«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.