Crystal Singer by Anne McCaffrey

comfortable quarters in the Guild block. If you will follow me . . .”
    Ordinarily, such an action, taken without her consent, would have constituted an invasion of privacy, but her energies were too depleted for her to summon up a protest. She was led deeper into the Guild block, down three levels from the main and the only entrance, or exit, to the rest of Shankill Base. Her easy penetration of the hallowed precinct amused rather than alarmed her. There was really no need for her to be isolated from the rest of the base population after what were very standard examinations. Except for the pain-threshold test, she had nothing to warn any other prospective applicant about. Unsuccessful applicants would be more dangerous to the Guild because of their disappointment. What happened to them, she wondered? What, for instance, had become of the angry Carigana? She’d be glad to be out of that one’s vicinity in the event of her failure. And where were Rimbol and that irritating, twitchy young man, that Shillawn something?
    How far into the Guild did she have to go to get this free room and board, she wondered, fatigue irritating her. She desired nothing more than to stretch out and sleep. She felt as drained as she had the night of the final student concert. How long ago was that now? In terms of distance or time? She had no patience with her own conundrums. How much farther now?
    The Guild man had paused at a door, which slid open.
    “If you’ll put your print on file, you will find your belongings within. At the end of this corridor is a common lounge, although you will also find catering facilities in your room. Tomorrow you will be summoned for the final phase.”
    A bleep from the man’s wrist-unit curtailed any questions she might have asked; for he acknowledged the reminder, inclined his head politely to her and retraced his steps.
    She placed her thumb in the depression for the print lock and entered her new accommodation. It was not only larger—spacious in comparison to the hostel room—it was also more luxuriously appointed. A chair was drawn up to a small table, already set with a beaker of brew from the catering panel, which was lit. Killashandra gratefully sampled the drink, noting that the menufax was set to fish selections. She wondered just how much information the Guild had already had programmed about her since she had given her name, planet of origin, and rank. Deliberately, she spun the display to other proteins and ordered what was described as a hearty casserole of assorted legumes and a light wine.
    She had just finished her meal when the door announced a visitor. She hesitated a long moment, unable to imagine who would be calling, then the door added that the visitor’s name was Rimbol, who required a word with her. She pressed the door release.
    Rimbol leaned in, grinning. “C’mon out for bit. Just for a drink. It’s free.” Then he winked. “Neither Carigana nor Shillawn are present. Just some others who’ve already passed their prelims. C’mon.”
    The amusement in his wheedling voice was the deciding factor. Killashandra knew herself well enough to realize that even if she tried to sleep, she’d only play back the tests and become so depressed over omissions and commissions that she’d never achieve a true rest. A few drinks and a bit of relaxation in Rimbol’s infectious company would do her much more good, especially if both Carigana and that nervous Shillawn were absent.
    She was a bit taken aback, however, when ‘just some others’ numbered twenty-nine. Rimbol, sensing her surprise, grinned and gestured at the catering area.
    “A brews what you need. This is Killashandra,” he announced in a slightly raised voice to the room in general. Her presence was acknowledged by slight nods or smiles or a brief hand gesture. A certain degree of informal companionship was already enjoyed by the others. The group, involved in some sort of four-player card game, didn’t even look up as