Free Crystal Singer by Anne McCaffrey Page A

Singers, began a volley of questions about supplies and cargo waybills. Taking the hint, she applied herself to her food but did cast surreptitious glances toward the fascinating group of Singers. Killashandra was all the more surprised that they seemed not to have much to say to each other, though the trio had deliberately sought out the pair. Nor did they leave their table longer than it took one of them to dial and collect several wine beakers at a time. They paid no attention to others in the now-crowded dining area.
    Since there was considerable traffic, greeting of friends, and good-natured teasing from table to table, Killashandra could make some discreet evaluations. A good relationship seemed to exist between base residents—Guild members or not—and transients. She recognized the various professions and skills by the distinctive uniform colors and hatchings of calling and rate. The travelers were garbed in whatever suited their fancies, the styles and fashions of two or three dozen cultures and disciplines. Ship personnel always wore the space-dark uniforms, sober counterpoint to the riot of civilian dress. Several life-supported aliens appeared briefly in the main foyer but they quickly retired to the catering level that accommodated their exotic requirements.
    Having leisurely finished their meal, the supercargo and engineer excused themselves, claiming duties before liftoff. Andurs waved them a genial go-ahead and then turned to Killashandra.
    “D’you see what would happen if you become a Singer?”
    “What?” she asked guilelessly.
    Andurs flicked his fingers impatiently at the aloof quintet. “You’d be alone. Wherever you went.”
    “I wasn’t alone with Carrik. He was very good company.”
    “For a specific reason, I’ve no doubt, and don’t spout Privacy at me.”
    Killashandra laughed at his sour reply. “The reason was mutual, my friend. And I still don’t see why the Crystal Singers are at fault.”
    “ ‘And who do they think they are?’ “ he mimicked in a fair imitation of her instinctive reaction to the Singers.
    “Well, I also didn’t notice anyone making them welcome the way everyone else—”
    “Nor will you. Disagreeable bastards, that’s what they are. And they always act that superior.”
    “Carrik—” she began, remembering how much fun he had been.
    “He might have been halfway gone by the time you met him. They change—and not for the better.”
    “They would have to, wouldn’t they?” she said, somewhat abruptly, for Andurs’ irrational insistence on generalities annoyed her. “The fax said they take rigorous physical, psychological, and aptitude tests. Only the best are taken, so they would be above the ploddies you have to put up with everywhere else in the galaxy.”
    “You don’t understand. They are
very
different!” Andurs was becoming agitated in his effort to explain.
    “I’ll never understand if you won’t be specific.”
    “Well, I can.” Andurs almost leaped at her offer. “The Singer in the brown tunic—how old would you say he is? And don’t stare at them too hard. They can be offensive if irritated. Especially when they’re just off the Ranges like that set.”
    Killashandra had noticed the brown-clad man; he was the tallest one and exuded some of the same magnetic quality that had distinguished Carrik.
    “I’d say about second half of his third decade, perhaps beginning of his fourth.”
    “I’m in my fourth and have been making this run for nine years standard. I know he’s been a Singer for at least nine decades because his name’s appeared on the passenger lists for my ship for that long.”
    Killashandra glanced discreetly over at the subject in question. It was hard to believe the man was well over his first hundred years. Modern science delayed the worst ravages of physical degeneration but—
    “So eternal youth is your gripe?”
    “No, not mine. Frankly I wouldn’t want to have more than ten or twelve decades.