A slab table and two chairs occupied the small room. She moved toward one seat, but the officer's gesture stopped her.

“Bontel Aba Gray, Rank 10, FSP Civil Service, Shankill Moon Base, Ballybran, date 23/4/3308: applicant will present identity to the outlet, stating aloud name, rank, and planet of origin.”

Only after Killashandra had disgustedly complied with the formality was she allowed to seat herself opposite Bontel Gray.

“Is it true that you have received physical, psychological, and aptitude tests under the auspices of the Heptite Guild?”

“Yes.”

“You have been informed of the hazards involved in the Code 4 classification of the planet Ballybran?”

“Yes.” She wondered how Carigana was accepting the additional aggravation. That is, if Carigana had passed through the door.

Gray then questioned her in depth on Borella's lecture. Each of Killashandra's answers was recorded – but for whose protection, Killashandra wondered. She was reaching her aggravation point when he stopped.

“Do you swear, aver, and affirm that you are here of your own free will, without let or hindrance, conditioning or bribery, by any person or persons connected with the Heptite Guild?”

“I certainly do so swear, aver, and affirm.”

He glanced at the ident slot, which suddenly glowed green. Placing both hands on the table as if wearied by this duty, Gray pushed himself to his feet. “The formalities are now concluded,” he said with a tight smile. “May you sing well and profitably.”

The man remained standing as she rose and left. She had the impression, a sideways glance, that he unfastened his tunic collar, his expression sliding into regret as he watched her leave.

Borella was in the main hall, her eyes focused on each cubicle door as it opened and a recruit appeared. Killashandra noticed that just the faintest hint of satisfaction appeared on the woman's face as her entire “class” reassembled.

“A shuttle waits,” she said, once more leading the way.

“When do we get this spore business done?” Carigana asked, striding ahead of two others to reach Borella.

«On Ballybran. We did, at one point, use an artificial exposure, but the effects were no less successful than the natural process. Generally, infection occurs within ten days of reaching the surface,» she added before Carigana could inquire. «The adaptation process can vary – from no more than mildly uncomfortable all the way to dangerously febrile. You will all be monitored, naturally.»

“But haven't you discovered which physical types are more apt to react severely?” Carigana seemed annoyed.

“No,” Borella replied mildly.

Further questions from Carigana were forestalled by their arrival at the shuttle lock. Nor were they the only passengers – in fact, the applicants were apparently the least important, a fact that obviously caused Carigana to seethe. Borella casually motioned them all to seating in the rear of the vessel and slipped in beside a striking man whose garb of violently colored, loosely sewn patches suggested he might be a Singer returned from holiday.

“Much of a catch?” His drawled question caught Killashandra's ear as she passed. It was almost as much of an insult as the expression in his eyes as he observed the recruits filing to seats.

“The usual,” Borella replied. “One can never tell at this stage, you know.”

The tone of Borella's voice made Killashandra stare over her shoulder at the woman. The depth and resonance was gone, replaced by a sharper, shrewish, yet smug note. So the impressing and impressive detachment of the successful Singer, condescending to interpret the hazards of her profession to the eager but uninformed, was a role played very well by Borella. Killashandra shook her head against that assumption. The terrible lacerations on Borella's leg had been no sham.

“Crystal cuckoo?” “Silicate spider?” Had Maestro Valdi some measure of truth in his accusations?

Well, too late now – having sworn, averred, and affirmed, every opportunity to renege was behind her. Killashandra fixed her seat buckle for the weightless disengagement of the shuttle from moonlock.

The journey was not long, and it was smooth, allowing Killashandra time for reflection. Was the shuttlecraft pilot a failed Singer recruit? How poor an adaptation still allowed rank and status within the Guild structure? She suppressed the nagging fear of failure by remembering the graph, indicating the recent upswing of the incidence of success in symbiosis. She distracted her grim thoughts by cataloging the other candidates, determining in advance to stay well away from Carigana, as if the irascible woman would welcome a friendly overture. Rimbol, on the other hand, reminded her pleasantly of one of the tenors at her Music Center, a lad who had always accepted the fact that his physical and vocal gifts would keep him a secondary singer and player. At one point, Killashandra had despised the boy for that acceptance: now she wished she had bothered to explore how he had achieved that mental attitude, one she might be forced to adopt. She wondered if the tenor might not have done better, attempting to become a Crystal Singer. Why had so little been said at the Music Center about this alternative application of perfect and absolute pitch? Maestro Valdi must have known, but his only suggestion had been to tune crystal, not sing it.

She wished for the distraction of views of nearing Ballybran, but the passenger section had no port, and the viewscreen set over the forward bulwark remained opaque. She felt the entry into the atmosphere. The familiar shuddering shook all the passengers, and Killashandra felt the drag nausea and disorientation and the impression of exterior sound. She tried to recall the screen print out of the planet. The image that was brightest in her memory was of the conjunction of the three moons, not the continental masses of Ballybran and the disposition of the crystal ranges.

Concentrate, concentrate, she told herself fiercely in an effort to over come entry side effects. She had memorized complicated music scores, which obediently rolled past her mind, but not the geography of her new home.

At this point, she could feel the retro blasts as the shuttle began to slow. Gravity increased, shoving her flesh against her bones, face, chest, abdomen, thighs: more a comforting pressure, like a heal suit. The shuttle continued to maneuver and decelerate.

The final portion of any journey always seems the longest, Killashandra thought as she grew impatient for the shuttle vibration to cease, signaling arrival. Suddenly, she realized that her journey had begun a long time before, with her passive trip on the walkway to the Fuertan space facility. Or had it begun the moment she had heard Maestro Valdi confirm the auditors' judgment of her career potential?

Forward motion ceased, and she felt the pressure pap in her ears as the entry was unsealed. She inhaled deeply, welcoming the fresher air of the planet.

“D'you think that's wise?” Shillawn asked from across the aisle. He had his hand over his nose.

“Why ever not? I've been on spacecraft and stations for too long not to appreciate fresh, planet-made air.”

“He means, about the symbiont and its natural acquisition,” Rimbol said, nudging her ribs with his elbow. He grinned with mischief.

Killashandra shrugged. «Now or later, we've got to get it over with. Me? I prefer to breathe deeply.» And she did, as a singer would, from deep in her belly – her back muscles tightening, her diaphragm thickening until her throat, too, showed the distension of breath support.

“Singer?” Rimbol asked, his eyes widening. Killashandra nodded, exhaling slowly.

"No openings for you, either." He made a sound of disgust Killashandra did not bother to contradict him. "You'd think, Rimbol went on. "that with all the computer analysis and forecasting, they'd know up front instead of wasting your time. When I think of what – "