What is this all about? Rhyssa demanded.

/ told you, Dorotea said, then added aloud since they were now alone, "he seems to tap into the electrical system and use that for power. Some sort of a gestalt. I want some of our engineer Talents to link with me when he's rested enough for us to do some testing. But it'll have to be you and me for a while, Rhyssa. He's had such a terrible time."

Dorotea's eyes welled with tears, and automatically Rhyssa gathered the older woman into her arms, smoth- ering her with love, affection, and admiration.

"I'm sorry, dear," Dorotea said with a little sniff, pulling herself away. "You've had a lot to cope with now, and you don't need me turning into a watering pot, but--" She poured into Rhyssa's mind the jumble of pain/despondency/anguish/guilt, the self-accusation, and the soul-destroying terror that Peter had been en- during.

Easing Dorotea to the couch, Rhyssa sat beside her, shaken by that accounting despite years of dealing with the bizarre mental states of emergent Talents.

"I think a spot of tea would go down well right now," Dorotea said, and Rhyssa gave a weak little laugh at Dorotea's ever practical mind. Peter? A cup of tea? Lemon, milk, sugar?

Yes, please, was Peter's answer, surprising Rhyssa.

You see? He needed only a little help to project his thoughts instead of squashing them down. Dorotea's face wore an exaggeratedly smug smile.

They were all enjoying a cup of tea when Rick Hob- son bounced in, festooned with an electrician's belt and heavy-duty cable.'

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"I don't know what kind of an outlet or receptacle you need, Dorotea," he said, winking at her, nodding to Rhyssa, and then waving a hand at Peter, who was watching it all from his bunk.

"Well, Peter, what do you think you need?" Dorotea asked. "He'd just been sort of hooking in to the elec- tronic gadgets of the bed," she told Rick.

Both women caught Peter's hesitation and concern.

"Oh, well, it's as easy to sort the specifics out later," Rick said easily, catching Rhyssa's warning look. "At any rate, the generator's right outside and powered up. Any time you need it, it's there." With a cheery wave to all, he left.

"It's all a bit much, isn't it, Peter?" Rhyssa said gently.

"I don't know what I did that makes you think I'm any good at all," Peter said in a voice as pale as his complexion just then.

"Dorotea thinks you used available electrical power to assist those dawn visits you made to me," Rhyssa told him. She gave him a mischievous smile to reassure him. ' 'I'm honored that it was my mind you linked with to bring you where you wanted to be."

"You are?" Peter turned his head away from the drinking straw in his teacup so that he could look down at Rhyssa.

"I don't get many men invading my bedroom, I as- sure you."

Subtly Dorotea was supporting her, increasing for Peter the sense that his intrusion had been clever and original. Both women generated subliminal thoughts to bolster his perception of himself, reversing the low self-esteem that was currently inhibiting any forward progress.

"I didn't mean to intrude."

"You will soon understand that among telepaths a midnight knock on the door isn't considered an intru- sion."

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"But all those lights ..."

Rhyssa let her thoughts echo the annoyance she had felt at that proprietary supervision. "You didn't hear me chewing them out for scaring you off, either."

"Ooooh, Rhyssa was angry," Dorotea added.

"You were doing what many have tried and failed at miserably," Rhyssa went on.

"I was?"

"It's what we call an out-of-body experience," Rhyssa went on. "Very few people ever achieve that degree of mental control."

"They don't?" Peter was wide-eyed in awe. "But it's not hard."

Dorotea and Rhyssa exchanged amused glances.

"Nothing's hard when you know exactly how to do it, Peter," Rhyssa said, "and you've apparently mas- tered the art. Dorotea and I are both hoping you can teach us. I don't have much kinetic ability ..."

Sascha: And aren't you glad of that right now? He sent an image of a space-suited Rhyssa whirling about Padrugoi chased by a whip-wielding Barchenka.

Rhyssa: Don't you dare interfere, Bearman! This is tricky enough as it is without you in my mind! Oh, my God! And suddenly Rhyssa began to fathom the poten- tial of the boy. Give young Peter Reidinger access to sufficiently powerful electronic sources, and his kinetic Talent might boggle the mind of the most optimistic theorist. Why, his Talent was as far from spoon bend- ing as modem precognition was from priestly auguries divined from ox intestines!

There was an instant response from Sascha, Dorotea, Sirikit, Rick, and Madlyn. Damp it down, Rhyssa. Have a heart!

Dorotea: WeU, you've all got the picture now, so leave us alone with the boy. We can't mess this one up.

Rhyssa had to take a deep breath, hoping that the sudden revelation she had been unable to keep from other strong telepaths in the Center had not also been

picked up by Peter Reidinger's still-emerging skill. He was certainly not reacting.

Dorotea: / blocked him, Rhyssa. Get ahold of your- self.

"So, Peter," Rhyssa managed to go on, "if I could get the hang of what you're doing with the generators, it could be an extremely valuable added whammy."

Dorotea: / couldn 't have put it more discreetly my- self.

Rhyssa: Thanks.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Peter said sadly.

"It's the sort of thing you don't think about doing, Peter. You just do it--because you want to, because you need to. And Dorotea and I will help." Rhyssa grinned at him. "Communication is where telepathy ex- cels. The spoken word sometimes isn't as clear as it should be: words can be misused, inappropriately as- signed muddy meanings. You're accustomed to a word meaning one thing; someone else will think it means something else entirely and misunderstand what you just said. Speaking mind-to-mind clears up a lot of such confusions. Or have I just confused you more?"

Peter began to smile suddenly. "Like how I couldn't explain to Miz Romero just why I hated the body brace."

"That's a very apt example, Peter. You just didn't have the words for the concept of that sort of interfer- ence."

"But how'll I move without a brace?"

"By the power of your mind alone, which is exactly what you did when you were going out of body. Only we'll teach you how to take your body along with you! And manage most of your daily care. You won't be dependent on nurses or orderiies or anyone. In one sense it was what Sue was trying to get you to do--make your mind motivate your body to remember what it once could do. Only you took it one step beyond that, and neither of you knew you had latent kinetic ability. So,

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of course you couldn't do what she wanted. You were

a good jump ahead of her." He was still skeptical. "I'm kinetic?" "Do you know what the word means?" "Sure. But I didn't think I was." Rhyssa rose. "Well, you are. So think about it." Dorotea retrieved his cup. "You take a rest now,

dear. Then I'll show you about the house so you'll know

where everything is when you want it."

Chapter 7

^ t Although Sascha usually handled training, the affinity established between Peter and Rhyssa made it sensible for her to guide his initiation.

"I'll help as much as I can," Dorotea told Rhyssa, a look of resigned disappointment on her face, ' 'but I am eighty-four, and I've slowed down a lot.'' Then she smiled with bright mischief. "Of course, I've always liked cooking for a male appetite. And he'll be able to do most things for himself in short order. I'm sure of it. I know a strong Talent when I bump minds with it."

So Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Sascha made a little cere- mony of adding Peter Reidinger's name to the Registry of Talents at the Eastern Center. Peter was still not quite certain of his great good fortune. Rick Hobson, who was empathic as well as kinetic, monitored the kinetic aspects; Don Usenik, the Center's versatile medic, kept a close check on the boy's physical con- dition; and the boy resided in Dorotea's house.

"I can still handle the mothering bits," the old woman said staunchly, "especially since Rhyssa has enough to administer.''

By the end of the first week, Peter was able to handle all his intimate problems, a success of immeasurable proportion for a sensitive boy. The morning he man- aged to take a shower all by himself was celebrated by his mentors as the achievement it was. The first time he had attempted a shower, he had nearly scalded him- 87

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self and then overcontrolled and had to be rescued from icy water by Dorotea.

It also took time, and finesse, to descend from his bed without hitting the floor in a heap. Or to keep from colliding with furniture as he reeled around the house. Gradually he achieved a delicate control of the gestalt and managed to imitate walking; only the re- ally observant would notice that his feet never quite touched the ground and that the bend of his knees only approximated a normal walk. He could not grasp things, but he arranged his hands in appropriate po- sitions so that he appeared to be carrying objects. With such accomplishments, he was a different boy altogether, and the change astonished his mother on her next visit.

"There's never been any Talent in our family, on either side," she confided in Dorotea at one point. "I just can't imagine where he got it from."

"Necessity, Mrs. Reidinger," Dorotea said at her most grandmotherly. "The accident has forced him to transfer motor functions to another part of his brain. Even the best of us only utilize about two-fifths of our brain potential."

lisa Reidinger did not really understand Dorotea's ex- planation, but she accepted it because Dorotea spoke with such authority.

"The human body learns to compensate, Mrs. Rei- dinger," Dorotea went on soothingly. "All Peter needed was a chance to train in new ways. Which, I must say, he has done extraordinarily well. We're very pleased with his progress." She beamed placidly at her guest.

"Yes, but what will he doT' lisa Reidinger asked plaintively.

"Why, Peter will do very well here at the Center, helping other youngsters--and adults, too--who have to learn to compensate for drastic handicaps." Sensing the woman's reservations on that score, Dorotea added,

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"Oh, the work pays very well. He's on a training schol- arship right now, of course, but his profession pays very well indeed. He's all set for a fine career at the Center. You're going to be very proud of him."

Dorotea chose to ignore Dsa Reidinger's other dom- inant thought: that if Peter was Talented, Katya must be, too. The girl was being ever so difficult, wanting to know why Peter got all the luck and she was stuck in a boring school, doing boring studies while Peter was getting everything his way just because he had gotten lucky.

"Can he read minds?" is what lisa Reidinger asked out loud. The idea made her uncomfortable.

"Peter has a very limited range," Dorotea replied mendaciously, intimating regret. "He can hear very strong thoughts, but his projections are short-range. His Talent lies in kinetics. Do you understand that word?"

"Yes, it means people can push things about with- out having to touch them. Like the ones going up to Padrugoi Station to help get it assembled so we can colonize the stars." The glib phrasing came from Dave Lehardt's clever publicity campaign on the tri-d.

Then lisa asked more timorously, "Would Petey go into space?" In her very audible public mind, lisa de- cided that whatever the answer, she would not mention that to Katya.

"Quite unlikely. The platform will be finished before Peter's received all his necessary training." The very thought of Barchenka conscripting Peter Reidinger made Dorotea queasy. lisa Reidinger was disappointed, how- ever, suffering from the usual maternal syndrome of wanting her son to be unique, which he was; famous, which the Center would not wish on him; and perhaps rich, which Peter would also be, in that, as a Talent, he could purchase through the Center anything he really desired. "He shows a truly unique Talent." Let that be a sop to her pride.

"Yes, but what exactly does Petey do?"

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"Well, you saw him walk and serve us tea quite by himself. That is all accomplished by his kinetic Talent. So you see, he is no longer dependent on mechanical or prosthetic devices to conduct normal activities. When he's surer of his abilities, we'll add more complicated tasks "

"He'll be able to hold down a job?"

lisa Reidinger really had not even grasped the ba- sics, Dorotea thought, or comprehended the obvious achievements. She had barely grasped the fact that Pe- ter would no longer be a financial or an emotional burden to his family. She was just a nice woman who had certainly been devoted to Peter during his conva- lescence, but the strain had taken a toll on her, too. Dorotea ventured to wax more enthusiastic about Pe- ter's potential.

It suddenly occurred to Dorotea to wonder if the test- ing routines, established by Daffyd op Owen, needed to be updated or made more sensitive. Hospitals were usu- ally well staffed with Talents of all descriptions. Why hadn't someone spotted Peter? She really ought to dis- cuss that notion with Rhyssa--when the mess with Bar- chenka was smoothed out.

"I shouldn't think there'd be much young Peter can't do if he sets his mind to it.''

"Being a kinetic, you mean?"

"A rather special one, at that, since he's had to over- come severe physical limitations."

Still slightly puzzled by the fuss being made over her Peter but immensely relieved by his future prospects, lisa Reidinger departed.

It never occurred to Dorotea that her remarks, meant to allay a mother's natural concern, would have unex- pected repercussions. Certainly she and Rhyssa were beginning to realize the boy's immense potential, but even to colleagues they had been discreet.

"It's a case of make speed slowly. Lance," Rhyssa

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told the Australian director, who seemed to spend more time on a spacehotol and in the Jerhattan area than ar- ranging matters in Canberra for his leave of absence on Padrugoi. He had dropped in to see her on his way from yet another long scheming session with Dave Lehardt and Samjan.

"I've seen some fair dinkums, dealing with the Ab- origines and the Maoris, Rhyssa," Lance replied in his distinctive drawl as he slouched on a chair in her tower office, "but this lad takes the peach. If he's come on this fast with only a li'l four-point-five kpm generator for him to play with, think what he could do with real power."

"All the more reason to make speed slowly. Control is the most vital part of his training." She projected an image of Peter, head first, zipping around Jerhattan on a whirlwind tour, with a tail of detritus, people, small vehicles, and oddments caught up in the wake of his passage.

Lance grinned, his teeth very white against his per- petual tan, his sea green eyes glittering. "Too right, mate. I get the drift. But with a Talent like his and a proper generator, we could bleeding near shift drones all the way to the nearest planet."

Think that in your most private mind. Lance, she told him sharply. Don't let a whisper of it escape your shield.

Lance propped his angular body upright, his expres- sion completely serious. I was funning!

Rhyssa nodded slowly, and he let out a long whistle.

Yeah, but just imagine the look on Barchenka 's face if we could tell her that precious Padrugoi project had just turned obsolete.

"Not quite," Rhyssa said with a vindictive grin. She had entertained a few very satisfying fantasies on that very theme herself! "A facility like Padrugoi is re- quired for any number of valid reasons apart from a jumping-off point to the stars."

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&w many know a&owf Petey 6oy?

About his potential? Main staff know he's unusual. I was too excited when I realized the possibilities inher- ent in his gestalt, but they only know I was excited about the boy. There are just three of us--myself, Dor- otea, and Sascha--who realize that the boy might be unusual. I don't think Sascha 's had the chance to ap- preciate the potential that Dorotea and I are just be- ginning to grasp. Rick Hobson thinks the boy is inordinately quick, but we had to have a kinetic in on his initial training. Like you. Rick's got to go to Pad- rugoi, so we 're cramming as much technique in as pos- sible. He and Peter mesh well. You are my choice for his more advanced training, so don't do anything stupid up on Padrugoi, will you?

No way! That's a mean carrot to dangle in front of me for six long months! Lance rose. "Pure shame that Dave Lehardt's not a real Talent. He's wizard at han- dling the Finn and that slimy little Neester bloke."

Rhyssa gave a little convulsive shudder at the mere mention of Prince Phanibal.

"You don't like him either, do you?" Lance asked.

"No!"

Lance chuckled. "Always knew you were a woman of good sense, ducks."

Rhyssa did worry about Peter--he looked so frail af- ter so long in a hospital bed. So did Dorotea, both keep- ing their concerns from Peter, whose telempathy was steadily improving along with his kinesis. He was not limited merely to receiving or sending emotions, but was developing a true telepathy, the ability to send and receive both abstract and lingual messages. Nor did Rhyssa or Dorotea call attention to those moments when, in sheer ebullience, Peter did not draw on the generator in kinetic exercises.

Dorotea enjoyed cooking for his eager appetite, and once Peter was able to perform routine tasks, she fine-

tuned his kinesis with food-preparation exercises. He could pare apples and potatoes, scrape carrots, and cut up vegetables, all kinetically. He ate anything and ev- erything, and his body began to fill out with good firm flesh; Rick showed him exercises for muscle tone, and hours spent in Dorotea's garden tanned his skin to a healthy glow. Peter no longer looked the wasted para- lytic with atrophied muscles. Still, extreme care was needed in all his activities, since he continued to have no feeling in his extremities or lower torso and would be unaware of cutting or burning or bruising himself in some of his perambulations.

When Rick finally had to leave for his tour at Pad- rugoi, Peter took it hard, moping about the next day.

"Rick will be back, Peter," Rhyssa said when she joined them that evening at dinner. "He's taught you about all he knows. Now, you have to teach yourself, which'llbehaid."

"Teach myself?" Peter was so shocked that his good manners briefly deserted him. His fork hovered above his plate. He and Dorotea had an agreement--he could get the food to his mouth however he chose if he was alone, but he was to observe proper etiquette with any- one else.

"Yes, teach yourself," Dorotea replied blandly.

"Rick has given you the basics," Rhyssa added with a warm smile. "Certainly you're now able to do every- thing for yourself and help out in the house and the garden. Now you begin the next step--testing yourself. Don't worry. Rick left a long list for you to complete by the time his tour of duty is over."

"But he didn't tell me how ..." Peter was clearly floundering.

"You know how," Rhyssa said, acting surprised at his reaction. "All paranormal Talents come from an instinctive level. Sharpen your instinct." She smiled at him, patting his arm soothingly. "That instinct led you right to the Center, didn't it? Don't worry about

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the 'how'! Rely on your instinct. Use it by sending different types of inert objects to destinations farther and farther away. First to places you are familiar with. Then by memorizing tri-d visuals and maybe even us- ing mathematical coordinates. For example, that fork- ful of mashed potato. Where would you like to put it?"

The fork's burden of mashed potato disappeared.

Sascha: What is going on down there?

Rhyssa: Does it concern a portion of mashed potato?

Sascha, somewhat disgusted: It does! He sent her an image of a white glob in the middle of his desk.

"And where did you send it, Peter?" Dorotea asked noncommittally.

"Sascha's desk. But on the wood, not on anything important," Peter assured her.

"I won't require you to eat it, but do bring it back!"

The well-traveled forkful reappeared on the edge of Peter's plate.

Sascha, sarcastically: Thank you!

You're welcome! Peter giggled like any youngster succeeding with a practical joke.

Sascha to Rhyssa and Dorotea: We just get Madlyn house-trained and now we have Peter! Sometimes . . . I suppose, if he's up to tricks, he's adjusting to Rick's departure.

Peter was also up to work the next day, using the gestalt with the generator to shift various items about the Center. Dorotea started him off moving small ob- jects from one room to another, emphasizing accuracy of placement and picking locations with which Peter was familiar. By the end of the morning he was shifting heavy bales of computer paper from storage to the Con- trol Room, getting his placements from squares cray- oned onto the floor until Budworth finally signaled that his aim was perfect.

"Weight seems'to be no object," Sascha said, re-

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viewing the achievements at lunch with Rhyssa. "How much did he have to rely on the gestalt?"

"Not much. We've got a graph on its usage," Rhyssa replied. "His need is verging on the psychological."

"Ah, but that doesn't alter the fact that he does use it," Sascha said thoughtfully. "Can and does. By damn, Rhyssa, he's extraordinary! Once he can really lean on generator power, there isn't anything he can't shift, is there?" His eyes were shining with excitement. "If only we could figure out just how he achieves the gestalt."

Rhyssa shook her head, with a rueful smile.

"Could Rick?" he asked.

Rhyssa sighed. "Rick did just the basic kinetic training exercises with him. He didn't have more time. Damn Barchenka. Wouldn't you just know that we'd have a promising emergent who'd benefit from train- ing with the very kinetics that she's yanked out of our reach. Why didn't we have an earlier precog of this?"

Sascha leaned back in his chair, regarding his good friend and director with an uncharacteristically solemn expression. "Rhyssa, hon, could you follow his mind?"

She gave a short laugh. "I'm an adept at telepathy, but Peter's going where no man has gone before. Maybe another strong kinetic could follow. I'm going to dra- goon Lance Baden as his advanced trainer as soon as that wretched Padrugoi is finished.'' She blued the men- tal air with assorted images of her frustration.

Sascha nodded sympathetically. "Then we'll just have to continue doing kindergarten stuff with him until Lance is free. And build him up physically. Does Don Usenik see any chance of exercise restimulating those damaged nerves? Now that--"

"Trouble!" Budworth's voice rang through the spe- cial alarm speaker in Rhyssa's office.

What kind? she asked immediately.

"Goddammit, I want to speak to Director Owen

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now!" said a voice on the room address system as Bud- worth patched the call through.

"You are," Rhyssa replied coolly. "Please identify

yourself."

"Dammit, didn't they tell you? Bob Gaskin, Jerhat- tan Port Authority. You took our kinetic away from us, and now we've a container pinning three men down and no bloody way to lift it quick enough to save their lives. Right now only the safety bar on the forklift is--"

"Do you have the area on video?"

' 'I do--the whole yard.''

"Relay it to this screen immediately," she ordered. Dorotea, bring Peter to my office. We 've got to try to help. They 're patching through the image.

Dorotea: Dare we?

Rhyssa: We 'II never know unless we do. Lives are at stake. He's got the potential, and he's done well enough already with bulky, heavy things.

Dorotea: That's halfway across the city. But. . . all right. I'll have Peter there in a dash.

Sascha and Rhyssa kept their eyes on the screen, which was showing the container, the hoist cables at one end of it still whipping hi backlash. It had come down askew across a small forklift, the sturdy frame of which was keeping it from crushing the driver and two men who had been working near him. The Talents could see the dangling arm of one man pinned at one side, the feet of a second protruding under one comer--and nothing at all of me driver.

"Why did that hoist cable part, Mr. Gaskin?" Rhyssa asked calmly. "Surely you checked all your equipment before you put it in use again." She deliberately made herself sound censorious.

The office door opened and Dorotea and Peter en- tered; Peter's eyes went immediately to me screen.

"If your goddamned Center hadn't pulled our ki- netic," Gaskin exploded, "this wouldn't have--Holy hell! How'd you gel someone here this quick?"

Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Sascha held their breath as they watched the long unwieldy mass of the container slowly rise off the crumbled forklift, revealing the driver slumped across his controls and another man sprawled flat on the ground while the third staggered to his feet, holding his injured arm. They were also aware of a humming that they could feel through the floorboards of Rhyssa's office. The hum peaked off as the container was lowered carefully to the waiting truck loadbed.

"Bravo, Peter, beautifully done! Magnificent!" Rhyssa said--and then she saw him crumpled on the floor. "Oh, Lord! Did you strain yourself, love?"

Sascha reached the boy before she did, lifting him gently and depositing him on Rhyssa's conformable chair, which instantly altered to fit the boy's limp body.

"Will the men be all right?" Peter wanted to know, his white face contorted with anguish. They were hurt- ing bad.

"More to the point, young man," Sascha said, frowning, "are you all right?" Don, get up here on the double!

"By God, ma'am, how'd you do that?" Bob Gaskin cried. The Port Authority manager was mopping his face with shaking hands.

"You haven't been completely abandoned by Talent, Mr. Gaskin. We have a skeleton crew"--Sascha's im- age of Peter's frail form, bony structure emphasized, made it very hard for Rhyssa to keep her features com- posed--"which we can throw into gear for emergencies of this nature. Do please now overhaul your equipment. We don't have the manpower for unnecessary acci- dents, you know." She ignored Sascha's exaggerated grimace as she saw medics rushing to assist the injured men as a Southside heli-amb landed nearby. "Good morning, Mr. Gaskin.

"We'll check in with Southside General Hospital later, Peter," Rhyssa assured the boy.

"After Don's checked you out, young man," Doro-

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tea added, "though your concern for the men does you credit."

/ know we had to, Rhyssa, Sascha said on a tight band to Rhyssa, but should we have?

Rhyssa made a face. Hobson's choice, Sascha. We maintain an official position of the skeleton crew. By the way, don't do that to me again real soon, huh?

Sascha rolled his eyes, expressing remorse but no reassurance. I'm not sure how long we'll be able to hang that lie, so would you get all uptight if I tried to follow his mind's thrust when he's lifting? I didn't re- alize how quickly he's emerging to full use of his Tal- ent.

No, after this exhibition of Peter's ability, I was about to ask you if you could spare some time to work with him. I need your insight, since you 're more expert at training. If we could duplicate the gestalt, even our featherweights could move containers.

"Okay, who's done what to whom now?" Don Usenik demanded as he entered the room. He looked around, then spotted the wan Peter on Rhyssa's chair. "What have you been doing? Moving mountains?"

"Which do you want first? The good news, or the bad news?" Dave Lehardt asked Rhyssa a week later.

She could tell nothing from his expression--the look of his eyes was curiously intent on her face. He might not be a Talent, but he was unusually astute at picking up minute body-language signs. She was so glad to see him that she really did not care what news he brought, but she followed his cue.

"The bad!"

"Barchenka is certain you've been holding out on her. She's heard that you have a team of kinetic Talents that are not on your official register. She's about to create a stink. And I have to tell you that I've heard some mighty peculiar rumors circulating."

Rhyssa laughed. "We're not holding out on her--

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Talents can't. Telempaths can always detect a lie. She has Russian telempaths on her payroll. Tell her to ask them. What's the good news?"

Dave Lehardt raised one eyebrow in a skeptical arch. "The polls are again favorable to the Talented. When businesses employing them had to cope with old- fashioned ways, Talent popularity hit a fifty-year low- worse even than after the Hawaiian volcano disaster- even though everyone was pro-Padrugoi and everyone, meaning the Talents, was doing their share. Seems that this nonexistent team of yours has provided emergency services. Only no Talent has been observed on the scene."

"It's a remote technique that we've been developing for emergency situations," Rhyssa said, schooling her face to reveal nothing. It was not that she did not trust Dave Lehardt, but she wanted to protect Peter. "And it's the one reason we felt we could strip all our Centers of kinetics to help Padrugoi.''

"A remote technique?"

"That's what I said."

' 'No Talent I've spoken to knows anything about it.''

"I said it was remote," Rhyssa repeated, struggling to keep amusement out of her voice. "Not something we want to go public on just yet. I'm sure you can appreciate thatV

"So Ludmilla can't get her hands on it?"

"She's coerced almost every kinetic we have onto Padrugoi. She's got sufficient numbers and skills right now to finish her work on schedule. She shouldn't get greedier!"

"She wants to come in under schedule, and the way your Talents are working, she could."

"Is a bonus involved in eariy completion?" Rhyssa was annoyed. Damn the woman to a disintegrating or- bit!

"Didn't you know?" Dave Lehardt seemed surprised.

"I heard a great deal about penalties and a com-

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pletion bonus, but strangely enough, nothing was said, or even hinted, that early completion was her goal."

"I'll do what I can to squash the rumors--and, if I may be so bold, you should keep that new team out of operation if at all possible. No more cavalry charges to the rescue without warning me, huh? Please?"

That was very sound advice, which Rhyssa intended to follow. Since the emergency lift, she had been chary of using Peter's skill. It just took too much out of his not-so-sturdy body. He was strengthening himself daily--exercising was becoming almost an obsession with him. But she was still rigorously restricting the use of his Talent to life-threatening situations in the Jerhat- tan area, which, fortunately, were few. Meanwhile, in the ongoing training sessions, he was using fax place- ment photos to send items to other Centers.

"I can follow his thoughts all the way," Sascha told Rhyssa after a week of linking minds with Peter during those exercises. "I can even feel the vibrations of the generator in his cerebrum, but how he effects the gestalt is still beyond me. And, as nearly as I can tell, he's relying less and less on the power. At least for light stuff."

"If he keeps on this way, maybe Lance is right," Rhyssa remarked. "Plug him into a powerful enough source and he could probably obviate the need for Pad- rugoi."

Sascha blinked, then projected a series of images depicting Barchenka's expression, the consternation on the egg-splattered faces of the space station's major supporters, and one small boy sending out starships the way children his age launched paper planes. The last and largest image was of Sascha himself, elon- gated mouth wide open, chin to his chest. "Could he?"

Rhyssa laughed, rolling her eyes. "I won't say he couldn't. But you know as well as I do that all Talent

has limitations. Now is not the time to put any sort of pressure on Peter. He's such a happy boy now."

"We can thank God he is!" His mental picture was of himself, patiently controlling me lovelorn Madlyn Luvaro, huge wads of cotton wool in his ears.

Rhyssa retorted with an image of stray forkfuls of potato festooning his office. "A kinetic has far more options than a telepath!"

"He's easier to keep happy than Madlyn ever was, too," Sascha said, stretching his long legs. "The odd traffic snarl or two a day, and he feels he's worth his keep. Which reminds me, I've had some pretty pointed remarks from industrial VIPs lately about this remote team of ours. My answer is that we've managed to combine the trainees with an experienced feather- weight to achieve the necessary heft, but the applica- tion is limited due to the extreme youth of the participants."

. Rhyssa sighed. "That old tangled-web routine, huh?"

Sascha quirked an eyebrow. "Favoring Shakespeare? Thought your family ran to Popery."

Rhyssa laughed, envisioning her illustrious grandsire, Daflyd op Owen, as she remembered him, tall, silver- haired, slender, with the face of a poet and the chin of an Italian prince. "Sometimes the Bard fits better. Which industrialists have asked?"

"Nail on the head, girl. Every one of them supplies something to Padrugoi! And, as you know, there've been delays in getting materiel up to the station, weather problems mainly, with all those freak storms messing up launch windows."

Rhyssa frowned and, in an uncharacteristic show of nervousness, flipped a stylus end over end. "Lifesav- ing, yes; and with the technique he's been showing over distances, I think he probably could launch a drone up to Padrugoi through any sort of weather. But there's no way Peter's going to help Secure her bonus or prevent her fines."

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Sascha grinned. "I won't mention the possibility of such fan and games to him, you spoilsport." He threw her an image of him hastily raising a solid barrier against the barbs emerging from her eyes. "She couldn't hire him anyway. He's only fourteen. Underage, even under existing Russian law!"

Rhyssa let out a low whistle, then grinned. "Yes, he is a minor, isn't he? And Dorotea reminded me that he's been working pretty hard with you. Tomorrow he has a day off. And I've got all these files--" She ges- tured resignedly at the stacks on the edge of her desk. "Testing reports to go through."

"Why don't you take a night off?" Sascha sug- gested, grinning drolly. "With Dave."

Rhyssa sat bolt upright, closing her mind.

"Honey, I don't have to peek," he told her.

Rhyssa groaned. "He's not a Talent."

"There's no law in the Charter that says you have to marry Talent, you know."

"But that's the way to increase ..."

"Yeah, and where did Peter Reidinger come from? I think sometimes, my dear friend," he said, leaning over the desk toward her, "we have to look with our eyes instead of our heads. Just thought I ought to mention it. Dave's the best friend Talent's got."

"It's not up to me, Sascha," Rhyssa added, feeling uncomfortable for the first time in her old friend's pres- ence.

"Could be. Maybe not. Lehardt's clever enough to do his own promo work." With that Sascha left her.

As Tiria entered the Main Concourse of Linear G, she sensed an aura of excitement, telling her that some- thing was about to happen to relieve the tedium of Lin- ear living. As always, there were some general workers scurrying to the Plaza to see if the WorkBoard was scrolling out any jobs for able-bodieds, concerned with getting enough da>y work to keep out of Conscriptive

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Work Services. No self-respecting Linearite wanted to be sent on a hard-labor tour or, worse, spaced out to the shipyards around the Big Wheel. Few CWS ever earned a return ticket. And now even the Talents were not exempt. So most of the little knots of excited people were composed of women.

Tiria edged close enough to a group of Hispanics to pick up the drift.

"He lay hands on ..."

"Church is always lo mismo . . . The singing is bad."

"My Juan now . . . when he is reminded of the purity of the Virgin, he doesn't beat me for a day or two ..."

' 'The true man of God provides food for the soul. . ."

Tiria snorted to herself. Food for the soul was not high on her priorities when her belly was empty.

"I have heard," Consuela Laguna was saying ear- nestly, "that if he lays hands on the lame, he cures." Consuela's son was handicapped beyond remedy or repair, but she remained positive that somehow, sometime, her Manuelito would be restored to health by some new miracle treatment, and she was always asking Tiria to translate the medical bulletins for her.

So, Tiria thought, a Religious Event had been unex- pectedly scheduled for Linear G. That was odd. The Public Health meeting had been only four weeks ear- lier. It was true that there had not been an RE in a long time, but still she was suspicious. Two specials within four weeks?

She moved on to the next group, all Neesters from the Levant, and they were babbling about how they could get their men to attend that night instead of ad- journing to Mahmoud's squat to see his new belly dancer. Then she slipped around to an Asian gaggle who were chattering excitedly about cures and whether the RE would be bad for business. Asians provided an-

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cient remedies for the many minor ailments that beset those in the warreny Residentials.

"He has come as promised . . ." she heard as she slid up to Mama Bobchik. The old woman's black eyes were wide; her cheeks a mottled glowing red of excite- ment. "You come, too, dushka," she said, catching Tirla's arm. "You must tell us his words, exactly. The last time I could not hear what was said, and my soul is black with sin."

"Nakonetz, " Tiria agreed easily. Most Religious In- terpreter Groups generally said nothing, in the most or- namented phraseology. She could amuse herself by anticipating the trite phrases and flowery words. "So the Assembly extension was granted after all?" she asked, eager to maintain her reputation of knowing all that went on in the Linear.

"Da, eto tak!" Mama Bobchik happily reassured her. "My man was sent word to prepare late last night." Argol Bobchik was one of the Linear's sani- tary engineers. "The word is that this Religious is all- seeing," Mama babbled on, "with an excellent backup group. They were well received at Linear P. Early as it is, already this morning many traders have booked space. It will be an occasion. We have not had religion here in G for some months. We are all in need of guidance. The souls of many are dark with sin and must be purged."

Tiria nodded solemnly. Mama Bobchik was certainly old enough to be facing a mystic accounting of the sins on her soul. Too bad no LEO man would be there to

hear it.

But how had Tiria missed such a juicy rumor? Maybe it had been decided very late the previous night. At any rate, the presence of traders would make it easier for her to wash the tied credits for the Yassim man. She shuddered at the thought of him. She did not like to hold onto his money too long. Not that he had any reason to distrust'her--she just wanted to make certain

he never did. Especially if he suspected she was close to salable age. She was small and thin enough to pass for the nine years she admitted to. Someday someone would count fingers on her. From time to time she thought about what she would do then--and tried to keep enough floaters stuck inside her blouse at all times so that she could flee to another Linear if she had to. She had even managed to get her hands on a highly illegal copy of the cargo-train schedules and had found her way to the nearest access points to the subterranean concourse to eyeball escape routes.

Deftly disengaging herself from Mama Bobchik's fat fingers, she moved on to the Pakis, who were chattering about bringing in some relatives from Linear E and ar- guing over the advisability of such a move. Some in- sisted that, since the extension was legal, there would be no risk. Then Mirda Khan--a person Tiria was al- ways careful to please--came up and quickly dismissed such stupid generosity.

"The blessings of such a Lama would be few," Mirda muttered in an intense and angry tone just audi- ble to those around her, "for he cannot waste his holy strength on the trivial. Such as he would be gracious enough to dispense must be for us, here, in Linear G. For us," she said again, poking her thin breastbone with a broad flat thumb, "the true believers, his faithful in Linear G."

' "The Very Revered Ponsit Prosit has been at Linear P,'' one of the other women murmured reverently. "Pandit heard of the miracles he performed."

Tiria was skeptical of miracles for, on close inspec- tion, there were always alternate explanations for heal- ings and savings and revelations. But they were fun to delve.

"Then we save such for ourselves!" Mirda replied fiercely, defying contradiction. Suddenly she spun around, somehow aware of being the object of scru- tiny--but Tiria was quicker, moving to flatten herself

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against the Concourse pillar. She had heard enough anyhow and left.

So this Religious Interpreter, this RIG, had a rep- utation? As Tiria was quite aware, it took a real clever talker to keep from violating the variety of complex doctrines in a Linear. This Ponsit Prosit might well be worth listening to--and watching closely. In her precarious situation, Tiria was always open to point- ers.

If the whole thing was legit. She mulled over the probables as she ducked into side aisles before coming out again onto the Main Concourse, far enough away from the Pakis to be screened by other groups. Then she glanced up at the nearest publi-text screen. She watched through the usual notices and announcements until it scrolled down to 2200 hours, where a legal extension for use of the Assembly was posted, with trading and drinking permitted.

The full details were being vividly proclaimed, com- plete with fanfares of brass instruments and snippets of the Respected Venerable Homilifier Ponsit Prosit smil- ing beatifically at vast audiences. A chorus was prom- ised, and a short blast of five-part harmony and high soprano descant was presented as an enticement to at- tend the full show. This V R & Holy Religious Inter- pretation Group purportedly had only recently returned from the Eastern Cities of Faith, where Ponsit Prosit had endured "fasting meditations of great length and illumination." Linear G was fortunate in the extreme that he was able to fit that evening's assembly into his busy tour. So, he had not had a booking in a while, Tiria thought cynically. Well, Religious Interpretations were very popular in Linears, better than fights some- times and often more showy. Tiria liked shows--and

legal extensions.

There had been a Public Health roundup recently, so a second, covert one was unlikely in her experience. And while a Religious Event could be staged to mask

Anne McCaffrey 107

more illicit operations than washing tieds in public, there still might not be any undercover LEOs. Crowd Controllers would be around, of course--that was stan- dard procedure--but Tiria knew most of them despite the way they altered their appearances.

The important thing was that she had the Yassim tieds to change. She should never have agreed to do it, but Bulbar had been insistent and the "talker"--a hit man whom she would not willingly offend--had told her that she was being given the opportunity in reward for ser- vices already rendered. Having consented to a profes- sional engagement with Mama Bobchik, who was not only another person it was unwise to offend but some- one who, having presided over Tiria's birth, would al- ways defend the girl, Tiria was committed on two counts to attend.

Prepared with several contingency plans, Tiria began her usual morning routine--bargaining for the day's meals and getting a bath and a clean issue of clothing. But as she proceeded, she was stopped by various fe- male clients, each wanting her company during this Re- ligious Event because the featured Lama-shaman was reputed to speak in tongues and Tiria was absolutely the only person who would faithfully tell them every- thing he said. There was a limit, however, to how many people Tiria could adequately represent. Surrounded by very insistent, vocal, and physically active prospective clients, none of whom she cared to antagonize, she at- tempted to organize them.

"Bilala, you and Pilau must come together. Anna, you team up with Marika. Zaveta, Elpidia comes as well. Chi-shu, Lao Wang with you. Cyoto, Ari-san is your partner.'' And so she grouped them. Ten pairs was as unmanageable as it was unavoidable. Before she got into any further difficulties, Tiria discreetly removed herself from public view. She still had to get the tied credits out of their hidey holes and secreted about her for easy access.

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We have an Incident," Sirildt said, her light, crisp voice carrying easily to Budworth, who was duty officer in the Parapsych Control Room.

"Who?" Budworth sent his gimballed chair spinning across the tiled floor to her station. Seeing him maneu- ver so rapidly around the Control Room made people forget that his spine had been crushed in an accident and that he had only minimal movement of his head

and two fingers.

"Auer." Sirikit's surprise was reflected in her voice.

"Really!"

"And Bertha!"

"That's an unusual combination."

"Not if Ponsit Prosit the Great Flimflam is involved. I caught the p.a. for Linear G."

"It is very true she would have his guts for garters," Budworth said, grinning wryly. Bertha Zoccola was generally a relaxed and tolerant individual, but mention of that particular RIG was enough to enrage her. Bud- worth set himself for her fury in reporting a precog involving the man.

Whenever precognitive Talents responded to an In- cident, they would flash the Center, alerting Control to receive a verbal description of what they had pre- viewed. Budworth positioned his chair at the finger- board next to Sirikit and scratched his chin on the rim of his bead support, feeling the surge of excited an- ticipation that he always experienced at such mo- ments.

"C'mon, you net-heads, report!" he exclaimed.

Sirikit glanced away from her screen to grin at him. Then a bleep sounded, startling both of them even though they were expecting an entry.

"Auer here," the emotionless voice announced, and the precog's face appeared in one of the response screens. "A real messy one. High panic, screams, mob, kids trampled, the usual thing. Why don't you grab

Anne McCaffrey 109

Ponsit and space him to the shipyards? I'm tired of pro- tecting that scuzfart."

"You saw Flimflam himself, Auer?" Sirikit asked encouragingly. At Budworth's nod, she took over the routine questions. She was one of the most deft at post- Incidental debriefing, and Auer always responded well to her. Budworth busied himself with tapping out a query for scheduled public events. More crowd control would have to be assigned to Linear G.

Auer shrugged with an indifference both observers knew was false. "He's prominent. All colored lights and glittering hands. Then running away. As usual. Never stays to calm the audiences he excites to riot pitch."

"Where?" Sirikit encouraged him.

"Your typical Residential assembly hall. Usual Pon- sit backdrops. Nothing unusual . . . except--" Auer paused, frowning down at something. "Except--that's odd!"

"What's odd, Auer?"

"All over a scrawny girl?" When he looked up, his eyes were haunted.

"Yes?"

"I feel . . . and her danger is acute. It doesn't end tonight. She's Talented!" That was said in a surprised voice; then Auer passed a hand across his eyes, scrub- bing downward. "It's gone now. It's gone." The screen blackened.

Another screen brightened.

"You shouldn't allow that man a permit at all\" Bertha Zoccola was bristling with indignation. "You've caught him dealing time and again! Those people don't have the credits to spend on mystical cures and miracle healings. He spouts the most ap- palling sort of pantheist tripe. And in the worst lan- guage!"

"What did you see. Bertha?" Budworth asked the plump little woman, who still cherished a worn deck of

110

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Tarot cards that her great-grandmother had once read with a high enough degree of accuracy to earn a signif- icant credit balance.

"I keep telling you that man is nothing but trouble." Her double chin quivered, and her expression was con- cerned. "I don't care if the Domestic Satisfaction Index does rise after he's played a Residential. Why should we Talents protect a quacksalver, a faker, a pharisee, a hoaxer, a gyp! An arrant camie!"

"We're not protecting him! Now, what did you see,

Bertha?"

"Halfway through that--that gibberous effort of his-- you never can tell what he's saying in that mumbo- jumble of his--there's a movement, to the left of the platform ..." She jingled her left hand, her many wrist bracelets clacking noisily. "Or do I mean his right?" She raised the other hand, splaying fingers crammed with rings. "There's a commotion. It has to do with a large group of women." She waggled her hand again, frowning. "Then everything goes wild! A name! They're all calling a name! And I can't hear what it is! Oh, wouldn't that cause a saint to swear! The one vital detail! And I thought I heard it so clearly ..." She pursed her lips in concentration and then slowly shook her head, sighing. "No, it's gone. I'm

so sorry."

"Thanks, Bertha dear. You've filled in some de- tails."

"Who else?" Bertha asked, as always.

"Auer."

"Him?" Bertha was incredulous. "Well, what'd'ya know about that? Do keep me screened, Buddy."

"You bet." Budworth was punching Sascha's office as her picture dissolved. "Sascha, we got an Incident."

"There's only one crowd controller assigned to the RIG, Budworth," Sirikit murmured to him. "Residen- tial Linear G is listed as blue, calm."

"Well, it's about to change color unless we can

neutralize. Sascha, something's going to bust wide at Ponsit's meeting at G tonight."

"Linear G?" The large blue eyes in Sascha's Slavic- cast face widened with surprise. "We'd nothing planned there," he murmured. "Who saw it?"

"Bertha and Auer."

"What?" Sascha raised his eyebrows. "That's a first. I'll be back to you. Buddy. I'll organize our in- filtration with the Bro.'' Rhyssa, we 've got an incipi- ent riot.

That sort of thing's more your bailiwick than mine, was Rhyssa's reply. Give my regards to Boris.

As the contact with Sascha faded, Budworth grunted, absently scratching his jaw. He hoped there would be remote visuals set up so that he could watch what went on, and if Sascha's LEO brother, Boris, was involved, there would be. Whether his experience was vicarious or not, Budworth appreciated being involved in these unexpected spectaculars. One never knew what would happen during an Incident. He was honest enough in the back of his mind--the only safe place to think in the Center--to realize that he had not been a physically brave person even before his accident. Still and all, he found the breathless anticipation and stimulation to be very pleasant sensations for one husked by a mobility chair.

Sirikit was making rapid entries, documenting the In- cident. Although the Talented had come to have im- mense credibility, and the meticulously kept daily files might generally be scanned only by Research, the procedures outlined by the Parapsychic Center's first administrator. Henry Darrow, were scrupulously fol- lowed. The full spectrum of Talent was far from being known and certain facets of Talent were not at all fully developed, as in the case of young Peter Reidinger's Talent for an electrical gestalt. And who knew what sort of unusual Talent might yet be discovered among

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emergents? Budworth sighed as he turned back to tasks which once would have seemed far from mun- dane.

Chapter S

#^ ^ Til-la did not dare be late to the meeting, but she also did not want to arrive too soon and risk being has- sled by even more people demanding her particular ser- vices. No matter what baksheesh was offered, she could translate for only so many at a time, especially with the other, more pressing, matter to complete. That had to be managed. She chose to arrive with enough time to do a quick survey and identify the best vendors, as well as any undercover LEOs or PHOs. The fortuitous scheduling of the Religious Event still bothered her.

Unless ... It occurred to Tiria that maybe there would be some Treasury persons in the crowd, checking up on vendors, that money laundering itself was the target of this occasion. But the Ts were easy to spot. They were always so obvious about blending into the crowd.

Having arranged to meet the women at the main southeast entrance, Tiria entered the Assembly atrium from one of the side northwest gates. Someone else had already disabled the entrance eye that read IDs and counted attendance, saving her the trouble. The petty vendors had their booths up and merchandise displayed:

mainly trinkets and synth clothes, goods that could be quickly shifted. But there were air-cushion carts being angled through the wider doorways, proving that some serious trading would be done. She felt somewhat easier in her mind. The big traders would not risk themselves or their merchandise at a risky-disky. 113

114 PEGASUS IN FLIGHT Anne McCaffrey 115

She took note of prices as she wended her way through the gathering crowd. She hoped there would be some fresh produce--well, fresh in that it had been re- cently nicked from the underground warehouses that supplied Jerhattan's markets. She would treat herself to a nice crisp pepper, carrot, or apple from the day's earnings, something to sink her teeth into instead of the subsistence mush or compound protein loaf. She wanted to get a stick of real chewing gum, too, to keep her mouth moist when she started translating. She spared only a glance for the activity on the platform, where hands were rushing about, draping curtains and swags and hauling lighting and sound equipment about. She was never impressed by packaging--just the quality of the contents. She found gum at Feller's stall and made him launder one of the smaller tied notes.

She was just savoring the minty flavor of her gum when she caught sight of an all too familiar profile in totally unfamiliar synth-issue clothing. Yassim was ac- tually here? She ducked behind a large man in a stained robe that had once been the height of fashion. He was holding up both arms, wigwagging at someone on the stage. The smell of him nearly made her swallow her gum, but his outline completely obscured her.

What was Yassim doing here? Tiria wondered. Didn't he trust her? As her camouflage dropped one arm to cup his hand to his mouth to shout a direction, Tiria chanced

a second look.

Yes, it was him. He was unmistakable. He had done something subtle to his face, altering its shape--probably pads in his cheeks and lower lip--but he had not, could not, alter that long thin hooked nose and the sloping forehead. He walked, as always, as if he owned the place, strutting about in a loose overrobe that had not suffered much cleaning in its long life. His headgear was also appropriately worn, torn, and stained. It was a creditable attempt to blend in, but Tiria knew the man was Yassim. There he was, sauntering about, inspect-

ing trinkets, pausing to ask questions of vendors, ap- pearing to go from one group of friends to another, friends she quickly identified as some of his multitude of ladrones, hitters, and sassins. Well and discreetly guarded though he was, why was he there?

Her odorous blocker moved and she moved with him, keeping him as cover. When he stopped, roaring out instructions, she, too, did--and saw Yassim talking to three Neester mothers who had young children with them. Suddenly Tiria knew what he was doing there. With equal certainty, Tiria did not want to be anywhere in his vicinity while child buying was on his mind. She did, however, make a mental note of which ladrones and sassins she knew among his followers. There had to be one she could trust to give his boss the tieds she had exchanged into floaters. There was no way she could avoid that chore.

Subliminal music had started, and the lighting in the Assembly Hall began to alter subtly, heralding the be- ginning of the Religious Interpretation. Tiria ducked behind the nearest vendor's shillboard and slipped to the southeast entrance.

An agitated Mirda Khan seemed to have eyes in the back of her mirror-adomed headdress, for she swung around, her face as sharp as a predatory bird's, as Tiria approached. She hooked her fingers painfully into Tir- ia's grasp and hauled the girl to her.

"Where were you? Where were you?" Mirda shook her angrily, showering her with spittle and sour breath so that Tiria pulled back as far as she could. The other women who had commissioned her to translate the RIG'S words formed a close circle around her. But since their bodies also shielded her from Yassim's notice, she did not resist.

"I was pricing the merch," she said, unrepentantly.

Bilala and Pilau were trying to edge around Mirda and pull Tiria to their segment of the circle. Mirda jammed Tiria tight against her angular body while

116 PEGASUS IN FLIGHT Anne McCaffrey 117

Mama Bobchik somehow got ahold of Tirla's free arm, effectively pinning her between the two formidably large

women.

"He's here," Tiria said to Mirda, squirming to give herself a little space. She repeated the phrase until all her customers knew.

"He?" Mirda stretched to peer over the heads of their little knot. She gave a snort. "Yassim'U roast in hell before I sell him another child." Her fingers tight- ened convulsively on Tirla's shoulder. "You stay away from him. You hear me good?''

Tiria nodded enthusiastically. If Mirda knew Yassim, was there a chance she could inveigle the woman to pass on the laundry? Not with any sure knowledge that all of it would reach him.

"He gives a good price," Elpidia whined. She had a girl child old enough to spin off. She also had a drug habit to keep, for which she exchanged the yearly fruits of her womb once they were of an age to be sold off profitably. She fretted whether or not to go back to her squat and bring down the child for him.

"I would not sell to such as him!" Mirda snapped in her own language, black eyes flashing scornfully. "Price or not. Even selling to the station is better."

"What did she say?" Elpidia demanded of Tiria. Tiria shrugged. ' 'I am hired to translate the speaker, not settle disputes between clients, and she is not one to annoy."

Elpidia scowled at Mirda Khan, who hauled Tiria around, nearly wrenching her left arm out of Mama Bobchik's hand.

"Come," Mirda said. Her outer robe billowing its musty folds across Tirla's face, she led the group for- ward, acting as a spearhead through the still thinly scat- tered gathering. She halted right under the stage, where no one could thrust in front of them to block their view. She was about to push Tiria forward when the girl wrig- gled free.

' 'I must be able to see him. I will stand here, where I can see, and where all of you can hear." She repeated this until it was clearly understood by all her clients.

Within the circle she felt safe from Yassim. She be- gan to relax and even to enjoy the music despite the patchy sound of the shrill replay as it ground through a multi-ethnic repertoire. Where were the famous live backup performers? This had been publicly billed as an occasion! Tiria took note of activity on the stage, the draperies billowing suddenly here and there from move- ment behind them. She could just catch a glimpse of the right-hand wings and people nulling about, waiting to go on. So, there was a chorus. She much preferred live singing.

Out of the comer of her eye she caught a glimpse of a big man to her right, wandering with all too apparent indifference. She sensed a penetrating assessment of her companions going on under the brim of a battered peak cap, and she leaned surreptiously into Mama Bobchik. She felt something else then, a soothing brush across her mind which caused the high, sharp chatter of the women to fall off into a less excited pitch. She was not sure what that was all about.

The man was not Treasury. She followed his prog- ress, aware that he was in contact somehow with two women who gave every evidence of being oblivious to him as they chattered and laughed together, jostling through the early comers to find a good position near the stage. She peered suspiciously at the two, their faces painted with careless hands, one of them obviously pregnant, though she wore the gear of a prostitute. Their faces were unfamiliar, and Tiria was beginning to won- der if the meeting really had been staged by an authority like Treasury or PH when a third woman, well known to Tiria, greeted them effusively and stayed to gossip. Reading from their lips the commonplace remarks they exchanged soothed the girl. It was seeing Yassim here that made her so nervous. She certainly did not owe

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him so much that he would come after her. She was not even overdue with the laundered credits. What had hap- pened to his stock? He was not often caught short enough to brave a public affair. She touched the little pouches of tieds in the clever vest she wore for the purpose under her issue suit and reassured herself that all were in place,

A fanfare blasted for attention, and the excited babble died down to eager anticipation. Not a bad nourish, Tiria thought, quite willing to be carried along by a good show.

Then the choir stalked out self-consciously and ar- ranged themselves with some poking and pulling on one side of stage center. As close as she was, Tiria could see that their costumes were neither clean nor new. Not all of them managed to find the right pitch from the final note of the recorded blurt of brass. Tiria knew the song they were singing, a really old good one, so the fact that they were singing it badly was inexcusable. She only had to translate it for Cyoto and Ari--everyone else mumbled along in then- own languages.

Then the emcee came out, falsely bright, and started the pitch, waffling on about the training and merits of the Revered Venerable Ponsit Prosit. As he was merely repeating all the claptrap about mystical training in Par Asia from the public announcement, Tiria did not start to translate it until Bilala hissed at her to earn her fee.

There was another song, one which slipped from one musical ethic to another with no respect for tonality or rhythm. Perversely, the singers managed to perform the travesty competently. Tiria identified six who were spaced out on something. That they could sing at all might indeed be a minor miracle of this RIG.

There were flourishes of recorded instruments and rolls of drums, which stirred even Tirla's cynical pulses. Drums could be so exciting! A great crashing of cym- bals, a painfully glaring display of assorted lights and narrow beams, an ear-blasting crescendo of bugle synths

accompanied by fragrant smoke bombs, and the Re- vered Venerable Religious Interpreter arrived, his robes artfully gleaming.

Her clients were suitably impressed by his "magi- cal" appearance, but Tiria had caught a glimpse of the square aperture in the floor before he shot up through the densest veil of smoke to hover on his column above the stage and the awed spectators. She preferred some- thing more dramatic; she had seen that sort of entrance so frequently that it had lost any impact. But clearly she was a minority. Even Mirda pretended to be afraid, covering her face with a fold of her head cloth.

The Religious Interpreter went into his act immedi- ately, face upturned so Tirla's best view was of a wag- gling chin and dark holes of nostrils. The light show dazzled as taped music supported his mournings--for that was what they were, syllables meaning absolutely nothing, with random words from every language she had ever heard tossed in to confuse.

"What does he say, the holy man?" Mirda de- manded.

"Tell me what he say?" Mama Bobchik pulled Tiria to her. Bilala and Pilau were equally insistent: one kicked Tirla's shin, while the other transferred a sub- stantial amount of her weight onto Tirla's undefended toes.

"Nothing," Tiria replied, disgusted. "He says noth- ing!'^

She was poked, pushed, and pulled.

"He's saying something." "He speaks mystically." "Tell us what he says." "Ah, I understand that word for myself! I will pay you nothing, bitch."

Tiria was furious at that threat. Furious at the RIG. She would translate when he said something translat- able. She was pinched and tweaked and slapped. In self-defense she caught the pattern of his babble and, involuntarily mimicking his stance and delivery, rat- tled off the nonsensical sounds in an undertone, trans-

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lating the occasional real word into as many languages as she could before picking up the gibberish again.

Then the man stopped talking and spread his arms, his beatific smile radiant in the flood of light picking him out, seemingly afloat in the air above the stage. Then Tiria realized that he was staring in her direction.

In a gesture that startled her as well as her clients, he lunged forward, eyes flashing, face contorted, his ac- cusing finger pointing straight at her.

"Unbelievers, profaning a sacred moment with chat- ter. Hear, leam, obey, repent your evil uncaring ways. Be taken into the light of the world. Be admitted into the holy sepulcher. Be one with humanity and all lov- ing, caring creatures. Be purified. Be saved! Be!" His accusing hand lifted and spread open as a beam of light caught his fingers and spilled down his raised arm.

Tiria, translating as rapidly as possible in the dra- matic pause, was thankful for some coherent phrases. Her clients might be listening to her, but their eyes were on him. He had the crowd's rapt attention now. Tiria was fairly sure that no one outside the circle could see her, but dared not stop talking. She kept spewing out the gibberish, worrying that such nonsense would not be worth the money promised her. They might not pay her at all. She was already regretting that she would miss the taste of the crisp green pepper she had hoped to purchase with her fee.

The Lama-shaman assumed another dramatic pose, arms out, palms upturned in entreaty.

"Bring me your sick, your weary, your wretched souls. Let me heal them. A touch will ease the tortured mind, the fevered body, the twisted limb, the blurred sight. Approach! Be not afeared. All things come to those who deserve. All creatures deserve Love. For it is Love, Love, Love that heals!"

Tiria rattled it all off easily, trying to peer through the shielding bodies to see who would be working the scam. Bamey with his lizard eyelids--one blink, and

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his eyes were milky white blind; another, and he could "see clear once again, hallelujah!" Maybe Mahmoud with his double joints all twisted out of shape--one touch of the Lama-shaman's healing touch and they would straighten. Or would it be Maria with her weep- ing sores?

The Lama-shaman threw back his head, his hands turned gold in the narrow spot-beams, glittering from some sort of paint he must have used. Her clients in- haled with awe at the sight, their faces rapt as he made mystic passes with his magical hands. Glistening strands and bits whirled from his fingertips, disappearing in brief sparks as they left the light beams. That was a new trick, Tiria thought. Not bad. Pilau tried to catch a strand, but it disintegrated, leaving no trace in her grubby fingers.

Just then another strand, stronger, shot from the stage and fell on the head of a bemused man. He was less bemused when, with another grand flourish, the Lama- shaman began to reel him in.

"You have been chosen, brother. Come to me! Em- brace me!" A ramp extruded from the stage, straight toward the chosen one, who glanced about with appre- hension as he was pushed onto the ramp by those be- hind him and propelled forward by those on either side. "Kneel, brother," the Lama-shaman intoned, and ap- peared to glide down the air.

Tiria could feel the faint vibration of the stage mech- anism that supplied the effect, but she did not pause in her translations. It was a pretty good gimmick. She wondered where the control was. The mark appeared genuinely stunned at being chosen. He knelt obediently, a dazed expression on his face.

'' Rallamadamothuriasticalligomahn ozimithioapo- dociamoturialistashadioalisymquepodial--Omathurto- dispasionat usimperadomusigen alliszweigenpolastonu chevaliskyrielisonandia. Moss pirialistusquandoruula- betodomoarigatoimustendiationallamegrachiatus ..."

122 PEGASUS IN FLIGHT Anne McCaffrey 123

the Revered Venerable intoned, holding his hand above the mark's head.

More syllables and almost-words that Tiria could not anticipate enough to mimic. She could appreciate and admire the Venerable's truly respectable breath control. Why, he sounded as if he could go on for- ever!

'What does he say?" Mirda pinched her sharply.

"How can I hear when you babble at me?" Tiria replied and made up suitable phrases, which she then translated. "Woops!"

Strange things were happening above the chosen one's head. How did the Lama-shaman do that with sleeves so tight at his wrists? Tiria wondered. Hair, face, and throat of the mark were shimmering with gold; the man's expression was first ludicrous and then ecstatic. Tiria wondered what the Venerable Prayman could be using. She was beginning to enjoy the spec- tacle.

The Revered slowly turned back to the audience, his face also golden-hued, the whites of his eyes visible. "The power is with me. Whom else will it touch?"

Raising his arms again and extending his hands for- ward, he gave the audience sufficient time to see the effect the "power" had had on the first "chosen." With a twist of his wrists, his palms turned over and strands shot out in all directions. Before Tiria could duck, one of the filaments landed on her head. Whatever it was stuck tightly in her hair despite quick efforts on her part to get rid of it. Her hands were caught by the adhesive, bound to her head now. She began to panic. There was no way she wished to be hauled up in pub- lic. Not with Yassim in the hall. Not with tieds on her, credits she had no right to possess under any cir- cumstances.

The choir began to chant for the chosen to come for- ward, to receive power. The audience caught up the refrain, and Tiria could hear the ominous overtone of

envy from those who felt themselves more worthy of such an honor.

"She's been chosen!" Bilala and Pilau shrieked, bursting into an ululation that shot panic through Tiria's heart as they tried to push her forward toward the ramp nearest them.

"No, she's got to stay. She's got to tell us!" Mama Bobchik and Mirda Khan were not to be cheated. They pulled Tiria back.

"Break it, Cyoto. Help me, Lao Wang. Elpidia! Zaveta!" Tiria began struggling in earnest, terror start- ing to chill her guts.

All the other newly chosen were making their way up to the stage. The strand tightened, pulling at her hair. She twisted. Then suddenly she was snapped free. She caught the glint of a knife blade as she fell back against the solid Mama Bobchik. Zaveta and Mirda locked with the screaming Bilala and Pilau, who were attempting to regain control of Tiria.

As she had done before in such situations, Tiria dropped to the floor and plunged to one side, tripping someone, who fell heavily on her left foot. She ignored the stab of pain and crawled on, her breath coming in sobs. She rolled free of her encircling clients and scrambled to her feet, plowing through the chanters. Someone saw the dangling golden strand and grabbed it, nearly jerking her off her feet. To free herself she wrenched the tangled hair from her head, leaving the bit of scalp dangling in the man's hand.

"Grab her!" The chant was interrupted to set up the cry. She squeezed past several grasping hands, frantic to get to the lobby and the nearest emergency exit.

"Here, I gotcha!" She was encircled by massive forearms. She lifted her arms and slithered down; a kick was aimed at her belly, but despite being winded, she rolled, too accustomed to such dirty tactics not to have self-preserving instincts. She had a glimpse of one of

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Yassim's sassins, face wreathed in a witless grin of suc- cess, before she landed against the far wall, and sud- denly two pairs of trousered legs shielded her.

She was helped to her feet by kind hands and made conscious of soothing thoughts of assistance, under- standing, and sympathy. She recognized the aura just as her splayed fingers felt the doorframe. Managing to elude the hands, she whipped out the door and sped across the foyer, paying no heed to pleas to stop. An incredible multi-toned bellow rose behind her, an angry frustrated noise that gave impetus to her pumping legs. As she pounded down the access aisle, she heard a fa- miliar thumping thud in the air above.

LEOs! Had they been on hand? Or had they been called? But it took time for LEO ships to assemble. She found the small square duct she needed, whipped off the cover, crawled inside, and, with some difficulty in the restricted space, snapped it back into place. She crouched in the dirt and grime, tilting her face away from the light as her lungs fought to repay her heart for the strain.

She heard people racing by, heard their exclamations as they reached the dead end, heard them turn and come back, and heard their steps continue on past her refuge. Despite the noise, Tiria fell asleep.

"Rhyssa!" The alarmed voice of the duty officer was accompanied by an impulse through her headnet that roused her instantly.

"Yes?"

"Major disaster precog," Budworth said.

Great! Rhyssa thought sleepily. Two major trouble precogs in not quite two days and not a tremble about matters which urgently concerned all Talents.

"Recorded all across Asia," Budworth went on. "Looks like Kayankira's going to get another monsoon overload. They haven't repaired the restraining dams

Anne McCaffrey 125

from the last one. How're we going to cope, with all the strong kinetics on the station?''

"Is there time to bring any down?"

"That's the panic! There's time enough, but weather conditions all across the world are freaky. Even if a Padrugoi shuttle launched, the nearest clear landing site is Woomera. The kinetics have to be on site to be ef- fective." What Budworth did not say--"if Barchenka would allow 'em to leave the station"--flashed like a neon sign in Rhyssa's mind.

"Get Sascha up for me, will you, Buddy?"

He did, Sascha assured her. Are you considering Peter? His mental tone mixed eagerness to try and awareness of the multiple risks involved.

/ must consider Peter's unique capabilities in a sit- uation as critical as this, she told him.

How? Without compromising Peter's security?

They both slapped up internal shields as they felt the arrival of other thoughts.

Kayankira: Rhyssa, I've got to have all the kinetics you have left. I understand there's no chance of getting any of them down from Padrugoi?

Rhyssa: That's my understanding.

Vsevolod Gebrowski: / shall insist! I shall take this to the World Council. They have deplored the situation in India. Let them put words into action. Reducing the density of population in that area of Bangladesh also diminished the available workforce, and the necessary work has not been completed on time. Now we pay for that.

Miklos Horvath: Not if we draft the kinetics on Pad- rugoi down to help. And the cleanup effort will be re- duced by kinesis now!

Rhyssa: If we can force the weather to give us a break!

Bessie Dundall at Canberra: The precogs all indicate the worst flooding ever in Bangladesh. The new levees haven't been completely restored, so floodwaters will

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drown this year's harvest. The barriers won't work for some reason--I suspect their erection will prove that once again corruption and bribery have been wide- spread. We have to do something! Alparacin: Rhyssa, what about that team of yours I

hear about?

Rhyssa: They're not well-enough trained for a disas- ter of this magnitude, dear friend. They 'd be burned

out.

Peter: No, I wouldn 't.

Quiet! Sascha, Rhyssa, and Dorotea ordered as one.

Peter: I was, that was just to you.

Rhyssa held her breath. But no Talent queried the unknown voice. Naturally Eastern will do whatever we can, she told the others. May we have copies of the precogs? But I assure you that highly skilled kinetics are going to have trouble coping with this sort of thing, and all I have are a handful of fourteen-year-old trainee

kinetics.

Madlyn here . . .

Sascha: Honey, you're one voice that never has to identify. What have you heard? He imaged to Rhyssa a vision of Madlyn Luvaro, hands to her mouth to make a megaphone, leaning out of an airlock and shouting down to a wincing Earth.

Madlyn: Lance has been arguing with Barchenka since he got the precog. She absolutely refuses to risk a shuttle or a pilot. You gotta admit the weather's pretty freaky all over right now. I can see it clear as day: lots of turbulence, and not just over the Indian continent. Lance says there has to be one safe place on Earth they can land, and they've got to help. He's citing her for contractual violation. She says it's too dangerous to risk so many Talents--now she's doing the matriarchal,

protecting-you-against-your-own-altruism. Ha!

And there isn 't a pilot we 've talked to who 'II risk a drop into the soup kettle down there, she went on. Wait! Lance says--Madlyn's mental tone altered to a rote- recital level--now's the time to try. He says you 'II know what he means. He accepts that it could be a risk, but if ever to put it to the test, now's the time. Have you got all that? She sounded mystified.

Sascha: You've come through loud and clear, Madlyn, and we copy.

Lance says that the precog indicates even more hor- rendous damage than the last monsoon flood caused, so Talent has got to give kinetic support. He's dra- gooned a pilot into coming, but the guy's scared of attempting to land anywhere. Lance has assured him that all the kinetics on board will do the landing okay. Is Lance gone space-crazy? All right, I'm telling them. He says he, and a contingent of the heavy-duty kinet- ics--enough to effect flood control--will be on the shut- tle Erasmus in Hangar G at 0800. They're okay in space, but they 'II need the help landing. That doesn 't make sense to me, but that's what I'm supposed to tell you.

Sascha came storming into Rhyssa's room. He had pulled his pants on but was carrying his shirt in his hand. He really did have a superb body, Rhyssa thought privately. Why isn't there the necessary chemistry be- tween us? We'd make beautiful children. He looked so magnificent angry.

"Lance is out of his wig if he thinks Peter's up to a controlled landing in Dacca weather," he announced. "Landing pallets in a warehouse is a considerably dif- ferent can of worms to a shuttle full of live folk we can't afford to smear across a gale-struck concrete run- way."

Rhyssa fed a direct repeat of Lance's earlier conver- sation on Peter's potential and a similar situation into Sascha's mind. "He was only joking at the time," she said ruefully. "Quite a legitimate extrapolation."

"We just can't risk it," Sascha said, pacing up and down the room while Rhyssa untangled herself from her

128 PEGASUS IN FLIGHT Anne McCaffrey 129

'As neat a

pastel-covered duvet and started dressing. solution to the lack of kinetics as it is."

Rhyssa, with ineffable sadness: Sascha-bear, you're halfway to figuring out just how he can do it!

They were both startled by a timorous tap on her

door.

"Yes?" She and Sascha exchanged glances.

"It's Peter. Can I come in?"

Sascha threw his arms up dramatically.

"Yes, yes," Rhyssa said, shooting a comprehensive warning at Sascha.

In his distress, Peter floated rather than walked into

the room.

"No one bothered to channel their thoughts," he said, both apprehensive and defensive. "I couldn't help hear- ing."

"No, of course you couldn't, Peter," Rhyssa said.

Is Peter there? Dorotea's anxious tone startled them.

I'm here!

Young man, if you ever leave me again in that abrupt fashion, I'll tan your bottom!

Rhyssa and Sascha had never heard mat particular note in the telepath's voice before.

/ was trying to explain the problem to him when he zipped out of here so fast I thought he'd actually tele- ported himself.

I know the problem, Dorotea, Peter said in a very patient tone. To land the shuttle safely at Dacca. And, with enough power, it'a. be no more difficult than that container was, or the steel I sent to San Francisco.

"The turbulence of a monsoon is totally unpredict- able," Sascha began.

Peter's expression was one of abused patience. "It'd be the same principle in spite of turbulence. And better, because the shuttle won't be powered, so that won't throw off the snatch and grab of my gestalt."

"Simple when explained in that fashion," Sascha said

at his driest. Then he flung up his hands in exasperation and turned to Rhyssa.

She took a reasonable stance. "The distance, the mass involved, even the turbulence are not factors you've dealt with before. We can't, and won't, risk burning you out."

Peter grinned. "You wouldn't. Though I'd need much more than four-point-five kpm. To be safe, I'd need some real power--like the city's turbos. They might seize up--but I wouldn't.''

"We don't know that, Peter," Rhyssa said gently, permitting him to sense her anxiety.

"But / know that about me," Peter said, and levi- tated to the bed, where he perched beside her, upright enough, but with his arms and legs draped in unnatural positions. He made adjustments when he caught Rhys- sa's look. "Instinctively!"

Then she hugged him, feeling tears of pride for the shining self-confidence that had emerged in the past few weeks. She held his lax narrow body for a long mo- ment; then, sensing his embarrassment, she ruffled his hair and released him.

"Peter," Sascha said, hunkering down by the boy, "this is different from the exercises we've had you do. And this gestalt ability of yours is unique! We just can't risk it."

"DOrotea said I should trust my instincts," Peter said so firmly that both Sascha and Rhyssa regarded him for a long moment. "I also read the precog report. If there aren't enough kinetics, many people will lose their lives, as well as everything they've been struggling to build over the past two years. There'll be massive ecological damage, more plague, starvation. You keep feeding me all this stuff about the responsibility we Talents have to the rest of the world, how we're supposed to reduce death and damage. If I'm willing to take a little risk, I'd be a real Talent.

"I also heard what Madlyn said to you." Peter

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130

grinned ingenuously, wincing as if avoiding a loud noise. "Mr. Baden means me, doesn't he? That it's

time to really try me." Sascha sat down on the bed on Peter's other side and

looked helplessly at Rhyssa.

"As I see it," Peter went on, clearly more in charge of the situation than his adult mentors, "we Talents don't have any option. We need the ones with Mr. Ba- den in the Erasmus. Sascha, when I shifted that steel the other day, you said I had graduated into a really useful category of kinesis. With enough power in the gestalt, I know I can land the shuttle."

Sascha slowly shook his head. "There's another ma- jor consideration, son ..."

"I've been studying schematics on power genera- tion," Peter continued blithely. "Turbos in particular,

as they're more reliable." "You have?" Rhyssa was constantly being surprised

by the turns of Peter's avid studying.

"Well, I thought I ought to get some sort of basic concepts from which to work . . ." He saw their ex- pressions and gave them a little smile. "I used to watch a lot of college-level vid courses. They were a lot more interesting than most of the late-night recreational gar- bage. Having to think hard took my mind off myself for a while. Engineering was a good think."

Sascha and Rhyssa were reduced to nodding in be- lated comprehension.

"Especially," Peter added, his eyes twinkling, "as no one really seemed to know what to make of my ges- talting. And that's the other consideration, isn't it, Sascha? Keeping gestalt kinesis under wraps?''

"He's got us there, Rhyssa," Sascha said with a cha- grined expression.

"That's what you're really worried about, but look, if the pilot brings the shuttle down far enough, I know I can get it safely through the turbulence and land it. And even the pilot doesn't need to know it wasn't Mr.

Baden and the other kinetics who steadied the shuttle." When he saw that they were seriously considering his suggestion, he added, "It isn't as if I'd be bringing the shuttle all the way down from Padrugoi by myself, you know."

"And you think the city's power system will supply the necessary gestalt for you?" Sascha asked in a wry tone.

"The East Side Jerhattan power station's turbos should be enough." Peter's eyes glowed at the prospect of all that power at his disposal.

Rhyssa and Sascha began to laugh at the sheer im- pudence.

"You know, I really think that'll work," Dorotea said, entering the room. She was still in her night- clothes, a fetching pale lilac mat set off her lovely white hair and porcelain complexion. "Since eavesdropping is in general order today, I've been following the con- versations with great interest. There won't be time to talk that idiot of a power resources commissioner into agreeing to anything of such an experimental, and highly confidential, nature. The fewer people who know what we're doing the better." Her face took on an ex- ceedingly sly look, totally uncharacteristic. "Let's in- voke a G and H!" She chortled, looking exceedingly pleased with herself. "All we have to do men is call Boris--get him to clear the power station and use his official capacity to get us in."

"Invoke a G and H?" Rhyssa stared at the elderly telepath as if she had never seen her before.

"What's a G and H?" Peter asked just as Sascha began to guffaw.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Rhyssa exclaimed in exasperation. To the mystified Peter, she explained, "That's our mayday code, for George--that's George Henner, who once owned this house--and Henry- meaning Henry Darrow, who established Talent as a verifiable paranormal skill. If a Talent invokes a G and

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H, he gets immediate and unquestioned cooperation from every other Talent."

Sascha mbbed his hands together. "You know, I've always wanted the excuse to invoke that mayday code." Brother, he called. It's a G and H: we need escort to the East Side power station, and it's to be cleared! Shouldn 't be difficult with only a minimal night crew on call.

Boris: A G and H? Fascinating. I'm cleaning up after a major riot and you elect this moment in time to call a George and Henry?

Sascha: All we need is you and a LEO heli.

Just me? Boris responded sarcastically.

Sascha agreeably: You to get us the cooperation we need.

And I can expect return cooperation from you ? Boris, slyly.

Sascha: It's a George Henry mayday, Bro. You can't refuse.

Boris; Quid pro quo, Bro. I was about to request your presence!

Sascha: For a riot?

Boris: / could certainly use your help on this one, Bro. Some oddities have cropped up that require your particularly acute telepathic Talent.

Sascha raised his eyebrows inquiringly at Rhyssa, who reluctantly gave an assenting nod.

"Did you follow that, Peter?" Rhyssa asked, notic- ing that the boy's face was still registering surprise.

"Yes," he said tentatively.

"You don't really need me, Peter," Sascha said en- couragingly. "You've got Rhyssa ..."

"And Dorotea," the lady added stoutly.

"To buffer your mind," Sascha continued. Don, as well, I think, he added to Rhyssa. Why does Boris have to need me at this moment in time?

Dorotea: Boris always did have an awkward streak in him. Comes from being a LEO by temperament.

Anne McCaffrey 133

Rhyssa turned briskly to Peter. "Now, you'd better get dressed. Fetch your clothes here. And what should he get for you, Dorotea? You can change in my bath- room."

"I'll get down to Budworth for the vital statistics we need," Sascha said. "The weight of the shuttle, a radar link with the shuttle, repros of Dacca--in good weather--weather reports." If I really think about this in any detail, I'll go crackers! he added on a very fine thread to the two women.

Rhyssa and Dorotea replied with equal fervor: You 'II have company!

If Peter thinks he can do it, I prefer to think he can, Rhyssa added. After all, it's the thought that counts.

Dorotea: That's what does the trick.

The necessary equations, based on Peter's established use of the gestalt plus distance, weight, and optimum speed of the shuttle, atmospheric conditions, and tur- bulence at the landing site, were all completed by the time the LEO heli arrived to transport them.

"I thought you were having a riot of a time and we'd get a deputy," Sascha said, but he was exceedingly relieved to have his brother's support.

"I am, but I'm me best authority you have for whatever's going on." Boris smiled with white-toothed malice. "You'll want to be in on this one, Bro. We've got a lead on the kidnappings."

Sascha swore with great ingenuity.

That's as important as this, Sascha, Rhyssa con- ceded. With Dorotea and Don to help me buffer him, he'll be fine.

I wouldn't interfere with a mayday if I didn't have to, the LEO commissioner said, even as he reached down to assist Dorotea into me heli.

Sascha, the kidnappers must be stopped, Dorotea said so sternly that her tone startled all the telepaths. There! That's settled!

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"And this is Peter Reidinger?" Boris asked, as Peter reached the steps in his treading-water gait. "Hi!"

From the stunned look on Peter's face, Rhyssa sud- denly realized that no one had thought to mention to the boy that the LEO commissioner was Sascha's twin brother.

"No, you're not seeing double. I'm older by five minutes," Boris went on amiably, deftly taking Peter under the arms and hoisting him aboard. We 'II both see them safely there before I abduct you, Bro, for my less nefarious purposes. The boy's the G and H?

Sascha waggled his finger at his brother. Naughty, naughty! He swung aboard and started stowing the medical equipment Don Usenik handed up, ignoring Boris's grumbling. When Don climbed in, Sascha slid the door shut, and the big heli-bus glided upward and southeast.

Boris had strapped Peter into a window seat, and ut- terly entranced, the boy gazed down the black canyon of the Hudson to the mass of lights that glowed from every ziggurat and ribbonway of Jerhattan.

"Rather breathtaking no matter how often you see it," Rhyssa said to Peter, who nodded without taking his eyes from the view. By the time they landed on the roof of the facility, all the Talents were subtly aware of the emptiness of the massive structure.

"Well done, Boris," Dorotea said. "This way, Pe- ter!"

"I hope you know what you're doing," Boris re- marked wryly. "My office is on the line in this!"

"Thanks, Boris," Rhyssa said. "Can you retrieve us when we shout?"

"If I can't spare Sascha, I'll send someone you can trust," the LEO commissioner said as he handed Don his monitors. Then the big heli lifted away from the helipad.

Rhyssa took one equipment case from Don as he hauled open the roof door. As soon as Peter glided in- side, he began to emanate excitement, his eyes spar- kling with anticipation while he maneuvered down the stairs. They entered above the huge turbines, which were humming slightly as they served the needs of the great metropolis. They turned into the control room that overlooked the turbine floor, a room lined with the equipment that registered the flow of electricity to the various substations. With an ineffable air, Peter assumed the conformable chair of the duty engineer, swinging it idly from side to side until the adults or- ganized the monitors and started hooking him up.

Above the windows overlooking the turbines were sufficient vid screens to display what Peter needed to see. Rhyssa began entering the appropriate programs, bringing up on one screen a high-resolution fax print of the Erasmus; on another, a display of its specifications;

then weather simulations; and finally linking the sta- tion's communications grid to the main NASA board to follow the shuttle's descent. The Erasmus was already in flight, having begun its descent promptly at 0800 station time, 0130 Earth time. The power-station clock read 0550 as the deep radar net began to show the shut- tie's spiraling descent. The final screen pictured the Dacca airport, lashed with rain and whipped by fierce gusts of winds that shifted tree trunks, parts of cars, crates, and all sorts of debris across the concrete run- way where Peter was to bring the Erasmus safely down.

When Don Usenik had completed his check of the equipment monitoring Peter, Rhyssa and Dorotea took seats behind them, the mind of each lightly touching the boy's. He seemed not to notice, so intent was he on the Erasmus's course. Just as it hit the atmosphere, the generators began to whine.

Rhyssa shook her head, as unable as the others to reach that part of Peter's mind that had linked with the enormous power of the turbines below them. The whine built, the decibels increasing to an almost unbearable pitch. Dorotea scrunched her features up, unashamedly

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covering her ears with her hands. Rhyssa was staring in disbelief at the wildly altered readings on the control console. Don Usenik kept his eyes on his medical mon- itors. Peter remained outwardly composed. Rhyssa no- deed the slightly condescending smile on his face and just hoped he was not about to overreach himself.

Simultaneously both she and Don noticed the per- spiration on the boy's forehead, but the smile re- mained in place. The generators reached a frenzied peak and maintained it. And the touch of Peter's mind altered! It became hard as stone. Peter had not locked mental contact out, but he had suddenly restricted the contact area, indicating intense concentration. Rhyssa caught Dorotea's eyes, but the older woman merely pointed to Don's patient and unalarmed watch of the monitors. The descent of the Erasmus visibly steadied and slowed.

He's done it! Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Don exclaimed m muted congratulatory tones.

Rhyssa hoped someone was recording for posterity what was unquestionably me most dramatic moment for Talent since a Goosegg registered Henry Darrow's delta-wave pattern during that first recorded precogni- tive Incident. Her mind still in contact with that part of Peter's which was accessible to herself and Dorotea, she watched the Erasmus landing, coming to a gentle stop at the passenger terminal, seemingly untouched by the battering wind. Peter gave a little chuckle, and sud- denly the turbulence between shuttle and terminal abated, an eerie storm eye of absolute calm. Passengers hastily disembarked, pausing in astonishment as they became aware of the surrounding lull. One, his face indistinct on the small screen, lifted clasped hands above his head in a victory sign and then hurried into the du- bious safety of the wind-battered terminal.

"Where should I send the shuttle, Rhyssa? Once I let go, that turbulence will just flip-flop it all over the place."

Anne McCaffrey 137

/ hadn't thought that far ahead, Rhyssa admitted on the quiet to Dorotea.

"The weather charts suggest that Woomera would be the safest place, Peter, but ..." Dorotea quickly scanned the worldwide meteorological report.

Only a slight increase in the generators indicated the effort involved as the Erasmus slowly turned and started back to the main runway.

"I think we'd better warn the pilot where he's go- ing," Rhyssa said, and spoke urgently to Sirikit at the Control Center.

We've had the most unusual brownout here, Sirikit told her.

Get Main Air Control to warn the Erasmus pilot ASAP that he's being diverted to Woomera.

Erasmus? Diverted? For once the Thai woman's tran- quillity slipped into astonishment. Of course! Immedi- ately!

Preferably before he wets his britches, Don added as an aside, making both Rhyssa and Dorotea grin.

None of the three adults could feel any stress in the mind of the boy, who was totally wrapped in the curi- ous process of gestalt. Physically he looked more frail than ever, and the bones of his skull seemed to expand under the thin skin of his head. They could all feel the tremendous power surging through him, but they could not deduce how he effected the control.

Slowly, against all the tenets of aerodynamics and in spite of the prevailing turbulence, the Erasmus sped down the runway and achieved a perfect takeoff.

"I don't believe this," Rhyssa muttered softly. "Who taught him to fly planes?"

"Every boy in this generation understands shuttle craft," Don remarked, but his expression was no less bemused than theirs. He watched as the Erasmus climbed slowly up into the swirling rain and clouds and out of sight. They followed it up to the supersonic level.

138 PEGASUS IN FLIGHT Anne McCaffrey 139

The generators wound down from their busy pitch.

"There!" Peter said suddenly with a note of com- plete satisfaction in his voice. "He's firing his engines, and he should know what to do now. I told him to land in Woomera. That was fun!" he added with less vigor. He was extremely pale and still perspiring heavily. "That was a lot of fun!" His eyes gleamed, and he grinned at Don Usenik, who shook his head with incre- dulity as he pointed to an almost normal pattern on the bioscan screen.

"Fun? You called that fun, Peter?" Rhyssa ex- claimed almost angrily, realizing that she had been under a tremendous strain of worry even if Peter had not.

"With power like this, I could loft the shuttle much easier than the pilot could,'' Peter said in a voice that was suddenly hoarse with fatigue.

Dorotea, very privately to Rhyssa: 'How're you goin' keep 'em down on the farm, after they've seen Paree?' She rolled her eyes expressively.

"Marked fatigue, low energy level, but even that's within what I'd call the normal range for a Talent," Don announced in a baffled tone. "You did great, Pe- ter," he added proudly.

Clearing her throat, Rhyssa said wearily, "I don't think Ludmilla's going to believe that onboard Talents also 'ported the shuttle out again."

"Well, I couldn't leave it on the runway, Rhyssa, now could I?" Peter asked with weary irritation. "Those shuttles cost billions."

Suddenly all the telepaths were aware of other touches, vying to reach their minds.

Kayankira: Oh, thank you, thank you. How did you manage?

Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Don exchanged glances.

No, Rhyssa, Dorotea said on a very thin thread to the other two, we didn 't think this whole thing through very carefully.

Rhyssa gulped and replied with an evenness in her mental tone that Dorotea applauded. Lance is right there. It was all his idea. A real G and H. Wasn't it, Lance?

Lance: I'll tell her. I'd rather shout "Eureka" but accept the caveat. He sent an image of a large croco- dile, jaws wide in amazement, followed by a kangaroo bouncing from a pictorial map of Australia to the moon. You never know till you try, do you, cobber?

"Enough!" Dorotea said suddenly. "Let's get Peter home to bed. Don't you try to move a muscle, young man."

For one brief moment, Peter looked as if he was go- ing to disobey. Then his expression turned woeful. "I don't think I could right now."

"Nothing a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast won't put right in next to no time," Dorotea said briskly, but the fierce glance she gave Rhyssa suggested that a lot more recuperation time might be required in spite of Don's optimistic interpretation of the monitors. "Now, how do we get him back to the Center? Boris and Sascha are apparently up to their eyeballs in their riot control."

The Center vehicle's coming, Sirikit said, a ripple of amusement in her voice. Just stay put!

Even through the heavy roof sheeting of the power station, they could hear the vibrations of the approach- ing heli. Then the roof door opened and a figure charged through.

"You all right down there? I was told to come pick up pieces!" Dave Lehardt cried, descending three steps at a time.

Rhyssa nearly wept with relief. What had Boris, the sly mutt, said? "Someone you could trust!"

"Hi, Peter," Dave said. "What have you all been up to that your PR man gets called out of his bed in the wee small hours of the morning?'' Then he knelt down by the boy, his expression very gentle. "You look

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done in. Tell me later, huh?" With tender solicitude, he gathered up the exhausted boy and, moving with exquisite care, started up the stairs with him. Rhyssa followed, immensely grateful for his unexpected pres- ence.

Chapter 9

^ ^ Within minutes of the Event, an Incident Room was in place on the wide mall in front of the Assembly atrium. Crowd-control Talents and LEO specialists had quickly defused the volatile temper of the incipient mob. Although a number of attendees had managed to evade the LEO backup, the rest were being systematically ID'd.

The focus of the Incident, some twenty women of various ethnic groups, had been immediately seques- tered in one of the rehearsal rooms behind the atrium and, despite their loud lamentations and protestations of innocence, were being adroitly questioned by a special Talent team.

By then Boris and Sascha had arrived in the big heli. Already the tapes from the hi-eyes, discreetly set in the high ceiling of the hall by two industrious electricians who had come with the RIG setup team, were being viewed in the Incident Room by the original precogs, Auer and Bertha Zoccola. Boris and Sascha took up observation positions. The portable's walls were packed with analyzers keyed in to the LEO mainframe. De- briefing reports by crowd-control Talents were being made at the various stations, while LEO personnel av- idly read rap sheets spewed out by churning printers as the wrist-ID scans were processed. Frequently the LEO commissioner was interrupted in his viewing to initial warrants, but the main meat of the Incident eluded all. 141

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Reverend Venerable Ponsit Prosit had once again flitted off in time.

"So my precog centered on the women," Bertha was saying, studiously avoiding eye contact with Auer. The dour man was pulling at his lower lip, oblivious to her as the replay continued. "While his was for Flimflam. When are you going to bust that guy? He's obscene, a miserable maggot of a man, leeching off emotions--you know that's all he is! An emotion leech, growing fat whenever he has a mob to suck! The bigger the bunch he manipulates, the bigger his hit.'' She waved her arms in exaggerated circles.

"As I've explained before. Bertha, he inadvertenfly serves a purpose," Boris explained patiently. "He works them up, yes. He may get a vicarious pleasure holding a crowd in the palm of his hand, but his histrionics defuse a lot of pent-up garbage in a catharsis not generated by passive watching of the tri-d fare. Occasionally he runs pretty close to dogmatic insult, but usually he's innocuous and says nothing."

" 'Says nothing' is right!" Bertha muttered indig- nantly.

Boris went on. "He had registered sponsors for to- night, some East Indian Mystical Concept Group which is properly registered and screens as legit. We had no grounds to deny them, or him, the right of religious assembly."

"Religious assembly!" Bertha was outraged. "Reli- gion he ain't got. And religious assemblies are sup- posed to be uplifting, not downtrodding. He's a rouser, a leech, a spewer of blasphemy. He's dangerous." She waggled a finger violently under Boris's nose. "There're laws against inciting to riot, and he caused one tonight."

"Unfortunately, Bertha, your precog absolves him of primary blame." Boris tried to exude pacification. Her voice was getting louder with each denunciatory re- mark, and she had never been noted for tact.

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"Who gave him strands, Commish?" she demanded. "You can't tell me he didn't use 'em with criminal intent!"

Boris's patience snapped, and he sent a crisp summons to Sascha, who was outside helping the telempaths keep control. "On that count, we've a search-and-find warrant out for him right now."

"It was me twigged Flimflam, Bertha Zoccola," Auer said, glaring furiously at the little woman. "He's none of your business."

Sascha arrived and deftly rendered her helpless with a heavy lean on her speech centers just long enough to escort her to a debriefing position at the opposite end of the room.

"We got another wild one manufacturing that strand stuff for Flimflam?'' Auer asked Boris in a low voice.

"Could be, Auer," Boris replied unhappily. "That's the only way fringe fanatics like Ponsit Prosit could obtain strands." The tangling substance was a recent LEO invention, produced from an aberrant chemical compound to provide a fast-drying midrange restraint. Top secret, its formula and processing were of a com- plexity that ought not to be easily duplicatable. "There's a real smart head out there somewhere. Forensic says the stuff is pretty damned close to our formula. More toxic, which is bad, and less durable, which is fortu- nate. You've a good feel for technical matters, Auer. Keep your mind open for us, will you? Report even the slightest twinge. We've got to find this bozo as soon as possible. I don't care what sort of Talent emerges from Residential genes but, whatever it is, it should be reg- istered with us."

"I can't imagine Flimflam having enough credit to hire that sort of smarts. Ah, and I see Yassim's got himself a new ladrone?" Auer asked cynically, point- ing at the replay.

Boris regarded him with approval. "You caught that one frame of Yassim?''

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Auer shook his head but pointed to the tape being played over and over on the screen. "I keep up-to-date on the LEO visitors' list. Every ladrone, hitter, and sassin known to be connected with Yassim was here tonight. He had to be, too. Didja get many?"

"A good crop but no one of particular importance," Boris said, and then grimaced. "You know those new indestructible door-eyes we've been installing? It could have been Yassim's people, or maybe the new Talent who supplied Flimflam with strands, but every one of them was disabled. Very cleverly, with a bit of wire, a hairpin, even a twisted length of foil--nothing irrepar- able but enough to cloud the count. We're ID'ing ev- eryone who didn't have a chance to leave after the Incident, but we're shy counts on exactly who, and how many, came to the party."

Auer nodded again, sympathetic in his own sour way to the commissioner's frustration. "I'll keep it all in mind. Commissioner. Leave you to it."

Boris turned his attention to the head of the team questioning the focus group. Norma, any luck?

No, sir, they 're still on the boil. We 're getting anger, frustration, envy, some anxiety and worry over being detained, mainly maternal, but really, sir, we can only get the dominant emotions. They're angry at being 'done.' And not by old Ponsit Prosit Flimflam. Trouble is, none of 'em speak much Basic. Could we have a linguist down here? Someone who's got Neerest, Paki, and Asian languages? Ranjit, maybe?

I'll send him along presently. Anything else?

Yes, sir. Nine of them are involved in some kind of feud. We 've had to separate them twice already to keep them from scratching each other or pulling hair. Something about being chosen and it wasn't right to intervene. Doesn 't make any sense.

"Being chosen?" Boris spoke aloud as well as men- tally.

Sir?

Thank you, Sergeant, you 'vejust triggered a thought! Boris turned to the screen as yet another replay of the Incident began. He forwarded it quickly and then re- duced the speed, his eyes on the screen.

You've got something? Sascha was at his shoulder.

If my theory is correct that Flimflam was fingering people for someone--Yassim probably, since his men were there in force--/ want to know what the common denominator of choice was, Boris told his twin. Most of them were males except our focus group, which were--ah, here we are!

The two brothers watched as the reduced speed clearly showed the strand falling in the center of the focus group.

It didn 't hit a woman! Unless she was a midget, Sa- scha said, pointing to the thin hands clawing up out of the mass. Boris tapped out an enlarge, sharpening the definition in the center of activity. A child?

No child in the group being held. Twenty women. I can count that many heads.

Sascha: Are some tugging?

Yes, and some resisting. Norma said the women are contentious. In an overlay of thought, Boris repeated Norma's exact words.

Sascha: And feeling cheated. Look! Knife severing the strand. Now all hell breaks loose.

"Okay, who were the nearest crowd controllers?" Boris asked.

Cass Cutler and Suzanne Nbembi were summoned, still wearing their undercover gear, although Cass had wiped off the heavy makeup and discarded the tangle of cheap jewelry. Boris spun the tape back to the rele- vant scene.

"Cass, Suzanne, good strong damper work today."

"It was very close, Commissioner," Cass said, roll- ing her eyes. "Could have been a bad one without that precog."

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"Either of you two see a child with our focus group?"

"No," Cass replied quickly, and then frowned. "At least, I don't think she was with them. We first noticed her trying to get away from Bulbar.''

"We would have intervened--no girl child should be caught by that scuz--but she freed herself," Suz added. "Knew well enough how."

"She dodged behind us for a moment, on her way to an exit. Just then the Incident erupted. Funny about that ..." Cass faltered, frowning. "I felt something. Com- missioner, when I touched her. A shield solid as a wall, and that's odd enough for a Linear kid. She might even have some latent Talent.''

"We still haven't found the reason for the riot. Could she have something to do with it if she's a possible latent Talent?" Boris mused, tapping the monitor.

Cass gave a diffident shrug, but both she and Suz watched the replay closely. Boris speeded it up, stop- ping at the moment when the hands appeared, looking more balletic in slow motion than frantic as the slender fingers splayed in panic; then the sequence went on, showing fingers clutching at the strand, the flash of the knife, and the scrimmage of the women.

"Can you get the perimeter of the scene just before they started to boil?" Cass asked.

Boris tried every combination of review, but the hi- eye had been fixed on the precogged site of the Inci- dent, and although the definition was sharp, the angle obscured what Cass wanted to see.

"Ranjit Youssef reporting as requested, sir." The young LEO officer presented himself a respectful dis- tance from the absorbed cluster around the screen.

"And what did the search of the assigned quarters reveal, Lieutenant?" Boris asked formally.

"Commissioner, the count of illegal children under the age often is'eight hundred and three, including five

newboms. In fact, all the children apprehended are un- der ten."

Although the LEO commissioner was not actually surprised, the total was considerably higher than esti- mated. He propped himself against the desk edge and folded his hands over his chest, rubbing his jaw pen- sively. Eight hundred? he repeated.

And three, Sascha added, his mental tone equally grim.

Boris: And all to be sacrificed to produce more un- derfed disposable kids to be abused one way or an- other. How can the traffic be stopped when people blindly follow an archaic ethnic imperative?

"Any with legal wrist IDs?" Boris asked Ranjit aloud.

"The nine-year-olds, sir, but so far no IDs match the genetic print registered for the number. There are also far fewer preteens and teens than a Residential popu- lation should generate."

"As usual. How many of the illegals under ten were found in the quarters of the focus women?"

"Thirty-two, some too young to run for it. The older ones had some warning--they always do. But a clamp is already initiated. No one without a wristband will move out of this Linear," Ranjit said, "even through disposal chutes."

"Ah, yes, disposal chutes," Boris added with a fur- ther sigh of resignation. "And, I trust, the cargo lines? Good." He tapped a sequence and the screen showed the architectural schematic of Linear G, slowly rotating to display every angle of the immense ziggurat. "Nonna Banfield needs your linguistic abilities. Lieutenant. She's in the rehearsal hall to the left of the stage. She's got a mess of ethnics with little Basic, and there are two factions at least willing to pull hair."

"Pull hair?" Cass sat upright, a wisp of a memory surfacing from the recent explosion.

"Got something, Cass?" Boris asked.

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"I'll work on it." She sagged into as much of a re- laxed state as the activity in the room permitted. Suz began a soothing massage of her neck muscles to en- courage recall.

"I'll do what I can to help Lieutenant Banfield," Ranjit saluted and left.

Cass stood. "I wanna check something in the hall, sir, unless some officious moron has sent the cleaners in already."

"Go to it." Boris gestured broadly and turned back to the schematic to try and figure out where refugees might hide in the maze of corridors, closets, and con- duits. Sascha, get your teams to start searching ducts. Scared kids can squeeze into the damnedest places. I don't want a single illegal to get caught by Yassim's slimy hooks.

Done. Sascha's eyes blanked briefly as he gave the orders.

"I got it," Cass cried, reentering the room. She gave an eerie yodel and held the trophy up. "Her scalp, by all that's holy!"

With two fastidious fingers, Boris took the hank of hair, the dull severed strand tangled right to the bloody patch of skull skin. Loufan! Find out all you can about the person who grew this!

The technician hurried to the commissioner's side, received the tress without expression, and went back to his cubicle.

Commissioner, Ranjit said. After a polite pause to be sure he was not interrupting, he went on. They're hid- ing something.

Norma: Someone. I concur. Someone important to them.

Ranjit: 7 think that's the reason for the dissension, sir.

Norma: / would go along with that. May I nudge them, sir?

Boris: By any, fair means, Lieutenant. Boris told

them. He grinned to himself, knowing Ranjit's scru- pulous sense of honor, and then felt the mental touch that meant Sascha had overheard the exchange.

Dealing with the unTalented took heroic efforts, Bo- ris thought. On the other hand, did he really want ev- eryone to have paranormal abilities? Or at least some minor paranormal quirk, so that there would be less hassle? But that gave rise to envy--envy of someone more Talented than oneself, which only increased dis- sension and prejudice. No, far better to have a small minority, dedicated--and disciplined--to perform func- tions that the mind-numb could not. And all of the pe- culiar and unusual quirks registered!

Sir? Loufan paused. / removed the strand from the scalp, as it interfered with the reading and is certainly irrelevant. The subject is a Eurasian ethnic mix, pre- adolescent female. Good strong genoprint, good im- mune factors, healthy, unusually so. The technician sounded surprised. Linear G subsistence fare was nu- tritionally adequate, of course, but if the child was il- legal, as Boris suspected, how had she managed to be healthy? And there's no match of birth ID.

Boris: Did you really expect to find one?

Loufan: Yes, sir.

It was Boris's turn to be surprised.

Loufan: She could have been a runaway or a kidnap.

Boris: Okay. File the data, Loufan, and give the hair to Bertha. Ask her--in your ineffably polite style--if this artifact sparks anything off in her mind?

Moments later Bertha came storming back to him. "Oh, the poor thing! Hair torn right out of her scalp! Commish, who did it?"

"Possibly Bulbar. Sense anything?"

Bertha pressed the lock against her ample bosom, closed her eyes, and concentrated. "Not a thing, but it's there in my mind now." She grimaced in sudden revulsion and thrust it back to him. "Take it away!"

Sascha intercepted the lock. "Black, good length,"

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he murmured. "Some of those women never cut their hair. Healthy, and much cleaner than you'd expect. Shouldn't be too hard to find a juvenile with a hunk torn out of her scalp."

' 'I'd rather you give it to Carmen,'' Boris told him. Ranjit thinks quite a few of the older illegal kids eluded the search teams, he added. Could she be one of them? She might lead us to the rest.

Carmen Stein laid the lock across her thighs and stroked it flat, using her long fingernails to separate the tangled hairs. For several more minutes she fingered them, softly coaxing a sense of their grower's where- abouts. Carmen always looked so placid and imperturb- able when she was evoking her Talent as finder. Better than most, Sascha knew just how much activity her brain was generating at such moments. She was one of the best searchers he had ever encountered and, because her Talent was intense and exhausting, he protected her as much as he could, limiting her assignments.

"The incident occurred how long ago?" she asked without taking her eyes from the hair.

"Approximately sixty-two minutes."

"Ah, she is hiding. That accounts for the darkness. I cannot see where. There is no light. A constricted space."

"A conduit?"

"That's possible." Carmen sounded dubious. "I think she sleeps."

"That's a cool one."

"No," Carmen said, taking him literally. "Not cool. Tired.'' She offered him the hair.

"No, keep it. Carmen, for now. We'll need to know if she moves."

Calmly Carmen leaned forward, took a clip from the brightly enameled jar on the table, and fastened the tress, the scalp end now coated with a protective film, high on the right ,side of her head.

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Sascha had relayed Carmen's comments to Boris.

A conduit, huh ? There's so few of those in a Linear. The LEO Commissioner's mental tone was facetious. We're flushing kids out of every available space. I hate this, Sascha, I hate it. Sascha sent quick soothing thoughts to ease the turmoil in his brother's mind, but Boris went on. The miracle of life should be a blessing, not a curse. How can people be so irresponsible as to produce countless unwanted children and waste them?

Even illegal kids have rights, Sascha responded, gently quoting his brother his own words. See that even the least of them get that much.

Illegals go to the space station. Boris sounded de- feated.

They don't go as grunts. They 're trained to do some- thing a lot more constructive than their parents ever did. Leave it, brother.

I scratch your back, Bro, not your nose, Boris said wryly. Now, I'mputting in an appearance to scare some sense out of those flipping focus females!

No one better. By the way, when you have a spare moment, listen to a news update. Then you 'II know why we twisted your arm with a G and H.

I congratulate the triumph I sense in your mind, but I'll have to wait on a replay of the event, Boris said as he entered the rehearsal hall, thinking what a scarce commodity time was right then.

He crossed the threshold, assuming his most awe- inspiring official manner. Tall, handsome, the strength in his powerful frame shown off even by the bulky ac- tion uniform, he succeeded in scaring the gaggle of women silent, a silence that did not last too long, though the renewed bursts of argumentative crosstalk were con- siderably subdued.

I just got something, Commissioner, Ranjit told him. A flash from the woman fourth on the left, the plump young one with the caste mark. "It's all Tiria 's fault." Tiria is, I think, a feminine name.

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"Translate for me, Lieutenant," Boris said, striding imperiously in front of the women, his tone haughty. "I am LEO Commissioner Boris Roznine. Where is the girl child you had with you this evening?"

Boris had no trouble picking up the reactions of re- sentment, envy, anger, dismay, and fear as he gave Ranjit time enough to repeat his words in the various languages. The women had had time to realize that they were in deep trouble with Authority. Several had vivid worries about their children, left too long alone in their squats. Others concentrated on nursing their sense of grievance. He caught occasional variations on the phrase Ranjit had twigged, but no one else volunteered a name. "It was all her fault." They contented themselves with impersonal malice.

"Let me reassure you that the children in your homes are being cared for until you can return to them," he said, smiling kindly.

As the import of his sentence was understood by each group, the wailing, breast-beating, and pulling of hair began, and more recriminations were spewed. Boris was well aware of fury, loss, resignation, and relief in one case, but he could not understand any actual linguistics used in the varied emotional reactions.

Ranjit: This Bilala says that it is all her fault for resisting the Lama's choosing. Ranjit was restraining the plump caste-marked virago from rushing at the haughty, hawk-nosed older woman on the other side of the room. She says Mirda Khan brought all this on herself. Mirda Khan replies that--ah, the name again, Tiria--would not have been able to translate for any of them up on the stage. She had done little enough to earn baksheesh, a tip.

Boris: Lieutenant, ask them who is Tiria's mother.

The question shut the women up and briefly closed down their mental perturbations. Then they all launched into personal lamentations again. The answer was also quick. None of them was Tirla's mother, and without

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exception, just as Boris had hoped, every one of them flashed a quick mental image of the girl in question.

Got it, Ranjit and Norma told him in unison.

As I did. With a gesture to signify that the women could be processed or released as their condition war- ranted, the LEO commissioner hurried back to the In- cident Room.

Loufan awaited him there in front of the graphics pad, stylus ready. For this sort of transference, Boris grasped the technician's thin shoulder and concentrated on the vivid image of the Tiria child. Loufan sketched quickly, capturing in a few clever lines the intense face--remembered by most in its panic at being stranded--the wide-set, slightly tilted huge dark eyes above prominent cheekbones, the abundant waving dark hair framing it, the fine straight nose, the small cautious mouth, the long sweep of a determined jawline, the odd cleft in the chin. A charming face, if one discounted the fright, intelligent despite the fear. Tiria looked no more than eight or nine, but some wisp of thought-- from the fat old woman--suggested that she was older. The woman's memory of her went back quite a few years.

"Is that her?" Loufan asked, transferring the sketch to the screen.

The LEO commissioner allowed himself a good long look, matching the image on the screen to the consensus in the minds of twenty women. "Yes, that's it. Print it, circulate it to all officers and Talents. I think we should find that child. Cass might be right about latent Talent. And if Flimflam was after her, there may be more to her than we realize. I also need to file an in- telligent reason why a RIG damned near turned into a full-scale riot, and she just might provide the answer,'' he concluded. Sascha, could someone be an instanta- neous translator?

Sascha considered that. I'd say that she displayed more than a mere language facility--quite possibly Tal-

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ent. Anyone who could translate ten different languages as she apparently could would be valuable to either or both of us. He grinned at his brother. First we 'II have to find her. Then we can evaluate her abilities.

Firlo!

Tiria woke suddenly, jolted out of her exhausted sleep by someone calling her name softly and appealingly. Tiria did not move, or so much as open her eyes.

Clever little trinket, isn't she? Call her again.

Won't work, Boris. She's alert now.

It had to have been part of a dream. She often dreamed that she heard her mother calling her name. It had to be a dream, because no one could know where she was, despite LEOs searching the main conduits and sending drone units down the smaller ones. On her way home from the debacle of the meeting, she had escaped all types of earnest hunters. She had seen the numbers of children being flushed from hidey-holes.

Her hunch about the meeting had been correct. It had served as an excuse to sweep down on the pads, collect illegal children, and check all IDs. No one, absolutely no one, had ever known where she squatted. She did not even think to herself where she was. And no one was likely to discover her even in this intensive search.

Somewhat reassured, Tiria nestled back into the warmth of her sleep sack. Suddenly she heard noises nearby and froze. She heard the doors into the closed section being opened. This search was unusually thor- ough. Not even she had been able to get into the engi- neering space, and yet it was being checked.

Not even Yassim's men could find her, and they knew all the ducks and dodges that any subbie had ever fig- ured out. She had been so lucky not to be caught by Bulbar. He was wicked dangerous. Her head still throbbed where the hair had been torn away. She had dabbed on some dis-wipe. Bulbar could have been car- rying any kind of 'mune to infect her, scabby old scuz.

Her problem with Yassim remained. She had not washed the tieds. How would he expect her to when he, and every trader, had been lucky to escape the bust? Not that he took excuses. What awful luck to be singled out by the Lama-shaman! Which of the women had he really been after? And why? It made no sense to Tiria. None of them was pretty or young, or even on the lay-- not with their husbands!

The noise of search was diminishing, and carefully Tiria reached unerringly for the water jug and food that she kept for such emergencies. Chewing the dry-eat made terrible noises in her head. She had heard about the wide-range ultrasensitive gear that was said to pick up breathing in a radius of five klicks, but there should be enough minor noises from the generators and air- conditioning units to mask her chewing, and she was terribly hungry. Finally, thirst and hunger assuaged, Tiria snuggled deeper into her sack and went to sleep again.

Take a break, Carmen," Sascha told the finder. "She won't venture out until night. If then."

Carmen rubbed delicately at her temples and sighed. "You're right. I'll rest. She's unusual, isn't she, Sa- scha?"