“We can leave now,” Shillawn said, interrupting them with the peculiar tracheal gulp that characterized his speech

“I wonder how many musicians make their way into this Guild by default,” Killashandra muttered over her shoulder to Rimbol as they made their way out.

“Default? Or deliberately?” he asked, and prodded her to move forward when she faltered.

She had no time to think about “deliberately” then, for she had reached the disembarkation ramp and had her first glimpse of Ballybran's green-purple hills on one side and the uncompromising cubes of buildings on the other. Then she was inside the reception area where personal effects were being wafted up on a null-grav column.

"After recruits have collected their baggage, they will please follow the – ah – dark gray stripe." A voice issued from speaker grills. Room assignments will be given at the reception lounge. You are now designated as Class 895 and will answer to any announcements prefaced by that number. Again, recruits now arriving by shuttle from Shankill Moon Base are designated Class 895. Proceed, Class 895, along the corridor marked with the dark gray stripe for room assignments."

“Couldn't care less, could he?” Rimbol said to Killashandra as he slung a battered carisak over one shoulder.

“There's the guide line.” Killashandra pointed at the wall of the far left hand corridor. “And Carigana's ahead by half a light-year.” She watched as the girl's figure marched purposefully out of sight up the ascending ramp-way.

“Surprised?” Rimbol asked. “Hope we don't have to share accommodations.”

Killashandra shot him a startled look. Even as a lowly student on Fuerte, she had had privacy. What sort of a world was his Yarro?

The other shuttle passengers had quickly dispersed, Borella and her companion taking the far right ramp, while the center two received the bulk of the arrivals.

“You'd think with all the color available in the galaxy, they'd find brighter markers,” Shillawn remarked gloomily when he caught up with Rimbol and Killashandra.

“Distinctive, if not colorful,” Killashandra remarked, reaching the ramp. “Though there's a quality about this gray . . .” and she passed her hand across the painted line. “Textured, too. Hatch pattern.”

“Really?” Rimbol touched the stripe. “Strange.”

Carigana had already disappeared around the first curve of the ramp, but the three were other wise the vanguard of Class 895. How dull to be designated by a number, Killashandra thought, having considered herself out of classrooms forever a scant few weeks before. And if they were 895, and the Guild had been operating for 400 standard years, how many classes did that make a year? Just over two? And thirty-three in this one?

Now that the first excitement of landing on Ballybran had waned, Killashandra began to notice other details. The light, for instance, was subdued on the ramp-way but had a clarity she hadn't encountered before. Rimbol's sturdy boots and Shillawn's shoes made no sound on the thick springy material that carpeted the hallway, but her slippers produced a quiet shuffling. She felt the textured band again curious.

They passed several levels, each color coded in one of the dull chromatics, and Killashandra assumed there must be some reason for the use of such drab shades. Suddenly, the ramp ended in a large room, obviously the reception lounge for recruits – but it also held comfortable seating units, an entertainment complex, and across one end, audiovisual booths.

A dun-garbed man, of middle years with a sort of easily forgettable face rose from one of the seating units and walked toward them, “Class 895? Your adviser am I, Tukolom. With me you will remain until adaptation and training have ceased. To me your problems and complaints you will bring. All members of the Guild are we, but senior in rank to you am I to be obeyed, thought harsh or unjust am I not.”

His smile, meant to be reassuring, Killashandra knew, barely lighted his eyes and did not rouse any friendliness in her, though she saw Shillawn return the grin.

“Small class though this be, your quarters are here. Kindly to leave what you have brought in any room of your choosing and join in food and drink. To begin the work tomorrow. To orient yourselves in this facility today.”

He gestured to the left-hand corridor leading off the lounge where open doors left patches of light on the textured carpet.

“Is only to put thumb print in door lock to receive privacy.”

Others had arrived as Tukolom spoke, and while Killashandra gestured to her companions to proceed to the private rooms, he began his little speech all over again to the next batch. Rimbol pointed at the first door on the left, closed and red lighted to indicate the occupant did not wish to be disturbed. Carigana!

With a snort, Killashandra marched down the hall, almost to its end, before she indicated to Rimbol and Shillawn which room she intended to take. She saw them move for the rooms on either side of her. She pressed her thumb into the plate, felt the vibration as the print was recorded, and then entered the room, the door panel sliding soundlessly behind her.

“This facility has been programmed to responded to any change in your life signals,” announced a pleasant voice, rather more human than mechanical. “You may program the catering units and audiovisual units and change any furnishing not to your liking.”

“My liking is for privacy,” Killashandra said.

“Programmed,” the voice dispassionately replied. “Should your physical health alter on the monitors, you will be informed.”

“I'll probably inform you” Killashandra muttered under her breath, and was pleased to hear no reply. Just as well she thought. She tossed her carisak to the bed. Some people preferred to have a voice responding to their idle remarks: she preferred the sanctity of quiet.

Her quarters were as good as the guest facility in the Shankill Base, nothing gaudy but certainly substantial: bed, table, chairs, writing surface, tri-d screen, the customary audiovisual terminals, a catering slot convenient to the table, a storage closet. The hygienic unit was larger than expected, and it included a deep bath. She flipped on the small fax dispenser and watched as all varieties of bathing lotions, salts, fragrances, and oils were named as available.

More than pleased, Killashandra dialed for a foaming fragrant bath, at 35° C, and the tub obediently began to fill itself.

You never feel completely clean, Killashandra thought as she undressed, using the spray cabinets on ship and station. You really needed to soak in the hot water of a full immersion bath.

She was drying off in warm air jets when Tukolom announced it was his pleasure to meet Class 895 in the lounge for the evening meal.

Tukolom's curious syntax appeared to function only in spontaneous remarks. It was totally absent from the flood of information he imparted to them during that meal. He also refused to be deflected from his set passages by questions or to be diverted by Carigana when she anticipated his points.

Since it was obvious to everyone except Carigana that it was useless to interrupt Tukolom and since the food presented a variety of hot and cold dishes, protein, vegetable and fruit, the Class 895 listened and ate.

Tukolom discoursed first on the sequence of events to befall them. He stated the symptoms common to the onset of the symbiotic illness, occurring between ten and thirty days after exposure, beginning with headache, general muscular soreness, irritability, blurred vision, and impaired hearing. Such symptoms were to be reported to him immediately and the person afflicted to return to the room assigned, where the progress of the adaptation could be monitored. Any discomfort would be alleviated without affecting the course of the symbiotic intrusion.