the wounds were visibly closing.
“What about those for whom the symbiont doesn’t work?” asked the undaunted Carigana.
“The main purpose of the intensive physical examination was to evaluate rejection and blood factors, tissue health, and chromosome patterns against those of the known successful adaptations.” A graph appeared on the screen, the line indicating success rising triumphantly over the past three decades where it had hovered in minor peaks over a span of three hundred or more years. “Your tests indicate no undesirable factors evaluated against records now dating back over three hundred twenty-seven standard years. You all have as good a chance as possible of achieving complete acceptance by the symbiont—”
“The odds are five to one against.”
Killashandra wondered if Carigana gave even the time of day in that same hostile tone.
“No longer,” Borella replied, and a light appeared on the upward swing of the graph line. “It’s now better than one out of three. There are still factors not yet computed which cause only partial adaptation. I am compelled by FSP law to emphasize that.”
“And then?”
“That person obviously becomes one of the 20,007 technicians,” Shillawn said.
“I asked
her
.” Carigana gave Shillawn a scathing glance.
“The young man is, however, right.”
“And technicians never leave Ballybran.” Carigana’s glance slid from Borella to Shillawn, and it was obvious what her assessment of Shillawn’s chances were.
“Not without severe risk of further impairment. The facilities on Ballybran, however, are as complete as—”
“Except you can’t ever leave.”
“As you are not yet there,” Borella continued imperturbably, though Killashandra had the notion the Singer enjoyed sparring with the space worker, “the problem is academic and can remain so.” She turned to the others. “As I was about to point out, the odds have been reduced to three out of five. And improving constantly. The last class produced thirty-three Singers from thirty-five candidates.
“Besides the problem of symbiont adaptation required for existence on Ballybran, there is an additional danger, of the more conventional type.” She went on less briskly, allowing her comments on the odds to be absorbed. “Ballybran’s weather.” The screen erupted into scene of seas lashed into titanic waves, landscapes where ground cover had been pulped. “Each of the three moons contains weather stations, and sixteen permanent satellites scan the surface constantly.
“Scoria, our primary, has a high incidence of sun-spot activity.” A view of the sun in eclipse supported that statement as flares leaped dramatically from behind the eclipsing moon’s disk. A second occluded view showed the primary’s dark blotches. “This high activity, plus the frequent conjunction of the moons’ orbits, a triple conjunction being the most dangerous obviously, ensure that Ballybran has interesting weather.”
A bark of laughter for such understatement briefly interrupted Borella, but her patient smile suggested that the reaction was expected. Then the screen showed breathtaking conjunction of the moons’ orbits.
“When the meteorological situation becomes unstable, even in terms of Ballybran’s norms, the planet is subjected to storms which have rated the euphemism, mach storm. As the crystal ranges of Ballybran extend downward rather than up,”—the screen obediently provided a view from a surface vehicle traversing the down ranges at speed—“one might assume that one need only descend far enough below the planet’s surface to avoid the full brunt of wind and weather. A fatal assumption. The ranges constitute the worst danger.” The view changed to a rapid series of photographs of people, their expressions ranging from passive imbecility to wild-eyed violence. “The winds of the mach storm stroke the crystal to such sonic violence that a human, even one perfectly adapted to his
“What about those for whom the symbiont doesn’t work?” asked the undaunted Carigana.
“The main purpose of the intensive physical examination was to evaluate rejection and blood factors, tissue health, and chromosome patterns against those of the known successful adaptations.” A graph appeared on the screen, the line indicating success rising triumphantly over the past three decades where it had hovered in minor peaks over a span of three hundred or more years. “Your tests indicate no undesirable factors evaluated against records now dating back over three hundred twenty-seven standard years. You all have as good a chance as possible of achieving complete acceptance by the symbiont—”
“The odds are five to one against.”
Killashandra wondered if Carigana gave even the time of day in that same hostile tone.
“No longer,” Borella replied, and a light appeared on the upward swing of the graph line. “It’s now better than one out of three. There are still factors not yet computed which cause only partial adaptation. I am compelled by FSP law to emphasize that.”
“And then?”
“That person obviously becomes one of the 20,007 technicians,” Shillawn said.
“I asked
her
.” Carigana gave Shillawn a scathing glance.
“The young man is, however, right.”
“And technicians never leave Ballybran.” Carigana’s glance slid from Borella to Shillawn, and it was obvious what her assessment of Shillawn’s chances were.
“Not without severe risk of further impairment. The facilities on Ballybran, however, are as complete as—”
“Except you can’t ever leave.”
“As you are not yet there,” Borella continued imperturbably, though Killashandra had the notion the Singer enjoyed sparring with the space worker, “the problem is academic and can remain so.” She turned to the others. “As I was about to point out, the odds have been reduced to three out of five. And improving constantly. The last class produced thirty-three Singers from thirty-five candidates.
“Besides the problem of symbiont adaptation required for existence on Ballybran, there is an additional danger, of the more conventional type.” She went on less briskly, allowing her comments on the odds to be absorbed. “Ballybran’s weather.” The screen erupted into scene of seas lashed into titanic waves, landscapes where ground cover had been pulped. “Each of the three moons contains weather stations, and sixteen permanent satellites scan the surface constantly.
“Scoria, our primary, has a high incidence of sun-spot activity.” A view of the sun in eclipse supported that statement as flares leaped dramatically from behind the eclipsing moon’s disk. A second occluded view showed the primary’s dark blotches. “This high activity, plus the frequent conjunction of the moons’ orbits, a triple conjunction being the most dangerous obviously, ensure that Ballybran has interesting weather.”
A bark of laughter for such understatement briefly interrupted Borella, but her patient smile suggested that the reaction was expected. Then the screen showed breathtaking conjunction of the moons’ orbits.
“When the meteorological situation becomes unstable, even in terms of Ballybran’s norms, the planet is subjected to storms which have rated the euphemism, mach storm. As the crystal ranges of Ballybran extend downward rather than up,”—the screen obediently provided a view from a surface vehicle traversing the down ranges at speed—“one might assume that one need only descend far enough below the planet’s surface to avoid the full brunt of wind and weather. A fatal assumption. The ranges constitute the worst danger.” The view changed to a rapid series of photographs of people, their expressions ranging from passive imbecility to wild-eyed violence. “The winds of the mach storm stroke the crystal to such sonic violence that a human, even one perfectly adapted to his
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