An off-world wine included in the selection pleased her so much that she ordered a second carafe just as dusk closed in.
She thought, at first, that it was the unfamiliar wine that made her nerves jangle so. But the discomfort increased so rapidly that she sensed it couldn’t be just the effect of alcohol. Rubbing her neck and frowning, she looked around for the source of irritation. Finally, the appearance of a descending shuttle’s retroblasts made her realize that her discomfort must be the result of a sonic disturbance, though how it could penetrate the shielded restaurant she didn’t know. She covered her ears, pressing as hard as she could to ease that piercing pain. Suddenly, it ceased.
“I tell you, that shuttle’s drive is about to explode. Now connect me to the control supervisor,” a baritone voice cried in the ensuing silence.
Startled, Killashandra looked around.
“How do I know? I know!” At the screen of the restaurant’s service console, a tall man was demanding: “Put me through to the control tower. Is everyone up there deaf? So you
want
a shuttle explosion the next time that one is used? Didn’t you hear it?”
“I heard it,” Killashandra said, rushing over to plant herself in the view of the console.
“You heard it?” The spaceport official seemed genuinely surprised.
“I certainly did. All but cracked my skull. My ears still hurt. What was it?” she asked the tall man, who had an air of command about him, frustrated though he was by officious stupidity. He carried his overlean body with an arrogance that suited the fine fabric of his clothes—obviously of off-world design and cloth.
“She heard it too, man. Now, get the control tower.”
“Really, sir . . .”
“Don’t be a complete subbie,” Killashandra snapped.
That she was obviously a Fuertan like himself disturbed the official more than the insult. Then the stranger, ripping off an oath as colorful as it was descriptive of idiocy, flipped open a card case drawn from his belt. Whatever identification he showed made the official’s eyes bulge.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize, sir.”
Killashandra watched as the man pressed out a code, then his image dissolved into a view of the control tower. The off-worlder stepped squarely before the screen, and Killashandra politely moved back.
“Control? The shuttle that just landed can’t be permitted to take off; it’s resonating so badly half the crystals in the drive must be overheating. Didn’t anyone up there hear the beat frequency? It’s broadcasting secondary sonics. No, this is not a drunk and not a threat. This is a fact. Is your entire control staff tone deaf? Don’t you take efficiency readings for your shuttles? Can’t you tell from the ejection velocity monitor? What does a drive check cost in comparison to a new port facility? Is this shuttlestop world too poor to employ a crystal tuner or a stoker?
“Well, now that’s a more reasonable attitude,” said the stranger after a moment. “As to my credentials, I’m Carrik of the Heptite Guild, Ballybran. Yes, that’s what I said. I could hear the secondary sonics right through the walls, so I damn well know there’s overheating. I’m glad the uneven drive thrust has registered on your monitors, so get that shuttle decoked and retuned.” Another pause. “Thanks, but I’ve paid my bill already. No, that’s all right. Yes . . .” and Killashandra observed that the gratitude irritated Carrik. “Oh, as you will.” He glanced at Killashandra. “Make that for two,” he added, grinning at her as he turned from the console. “After all, you heard it as well.” He cupped his hand under Killashandra’s elbow and steered her toward a secluded booth.
“I’ve a bottle of wine over there,” she said, half protesting, half laughing at his peremptory escort.
“You’ll have better shortly. I’m Carrik and you’re . . .?”
“Killashandra Ree.”
He smiled, gray eyes lighting