Now that she put a reason to her mazedness, she also knew how to cure it: cut crystal! Let it sing through her body, bones, and blood. Let it clear the confusion in her mind and strengthen her flagging energies. Crystal! The worst addiction in the galaxy: difficult to live with and impossible to live without.

She stumbled and Donalla's helping hand steadied her.

Then the noise and ordered confusion of the Hangar swirled about her. Faces peered at her; large blurred objects moved slowly past. She was gently propelled into a space that shut out much of the noise. Hands turned her body this way and that as she was inserted into a shipsuit; her feet were pushed into the familiar restriction of boots.

"My cutter . . ."

Her right hand was pressed against a hard, cold surface, and her fingers, of their own accord, fitted themselves around the grip, slipping into grooves exactly carved to fit her grasp. The tension within her eased further.

She was settled into the appropriate contour chair, and the harness was buckled about her. Passive now, because she didn't have to make any movement or decision, she waited. The air around her smelled familiar—and new, of paint and oil with enough of the pungent fuel odor to be acrid—and somehow comforting.

A sudden burst of noise, and a wave of fuel– and grease-laden air whooshed across the sensitive skin of her face. Someone had entered the sled, not so much noisily as confidently. She felt the throb of engines revving up, increasing the stink of fuel in the air, which also oddly reassured her. The sled moved forward, and she sighed with relief. Slowly she was pushed back against the seat cushions as the sled gathered speed. Sunlight pierced the windows, too brilliant for her tired eyes, and she made a protest as she closed them against the glare. Had she remembered to put in the refractive lenses? She blinked. She had, but it always took a few seconds for them to alter to the necessary refractory index. The blaze diminished, the backward pressure of takeoff eased, and she opened her eyes, suddenly more aware of her surroundings. Lars's lithe figure occupied the pilot's chair.

"Get some rest, Sunny," he said as he had so often said as they departed the Guild for the Ranges.

Because it was easier to obey than resist, she wriggled into the cushions, dropped her head back against the rest, and let herself slip into sleep.

"Eeny meeny, pitsa teeny . . ." The old choosing phrase roused her.

"Muhlah! Any time I need to blackmail the Guild Master . . ." she murmured.

Lars laughed, the infectious laugh that had been one of his most endearing traits, and despite herself, she felt her mouth curving up in a grin.

"Works every time," he replied, and when she gargled a denial at him, he amended it. "Well, sooner or later, it works."

She struggled upright in the seat, biting her lip as the movement stirred up the crystal sting that pinched at blood and bone. She was in the Ranges and it would ease soon . . . ease when she finally cut again. She released the harness and peered out at the steeples and ridges of deep Range.

"Where are we?"

"Scouring the parameters of an old claim."

She frowned, stared at him until recent memory returned. "Oh? Whose?"

Lars grinned. "Such details are irrelevant. The marker's on the list: that's enough."

"Where did you find a statute of limitation in Rules and Regs?"

"In the Guild Master's prerogatives." Lars grinned at her. When she snorted derisively, he added, "Why have the rule and not put it into effect? The Guild has to supply legitimate demands. Like Lanzecki, I use every trick I'm allowed—"

"You're not Lanzecki!"

"Thank you for that vote of confidence," he replied, and the buoyancy had gone out of his voice. After a long silence while she rubbed surreptitiously to ease the crystal sting, he asked, "Is it bad?" His tone held genuine concern.

"I've been worse," she said diffidently—though, candidly, she doubted that. She would have remembered it—and tried to avoid a repetition.

"Ha! Try that on someone who doesn't know you as well as I do, Sunny. Take heart. We're nearly there."

"Where?" Her voice had an edge on it. "Oh, quick! Mark there!" And she pointed imperiously to starboard. The evening sunlight had just briefly glinted off crystal shard.

Lars gave an appreciative chuckle. "You may be writhing with crystal itch, but your eye's as keen as ever." He veered to the right, slowing the sled and neatly landing it on the bottom of the ravine. "You're one of the best in the Guild," he murmured as they saw the unmistakable evidence of a cutter's discards.

Killa could not control the trembling that racked her body. She fumbled with the door release, managed it the second time, and half fell from the sled.

"Careful now, Sunny," Lars called, rapidly flicking through essential landing procedures at the console.

She stumbled forward to the shards, crouching to gather handfuls, closing her fingers about them, oblivious to the sharp edges, even grateful for the caressing cut of crystal, grateful to spill blood and ease the sting that made artery, vein, and capillary itch.

"Easy, Sunny, easy," Lars cried, and gripped her firmly by the shoulders, pulling her to a standing position.

"Muhlah!" she sighed with relief. "I needed that!"

"I don't think you need go to extremes, however," Lars said dryly. He leaned down and picked up a hunk that had crazed in faulty cutting. He tilted her bloody hands to tip the fragments out and replaced them with the larger, blunter piece. Putting his arm about her, he guided her back into the sled and washed each hand, while she held the shaft against her in the other like the talisman it was. The tiny crystal slices were already healing as he finished.

"You'd better eat, Sunny," Lars went on, still using that gently matter-of-fact tone. And he prepared a meal while she sat rocking the crystal against her, feeling it draw the sting from her, damaged as it was, as contact warmed it to her body temperature.

As she mechanically ate the meal he placed in front of her, she kept up her rocking motion, shifting the crystal to her thighs, bending her knees so the crystal touched her belly. She didn't resist when he put her to bed, letting her wrap herself around the crystal in a semifetal position. And that was how she spent the long night, comforted by crazed crystal.

When crystal song woke her the next morning, the damaged shaft sent out painful emanations. With a cry, she unwound, pushing the crystal from her as if it were polluted. Lars picked it up and flung it from the sled, relieving her of the sudden agony.

Then he spread himself across her body—she was arching in the agony of crystal song, too long away from it to be stimulated in the usual way.

"It'll ease, Sunny, it'll ease . . ." he murmured, struggling to keep her from straining herself in the paroxysms that were shaking her. If she had been alone in such a state, she would have launched herself to the nearby lode. In such disorientation, compelled by the irresistible need to reestablish contact with the ecstasy of sun-warmed singing crystal, she could have done herself a fatal injury.

Writhing against his restraint, she screamed at him, desperate to get to the crystal face and ease the intolerable sting and achings.

"Let me go! I'm begging you, Lars, let me go! I've got to get to—"

"You do and you're dead," he yelled back at her, resetting his hands on her wrists, managing, each time she nearly squirmed free, to cover her body with his and deny her freedom. "Hang on, Sunny. It won't be long now. Just let the sun get up!"

She twisted and bit at him, tried to knee his crotch, but he was quicker, stronger, and fitter than she and evaded her savage attempts to inflict enough pain to get free.