shield of the Heptite Guild in a luminous crystal. The tall, narrow windows facing south gave off no light on the first level, and most were dark on the upper stories. She wondered which ratings were so low as to live above ground. Caterers' assistants?

Killashandra was beginning to regret her whimsical night tour as she passed the long side of the building, the very long side. Ramps, up and down, pierced the flat wall at intervals, but she knew from Tukolom's lecture that these led into storage areas without access to the living quarters so she trudged or ward until she was back at the vast hangar maw.

She was very weary when she finally reached the ramp to the class's quarters. All else was quiet, the lounge empty and dark. Though Rimbol's door light was green, she hurried past to her own. Tomorrow would be soon enough for companionship. She went to sleep, comforted by the irrevocable advantage of privacy available to a member of the Heptite Guild.

Killashandra wasn't as positive of that the next afternoon as she struggled to retain her balance in the gusts of wind and, more importantly, tried not to drop the precious crate of crystal. The recruits had been aroused by the computer at a false dawn they had to take on faith. The sky was a deep, sullen gray, with storm clouds that were sucked across the Complex so low they threatened to envelop the upper level. The recruits had been told to eat quickly but heartily and to report to the cargo officer on the hangar floor. They were to be under her supervision until she released them. Wind precautions were already evident; the 12-meter-high screen across the hangar maw was lowered only to admit approaching air sleds; evidently the device was to prevent workers' being sucked from the hangar by fierce counter draughts.

Cargo Officer Malaine took no chances that instructions would be misunderstood or unheard. She carried a bullhorn, but her orders were also displayed on screens positioned around the hangar. If they had any doubts as they assisted the regular personnel in unloading, the recruits were to touch and/or otherwise get the attention of anyone in a green-checked uniform. Basic instructions remained on the screen; updates blinked orange on the green displays.

"Your main assignments will be to unload, very, very carefully, the cartons of cut crystals. One at a time. Don't be misled by the fact that the cartons have strong hand grips. The wind out there will shortly make you wish you had prehensile tails." Cargo Officer Malaine gave the recruits a smile. "You'll know when to put on your head gear," and she tapped a close fitting skull cap with its padded ears and eyescreen. "Now" - and she gestured to the plasglas wall of the ready-room facing the hangar" the sleds are coming in. Watch the procedure of the hangar personnel. First, the Crystal Singer is checked, then the cargo is off-loaded. You will concentrate on off-loading. Your responsibility is to transfer the crystal cartons safely inside. Any carton that comes in is worth more than you are! No offense, recruits, just basic Guild economics. I also caution you that Crystal Singers just in off the ranges are highly unpredictable. You're lucky. All in this group have been out a good while, so they'll probably have good cuttings. Don't drop a carton! You'll have the Singer, me, and Guild Master Lanzecki on your neck - the Singer being first and worst.

"Fair does not apply," Malaine said in a hard voice. "Those plasfoam boxes" - and she pointed at the line of hangar personnel hurrying to the cargo bay, white cartons clutched firmly to their chests - "are what pay for this planet, its satellites, and everything on them. No one gets a credit till that cargo is safely in this building, weighed in and graded - Okay, here's a new flight coming in. I'll count you off in threes. Line up and be ready to go when called. Just remember: the crystal is important! When the klaxon sounds - that means a sled is out of control Duck but don't drop!"

She counted the recruits off, and Killashandra was teamed with Borton and a man she didn't know by name. The recruits formed loose trios in front of the window, watching the routine.

"Doesn't seem hard," the man commented to Borton. "Those cartons can't be heavy," and he gestured at a slim person walking rapidly carrying his burden.

"Maybe not now, Celee," Borton replied, "but when the wind picks up - "

"Well, we're both sturdy enough to give our teammate a hand if she needs one," Celee said, grinning with some condescension at Killashandra.

"I'm closer to the ground," she said, looking up at him with a warning glint in her eyes. "Center of gravity is lower and not so far to fall."

"You tell him, Killa." Borton nudged Celee and winked at her.

Suddenly Celee pointed urgently to the hangar. The recruits saw a sled careen in, barely missing the vaulted roof, then plunge toward the ground, only to be pulled up at the last second, skid sideways, and barely miss a broadside against the interior wall. A klaxon had sounded, its clamor causing everyone to clap hands over his ears at the piercing noise. When the trio looked again, the air sled had slid to a stop, nose against the wall. To their surprise, the Singer, orange overalls streaked with black, emerged unscathed from the front hatch, gave the sled an admonitory kick, gestured obscenely at the wind, and then stalked into the shelter of the cargo bay. Then she, Borton, and Celee were being beckoned out to the hangar floor.

As Killashandra grabbed her first carton from a Singer's ship, she clutched it firmly to her chest because it was light and could easily have been flipped from a casual grip by the strong wind gusting about the hangar. She got to the cargo bay with a sigh of relief, only to be stunned by the sight of the Crystal Singer, who was slumped against a wall while snarling at the medic who was daubing at the blood running down the Singer's left cheek. Until the last canon from his sled was unloaded, the Crystal Singer remained at his observation point.

"By the horny toes of a swamp bear," Celee remarked to Killashandra as they hurried back for more cartons, "that man knows every nardling one of his cargo, and he sure to bones knows we're doing the unloading. And the bloody wind's rising. Watch it, Killashandra."

"Only two more in that ship," Borton yelled as he passed them on his way in. "They want to hoist it out of the way!"

Celee and Killashandra trotted faster, wary of the hoist now descending over the disabled ship. No sooner had they lifted the last two cartons from the sled than the hoist clanked tight on its top. At that instant, Killashandra glanced around her and counted five more sleds wheeling in, fortunately in more control. Seven unloaded vehicles were heading to the top of the sled storage racks.

As the hangar became crowded, unloading took longer, and keeping upright during the passage between sled and cargo bay became increasingly more difficult. Killashandra saw three people flung against sleds, and one skidded against the outer wind baffle. An incoming sled was caught in a side gust and flipped onto its back. Killashandra shook her head against the loud keening that followed, unsure whether it was the sound of the gale or the injured Singer's screaming. She forced her mind to the business of unloading and maintaining her balance.

She was wheeling back from the bay for yet another load when someone caught her by the hair. Startled, she looked up to see Cargo Officer Malaine, who jerked the helmet from Killashandra's belt and jammed it atop her head. Abashed at her lapse of memory, Killashandra hastily straightened the protective gear. Malaine gave her a grin and an encouraging thumbs up.

The relief from the wind's noise and the subsidence of air pressure in her ears was enormous. Killashandra, accustomed to full chorus and electronically augmented orchestral instruments, had not previously thought of "noise" as a hazard. But to be deaf on Ballybran might not be an intolerable prospect. She could still hear the gale's shrieks, but the cacophony was blessedly muffled, and the relief from the sound pressure gave her fresh energy. She needed it, for the physical strength of the gale hadn't abated at all.

In the course of her next wind-battered trip, a wholesale clearance of sleds took place behind her back. The emptied sleds were cleared, and the newer arrivals slipped into the vacant positions. Some relief from the wind could be had by darting from the wind shadow of one sled to that of the next. The danger lay in the gap, for there the gale would whip around to catch the unwary.

Why no one was killed, why so few ships were damaged inside the hangar, and why not a single plasfoam container was dropped, Killashandra would never know. She was at one point certain, however, that she had probably bumped into most of the nine thousand Guild members stationed in the Joslin Plateau Headquarters. She later learned her assumption was faulty: anyone who could have, had carefully contrived to remain inside.

The cartons were not always heavy, though the weight was unevenly distributed, and the heavy end always ended up dragging at Killashandra's left arm. That side was certainly the sorest the next day. Only once did she come close to losing a container: she hefted it from the ship and nearly lost the whole to a gust of wind. After that, she learned to protect her burden with her body to the wind.

Aside from the intense struggle with the gale-force winds, two other observations were indelibly marked in her mind that day. A different side of Crystal Singers their least glamorous, as they jumped from their sleds. Few looked as if they had washed in days: some had fresh wounds, and others showed evidence of old ones. When she had to enter a sled's cargo hold to get the last few cartons, she was aware of an overripe aroma exuding from the main compartment of the sled and was just as glad that there was a fierce supply of fresh air at her back.

Still the sleds hurled themselves in over the wind baffle and managed to land in the little space available: the gale was audible even through her ear mufflers, and the force of the wind smacked at the body as brutally as any physical fist.

"RECRUITS! RECRUITS! All recruits will regroup in the sorting area. All recruits to the sorting area!"

Dazed, Killashandra swung around to check the message on the display screens, and then someone linked arms with her, and they both cantered into the gale to reach the sorting area.

Once inside the building, Killashandra nearly fell, as much from exhaustion as from pushing her body against a wind no longer felt. She was handed from one person to another and then deposited on a seat. A heavy beaker was put into her hands, and the noise-abatement helmet was removed from her head. Nor was there much noise beyond weary sighs, an occasional noisy exhalation that was not quite a groan, or the sound of boots scraping against plascrete.

Killashandra managed to stop the trembling in her hands to take a judicious sip of the hot, clear broth. She sighed softly with relief. The restorative was richly tasty, and its warmth immediately crept to her cold extremities, which Killashandra had not recognized as being wind sore. The lower part of her face, her jaw and chin, which had been exposed to the scouring wind, were also stiff and painful.

Taking another sip, she raised her eyes above the cup and noticed the row opposite her: noticed and recognized the faces of Rimbol and Borton, and farther down, Celee. Half a dozen had black eyes, torn or scratched cheeks. Four recruits looked as if they'd been dragged face down over gravel. When she touched her own skin, she realized she, too, had suffered unfelt abrasions, for her numb fingers were pricked with dots of blood.

A loud hiss of indrawn breath made her look to the left. A medic was daubing Jezerey's face. Another medic was working down the row toward Rimbol, Celee, and Borton.

"Any damage?" Killashandra, despite her exhausted stupor, recognized the voice as that of Guild Master Lanzecki's.

Surprised, she turned to find him standing in an open door, his black-garbed figure stark against the white of piled crystal cartons.

"Superficial, sir," one of the medics said after a respectful nod in the Guild Master's direction.

"Class 895 has been of invaluable assistance today," Lanzecki said, his eyes taking in every one of the thirty-three. "I, your Guild Master, thank you. So does Cargo Officer Malaine. No one else will." There wasn't even a trace of a smile on the man's face to suggest he was being humorously ironic. "Order what you will for your evening meal: it will not be debited from your account. Tomorrow you will report to this sorting area where you will learn what you can from the crystals brought in today. You are dismissed."

He withdraws, Killashandra thought. He fades from the scene. How unusual. But then, he's not a Singer. So no sweeping entrances like Carrik or the three Singers at Shankill, nor exits like Borella's. She took another sip of her broth, needing its sustenance to get her weary body up the ramp for that good free meal. Come to remember, the last good free meal she'd had had also been indirectly charged to the Guild. She was, as it happened, one of the last of the recruits to leave the sorting area. A door opened somewhere behind her.

"How many not yet in, Malaine?" she heard Lanzecki ask.

"Five more just hit the hangar floor, one literally. And Flight says there are two more possible light-sights."

"That makes twenty-two unaccounted - "

"If we could only get Singers to register cuts, we'd have some way of tracking the missing and retrieve at least the cargo . . ."

The door swooshed tight, and the last of the sentence was inaudible. The exchange, the tone of it, worried her.

"Retrieve the cargo." Was that the concern of Malaine and Lanzecki? The cargo? Malaine certainly had stressed the cargo's being more valuable than the recruits handling it. But surely the Crystal Singers themselves were valuable, too. Sleds could be replaced - another debit to clear off one's Guild account - but surely Singers were a valuable commodity in their own peculiar way.

Killashandra's mind simply could not cope with such anomalies. She made it to the top of the ramp. She had to put one hand on the door frame to steady herself as she thumbed her door open. A moan of weariness escaped her lips. Rimbol's door whisked open.

"You all right, Killa?" Rimbol's face was flecked with fine lines and tiny beads of fresh blood. He wore only a towel.

"Barely."

"The herbal bath does wonders. And eat."

"I will. It's on the management, after all." She couldn't move her painful face to smile.

After a long soak absorbed the worst fatigue from her muscles she did force herself to eat.

An insistent burp from the computer roused her the next morning. She peered into the dark beyond her bed and only then realized that the windows were shuttered and the gale still furious outside.

The digital told her that it was 0830 and her belly that it was empty. As she started to throw back the thermal covering, every muscle in her body announced its unreadiness for such activity. Cursing under her breath, Killashandra struggled up on one elbow. No sooner had she put her fingers on the catering dial than a small beaker with an effervescent pale-yellow liquid appeared in the slot.

"The medication is a muscle relaxant combined with a mild analgesic to relieve symptoms of muscular discomfort. This condition is transitory."

Killashandra cursed fluently at what she felt was the computers embarrassingly well timed invasion of Privacy, but she drained the medicine, grimacing at its over sweet taste. In a few moments, she began to feel less stiff. She took a quick shower, alternating hot and cold, for unaccountably her skin still prickled from yesterdays severe buffeting. As she was eating a high-protein breakfast, she hoped that time would be allowed for meals today. She doubted that the rows of crystal containers could all be sorted and repacked in one day. And such a job oughtn't need the pace of yesterday.

Sorting took four days of labor as intense as fighting the storm wind, though presenting less physical danger. The recruits, each working with a qualified sorter, learned a great deal about how not to cut crystal and pack it and which forms were currently profitable. These were in the majority, and most of the experienced sorters directed a constant flow of abuse at Singers who had cut quantities of the commodity then most over stocked.

"We've got three ruddy storage rooms of these," muttered Enthor, with whom Killashandra was sorting. "It's blues what we need and want. And blacks, of course. No, no, wrong side. You've got to learn," he said, grabbing the carton Killashandra had just lifted to the sorting table. "First, present the Singer's ident code." He turned the box so that the strip, ineradicably etched on the side, would register. "Didn't have that little bit of help and there'd be war unloading, with cartons getting mixed up every which way and murder going on."

Once the ident number went up on the display, the carton was unpacked and each crystal form carefully put on the scale, which computed color, size, weight, form, and perfection. Some crystals Enthor immediately placed on the moving belts, which shunted them to the appropriate level for shipment or storage. Others he himself cocooned in the plastic webbing with meticulous care.

The sorting process seemed boringly simple. Sometimes it was not easy to retrieve the small crystals that had been thrust at any angle into the protective foam. Killashandra almost missed a small blue octagon before Enthor grabbed the carton she was about to assign to replacement.

"Lucky for you," the sorter said darkly, glancing about him, brows wrinkled over his eyes, "that the Singer who cut this wasn't watching. I've seen them try to kill a person for negligence."

"For this?" Killashandra held up the octagon, which couldn't have been more than 8 centimeters in length.

"For that. It's unflawed." Enthor's quick movement had placed the crystal on the scale and checked its perfection. "Listen!" He set the piece carefully between her thumb and forefinger and flicked it lightly.

Even above the rustling and stamping and low-voiced instructions, Killashandra heard the delicate, pure sound of the crystal. The note seemed to catch in her throat and travel down her bones to her heels.

"It's not easy to cut small, and right now this piece's worth a couple of hundred credits."

Killashandra was properly awed and far more painstaking, risking her fingers to search a plasfoam carton that seemed heavier than empty. Enthor scolded her for that, slapping her gloves across her cheek before he tugged one of his off and showed her fingers laced by faint white scars.

"Crystal does it. Even through gloves and with symbiosis. Yours would fester. I'd get docked for being careless."

"Docked?"

"Loss of work time due to inadequate safety measures is considered deductible. You, too, despite your being a recruit."

"We get paid for this?"

"Certainly." Enthor was indignant at her ignorance. "And you got danger money for unloading yesterday. Didn't you know?"

Killashandra stared at him in surprise.

"Just like all new recruits." Enthor chuckled amiably at her discomfort. "Not got over the shock, huh? Get a beaker of juice this morning? Thought so. Everyone does who's worked in a gale. Does the trick. And no charge for it, either." He chuckled again at her. "All medical treatment's free, you know." "But you said you got docked - "

"For stupidity in not taking safety precautions." He wiggled his fingers, now encased in their tough skin-tight gloves, at her. "No, don't take that carton. I will. Get the next. Fugastri just came in. We don't want him breathing down your neck. He's a devil, but he's never faulted me!"

"You're being extremely helpful - "

"You're helping me, and we're both being paid by the same source, this crystal. You might as well know this job properly," and Enthors tone implied that she might not have as good an instructor in any other sector. "You might end up here as a sorter, and we sorters like to have a good time. What'd you say your name was?"

"Killashandra."

"Oh, the person who brought Carrik back! Enthors tone was neither pleased nor approving: he just identified her.

Obscurely, Killashandra felt better: she wasn't just an identity lost in the Guild's memory banks. People besides Class 895 had heard of her.

"Did you know Carrik?"

"I know them all, m'dear. And wish I didn't. - However, it's not a bad life." He gave another of his friendly chuckles. "A fair day's wage for a fair day's work and then the best possible domestic conditions." His grin turned to a knowing leer, and he gave her a nudge. "Yes, you might remember my name while you can, for you won't if you become a Singer. Enthor, I am, level 4, accommodation 895. That ought to be easy for you to remember, as it's your class number."

"What was yours?" Quickly, Killashandra sought a way to turn the conversation away from his offer.

"Class number? 502," he said. "Nothing wrong with my memory."

"And you're not deaf."

"Couldn't sort crystal if I were!"

"Then what did the symbiont do to you?" She blurted it out before she realized she might be invading his privacy.

"Eyes, m'dear. Eyes." He turned and, for the first time, faced her directly. He blinked once, and she gasped. A protective lens retracted at his blink. She saw how huge his irises were, obscuring the original shade of the pupil. He blinked again, and some reddish substance covered the entire eyeball. "That's why I'm a sorter and why I know which crystals are flawless at a glance. I'm one of the best sorters they've ever had. Lanzecki keeps remarking on my ability. Ah, you'll shortly see what I mean . . ."

Another sorter, a disgruntled look on his face, was walking toward them with a carton and escorted by an angry Singer.

"Your opinion on these blues'?" The Singer, his face still bearing the ravages of a long period in the ranges, curtly took the container from the sorter and thrust it at Enthor. Then the Singer, with the rudeness that Killashandra was beginning to observe was the mark of a profession rather than a personality, blocked the view of the sorter whose judgment he had questioned.

Enthor carefully deposited the carton on his work space and extracted the crystals, one by one, holding them up to his supersensitive eyes for inspection, laying them down in a precise row. There were seven green-blue pyramids, each broader in the base by 2 or 3 centimeters.