Lars found her there when he returned long after night had fallen over Ballybran. Nor could he, using all his skills as lover or persuader, bring her out her fugue. He did the only thing possible: took her out into the Ranges again.

She broke out herself when she realized that they were deep in the Milekey Range. On that trip they found the elusive black crystal, a full octave in E that was likely to sing messages around the biggest of the systems vying for comcrystals. But cutting the blacks enervated Killa to the point that she did not argue with Lars when he reluctantly but firmly turned the sled back to the Guild. For the first time it wasn't a storm that drove them in.

Dimly, Killa realized that he carried her in his arms all the way down to the Infirmary, refusing any assistance or the grav-gurney. He undressed her himself while Donalla attached the monitors and Presnol fussed over which medication would produce the best results in the optimum time.

"Shard the optimum!" Lars raved. "Juice up her symbiont! Heal her!"

He saw her harnessed into the radiant-fluid bath before he stormed off. She let herself drift then and didn't even wonder how much credit that octave of blacks had earned them.

"Did you get enough blacks in?" Killa asked Lars the first time she saw him after she began to pull out of the traumatic exhaustion.

"Enough to reduce the clamor a few decibels, Sunny." He bent to kiss her cheek and then pinched it, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. "The ones we cut together were the best."

"Naturally," she said with a flash of her usual arrogance.

"Seen the figures on that octave?" he asked.

"One of my first conscious acts." She leaned into the fingers that stroked her cheek. "I've a bird to pluck with you. You gave me part of those you brought in when you went back out by yourself, and that's not in Rules and Regs. You cut by yourself," she said, scowling at him but well pleased at his generosity.

"Ah, but it's your site. All things being equal, you'd've continued cutting with me until the weather turned."

"So," she said, moving her head slightly back from his caresses and eyed him speculatively, "what is such charity going to cost me?"

Lars gave a hearty laugh, throwing his head back and tipping the chair away from the bed, balancing it deftly on the back legs. "I wasn't so much charitable as conscious of my administrative edict that those whose claims were cut without their participation would be awarded a settlement."

"I'm an existing and active singer," she said, outraged. " I'm not—not yet, at any rate . . ." And she waved her hand in agitated denial toward the section of the Infirmary, which cared for the brain-damaged singers.

"No, of course, you're not. The fact remains that I was compelled by press of orders to obtain black crystal from any viable site," he said, solemn for a moment. "And you did cut there earlier with me, so it was only just, meet, and fair that you got your share—especially at the current market price of blacks." He rolled his eyes. "Best ever."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it!" Killa grinned back at him. Blacks always generated top earnings. Their octave had earned her more than she had made in—her mind stumbled over the time factor. Quickly she turned away from such speculations. "Has that octave been processed yet?" She was still annoyed with Donalla and Presnol for not allowing her to access that information. They had kept her restricted to a simple voice-only comunit.

"Oooh, as fast as it could be shaped and bracketed. The Blackwell Triad drooled when I made it available to them. Eight was what they needed, and eight matched was a plus. Which they paid for."

"Too right!"

"Terasolli installed them." Lars's grin turned sour. "Then lost himself so well in Maxim's Planet I haven't been able to locate a trace of him. Even with what the pricey establishments on Maxim's charge, he's got enough to lose himself for months."

"I remember going to Maxim's once with you," Killa said, though she could recall no details of the legendary exotic pleasances that the leisure planet offered. Though some singers risked mind and body to cut enough for repeated visits to Maxim's, she couldn't recall any desire to do so.

"Once. No seas, not even lakes, so no sailing." He cocked her a malicious grin. "Which reminds me. Care to get out of here for a few days R and R? You can crew for me."

"To get out of here I'd even crew!"

Counterfeiting irritation at her jibe, he ruffled her hair into snarls and left, whistling a chanty.

Three days later, when she made her way down to the pier, she was surprised to find Donalla, Presnol, and Clodine already there, carisaks at their feet. She very much resented Lars's extending his invitation to anyone else, much less these three. She had wanted—expected—only his company on board the Angel. The ship was more than enough rival for his attention. Then she experienced a second, more disjointing shock when she got a good look at the ship moored to the long pier: it was not the Angel she thought she remembered clearly, but a craft some ten or fifteen meters longer. A sloop, but a much bigger one. That somewhat explained the extra hands but did not disperse her disgruntlement.

Lars arrived before she got past a stiff greeting to the others. He jogged down the pier, grinning broadly at the success of his surprise.

"She's great, isn't she?" he said, his face boyish and more like the Lars she had known than the Guild Master he had become. "This'll be her maiden voyage. You're the shake-down crew."

Not even Killashandra had the effrontery to blight his pleasure as he shepherded them on board, pointing out the technological improvements and amenities, the spaciousness, the luxury of the several cabins and wardroom, still smelling of varnish, paint and that indefinable odor of "unused". There was even space for a body-sleeve-sized radiant bath. Killa lost the edge of her vexation when Lars guided her to the captain's cabin, genially waving the other three to pick out their own bunks. There would be much more privacy on Angel II – unless, of course, Lars insisted on standing a different watch. Maybe they would have to, for she had no idea of how much seamanship the two medics and the Sorter had.

"Like it, Sunny?" Lars said, tossing his duffel to the wide bunk and gesturing around the beautifully appointed cabin. "The rewards of cutting black!"

"Must have cost you every bit you made," she murmured, looking about her appreciatively. "State-of-the-art?"

"She was when she left the boatyard on Optheria." Lars slipped his arms about her waist, enfolding her to him and burying his face in her short crisp curls. "Probably still is, though I waited to sail her until I could have my Sunny aboard. No fun for me to sail without you, you know." He kissed her, then let her go to swing his arms about expansively. "She's a beaut, isn't she? Saw her sister ships on Flag Three and I've lusted after one like her ever since."

"Do the others know how to sail?" she asked, curious and still somewhat resentful.

"They sailed on the old ship a couple of times," he admitted casually. "They don't get seasick, if that's your worry, and, while this baby should run herself, they know their way about a deck."

"Who cooks?" Killa said, half teasing.

"Whoever's off-duty," he replied gaily, and then hugged her to him. "It's good to have you back on board, lovey. Real good. Now—" and his manner turned brisk—"let's get this cruise underway."

It turned out to be a very good cruise, especially when Killashandra realized that she was a much more capable sailor than any of the others. And, as usual, she responded automatically, and correctly, to any of Lars's orders.