Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,

Settlement, and in 1905 had been forced to flee with his fatherleaving mother and two brothers behindto escape the ruthless massacres carried out by the 'Black Hundreds' at the behest of the last of the Romanoff Tzars who was seeking scapegoats for his crushing defeat by the Japanese. His mother, he learned later, had just disappeared, while his two brothers had survived only to die in agony long years afterwards, one in the rising in the Bialystok ghetto, the other in the Treblinka gas chambers. He himself had found work in the clothing industry in New York, studied in night school, worked for an oil company, married and with the death of his wife that spring had set about fulfilling the agelong ambition of his race, the return to their holy land. It was a touching story, pathetic and deeply moving, and I didn't believe a word of it. Every twenty minutes I changed position with Jackstraw and so the long hours of the night dragged by as the cold deepened and the stars and the moon wheeled across the black vault of the sky. And then came moonset, the blackness of the arctic night rushed across the ice-cap, I slowed the Citroen gratefully to a stop and the silence, breathless and hushed and infinitely sweet, came flooding in to take the place of the nightlong clamour of the deafening roar of the big engine, the metallic clanking of the treads. Over our black sugarless coffee and biscuits I told our passengers that this would be only a brief three-hour halt, that they should try to get what sleep they could: most of them, myself included, were already red-eyed and drooping from exhaustion. Three hours, no more: not often did Greenland offer travel weather like this, and the chance was not to be missed. Beside me, as I drank my coffee, was Theodore Mahler. He was for some reason restless, ill at ease, jerky and nervous, and his eyes and attention both wandered so much that it was easy enough for me to find out what I wanted. When my cup was empty, I whispered in Mahler's ear that there was a little matter that I wished to discuss privately with him. He looked at me in surprise, hesitated, then nodded in agreement, rising to follow me as I moved out into the darkness. A hundred yards away I stopped, switched on my torch so that he blinked in its beam, and slid my Beretta forward until its barrel was clearly visible, sharply outlined in the harsh white glare. I heard the catch of the breath, saw the eyes widening in fear and horror. "Save the act for the judge, Mahler," I said bleakly. "I'm not casio ex z60 digital camera interested in it. All I want is your gun." CHAPTER SEVENTuesday 7 A.M.Tuesday Midnight "My gun?" Mahler had slowly lifted his arms until his hands were at shoulder level, and his voice wasn't quite steady. "II don't understand, Dr Mason. I have no gun." "Naturally." I jerked the barrel of the Beretta to lend emphasis to my words. Turn round." "What are you going to do? You're making a" "Turn round!" He turned. I took a couple of steps forward, ground the muzzle of the automatic none too gently into the small of his back, and started to search him with my free hand. He was wearing two overcoats, a jacket, several sweaters and scarves, two-pairs of trousers and layer upon layer of underclothes: searching him was easier said than done. It took me a full minute to convince myself that he wasn't carrying a weapon of any kind. I stepped back, and he came slowly round to face me. "I hope you're quite satisfied now, Dr Mason?" "We'11 see what we find in your case. As for the rest, I'm satisfied enough. I have all the proof I want." I dipped the torch beam to illuminate the handful of sugar I'd taken from the pocket of his inner overcoatthere had been well over a pound in either pocket. "You might care to explain where you got this from, Mr Mahler?" "I don't have to tell you that, do I?" His voice was very low. "I stole it, Dr Mason." "You did indeed. A remarkably small-time activity for a person who operates on the scale you do. It was just your bad luck, Mahler, that I happened to be looking directly at you when the theft of the sugar was mentioned back in the cabin. It was just your bad luck that when we had our coffee just now it was dark enough for me to have a swig from your cup without your knowledge: it was so stiff with sugar that I couldn't even drink the damn' stuff. Curious, isn't it, Mahler, that such a tiny thing as giving way to a momentary impulse of greed should ruin everything? But I believe it's always the way: the big slip-up never brings the big criminal to book, because he never makes any. If you'd left that sugar alone when you were smashing up the valves, I'd never have known. Incidentally, what did you do with the rest of the sugar? In

He blew both loud and amain,

to remedy her appearance. Then the boarding call for the Pink Tulip Sparrow was broadcast and she had no option but to proceed to the loading bay. In an effort to delay the inevitable, she walked at a funereal pace down the access ramp. Singer, weve got to get moving! Now, please, hurry along. She made an appearance of haste but when the Mate tried to take her arm and hurry her into the lock, her body arched in resistance. Abruptly he let go, staring at her with an expression of puzzled shock his arms were bare, and the hairs on them stood erect. Im awaiting purchases from Stores. Killashandra was so desperate for a last-minute reprieve that any delay seemed reasonable. There! The Mate conveyed frustrated disgust and impatience as he pointed to a stack of odd-size parcels littering the passageway. The crystals? Cartons all racked and tacked in the special cargo hold. He made a move as if to grab her arm and yank her aboard, but jingled his hands with frustration instead. Weve got to make way. Shanganagh Authority imposes heavy fines for missed departure windows. And dont tell me, Crystal Singer, that youve got enough credit to pay em. Abruptly she abandoned all hope that Lanzecki, like the legendary heroes of yore, would rescue her at the last moment from her act of boundless self-sacrifice. She stepped aboard the freighter. The airlock closed with such speed that the heavy external hatch brushed against her heels. The ship was moving from the docking bay before the Mate could lead her out of the lock and close the secondary iris behind them. Killashandra experienced an almost overpowering urge to wrench open the airlock and leap into the blessed oblivion of space. But as she had deplored such extravagant and melodramatic actions in performances of historical tragedy, integrity prevented suicide despite the extreme anguish which tormented her. Besides, she had no excuse for causing the death of the Mate who seemed not to be suffering at all. Take me to my cabin, please. She turned too quickly, stumbled over the many packages in the passageway and had to grab the Mates shoulder, to regain her balance. Ordinarily she would have cursed her clumsiness, and apologized but cursing was undignified and inappropriate to her mood. From the pile, she chose two packages with the victualers logo, and waved negligently at the remainder. The rest may be brought to my cabin whenever convenient. The Mate wended a careful passage through the tumbled parcels as he best nikon digital cameras passed her to lead the way. She noticed that the hair on his neck, indeed the dark body hairs that escaped the sleeveless top he wore, were piercing the thin stuff, all at right angles to his body. This was no longer an amusing manifestation. Just another fascinating aspect of crystal singing that you dont hear about in that allegedly Complete Disclosure! It should be renamed A Short Introduction to whats really in store for you! One day, no doubt, she would be in the appropriately damaged state to give All the Facts. The Mate had stopped, flattening himself against the bulkhead, and gestured toward an open door. Your quarters, Crystal Singer. Your thumbprint will secure the door. He touched his fingers to a spot above his right eye and disappeared around the corner as if chased by Galormis. Killashandra pressed her thumb hard into the door lock. She was pleasantly surprised by the size of the cabin. Not as big as any accommodation she had enjoyed on Ballybran but larger than her student room at Fuerte and much more spacious than that closet on the Trundomoux cruiser. She slid the door shut, locked it, and put the packages down on the narrow writing ledge. She looked at the bunk, strapped up to the wall in its daytime position. Suddenly she was light-headed with fatigue. Strong emotion is as exhausting as cutting crystal, she thought. She released the bunk and stretched herself out. She exhaled on a long shuddering sob and tried to relax her taut muscles. The hum of the ships crystal drive was a counterpoint to the resonance between her ears, and both sounds traveled in waves up and down her bones. At first her mind did a descant, weaving an independent melody through the bass and alto, but the rhythm suggested a three-syllable word Lan-zec-ki so she changed to an idiot two-note dissonance and eventually fell asleep. Once she got over the initial buoyancy of self-sacrifice aboard the Pink Tulip Sparrow, Killashandra vacillated between fury at Trag and wallowing in despair at her Loss. Until she concluded that her misery was caused by Lanzecki after all, if he hadnt made such a determined play for her affections, he wouldnt have become so attached to her, nor she to him, and she wouldnt be on a stinking tub of a freighter. Well, yes, she probably would. If all Trag had told her about the Optherian assignment was true. In no mood to be civil to either the crew or the other passengers, she stayed in her cabin the entire

" So long as I 'm able to handle my staff,

and then leaned against it. Now, in the absence of background sounds, she could hear the resonance in her body, feel it cascading up and down her bones, throbbing in her arteries. The noise between her ears was like a gushing river in full flood. She held out her arms but the static apparently did not affect her, the carrier, or she had exhausted that phenomenon in herself. Mineral baths! Probably stink of sulfur or something worse. Immediately she heard the initial phluggg as radiant fluid began to flow into the tank in the hygiene room. Wondering why the room computer was on, she opened her mouth to abort the process, when her name issued from the speakers. Killashandra Ree? The bass voice was unmistakably Trags. Yes, Trag? She switched on vision. You have been restored to the active list. Im going off-world as soon as I can arrange transport, Trag. Expressionless as ever, Trag regarded her. A lucrative assignment is available to a singer of your status. The Optherian manual? As Trag inclined his head once, Killashandra controlled her surprise. Why was Trag approaching her when Lanzecki had definitely not wanted her to take it? Youre aware of the details? For the first time Trag evinced a flicker of surprise. Rimbol told me. He also said he wasnt taking it. Was he your first choice? Trag regarded her steadily for a moment. You were the logical first choice, Killashandra Ree, but until an hour ago you were an Inactive. I was the first choice? Firstly, you are going off-world in any event and do not have sufficient credit to take you past the nearer inhabited systems. Secondly, an extended leave of absence is recommended by Medical. Thirdly, you have already acquired the necessary skills to place white crystal brackets. In the fourth place, your curriculum vitae indicates latent teaching abilities so that training replacement technicians on Optheria is well within your scope. Nothing was said about training technicians. Borella and Concera both have considerably more instructional experience than I. Borella, Concera, and Gobbain Tekla have not exhibited either the tact or diplomacy requisite to this assignment. Killashandra was amused that Trag added Gobbain to the list. Had Bajorn told Trag who had inquired about transport to Optheria? sony dsc-w80 digital camera pdf specs There are thirty-seven other active Guild members who qualify! Trag shook his head slowly twice. No, Killashandra Ree, it must be you who goes. The Guild needs some information about Optheria Tactfully and diplomatically extracted? On what subject? Why the Optherian government prohibits interstellar travel to its citizens. Killashandra let out a whoop of delight. You mean, why, with their obsession for music, there isnt a single Optherian in the Heptite Guild? That is not the relevant issue, Killashandra. The Federated Sentient Council would be obliged if the Guilds representative would act as an impartial observer, to determine if this restriction is popularly accepted A Freedom of Choice infringement? But wouldnt that be a matter for Trag held up his hand. The request asks for an impartial opinion on the popular acceptance of the restriction. The FSC acknowledges that isolated individuals might express dissatisfaction, but a complaint has been issued by the Executive Council of the Federated Artists Association. Killashandra let out a low whistle. The Stellars themselves protested? Well, if Optherian composers and performers were involved, of course the Executive Council would protest. Even if it had taken them decades to do so. And since the Guilds representative would certainly come in contact with composers and performers during the course of the assignment, yes, Id be more than willing to volunteer for that facet. Was that why Lanzecki had been against her going? To protect her from the iron idealism of a parochial Optherian Council? But, as a member of the Heptite Guild, which guaranteed her immunity to local law and restrictions, she could not be detained on any charges. She could be disciplined only by her Guild. That any form of artistry might be limited by law was anathema. Thereve been Optherian organs a long time Popular acceptance is the matter under investigation. Trag was not going to be deflected from the official wording of the request. All right, I copy! Youll accept this assignment? Killashandra blinked. Did she

Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.

It was Jackstraw who heard it firstit was always Jackstraw, whose hearing was an even match for his phenomenal eyesight, who heard things first. Tired of having my exposed hands alternately frozen, I had dropped my book, zipped my sleeping-bag up to the chin and was drowsily watching him carving figurines from a length of inferior narwhal tusk when his hands suddenly fell still and he sat quite motionless. Then, unhurriedly as always, he dropped the piece of bone into the coffee-pan that simmered gently by the side of our oil-burner stovecurio collectors paid fancy prices for what they Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, imagined to be the dark ivory of fossilised elephant tusksrose and put his ear to the ventilation shaft, his eyes remote in the unseeing gaze of a man lost in listening. A couple of seconds were enough. "Aeroplane," he announced casually. "Aeroplane!" I propped myself up on an elbow and stared at him. "Jackstraw, you've been hitting the methylated spirits again." "Indeed, no, Dr Mason." The blue eyes, so incongruously at

"What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son?

any minute... . What was in that last load you were bringing up?" He didn't really have to askhe himself had arranged for the breaking up of the equipment into three separate loads before he'd left the ledge. It wasn't even that he suspected his tired mind of playing tricks on him; but it was tired enough, too tired, to probe the hidden compulsion, the nameless hope that prompted him to grasp at nameless straws that didn't even exist. "The food," Andrea said gently. "All the food, the stove, the fueland the compasses." For five, perhaps ten seconds, Mallory stood motionless. One half of his mind, conscious of the urgency, the desperate need for haste, was jabbing him mercilessly: the other half held him momentarily in a vast irresolution, an irresolution of coldness and numbness that came not from the lashing wind and sleety rain but from his own mind, from the bleak and comfortless imaginings of lost wanderings on the harsh and hostile island, with neither food nor fire.. . . And then Andrea's great hand was on his shoulder, and he was laughing softly. "Just so much less to carry, my Keith. Think how grateful our tired friend Corporal Miller is going to be. . . . This is only a little thing." "Yes," Mallory said. "Yes, of course. A little thing." He turned abruptly, tugged the cord, watched the rope disappear over the edge. Fifteen minutes later, in drenching, torrential rain, a great, sheeting downpour almost constantly illumined by the jagged, branching stilettos of the forked lightning, Casey Brown's bedraggled head came into view over the edge of the cliff. The thunder, too, emptily cavernous in that flat and explosive intensity of sound that lies at the heart of a thunderstorm, was almost continuous: but in the brief intervals, Casey's voice, rich in his native Clydeside accent, carried clearly. He was expressing himself fluently in basic Anglo-Saxon, and with cause. He had had the assistance of two ropes on the way up the one stretched from spike to spike and the one used for raising supplies, which Andrea had kept pulling in as he made the ascent. Casey Brown had secured the end of this round his waist with a bowline, but the bowline had proved to be nothing of the sort but a slip-knot, and Andrea's enthusiastic help had almost cut him in half. He was still sitting on the cliff-top, exhausted head between his knees, the radio still strapped to his back, when two tugs on Andrea's rope announced that Dusty Miller was on his way up. Another quarter of an hour elapsed, an interminable fifteen marco digital camera recommendation minutes when, in the lulls between the thunderclaps, every slightest sound was an approaching enemy patrol, before Miller materialised slowly out of the darkness, half-way down the rock chimney. He was climbing steadily and methodically, then checked abruptly at the cliff-top, groping hands pawing uncertainly on the topsoil of the cliff. Puzzled, Mallory bent down, peered into the lean face: both the eyes were clamped tightly shut. "Relax, Corporal," Mallory advised kindly. "You have arrived." Dusty Miller slowly opened his eyes, peered round at the edge of the cliff, shuddered and crawled quickly on hands and knees to the shelter of the nearest boulders. Mallory followed and looked down at him curiously. "What was the idea of closing your eyes coming over the top?" "I did not," Miller protested. Mallory said nothing. "I closed them at the bottom," Miller explained weanly. "I opened them at the top." Mallory looked at him incredulously. "What! All the way?" "It's like I told you, boss," Miller complained. "Back in Castelrosso. When I cross a street and step up on to the sidewalk I gotta hang on to the nearest lamp-post. More or less." He broke off, looked at Andrea leaning far out over the side of the cliff, and shivered again. "Brother! Oh brother! Was I scared!" Fear. Terror. Panic. Do the thing you fear and the death of fear is certain. Do the thing you fear and the death of fear is certain. Once, twice, a hundred times, Andy Stevens repeated the words to himself, over and over again, like a litany. A psychiatrist had told him that once and he'd read it a dozen times since. Do the thing you fear and the death of fear is certain. The mind is a limited thing, they had said. It can only hold one thought at a time, one impulse to action. Say to yourself, I am brave, I am overcoming this fear, this stupid, unreasoning panic which has no origin except in my own mind, and because the mind can only hold one thought at a time, and because thinking and feeling are one, then you will be brave, you will overcome and the fear will vanish like a shadow in the night. And so Andy Stevens

Then did he shake hands with his merry men all,

the smoke-like exhalations that clouded in the air before them with every breath they took, the film of slick ice that already covered the walls and all of the roof except for a few inches round the stove pipe exit. As a spectacle of suffering, of sheer unrelieved misery, I don't think I have ever seen its equal. "Insomnia, eh, Doc?" It was Corazzini speaking, his teeth chattering between the words. "Or just forgotten to plug in your electric blanket?" "Just an early riser, Mr Corazzini." I glanced round the haggard and pain-filled faces. "Anybody here slept at all?" I was answered by mute headshakes from everybody. "Anybody likely to sleep?" Again the headshakes. "That settles it." I struggled to my feet. "It's only 4 a.m., but if we're going to freeze to death we might as well freeze on the move. Not only that, but another few hours in this temperature, and that tractor engine will never start again. What do you think, Jackstraw?" "I'll get the blow-torches," he said by way of answer, and pushed his way out through the canvas screen. Almost at once I heard him begin to cough violently in the deadly cold of the air outside, and, in the intervals between the coughing, we could clearly hear the dry rustling crackling of his breath as the moisture condensed, froze and drifted away in the all but imperceptible breeze. Corazzini and I followed, choking and gasping in turn as that glacial cold seared through throat and lungs, adjusting masks and goggles until not a millimetre of flesh was left exposed. Abreast the driving cabin I drew out my torch and glanced at the alcohol thermometerordinary mercury froze solid at38then looked again in disbelief. The red spirit inside the glass had sunk down to within an inch of the bulb and stood on the line of -68exactly one hundred degrees of frost. Still well below Wegener's -85, further short still of the incredible -125 that the Russians had recorded at the Vostok in Antarctica, but nevertheless the lowest, by almost fifteen degrees, that I had ever experienced. And that it should happen nownow, two hundred miles from the nearest human habitation, with Jackstraw and myself stuck with two murderers, a possibly dying man, seven other passengers rapidly weakening from exposure, exhaustion and lack of food, and a superannuated tractor that was due to pack up at any moment at all. Over an hour later I had cause flash attachment for digital cameras to revise the last part of that estimateit seemed that the tractor had already packed up. I had had my first intimation of trouble to come when I had switched on the ignition and pressed the hornthe faint mournful beep could hardly have been heard twenty yards away. The batteries were so gummed up by the cold that they couldn't even have turned over a hot engine, far less one in which the crankcase, transmission and differential were all but locked solid in lubricating oil that had lost all power to lubricate anything and had been turned into a super viscous liquid with the consistency and intractability of some heavy animal glue. Even with two of us bringing all our weight to bear on the starting handle it was impossible to turn even one cylinder over the top. We made to light the paraffin blow-torches but they, too, were frozen solid: paraffin freezes at just over -50, and even at -40 it still flows like heavy gear-case oil. We had to thaw them out with a petrol blow-torch, then place all five of them on wooden boxes and behind canvas aprons to retain the heat, two to thaw out the crankcase, two for the gear-box and transmission and the last for the differential. After an hour or so, when the engine had begun to turn fairly easily and we had brought out the heavy battery which had been thawing out by the stove, we tried again. But it gave no sign of life at all. None of us, not even Corazzini whose Global tractors were all diesel-powered, was an expert in engine maintenance, and this was when we came very close to despair. But despair was the one emotion we couldn't afford, and we knew it. We kept the blow-torches burning, returned the battery to the stove, removed and cleaned the plugs, eased the frozen brushes in the generator, stripped and removed the petrol lines, thawed them and sucked out the frozen condensation by mouth, scraped away the ice from the carburettor intake and returned everything in place. We had to remove our gloves for most of this delicate work, the flesh stuck to metal and pulled off like the skin of an orange when we removed our hands, even the backs of our fingers became burnt and blistered from casual knocks on metal, blood oozed out from under our fingernails only to coagulate in the freezing air, and our lips, where they had touched the copper petrol feeds, were swollen and puffed and blistered. It was brutal, killing work, and in addition to the work our arms and legs and faces were almost

The copious use of claret is forbid too,

so tight it hurt, as if she didnt have enough wounds, but the grasp was obscurely comforting and she resisted its attempt to release hers. Pain came in waves, her chest hurt viciously with every shallow breath. Her back echoed the discomfort, her head seemed to be vibrating like a drum, having swollen under the skull. Pain was something not even her symbiont could immediately suppress but she kept urging it to help her. She chanted at it, calling it up from the recesses of her body to restore the cells with its healing miracle, especially the pain. Why didnt they think about the pain? There wasnt a spot on her body that didnt ache, pound, throb, profest the abuse that she had suffered. Who had attacked her and why? She cried out in her extremity, called out for Lars, for Trag who would know what to do, wouldnt he? Hed helped Lanzecki with crystal thrall. Surely he knew what to do now? And where had Lars been when she really needed him? Fine bodyguard he was! Who had it been? Who was the woman who hated her enough to recruit an army to kill her? Why? What had she done to any Optherians? Someone touched her temples and she cried out the right one was immeasurably sore. The pain flowed away, like water from a broken vessel, flowed out and down and away, and Killashandra sank into the gorgeous oblivion which swiftly followed painlessness. If she had been anyone else, Trag, I wouldnt permit her to be moved for several weeks, and then only in a protective cocoon, said a vaguely familiar voice. In all my years as a physician, I have never seen such healing. Where am I going? Id prefer the islands, Killashandra said, rousing enough to have a say in her disposition. She opened her eyes, half-expecting to be in the wretched Conservatory Infirmary and very well satisfied to find that she was in the spacious bed of her quarters. Lars! Hauness called jubilantly. His had been the familiar voice. The door burst inward as an anxious Lars Dahl rushed to her bedside, followed by his father. Killa, if you knew Tears welling from his eyes, Lars could find no more words and buried his face against the hand she raised to greet him. She stroked his crisp hair with her other hand, soothing, his release from uncertainty. Lousy bodyguard, you are She was unable to say what crowded her throat, hoping that her loving hand conveyed something of her deep feeling for him. Corish was no use, after all. Then she frowned. Was he hurt? Security says, Hauness replied with a chuckle, he lifted half a dozen digital cameras to make movies of your assailants and broke three arms, a leg, and two skulls. Who was it? A woman Trag moved into her vision, registering with a stolid blink that her hands were busy comforting Lars Dahl. The search and seize stirred up a great deal of hatred and resentment, Killashandra Ree, and as you were the object of that search, your likeness was well circulated. Your appearance on the streets made you an obvious target for revenge. We never thought of that, did we? she said ruefully. The movement to her right caused her to flinch away and then offer profuse apologies, for Nahia was moving to comfort the distraught Lars. So you took the pain away, Nahia? My profound thanks, Killashandra said. Even crystal singers nerve ends dont heal as quickly as flesh. So Trag told us. And that crystal singers cannot assimilate many of the pain-relieving drugs. Are you in any pain now? Nahias hands gently rested on Lars head in a brief benison, but her beautiful eyes searched Killashandras face. Not in the flesh, Killashandra said, dropping her gaze to Larss shuddering body. It is relief, Nahia said, and best expressed. Then Killashandra began to chuckle, Well, we achieved what I set out to do in meeting Corish. Got you all here! Far more than that, Trag said as the others smiled. A third attack on you gave me the excuse to call a scout ship to get us off this planet. The Guild contract has been fulfilled and, as I informed the Elders Council, we have no wish to cause domestic unrest if the public objects so strongly to the presence of crystal singers. How very tactful of you. Belatedly remembering caution, Killashandra looked up at the nearest monitor, relieved to find it was a black hole. Did the jammer survive? No, Trag said, but white crystal, in dissonance, distorts sufficiently. Theyve stopped wasting expensive units. And Killashandra prompted, encouraging Trag since he was being uncharacteristically informative. He nodded, Olavs grin broadened, and even Hauness looked pleased. Those shards provide enough white crystal to get the most vulnerable people past the security curtain. Nahia and Hauness will organize a controlled exodus until the Federated Council can move. Lars and Olav come with us on the scout ship. Brassner, Theach, and Erutown are to