Free Killashandra by Anne McCaffrey Page B

repulsively greasy-looking bushes whose thorny branches were obviously a hazard to pedestrians; something was to be said for the curtailment of natural “beauty.” She could learn to hate the City quite easily. No wonder some of the natives were restless. Just how did the Summer Festival compensate for the rest of the Optherian year?
    Once past the open square, the road climbed gently to a cluster of buildings evidently uninhibited by natural beauties, for they seemed to have an architectural integrity so far lacking in the City.
    “It was necessary,” Thyrol said in a muted voice, “to add the merest trace of a ramp to ascend to the Music Center.”
    “I wouldn’t have known it if you hadn’t told me,” Killashandra said, unable to restrain her facetiousness.
    “One ought to approach on foot,” Pirinio went on in a repressive tone, “but some latitude is permitted so that the audience may assemble punctually.” His gesture called Killashandra’s attention to the many small switchback paths to one side of the promontory.
    Killashandra repressed a second facetious remark which Pirinio’s tone provoked. It wouldn’t be the installation on Optheria, not the organ, nor the planet which were hazardous: once again it was the inhabitants. Was she always to encounter such intolerant, inflexible, remorseless personalities?
    “What sort of local brew do you have here on Optheria?” she asked, keeping her tone casual. If the reply was “none,” she’d book out on the next available craft.
    “Well, ah, that is, possibly not at all to your taste, Guildmember.” Mirbethan’s startled reply was hesitant. “No beverages can be imported. I’m sure you saw the notice in the Port Authority. Our brewmasters produce four distinct fermented beverages: quite potable, I’m told. Spirits are distilled from the Terran grains which we have managed to adapt to Optherian soil, but I’ve been told that these are raw to educated palates.”
    “Optheria produces excellent wines,” Pirinio said rather testily, with a reproving glance at Mirbethan. “They cannot be exported and indeed, some do not travel well even the relatively short distance to the City. If wine is your preference, a selection will be put in your quarters.”
    “I’ll try some of the brews, too.”
    “Wine
and
beer?” Polabod exclaimed in surprise.
    “Crystal singers are required to keep a high blood-alcohol content when absent from Ballybran. I’ll have to decide which is the best for my particular requirement.” She sighed in patient forebearance.
    “I wasn’t informed that members of your Guild required special diets.” Thyrol was clearly perturbed.
    “No special diet,” Killashandra agreed, “but we do require larger intakes of certain natural substances from time to time. Such as alcohol.”
    “Oh, I see,” Thyrol replied, although clearly he did not.
    Does no one on this repulsive planet have a sense of humor? Killashandra wondered.
    “Ah, here we are so soon,” Pirinio said, for the vehicle had swung down the curving drive to the imposing main entrance of the largest building on this musical height.
    In orderly fashion but in decorous haste, a second welcoming committee formed itself on the wide and shallow marble steps under the colonnaded portico that shielded the massive central doors of the edifice. Although large urns had been planted with some sort of weeping tree to soften the harsh architecture, the effect was forbidding, rather than welcoming.
    Killashandra emerged from the vehicle, ignoring Thyrol’s outstretched hand. The Optherian’s obsequious behavior could quickly become a major irritant.
    She had just straightened up and turned to step forward when something slammed hard into her left shoulder and she was thrown off balance against the vehicle. The fleshy point of her shoulder stung briefly then began to throb. Thyrol began to bellow incoherently before he attempted to embrace her in the misguided notion that she needed