His smile deepened. "Here." He thrust a slip of paper at her. "When you're on course, eat it!"

"You are all heart, Lars Dahl," Killa said, and marched Donalla out of the office and to the lift.

In the descending car, Killa was amused by the way Donalla eyed her.

"Sorry?"

"Not a bit," Donalla said, scowling sternly; then her expression altered to anxiety. "It's just I hadn't realized the possible complications.

Killa laughed. "You don't, unless you've had to work with 'em. Lars shouldn't have scared you like that."

"He doesn't want to lose you again, Killa," Donalla said, her fine eyes intent. "He idolizes you."

"He has an odd way of showing it at times," Killa replied, trying for a casual acceptance to conceal her reaction to Donalla's appraisal.

"Sometimes that's because it's too important to admit, even to himself."

The intensity of those quiet words rang in Killa's mind. Lars had so often told her he loved her, but usually in a sort of offhand manner, as if he didn't really mean it, or was astonished by blurting out the declaration. Always his hands and eyes had conveyed more than he actually said aloud. Even when she was denying him, she couldn't genuinely deny her love for him, just her dependence on the affection of any other human being.

The lift door opened and, taking a deep breath, she led the way out to the Hangar and the double sled waiting and ready.

As there was no other sled in sight, Killa set the course directly toward the coordinates Lars had given her and, making a little display of it, dutifully chewed and swallowed the note. Donalla gave her a nervous smile. Killa found the fidgeting of the usually self-confident medic amusing. Well, her self-confidence was only to be expected—in an infirmary. But now she was in the singer's bailiwick, and the Ranges were awesome. No question of that.

When Donalla relaxed enough to watch the spectacular scenery streaming by, Killa made something hot to drink and broke out some munchables. They hadn't had any noon meal, and she wanted something in her belly if she was to let herself get thralled.

There was one problem, Killa mused, now that she focused her mind on the actual process. She never remembered a thing from any period in which she had been thralled. It was all a blank from the moment she lifted the crystal free to the moment thrall lifted. Of course, Donalla had carefully explained that one didn't remember the span of a hypnotic incident either. Well, Killa thought with a shrug, finishing the last of her ration bar, it was worth a try! Lars needed the boost a success would give him.

Between sessions with Donalla, Killa had done some surreptitious poking in general files, from Recruitment to Deliveries, all readily accessible information. There certainly had been a drop in the numbers of applicants to the Guild. There had only been six in the last bunch to be processed, and a mere ninety signing up for Guild membership over the last decade. She checked back over four decades, when the totals had been up to the two hundred mark. More singers were rated "inactive" than active on the Roster. No deaths listed in the past twenty years. Killa's thoughts were grim. The cost of caring for singers was higher than the budgets for Research and Development, yet profits were dwindling. Lars had been all too correct in saying the Guild was in serious trouble. She really should have brought in . . . she frowned, for the name escaped her. She had found someone, hadn't she? With the perfect pitch required. Could that sort of ability be on the wane in the modern world? It was a trick of the ear and the mind.

Gradually as the state of affairs of the Guild became obvious, her initial repugnance over invading singers' damaged minds to find the location of their sites began to subside. At Donalla's suggestion, she sat in on a hypnotic session with a man whose symbiont was visibly failing him. He was gnarled and wrinkled with age, joints thick with calcium deposits, veins engorged on fleshless limbs and digits. He seemed content, though, wrapped in a warm, soft blanket and smelling of a recent bath. There hadn't been much intelligence in the dull, deeply receding eyes, despite the fact that they were following the movement of the random fractals ever-shifting on the large screen in the corner of his room. He was an improvement over some of the living corpses Killa had seen on her way to his small single room.

"I chose Rimbol, because at least he's tracking what's on the screen," Donalla said. "I've had some luck in restimulating one or two of the least damaged singers. I've just turned off the music in here, but we've found he does respond to aural as well as visual stimuli. I think whatever we do to try to reach their brains is better than just letting these poor hulks have nothing to see and hear. Rimbol's more receptive to hypnotism than some of the others."

She held up the prism and turned Rimbol's head slightly so that the crystal was on a level with his eyes. She twisted the chain so that the prism caught the light, and immediately Rimbol's eyes were captured.

"Watch the prism, Rimbol, watch the lovely colors, shifting and changing. Your eyes are getting heavy, you can't hold them open because your lids are so very heavy and you're falling asleep, gently falling asleep . . . " Donalla pitched her pleasant contralto into a slow rhythmic pattern, and Rimbol's eyes did flicker and close, and a sigh escaped his lips.

"You will sleep and you will not resist. You will answer my questions as best you can. You will remember where you were when you cut black crystal. You will remember what the landscape was like, if there were any prominent landmarks. You will also tell me the coordinates, because you do remember them. And you do remember this particular site because you cut black crystal there, four fine crystals in the key of E Major. You made enough credits to leave Ballybran for over a year. Records show that you went to your homeworld on that occasion. Do you remember that time, Rimbol? Do remember the landmarks about that site, Rimbol?"

"Ah, the E majors? Best I ever cut. I 'member." The words were slurred, but both medic and singer listened hard. "I 'member. Two peaks, like cones, and then the flat part . . ." The words became more distinct, the voice even sounded younger, more vibrant. "Narrow ravine, winds like an S, had to tip the sled and damned near lost her but I knew there was black around. Fardling steep slope up to the peaks, sharp to climb, slipped often but crystal's there . . . feel it in my knees and hands . . ."

"The coordinates, Rimbol. What are the coordinates? You saw them when you finally set the sled down. You know you did. So put yourself back then, when you're looking down at your console. Now, you can see the figures on the scope, can't you?"

"See 'em . . ."

"What do you see, Rimbol? Look closely. The numbers are very clear, aren't they?"

"Clear."

"What numbers do you see?"

"Ah . . ." And another sigh escaped the old man. "Longitude, one fifty-two degrees twenty-two, latitude sixteen degrees fifteen. Didn't think I'd 'member that. I did!" He smiled contentedly and his closed eyelids trembled.

Killashandra had jotted down the coordinates and then looked at the figures, still uneasy about obtaining such information.

"He'll never make it there again, Killa," Donalla said softly. "He doesn't need them. The Guild which cares for him does."

"Someone else could probably find the claim without scouring it out of his mind," Killashandra said, resisting the intrusion for Rimbol's sake. His name sounded familiar, but he had altered far too much for her to recall what he had looked like as a young and vigorous man.

"There isn't time for random chance." Then Donalla turned back to her patient. "Thanks, Rimbol. You have been marvelously helpful."