Free Crystal Singer by Anne McCaffrey

steps into the dining area. Service slots and bright-orange menu panels were positioned against the walls, and she was making her way to the nearest when she heard herself called.
    “Over here, Killashandra Ree.” Captain Andurs rose from a group of spacemen to beckon her. “C’mon. Join us.”
    Well, he’d at least be protection against that imbecile if he followed her, so she waved back and stepped up to scan the menufax. She was overwhelmed by the selections scrolling on display. When she spotted the seafood casserole she’d eaten that momentous evening at Fuerte, she ordered it.
    “Brew’s good, too,” Andurs said, coming to assist her. He deftly punched a sequence, paused and tapped again. “Goes down better with some of these.”
    She was about to protest his abruptness, all too familiar with the vagaries of overprogrammed and stubborn student hall catering units, when the service panel slid open to reveal all three orders. Efficiency was a pleasure.
    “Here, have a sip of the brew and see if you like it,” Andurs suggested, offering her the liter glass. “No sense making unnecessary trips. Spoils conversations. See, I told you it was good. It’s not processed: allowed to age normally, and that means a good brew. They know how here.” Then he dialed up not only a liter glass for her but a large beaker as well. “I’d stick to the brews here or your own planet’s ferment or distillations if they stock ’em—and I’d be surprised if they didn’t. You could really turn off on some drinks if you have the wrong metabolism, you know.”
    “I appreciate the advice,” she said as they made their way back to the others.
    “Do you?” Andurs sounded cynical. “We’ve been rescheduled. We’ll be on our way tomorrow, 1000 base time. Rush cargo. Bound for Regulus Exchange. You can use that Guild voucher and cross the Milky Way if you’ve a mind to.”
    “I’ve a mind to stay here and see how it goes.”
    “Done any checking?” he asked, lowering his voice, for they were nearly to the table now.
    “Enough.”
    “No matter what prints out, it wouldn’t be enough or all the truth.” Andurs’ tone was dourly repressive.
    “By FSP law, they have to make full disclosure of the dangers.”
    Andurs snorted, but they had reached the table by then and he was disinclined to continue that discussion.
    She had only just been introduced to the flight engineer, whom she hadn’t met during the journey, when she noticed tension on the faces of the supercargo and the second officer. Curious, she glanced over her shoulder to see what caused their dislike and then half turned in her chair to get a clear look.
    Two men and a woman stood there observing the seated diners. It was not their rough, stained garments, the scarred boots, or unkempt hair that caught Killashandra’s eye—though these were unusual enough in a society that respected cleanliness—but the trio’s imperious bearing, a sort of lofty disdain that excluded everyone else, and the brilliance of their eyes. The tableau, briefly held during the trio’s survey, broke up as the three moved purposefully toward a corner table where, as Killashandra followed their progress, two other similarly attired people sat.
    “And who do they think they are?” Killashandra asked, as annoyed by their manner as the second officer and supercargo. Even as she spoke, she knew the answer, for she had seen that hauteur, that inner luminosity before—in Carrik. “Singers, are they?”
    “Yes,” said the super flatly.
    “Are they always like that?”
    “Wasn’t your friend Carrik?” Andurs countered.
    “Not exactly like that.”
    “Then he was most unusual,” the super replied in a daunting tone. “They’re at their worst just in from the ranges—as those are. Lucky for us, Andurs, there are two Monasterian ships in. They’ll ship out on those.”
    Andurs nodded curtly and then, as if to make certain Killashandra did not continue the sore subject of