Killashandra by Anne McCaffrey Read Free Book Online

No one could fail to know the whereabouts of Killashandra Ree. After adding afew items of essential clothing to the garments she had stuffed into her carisak, her keen instinct for survival asserted itself in the base’s victuallers. She had vivid memories of the monotonously nutritious diet on the Selkite freighter and the stodge supplied by the Trundomoux cruiser. She did have to consider her palate and digestive system.
    Sadly, no deferential shopkeeper tapped her on the arm to tell her of an urgent call from the Guild Master. In fact, people seemed to keep their distance from her. A chance glimpse of her gaunt, harrowed face in a mirror provided one explanation—she’d have needed no cosmetic aids to play the part of any one of a number of harried, despairing, insane heroines. At that point her humor briefly reasserted itself. She had often thought that the make-up recommended for, say, Lucia, or Lady Macbeth, or Testuka and Isolde was totally exaggerated. Now, at last having had personal experiences with the phenomenon of losing one’s great love through selfless sacrifice, she could appreciate the effect which grief could have on one’s outward appearance. She looked awful! So she purchased two brilliant multihued floating kaftans of Beluga spider-silk, and hastily added their fingerlength cases to her bulging carisak, then a travel-case of fashionable cosmetics. She’d nine days to travel on the first freighter and it would only be civil to remedy her appearance.
    Then the boarding call for the
Pink Tulip Sparrow
was broadcast and she had no option but to proceed to the loading bay. In an effort to delay the inevitable, she walked at a funereal pace down the access ramp.
    “Singer, we’ve got to get moving! Now, please, hurry along.”
    She made an appearance of haste but when the Mate tried to take her arm and hurry her into the lock, her body arched in resistance. Abruptly he let go, staringat her with an expression of puzzled shock—his arms were bare, and the hairs on them stood erect.
    “I’m awaiting purchases from Stores.” Killashandra was so desperate for a last-minute reprieve that any delay seemed reasonable.
    “There!” The Mate conveyed frustrated disgust and impatience as he pointed to a stack of odd-size parcels littering the passageway.
    “The crystals?”
    “Cartons all racked and tacked in the special cargo hold.” He made a move as if to grab her arm and yank her aboard, but jingled his hands with frustration instead. “We’ve got to make way. Shanganagh Authority imposes heavy fines for missed departure windows. And don’t tell me, Crystal Singer, that you’ve got enough credit to pay ’em.” Abruptly she abandoned all hope that Lanzecki, like the legendary heroes of yore, would rescue her at the last moment from her act of boundless self-sacrifice. She stepped aboard the freighter. The airlock closed with such speed that the heavy external hatch brushed against her heels. The ship was moving from the docking bay before the Mate could lead her out of the lock and close the secondary iris behind them.
    Killashandra experienced an almost overpowering urge to wrench open the airlock and leap into the blessed oblivion of space. But as she had deplored such extravagant and melodramatic actions in performances of historical tragedy, integrity prevented suicide despite the extreme anguish which tormented her. Besides, she had no excuse for causing the death of the Mate who seemed not to be suffering at all.
    “Take me to my cabin, please.” She turned too quickly, stumbled over the many packages in the passageway and had to grab the Mate’s shoulder, to regain her balance. Ordinarily she would have cursed her clumsiness, and apologized but cursing was undignified andinappropriate to her mood. From the pile, she chose two packages with the victualler’s logo, and waved negligently at the remainder. “The rest may be brought to my cabin whenever convenient.”
    The Mate wended a