GROWING OLD

located the oil-lamp and lit it. The light was dim, scarcely reaching the far corners of the cabin, but sufficient to show the mummy-like figures lying huddled on the bunks and sprawled grotesquely across the floor, their frozen breath clouding before their faces and above their heads, then condensing on the cabin walls. The walls themselves were sheeted with ice which had extended far out across the roof, in places reaching the skylights, a condition largely brought about by the cold heavy air that had flooded down the opened hatchway during the night: the outside temperature registered on the drum at 54 below zero. Not everyone was asleep: most of them, I suspected, had slept but little, the numbing cold had seen to that: but they were as warm in their bunks as they would be anywhere else and nobody showed any inclination to move. Things would be better when the cabin heated up a little. I had trouble starting the stoveeven though it was gravity fed from a tank above and to one side of it, the fuel oil had thickened up in the coldbut when it did catch it went with a roar. I turned both burners up to maximum, put on the water bucket that had lain on the floor all night and was now nearly a solid mass of ice, pulled on snow-mask and goggles and clambered up the hatchway to have a look at the weather. The wind had died away almost completelyI'd known that from the slow and dispirited clacking of the anemometer cups -and the ice-drift, which at times could reach up several hundred feet into the sky, was no more than gentle puffs of dust stirring lazily and spectrally, through the feeble beam of my torch, across the glittering surface of the ice-cap. The wind, such as it was, still held out to the east. The cold, too, was still intense, but more bearable than it had been on the previous night. In terms of the effect of cold on human beings in the Arctic, absolute temperature is far from being the deciding factor: wind is just as important -every extra mile per hour is equivalent to a one degree drop in temperatureand humidity far more so. Where the relative humidity is high, even a few degrees below zero can become intolerable. But today the wind was light and the air dry. Perhaps it was a good omen.. . . After that morning, I never believed in omens again. When I got below, Jackstraw was on his feet, presiding over the coffee-pot. He smiled at me, and his face was as fresh and rested as if he'd had nine hours on a feather bed behind him. But then Jack-straw never showed fatigue or distress under any nikon coolpix s210 digital camera black circumstances: his tolerance to sleeplessness and the most exhausting toil was phenomenal. He was the only one on his feet, but far from the only one awake: of those in the bunks, only Senator Brewster was still asleep. The others were facing into the centre of the room, a few propped up on their elbows: all of them were shivering, and shivering violently, their faces blue and white and pinched with the cold. Some were looking at Jackstraw, wrinkling their noses in anticipation of the coffee, the pungent smell of which already filled the cabin; others were staring in fascination at the sight of the ice on the roof melting as the temperature rose, melting, dripping down to the floor in a dozen different places and there beginning to form tiny stalagmites of ice, building up perceptibly before their eyes: the temperature on the cabin floor must have been almost forty degrees lower than that at the roof. "Good morning, Dr Mason." Marie LeGarde tried to smile at me, but it was a pathetic effort, and she looked ten years older than she had on the previous night: she was one of the few with a sleeping-bag, but even so she must have passed a miserable six hours, and there is nothing so exhausting to the human body as uncontrollable night-long shivering, a vicious circle in which the more one shivers the tireder one becomes, and the tireder the less resistance to cold and hence the more shivering. For the first time, I knew that Marie LeGarde was an old woman. "Good morning," I smiled. "How did you enjoy your first night in your new home?" "First night!" Even in the sleeping-bag her movements of clasping her arms together and huddling her head down between her shoulders were unmistakable. "I hope to heaven that it's the last night. You run a very chilly establishment here, Dr Mason." "I'm sorry. Next time we'll keep watches and have the stove on all night." I pointed to the water splashing down to the floor. "The place is heating up already. You'll feel better when you have some hot coffee inside you." "I'll never feel better again," she declared vigorously, but the twinkle was back in her eye. She turned to the young German girl in the next bunk. "And how do you feel this morning, my dear?" "Better, thank you, Miss LeGarde." She seemed absurdly grateful that anyone should even bother to ask. "I don't feel a thing now." "Means nothing," Miss LeGarde assured her cheerfully. "Neither do I. It's just that we're both

With a passionate fury and ire,

time. "They won't. I'm positive of that. No matter how suspicious they may be, how certain they are that we're the big bad wolf, they are going to be shaken to the core when that kid tells them we're carrying papers and letters of authority signed by General Graebel himself. For all they know, curtains for us may be the firing squad for them. Unlikely, but you get the general idea. So they're going to contact H.Q., and the commandant on a small island like this isn't going to take a chance on rubbing out a bunch of characters who may be the special envoys of the Herr General himself. So what? So he codes a message and radios it to Vathy in Samos and bites his nails off to the elbow till a message comes back saying Graebel has never heard of us and why the hell haven't we all been shot dead?" Mallory looked at the luminous dial of his watch. "I'd say we have at least half an hour." "And meantime we all sit around with our little bits of paper and pencil and write out our last wills and testaments." Miller scowled. "No percentage in that, boss. We gotta do somethin'." Mallory grinned. "Don't worry, Corporal, we are going to do something. We're going to hold a nice little bottle party, right here on the poop." The last words of their songa shockingly corrupted Grecian version of "Lilli Marlene," and their third song in the past few minutesdied away in the evening air. Mallory doubted whether more than faint snatches of the singing would be carried to the watch-tower against the wind, but the rhythmical stamping of feet and waving of bottles were in themselves sufficient evidence of drunken musical hilarity to all but the totally blind and deaf. Mallory grinned to himself as he thought of the complete confusion and uncertainty the Germans in the tower must have been feeling then. This was not the behaviour of enemy spies, especially enemy spies who know that suspicions had been aroused and that their time was running out. Mallory tilted the bottle to his mouth, held it there for several seconds, then set it down again, the wine untasted. He looked round slowly at the three men squatting there with him on the poop, Miller, Stevens and Brown. Andrea was not there, but he didn't have to turn his head to look for him. Andrea, he knew, was crouched in the shelter of the wheelhouse, a waterproof bag with grenades and a revolver strapped to his back. "Right!" Mallory said crisply. "Now's your big chance for your Oscar. Let's next shot delay for digital camera make this as convincing as we can." He bent forward, jabbed his finger into Miller's chest and shouted angrily at him. Miller shouted back. For a few moments they sat there, gesticulating angrily and, to all appearances, quarrelling furiously with each other. Then Miller was on his feet, swaying in drunken imbalance as he leaned threateningly over Mallory, clenched fists ready to strike. He stood back as Mallory struggled to his feet, and in a moment they were fighting fiercely, raining apparently heavy blows on each other. Then a haymaker from the American sent Mallory reeling back to crash convincingly against the wheelhouse. "Right, Andrea." He spoke quietly, without looking round. "This is it. Five seconds. Good luck." He scrambled to his feet, picked up a bottle by the neck and rushed at Miller, upraised arm and bludgeon swinging fiercely down. Miller dodged, swung a vicious foot, and Mallory roared in pain as his shins caught on the edge of the bulwarks. Silhouetted against the pale gleam of the creek, he stood poised for a second, arms flailing wildly, then plunged heavily, with a loud splash, into the waters of the creek. For the next half-minuteit would take about that time for Andrea to swim under water round the next upstream corner of the creek everything was a confusion and a bedlam of noise. Mallory trod water as he tried to pull himself aboard: Miller had, seized a boathook and was trying to smash it down on his head: and the others, on their feet now, had flung their arms round Miller, trying to restrain him: finally they managed to knock him off his feet, pin him to the deck and help the dripping Mallory aboard. A minute later, after the immemorial fashion of drunken men, the two combatants had shaken hands with one another and were sitting on the engine-room hatch, arms round each other's shoulders and drinking in perfect amity from the same freshly-opened bottle of wine. "Very nicely done," Mallory said approvingly. "Very nicely indeed. An Oscar, definitely, for Corporal Miller." Dusty Miller said nothing. Taciturn and depressed, he looked moodily at the bottle in his hand. At last he stirred. "I don't like it, boss," he muttered unhappily. "I don't like the set-up one little bit. You shoulda let me go with Andrea., It's three to one up there, and they're waiting and ready." He looked accusingly at Mallory. "Dammit to hell, boss, you're always telling us how desperately important this mission is!"

Brave Stutely comes then, with seven yeomen,

chink to be seen from the outside," he reported. "Fair enough. Thanks, boss." Miller lit a second candle, then slipped the rucksack straps from his shoulders, laid the pack on the bunk and stood in silence for a moment. Mallory looked at his watch, looked back at Miller. "You were going to show me something," he prompted. "Yeah, that's right. Three things, I said." He dug into the pack, brought out a little black box hardly bigger than a match-box. "Exhibit A, boss." Mallory looked at it curiously. "What's that?" "Clockwork fuse." Miller began to unscrew the back panel. "Hate the damned things. Always make me feel like one of those bolshevik characters with a dark cloak, a moustache like Louki's and carryin' one of those black cannon-ball things with a sputterin' fuse stickin' outa it. But it works." He had the back off the box now, examining the mechanism in the light of his torch. "But this one doesn't, not any more," he added softly. "Clock's O.K., but the contact arm's been bent right back. This thing could tick till Kingdom Come and it couldn't even set off a firework." "But how on earth?" "Exhibit B." Miller didn't seem to hear him. He opened the detonator box, gingerly lifted a fuse from its felt and cotton-wool bed and examined it closely under his torch. Then he looked at Mallory again. "Fulminate of mercury, boss. Only seventy-seven grains, but enough to blow your fingers off. Unstable as hell, toothe little tap will set it off." He let it fall to the ground, and Mallory winced and drew back involuntarily as the American smashed a heavy heel down on top of it. But there was no explosion, nothing at all. "Ain't workin' so good either, is it, boss? A hundred to one the rest are all empty, too." He fished out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and watched the smoke eddy and swirl above the heat of the candles. He slid the cigarettes into his pocket. "There was a third thing you were going to show me," Mallory said quietly. "Yeah, I was goin' to show you somethin' else." The voice was very gentle, and Mallory felt suddenly cold. "I was goin' to show you a spy, a traitor, the most vicious, twistin', murderin', doublecrossin' bastard I've ever known." The American had his hand out of his pocket now, the silenced automatic sitting snugly against his palm, the muzzle trained over Panayis's heart. He went on, more gently than ever. casio exilim ex-z1050 10.1mp digital camera "Judas Iscariot had nothin' on the boy-friend, here, boss. . . . Take your coat off, Panayis." "What the devil are you doing! Are you crazy?" Mallory started forward, half-angry, half-amazed, but brought up sharply against Miller's extended arm, rigid as a bar of iron. "What bloody nonsense is this? He doesn't understand English!" "Don't he, though? Then why was he out of the cave like a flash when Casey reported hearin' sounds outside . . . and why was he the first to leave the carob grove this afternoon if he didn't understand your order? Take your coat off, Judas, or I'll shoot you through the arm. I'll give you two seconds." Mallory made to throw his arms round Miller and bring him to the ground, but halted in mid-step as he caught the look on Panayis's faceteeth bared, murder glaring out from the coal-black eyes. Never before had Mallory seen such malignity in a human face, a malignity that yielded abruptly to shocked pain and disbelief as the .32 bullet smashed into his upper arm, just below the shoulder. "Two seconds and then the other arm," Miller said woodenly. But Panayis was already tearing off his jacket, the dark, bestial eyes never leaving Miller's face. Mallory looked at him, shivered involuntarily, looked at Miller. Indifference, he thought, that was the only word to describe the look on the American's face. Indifference. Unaccountably, Mallory felt colder than ever. "Turn round!" The automatic never wavered. Slowly Panayis turned round. Miller stepped forward, caught the black shirt by the collar, ripped it off his back with one convulsive jerk. "Waal, waal, now, whoever woulda thought it?" Miller drawled. "Surprise, surprise, surprise! Remember, boss, this was the character that was publicly flogged by the Germans in Crete, flogged until the white of his ribs showed through. His back's in a heliuva state, isn't it?" Mallory looked but said nothing. Completely off balance, his mind was in a kaleidoscopic whirl, his thoughts struggling to adjust themselves to a new set of circumstances, a complete reversal of all his previous thinking. Not a scar, not a single blemish, marked the dark smoothness of that skin. "Just a natural quick healer," Miller murmured. "Only a nasty, twisted mind like mine would think that he had been a German agent in Crete, became known to the Allies as a fifth columnist, lost his usefulness to the Germans and was shipped back to Navarone

There 's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid

confidence in Larss ability to lend credence to the account. Dont you? I must say, when you assume that pose, Killashandra, Id hesitate to contradict you. Corish rose to his feet. But now, I think that Nahia and I had better join Hauness and prepare to disappear. If they credit Killashandras explanation, theyll not be likely to mount a twenty-five hour radar watch, will they? So we wont have that problem to contend with. Nahia had returned to the console, and was taking some hard copy from the retrieval slot. Ive all the charts we need, Olav, and my thanks for your suggestions. Just in case, I think we will take the devious course through the islands and then double back north. Lars, Olver survived the purge and you can contact us through him when you need to. Corish had her by the arm and was drawing her toward a rear exit. May I hope to see you again, Killashandra? If that is at all possible, officially, yes, of course, and I look forward to the occasion. Abruptly, annoyed at her stilted phrases, Killashandra stepped forward and swiftly embraced Nahia, kissing her on both cheeks. She stepped back, rather surprised at her uncharacteristic effusiveness until she saw the pleasure in Nahias brilliant eyes and smiling face. Oh, you are kind! Dont he ridiculous! Killashandra replied fiercely, and then smiled with embarrassment. She felt Lars take her elbow and squeeze it gently. Should I need to contact you, Killashandra, Corish added, opening the door and all but pushing Nahia out, Ill leave a message at the Piper Facility. As I already have. The door closed behind them with an emphatic slam. Come, Olav said, striding toward his front office. Well signal the jet. Fortunately, the return of the Pearl has been entered in the Harbor log and not too much time will have elapsed before we inform them of this good news. Olav paused in front of the huge console, frowning slightly at Killashandra. You are certain you wish to go through with this? It could be dangerous! Far more dangerous for them, Killashandra said with a snort. To have put me in such a situation in the first place. Then she laughed. Just think, Olav, with Larss confession that Torkes and Ampris hired him to assault me, to prove my identity, how they have compromised themselves. I actually had not considered that aspect. He turned to the console and began to send out the message. The jet cruiser responded instantly with a request for visual with which Olav instantly complied. Look toshiba digital cameras nightowl camera pleased but humble, Lars , Killashandra muttered before she turned to the screen, once more the haughty and arrogant crystal singer. Elder Torkes, I must protest! It is over five weeks since I was abducted from the City a City, I might add, in which I had already been assaulted though I had been told in unequivocal terms that Optheria was a secure planet, where everyone knew his place, and no unusual activities were condoned or permitted. Killashandra stressed the words as sarcastically as possible, enjoying the shock on the Elders face. Yet I could also be insulted by a minor and officious idiot, and kidnapped! I could be abandoned on this dreadful world. And it has taken you all this time to come to the islands which you yourself told me were populated by a dissident group. Dissident they might be, but courteous they are, and I have been made to feel far more welcome in these islands than I was during your pompous, ill-provisioned reception. I will also inform you, if you havent already heard from them, that my Guild will take a very dim view of this whole incident. In fact, reparations may well be required. Now, what have you to say to me? Honored Guildmember, I cannot adequately express our horror, our concern for you during your terrible ordeal. Those in the Harbor Masters office saw the effort which Elder Torkes was forced to make to moderate his own manner. I dont know how the Council can ever redeem itself in your eyes. Anything we can do I suggest that you begin by expressing gratitude to the young man who rescued me after that frightening hurricane Why, I thought Id be swept to sea and drowned during the night. This is the young man, and ruthlessly Killashandra pulled Lars beside her. Torkess face was unreadable as he inclined his head in the curtest possible recognition. Hes the skipper of the what did you say your boats called, Captain Dahl? The Pearl Fisher, Guildmember. I might add that he took considerable risk to himself and his vessel to put in to that island. The monsters in the lagoon and all about it were in some sort of frenzy. The storm does that, he told me. But I was so relieved to see another human after all that time Look at me! Im a sight! My hair, my skin! Im nothing but skin and bones! Our estimated time of arrival is 18:30, Guildmember. Until that time, the Harbor Master will be able to attend to your comfort to the limits

Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

Casey, I think. Reefs, perhaps?" Casey looked in long silence, finally shook his head. "Bow-wave," he said unemotionally. "It's the destroyers coming through." CHAPTER 17 Midnight Commander Vincent Ryan, R.N., Captain (Destroyers) and Commanding officer of His Majesty's latest Sclass destroyer Sirdar, looked round the cramped chart- room and tugged thoughtfully at his magnificent Captain Kettle beard. A scruffier, a more villainous, a more cut and battered-looking bunch of hard cases he had never seen, he reflected, with the possible exception of a Bias Bay pirate crew he had helped round up when a very junior officer on the China Station. He looked at them more closely, tugged his beard again, thought there was more to it than mere scruffiness. He wouldn't care to be given the task of rounding this lot up. Dangerous, highly dangerous, he mused, but impossible to say why, there was only this quietness, this relaxed watchfulness that made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. His "hatchetmen," Jensen had called them: Captain Jensen picked his killers well. "Any of you gentlemen care to go below," he suggested. "Plenty of hot water, dry clothesand warm bunks. We won't be using them to-night." "Thank you very much, sir." Mallory hesitated. "But we'd like to see this through." "Right, then, the bridge it is," Ryan said cheerfully. The Sirdar was beginning to pick up speed again, the deck throbbing beneath their feet. "it is at your own risk, of course." "We lead charmed lives," Miller drawled. "Nothin' ever happens to us." The rain had stopped and they could see the cold twinkling of stars through broadening rifts in the clouds. Mallory looked around him, could see Maidos broad off the port bow and the great bulk of Navarone slipping by to starboard. Aft, about a cable length away, he could just distinguish two other ships, high-curving bow-waves piled whitely against tenebrious silhouettes. Mallory turned to the captain. "No transports, sir?" "No transports." Ryan felt a vague mixture of pleasure and embarrassment that this man should call him "sir." "Destroyers only. This is going to be a smashand-grab job. No time for dawdlers to-nightand we're behind schedule already." "How long to clear the beaches?" "Half digital usb microscope camera an hour." "What! Twelve hundred men?" Mallory was incredulous. "More." Ryan sighed. "Half the ruddy inhabitants want to come with us, too. We could still do it in half an hour, but we'll probably take a bit longer. We'll embark all the mobile equipment we can." Mallory nodded, let his eye travel along the slender outlines of the Sirdar. "Where are you going to put 'em all, sir?" "A fair question," Ryan admitted. "5 p.m. on the London Underground will be nothing compared to this little lot But we'll pack them in somehow." Mallory nodded again and looked across the dark waters at Navarone. Two minutes, now, three at the most, and the fortress would open behind that headland. He felt a hand touch his arm, half-turned and smiled down at the sad-eyed little Greek by his side. "Not long now, Louki," he said quietly. "The people, Major," he murmured. "The people in the town. Will they be all right?" "They'll be all right. Dusty says the roof of the cave will go straight up. Most of the stuff will fall into the harbour." "Yes, but the boats?" "Will you stop worrying! There's nobody aboard themyou know they have to leave at curfew time." He looked round as someone touched his arm. "Captain Mallory, this Is Lieutenant Beeston, my gunnery officer." There was a slight coolness in Ryan's voice that made Mallory think that he wasn't overfond of his gunnery officer. "Lieutenant Beeston is worried." "I am worried!" The tone was cold, aloof, with an indefinable hint of condescension. "I understand that you have advised the captain not to offer any resistance?" "You sound like a B.B.C. communiqu6," Mallory said shortly. "But you're right. I did say that. You couldn't locate the guns except by searchlight and that would be fatal. Similarly with gunfire." "I'm afraid I don't understand." One could almost see the lift of the eyebrows in the darkness. "You'd give away your position," Mallory said patiently. "They'd nail you first time. Give 'em two minutes and they'd nail you anyway. I have good reason to believe that the accuracy of their gunners is quite fantastic." "So has the Navy," Ryan interjected quietly. "Their third shell got the Sybaris's B magazine." "Have you got any idea why this

The people that lived in fair Nottingham

discovered that, over the distance, even one degree out would have put me almost forty feet off course. On a night like that, I could pass by the cabin ten feet away and never see it. There were less laborious means of committing suicide. I picked up the five sticks, returned to the plane and walked along the furrowed trench till I came to the depression where the plane had touched down. The 250-foot line of the antenna, I knew, was roughly four hundred yards away, just a little bit south of westslightly to my left, that was, as I stood with my back to the plane. I didn't hesitate. I strode out into the darkness, counting my steps, concentrating on keeping the wind a little more than on my left cheek but not quite full face. After four hundred long paces I stopped and pulled out my torch. It was quite deadthe dull red glow from the filament didn't even register on my glove six inches away, and the darkness was as absolute as it would ever become on the ice-cap. I was a blind man moving in a blind world, and all I had left to me was the sense of touch. For the first time fear came to me, and I all but gave way to an almost overpowering instinct to run. But there was no place to run to. I pulled the drawstring from my hood and with numbed and clumsy hands lashed together two of the bamboos to give me a stick seven feet in length. A third bamboo I thrust into the snow, then lay down flat, the sole of my boot touching it while I described a complete circle, flailing out with my long stick into the darkness. Nothing. At the full stretch of my body and the stick I stuck the last two bamboos into the snow, one upwind, the other downwind from the central bamboo, and described horizontal flailing circles round both of these. Again, nothing. I gathered up the bamboos, walked ten paces more, and repeated the performance. I had the same luck againand again and again. Five minutes and seventy paces after I had stopped for the first time I knew I had completely missed the antenna line and was utterly lost. The wind must have backed or veered, and I had wandered far off my course: and then came the chilling realisation that if that were so I had no idea now where the plane lay and could never regain it. Even had I known the direction where it lay, I doubted whether I could have made my way back anyway, not because I was tired but because my only means of gauging direction was the wind in my face, and my face was so completely numbed that I could no longer feel anything. I could hear the wind, but I couldn't feel it. Ten more paces, I told tips on using a digital camera myself, ten more and then I must turn back. Turn back where, a mocking voice seemed to ask me, but I ignored it and stumbled on with leaden-footed steps, doggedly counting. And on the seventh step I walked straight into one of the big antenna poles, staggered with the shock, all but fell, recovered, grabbed the pole and hugged it as if I would never let go. I knew at that moment what it must be like to be condemned to death and then live again, it was the most wonderful feeling I had ever experienced. And then the relief and the exultation gradually faded and anger returned to take its place, a cold, vicious, all-consuming anger of which I would never have believed myself capable. With my stick stretched up and running along the rimed antenna cable to guide me, I ran all the way back to the cabin. I was vaguely surprised to see shadows still moving in the lamp-lit screen that surrounded the tractorit was almost impossible for me to realise that I had been gone no more than thirty minutes -but I passed by, opened the hatch and dropped down into the cabin. Joss was still in the far corner, working on the big radio, and the four women were huddled close round the stove. The stewardess, I noticed, wore a parkaone she had borrowed from Jossand was rubbing her hands above the flame. "Cold, Miss Ross?" I inquired solicitously. At least, I had meant it to sound that way, but even to myself my voice sounded hoarse and strained. "And why shouldn't she be, Dr Mason?" Marie LeGarde snapped. "Dr Mason', I noted. "She's just spent the last fifteen minutes or so with the men on the tractor." "Doing what?" "I was giving them coffee." For the first time the stewardess showed some spirit. "What's so wrong in that?" "Nothing," I said shortly. Takes you a damned long time to pour a cup of coffee, I thought savagely. "Most kind, I'm sure." Massaging my frozen face, I walked away into the food tunnel, nodding to Joss. He joined me immediately. "Somebody just tried to murder me out there," I said without preamble. "Murder you!" Joss stared at me for a long moment, then his eyes narrowed. "I'll believe anything in this lot." "Meaning?" "I was looking for some of the radio spares a moment agoa few of them seem to be missing, but that's not the point. The spares, as you know, are next to the explosives. Someone's been tampering with them." The explosives!" I had

Some name arrests the passer-by;

barriers and security positions protecting the damaged organ, she began to appreciate the distinction Thyrol had made. He had taken her to the rocky basements of the Complex, and then to the impressive and unexpectedly grand Competition Amphitheater which utilized the natural stony bowl on the nether side of the Complex promontory. Some massive early earthfault and a lot of weathering had molded the mounts flank into a perfect semicircle. The Optherians had improved the amphitheater with tiered ranks of individual seating units, facing the shelf on which the organ console stood. This was accessible only from the one entrance through which Thyrol now guided Killashandra. With a sincere and suitable awe, Killashandra looked about her, annoyed that she was gratifying Thyrols desire to impress a Guildmember even as she was unable to suppress that wonder. She cleared her throat, and the sound, small though it was, echoed faithfully back at her. The acoustics are incredible, she murmured and, as Thyrol smiled tolerantly, heard her words whispered back. She rolled her eyes and looked about her for an exit from the phenomenal stage. Thyrol gestured to a portal carved in the solid rock on the far side of the organ console. From his belt pouch he extracted three small rods. With these and his thumb print, he opened the door, the sound reverberating across the empty space. Killashandra slipped in first. As familiar as she was with auditoria of all descriptions, something about this one unnerved her. Something about the seats reminded her of primitive diagnostic chairs which used physical restraints on their occupants, yet she knew that people would cross the Galaxy to attend the Festival. Lights had come up at their entry and illuminated a large, low-ceilinged chamber. Taking up the floor space in front of the innocuous interlinked cabinets that made up the electronic guts of the Optherian organ were the prominent sealed crates containing the white crystal. Overhead harnesses of color-coded cables formed a ceiling design before they disappeared through conduits to unknown destinations. Thyrol led the way to the large rectangle containing the shattered remains of the crystal manual. How, in the name of all thats holy, did he manage that? Killashandra demanded after surveying the damage. Some of the smaller crystals had been reduced to thin splinters. In idle wonder she picked up a handful of the shards, letting them trickle through her fingers, ignoring Thyrols cry of alarm as he about digital camera memory cards grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands back. The tiny cuts inflicted by the scalpel-sharp crystal briefly oozed droplets of blood then closed over while Thyrol watched in fascinated horror. As you can see, the merest caress of crystal. She twisted her hands free of Thyrols unexpectedly strong grasp. Now, and she spoke more briskly, looking down at the mess in the bottom of the cabinet, Ill need some tools, some stout fellows, and stouter baskets to remove the debris. An extractor? Thyrol suggested. There isnt an extractor built on Ballybran or anywhere else that wouldnt be sliced to ribbons by crystal shards in suction. No, this has to be cleaned in a time honored fashion by hand. But you Killashandra drew herself up. As a Guildmember, I am not averse to performing necessary manual tasks. She paused to let Thyrol appreciate the difference. She had done more than enough shard-scrapping on Ballybran to undertake it here on Optheria. It is only that security measures I would, of course, accept your assistance in the interests of security. Thyrol hastily adjourned to a communication console. What exactly do you require, Guildmember? She gauged the volume of broken crystal in the cabinet. Three strong men with impervometallic bins of approximately ten-kilo volume, triple-strength face masks, durogloves, fine-wire brushes, and the sort of small, disposable extractor used by archeologists. We have to be sure to glean every particle of crystal dust. Thyrols eyes bugged out a bit over the more bizarre items, but he repeated her requirements, and then turned up very stiff indeed when he was subjected to questions by the staff. Of course, they have to be cleared by Security, but they are to be here immediately, properly geared to assist the Guildmember! He broke off the connection and, his face blotched with displeasure, turned to Killashandra. With so much at stake, Guildmember, you can appreciate our wish to protect you and the organ from further depredations. If something should happen to the replacement crystal Killashandra shrugged. From what she had seen of Optherians, once bitten, twice shy described their philosophy. She ran her hand across the instrument nearest her, glancing around at the rest of the anonymous equipment. This is a