No, it wasn't in her blood. Not yet.

So there were men willing to cut duo with her, were there? Well, Guild Master, what if it's not just any man who is acceptable to me? The door to her quarters sprang open as she neared it, so she began to trot. It was going to take so long to fill the radiant bath. Somehow there ought to be a way to trigger that amenity from afar, especially for singers as crystal-logged as she was. Once, someone—what was his name?—someone had done her that courtesy and she had always returned to her room to find the tub full.

As she turned the corner into the sanitary facility, she was amazed to see the tap running the viscous liquid in a bath that was nearly full. But that someone—she pulled at memory even as she pulled off her grimed jumpsuit—was long dead. She was eternally grateful to whoever had started the bath. The Guild Master? Not likely. What had been that other man's name?

She could abuse her mind no longer with pointless attempts to remember. With an immense sigh of relief, she eased into the liquid, feeling it just slightly heavy against her skin, filling her pores. Her flesh gratefully absorbed the anodyne and she placed her head into the recess, slipping her legs and arms into the restraining straps. She forced muscle after weary muscle to relax, willing the resonances to stop echoing through her bones.

She must have slept: she had been exhausted enough to do so. But she felt slightly better. This would be a four-bath cleansing, she decided, and let the used fluid out.

"Dispenser!" she called, loud enough to activate the mechanism in the other room, and when it chimed its attention, she ordered food. She waited until the second chime told her the food was ready. "Now if they'd only invent a 'bot to bring it to me . . ."

In her past, she hadn't had to worry about that detail, had she? That much she remembered. She crawled out of the tub, setting it for refill, and, flinging a big towel about her, she made for the dispenser slot, ignoring the puddles made by the fluid that sheeted off her body as she walked. The aroma of the food activated long-unused saliva.

"Don't eat too much, Killa," she warned herself, knowing perfectly well what would happen to her underserved stomach if she did. That much she always remembered.

She had a few bites and then forced herself to bring the tray back to the tub, where she rested it on the wide rim. Climbing back into the filling tub, she moved her body under the splash from the wide-mouthed tap. With one hand on the rim, she scooped of milsi stalks into her mouth, one at a time, chewing conscientiously.

She really must remember to eat when she was in the Ranges. Muhlah knew her sled was well-enough stocked, and since the provisions were paid for, she ought to eat them. If she remembered.

By her fourth bath, she recollected snatches and patches of her last break. They didn't please her. For one thing, she had come in with a light load, forced off the Range a few klicks ahead of a storm. She had reaped the benefits of that blow this trip, of course—that was the way of it with crystal. If a singer could get back to the vicinity of a lode fast enough, the crystal resonated and told your body where it was. But she hadn't had enough credit to get off-planet, a trip she had desperately needed then—though not half as much as she did now.

She'd had to take what relief she could from a handsome and somewhat arrogant young landsman on the upper continent: tone-deaf, sobersided, but he hadn't been man enough to anneal her.

"Crystal in my soul, indeed!" The Guild Master's words stung, like crystal scratch.

She made a noise of sheer self-disgust and pulled herself from the tank, knocking the tray off. She turned to the big wall mirror, watching the fluid sheet off her body, as firm and graceful as a youngster's. Killashandra had long since given up keeping track of her chronological age: it was irrelevant anyway, since the symbiont kept her looking and feeling young. Not immortality but close to it—except for the youth of her memory.

"Now where will I go off this fecking planet this time?" she asked her reflection, and then slid open the dresser panel.

She was mildly surprised at the finery there and decided she must have spent what credit she'd had for pretty threads to lure that unwary landsman. He had been a brute of a lover, though a change. Anything had been a change from Lars Dahl. How dare the Guild Master suggest that she'd better duo? He had no right or authority, no lien or hold on her to dictate her choice!

Angrily Killashandra punched for Port Authority and inquired the destinations of imminent departures from Shankill.

"Not much, C.S. Killashandra," she was told politely. "Small freighter is loading for the Armagh system . . ."

"Have I been there?"

Pause. "No, ma'am."

"What does Armagh do for itself?"

"Exports fish oils and glue," was the semidisgusted reply.

"Water world?"

"Not total. Has the usual balance of land and ocean . . ."

"Tropical?" For some reason the idea of a tropical world both appealed to and repelled her.

"It has a very pleasant tropical zone. All water sports, tasty foods if you like a high fruit/fish diet."

"Book me." Crystal singers could be high-handed, at least on Ballybran.

"Blast-off at twenty-two thirty today," Port Authority told her.

"I've just time then." And Killashandra broke the connection.

She drew on the most conservative garments in the press, then randomly selected a half dozen of the brighter things, tossed them into a carisak, and closed it. She hesitated, midroom, glancing about incuriously. It was, of course, the standard member accommodation. Vaguely she remembered a time when there had been paintings and wall hangings, knickknacks that were pretty or odd on the shelves and tables, a different rug on the floor of the main room. Now there was no trace of anything remotely personal, certainly nothing of Killashandra.

"Because," Killashandra said out loud as if to imprint her voice on the room, "I'm nothing but a crystal singer with only a present to live in."

She slammed the door as she left, but it didn't do much to satisfy her discontent. She found slightly more pleasure in the realization that, though she might have trouble finding her apartment after a session in the Ranges, she had none finding her way up from the subterranean resident levels and to the shuttle bays.

She took the time to get the protective lenses removed from her eyes. It didn't change her outlook much. In fact, Ballybran looked duller than it should have as the shuttle lifted toward Shankill. The storm had cleared away, and she felt a brief twinge as her body ached for the resonances she was leaving, for the dazzle of rainbow light prisms dancing off variegated quartz, for the pure sweet sound of crystal waking in the early morning sun, or sighing in the cold virginal light of one of the larger moons, for the subsonic hum that ate through bone in black cold night.

Then she dealt with the formalities of lifting off-world and was directed to Bay 23, where the Armagh freighter, Maeve 18, was docked. She was escorted to her cabin by a youngster who couldn't keep far enough ahead of her—and the crystal resonance that pinged off her—in the narrow corridors.

"Is there a radiant-fluid tub on board?" she asked him with a grim smile at his reaction to her condition.

"In your cabin, Crystal Singer," he said, and then scooted away.

It was a courtesy to call it a tub—it was a two-meter tube, just wide enough to accommodate a body. To reach it one had to perform certain acrobatics over the toilet; and, according to the legend on the dials, the same fluid was flushed and reused. Well, she could count on three to four washes before it became ineffective. That would have to do. She opened the tap and heard the comforting gurgle of the fluid dropping to the bottom of the tub.