"The Guild has received the biggest order ever requested, to facilitate the colonization and exploitation of seven new systems," the Guild Master told the twenty singers he had called back from their travels. "We must be able to fill these orders for black crystal. All of you"—and his blue eyes settled on one after the other—"have cut black crystal from time to time."

"When I could find it," someone said facetiously.

"The chosen few," another added.

He wasn't really all that much like Shad, Killashandra thought, her mind jumping as much from crystal deprivation as deliberate inattention because it was Lars Dahl who was talking in his Guild Master role. Just because they both have blue eyes and love the sea, that doesn't make them comparable. Or it shouldn't. And if any of us could find black crystal, we would, without him having to order us!

"To facilitate that search," Lars Dahl continued as the screen behind him lit up with a variety of paint emblems, "the Guild is canceling the markers of singers who, for one reason or another, are not actively working in the Ranges." That caused a stir and some consternation. "I should amend that—singers who have been known to bring in black crystal," he went on, raising his voice slightly over the murmuring. "We must follow up every potential source of black crystal."

"Leaving no stone unturned?" the wit asked, rousing some laughter and groans.

Lars Dahl grinned in response. "That's it. Now"—he gestured behind to the screen—"these are the canceled markers. If, however, one of you finds black on the claim of a still-existing singer . . ."

"Can't regress 'em back far enough to tell you where they cut black yet, eh, Lars?" someone asked, ending with a malicious laugh.

Regress? The word reverberated, jogging an uneasy memory, and Killa sat upright, trying to locate the speaker. "Regress"? Why should that word alarm her?

"I'll be forced to use that option, Fanerine, if you sane and active ones can't cut the blacks the Guild is obligated to supply. As I was saying, if an existing singer's claim is worked, there'll be a levy of twenty-five percent on your cut which is to go to the original claimant." He held up his hand to interrupt the sharp protests. "That will include the Guild tithe, so you aren't losing much to gain a viable site. Of course, you have to find it, first." Killashandra rather liked that droll touch. Lanzecki had reserved his humor for private moments. "Now, here're copies of these released markers for you to take with you. Secure it somewhere highly visible and try to remember why the sheet's there. First comer to any of these reopened clams has possession: mark it with your own colors."

"Most of you realize that we've just had Passover so that's one hazard that won't interrupt the search. Met says there's a period of stable weather due us—isn't it always after Passover?" His remark generated a few polite chuckles, but Killashandra regarded him stony-faced.

He shouldn't think he could jolly them into doing the impossible even with that ploy of reopening worked claims that might possibly be black crystal. Why was the Guild "obligated" to supply anything? Worlds should be grateful for whatever the singers cut. She flicked her gaze around the room from one face to the next. Of the twenty, she recognized two or three. She ought to be able to recognize more. The buzz in her body made it hard for her to think. On the other hand, did any of the twenty recognize her? But then, she was seated at the back and hoping to get this meeting over with. She hugged herself, wishing she could squeeze out the itch. Maybe she could sneak out, but there was someone standing right in front of the door. To prevent premature exits?

Resignedly she listened to Lars go through his act, stirring the singers up to do the impossible—find enough black crystal to fill those contracts. Muhlah! She gave a humorless snort. He was doing a good job of communicating the urgency of this search. She couldn't recall another such all-out effort! Or that Lanzecki had ever thrown open unused claims before the paint marker was completely obliterated.

She rose when the others did, but was not unduly surprised when her name was called out. The Guild Master pushed his way through to her.

"Killa, can we let bygones be and cooperate duo on this?" he asked in a quiet voice so that only she could hear him.

She was unnerved to have the regard of those intense and brilliant blue eyes focused on her alone. That was one difference between Shad and Lars Dahl—Shad's eyes were kinder, milder, undemanding. She turned her face away.

Damn that Biyanco! She shouldn't have let herself be persuaded out of a good partner by sentiment. True, even if she had brought Shad back with her, he wouldn't have been ready for a massive search this soon, even if had he been lucky enough to have a Milekey Transition. But she would have had such fun shepherding him, deftly guiding him to learn the intricacies of a new trade, watching his sensitive face perceiving new and marvelous things . . . and especially hearing the dawn song of crystal with someone as gentle and loving as Shad Tucker. And how he would have enjoyed the seas of Ballybran. What sort of a ship would he have bought with his first big cut?

"Killa!"

Someone had her by the shoulders, firm hands giving her a shake to focus her attention.

"Killa?"

"What?"

The Guild Master frowned at her with concern. "One thing is sure, Killashandra Ree, you've got to get back to the Ranges whether you sing black, green or pink! You left your return mighty late. How do you stand the itch?" The sudden tender concern in his voice startled her, but she gave no hint of that surprise.

"I'll be all right as soon as I make the Ranges," she said wearily, her spine twisting with crystal hunger.

"If you can in this condition. So I'm not asking permission now. I am coming with you. It'd be outright murder to send you out solo in your present state. I'll meet you at the Hangar. Donalla . . ."

Killa peered at the woman who stepped forward. Her face was vaguely familiar, and although her smile was warm and friendly, Killa felt a flash of anxiety.

"Glad to see you safely back, Killashandra." When Killa recoiled slightly, the woman smiled reassuringly. "We're only going straight to the Hangar. You really can trust me that far, you know."

"I'll need . . ." Killa pulled at the clothes she was wearing—they wouldn't last an hour in the Ranges. "I've no boots . . ."

"Let Donalla take care of the details, Sunny, will you?" The loving tone of the Guild Master was gently supportive.

Some part of Killa was unconvinced, but the other, more dominant need for a respite from the crystal itch made that hesitation short. The hands that replaced Lars's were gentle, warm and subtly persuasive. It was easier to submit and be guided.

Killa rubbed at her forehead. How could she have let herself get in such a state? She ought not to be led about like a child. Surely, she wasn't that bad, that decrepit? She had walked off the transport ship on her own, hadn't she? Found the shuttle bay with no trouble! Why was she suddenly incapable of managing something as simple as getting to the Hangar? Her feet ought to know the way even if her head didn't.

But she let herself be taken. She really couldn't think straight with all that noise in her head and that buzz along her veins, spiking into her heart and lungs—a crystal shiver that no amount of radiant fluid would reduce, only cutting crystal.

She hated to admit it, even to herself, but the Guild Master had been correct. She had cut it fine. She ought to have started back to Ballybran the day she had felt the first shock of crystal deprivation. And that was what was shorting out her decision-making faculty, too.