PROLOGUE

 During the late twentieth century's exploration of space, a major breakthrough occurred in the validation and recording of extrasensory perceptions, the so-called paranormal, psionic abilities long held to be spurious. An alternate application of the Goosegg, an extremely sensitive encephalograph developed to scan brain patterns of the astronauts who suffered from sporadic ' 'bright spots,'' temporarily diagnosed as cerebral or retinal malfunction,
was inadvertenfly discovered when the device was used to monitor a head injury in an intensive-care unit of Jerhattan. The patient, Henry Darrow, was a self-styled clairvoyant with an astonishing percentage of accurate "guesses." hi his case, as the device monitored his brain patterns, it also registered the discharge of unusual electrical energy as he experienced a clairvoyant episode. For the first time there was scientific proof of extrasensory perception.

Henry Darrow recovered from his concussion to
found the first Center for Parapsychics in Jerhattan and
to formulate the ethical and moral premises that would
grant those with valid, and demonstrable, psionic tal-
ents certain privileges and responsibilities in a society
basically skeptical, hostile, or overtly paranoid about
such abilities.

Extrasensory perception—or Talent, as it came to be
called—came in varying strengths and forms. Simple,
short-range telepathy was fairly common, once inhibitions were discarded. But there were also one-way telepaths, people who could send their thoughts but not receive those of others, and people who could receive
thoughts but not send. Others were empaths, able to
adjust immediately to the moods of those around them,
sometimes quite unconsciously. Telempaths could sense
and react to extreme or more distant emotions; some of
these were able to redirect emotion, by broadcasting
other emotions or by neutralizing the negative—such
Talents proved to be invaluable in crowd control, for
they could keep a throng from turning into a senseless
mob. But the most valuable of the telepaths were those
who could both receive and broadcast thought, speaking
to other minds anywhere in the world.

Telekinetics— Talents who could move physical ob-
jects by sheer mental power—were also invaluable, their
abilities ranging from lifting heavy machinery to ma-
nipulating on micro levels.

Clairvoyants or precogs could see future events, either
close at hand, or at some remove from their present. Very
often their visions allowed the future to be altered and
disasters to be averted. Some clairvoyants had special af-
finities: some sensed events revolving around fire, water,
or wind; others were more apt to perceive children, or
violence, or criminal intentions.

Finders also had affinities—some could locate people
or animals, while others were able to sense inanimate
objects—and their abilities could vary greatly in range.

Talent came in many forms and guises, and not all
of the viable types had, as yet, been recognized. The
various centers, worldwide, constantly searched for the
less dramatic gifts because the need had now far out-
stripped the supply. For those potential few, the train-
ing was arduous, and the rewards did not always
compensate for the unswerving dedication required by
their taxing positions.

And yet to be found Talented became the aspiration
of many, and the triumph of few.

They have been at a great feast of
languages, and stolen the scraps.

—William Shakespeare.

CHAPTER 1

Tirla took a quick look from the alley into the
Main Concourse of Residential Linear G, then pulled
back instantly, flattening her thin twelve-year-old body
against the plas-slab wall. Public Health officials were
swarming all over, rounding up the early-morning crowd
of able-bodied workers who had been scanning the em-
ployment board for a day's work, the mothers with their
handicapped kids making their way to the Rehab cen-
ters, and the legal children on their way to the Linear's
physical-training facility.

Cautiously she took another look, to see what the
PHOs were setting up on their tables: vials and the big
compressed-air bottles that operated the hyposprays. She
withdrew, having seen enough to recognize another
wholesale vaccination effort. Strange, she hadn't heard
of any new 'mune plagues. To give them their due,
PHO was swifter than rumor to avert disaster.

Rapidly Tirla ran through her head her current list of
those mothers of illegal children whom she should in-
form: first, because they would pay her for warning
them to hide the kids; second, because those who could
afford to would pay her for stealing whatever vaccine
was being administered. She counted on her fingers:

Elpidia, certainly; the old bouzma. Pilau; Bilala, and
Zaveta, Ari-san, and Cyoto—and she had better ask
Mama Bobchik if there were newboms, for they would
need the Five-shotter. She would want one for herself,
as well, and could possibly finagle a box, depending on
how the current stuff was packaged. It all depended.
Mirda Khan, yes—she had best tell that old wagon right
after she warned Mama.

She would have to change into clean clothing issue—
she had washed, but this week's issue was five days old
and looked eight. Public Health were quick to notice
details like that. Mama Bobchik was always good for
fresh wear, especially if Tirla went to her first with her
news. This could be a very good day, Tirla thought
with a rise of spirits as she slipped back down the alley
for the center-shaft emergency stairs on her way down
to Mama Bobchik's pad.

Most of Tirla's twelve years had been spent in
scrounging a totally unofficial living in the multi-ethnic
thirty-storied community of the Linears. She could not
afford to miss a single trick, like today's unexpected
Public Health roundup, to escape the stringent controls,
clever obstacles, and little traps ingeniously set up by
the Jerhattan Complex Administration Council and the
Law Enforcement and Order Organization to identify
and control each member of the restless population.

Officially there had never been a record of Tirla's
birth. She was, however, the fifth child bom to Dikka—
onlyIthe first, Tirla's brother, Kail, was legal. The gov-
ernment tied a woman off when she gave birth to a
second child. Consequently Pirza, Lenny, Ahmed, and
Tirla had all been bom in Dikka's single-parent squat
with the aid of Mama Bobchik, who had had an illegal
child every year until her womb had dried up. Kail had
been official until Dikka had sold him at ten. Firza had
had the use of Kail's wrist ID for two years until she
was profitably disposed of. In the next year, Dikka,
Lenny, and Ahmed died of one of the immune plagues
that sporadically flared up to decimate the Linears. In
the haste and confusion of body disposal, Dikka's death
had not been officially noted. So Tirla had been left
with two ID bracelets—a fine legacy. Self-sufficient and
resourceful, she had managed to retain the squat, draw-
ing two subsistence rations, until Dikka's ID was can-
celed after her failure to appear for a routine medical
examination.

Wise in the ways of her society, Tirla had not been
caught short by the lockout. She knew Tenancy Arti-
cles, Paragraphs, and Subsections by heart, so figuring
out the cancellation date had been no problem. Two
days prior to the eviction, she moved her few posses-
sions—hotter unit, the best of the sleep sacks, the 'cor-
der, and the pretties Dikka's men had given her from
time to time—into new quarters five levels below the
Main Concourse, in the maintenance segment of Linear
G, right beside the charged security grille that protected
the engineering section from unauthorized entry. Only
a slight and agile person like Tirla could reach the ey-
rie, where massive ducts formed a broad platform be-
fore bending up the inner wall. She patched her hotter
and 'corder wires into the overhead cables, certain that
her small use of electricity was unlikely to be discov-
ered, and settled in. She did miss the all-night infor-
mational programs on the squat's tri-d. The big public
tri-ds on the Concourse stopped 'casting at the midnight
curfew. Tirla, with her clever, shrewd, and organized
mind, was thirsty for knowledge. She even used Kail's
ID to log into school. One of Dikka's men had said that
one had to know the rules before one could break them.
Tirla had never forgotten.

For another two years. Kail's bracelet supplied his
small sister with daily subsistence, weekly clothing is-
sue, and other amenities until "Kail" failed to appear
at Evaluation Center within three weeks of his sixteenth
birthday. The cancellation caused Tirla no problem, for
by then she was well-established, almost indispensable
to most of the Residential clients and gang bosses in
the neighborhood industrial complexes. Her ability to
translate any of the nearly ninety dialects and languages
used in the subsistence-level Residential Linears saved
clients hours at official transspeech centers, or worse
misunderstanding. She knew when to be ingratiating or
stand firm. She knew what courtesies were due whom
and never failed in performing them. Everyone who
knew her knew very well that she was illegal. Because
she was so useful to the residents of Linear G, as she
would be today with her warning about the Public
Healthers, and because officially she did not exist any-
way, there was no profit—yet—in reporting her illicit
existence.

The various errands she did—and she was scrupu-
lously silent about them—often brought in "floating"
credit chips. Floaters were legal tender—Pay to Bearer,
untraceable chips that changed hands frequently. Jer-
hattan Treasury and all the merchant and banking houses
wisely ignored the circulation of minor amounts of
floaters, just as they ignored the petty small traders as
long as they made no trouble and their merchandise was
harmless. Tirla, and others like her, relied on floaters
to support their illegal existences in the Linears.

Linear G thrust thirty massive levels above the squat,
featureless F and H commercial blocks where residents
of Linears E, G, and I worked. Once, on a Free Day,
while Tirla still had her brother's ID, she had gone with
Mama Bobchik to the Great PaIlsades Promenade,
where thousands upon thousands of people had swarmed
to enjoy a brilliant spring day, to overlook the exclusive
hives, platforms, and great cone complexes of Manhat-
tan Island, and to ooh and aah at the monorail cars,
large and small, that zipped along the tracks which gar-
landed the buildings like colored tinsel strands. That
was the first time Tirla had seen ships floating on water
or the great pleasure skycars. There had even been a
special issue of holiday food, yards above the standard
fare, at dispensing banks. Buril, Mama's son, had a
tripper key that he used on the dispers, so they had
managed to stuff themselves before the mechanism's
malfunction alarm was triggered. It had been a super
day for Tirla. She had never dreamed that the world
was that big.

That was the same day that Buril explained to her all
about the space platform that was being built, which
needed so many workers. When it was completed, he
said, all the people living on Manhattan who had enough
credit and were the "right kind" would be able to go
off into space and find other worlds to live on. Then all
those beautiful buildings would be empty and there
would be enough space for everyone crammed into Lin-
ear squats to live in proper big apartments with a bed-
room for each family member and no more Public
Health or LEO men and women tying men and women
off, shaming a virile man.

This morning, as Tirla scratched on Mama Bobchik's
door to tell her of the PH presence in the Linear, she
heard the old woman gasping and groaning as she strug-
gled off the bedshelf.

"Kto stuchitsya? Perestan'te udaryat'sya. Okh, kak
bolit golova!"

Tirla grinned. So Mama had a big head this morning,
caused by the vodka she had made from the potatoes
Tirla had nicked for her. In that state, she would be
easy to wheedle out of a credit.

"It's Tirla, and the Public Health are already on the
Concourse."

"Boje moi! Eto tak? Have I not enough pain in my
life?" But the door was pushed open wide enough for
Tirla to slip inside. "What have you said? The Public
Health again? So soon? Why?"

"Another vaccination by the looks of it. They're
grabbing everyone, able-bodies, students, bandies and
their mothers."

"Ah, we must hurry. Elpidia, Zaveta ..." Mama
Bobchik began reciting the names of her usual mater-
nity patients.

Tirla tugged her arm.

"Nu, what do you want from me?"

"I cannot help unless I have clean issue," Tirla said,
managing to look piteous and sound efficient at the same
time.

Buril had fixed the clothing-issue slot in his mother's
squat so that it could be coaxed to extrude more than it
ought. His taking ways had been very useful until Yas-
sim—Tirla made the warding sign at just the thought of
that man—had paid Mama a huge sum for him. Buril's
unusual talent for "fixing" official equipment made him
quite valuable—he had not gone the usual route of Yas-
sim's purchases, and Mama had been paid enough float-
ers to keep her comfortable in her old age.

Mama Bobchik blinked her reddened and bleary eyes
and looked at the tiny girl. "Da, that is so!" She patted
Tirla's head before she went to the clothing slot and did
something that her heavy frame obscured from the girl's
sight. When she turned back, she had a packet in her
hand.

"I washed this morning," Tirla said, immediately
unfastening and stepping out of the old suit. She had to
roll up the sleeves and legs of the fresh issue, but when
she had neatly folded each roll over wrist and ankle and
pressed the edges to seal them, sleeve and leg bloused
out nicely to give her apparel more style. She retied the
pretty braided rope belt that she had inherited from her
mother and tucked the excess material neatly back.
"Now, I'll tell Mirda Khan, do this level, and then up
and down. That'll be all I think I have time for. What'll
I do for an ID? They'll grab me if my wrist's bare."

What Tirla wanted most in her life was a genuine,
valid ID bracelet that would allow her a squat right, the
use of a tri-d, three meals a day, and a fresh weekly
issue of clothing. An ID that was all her own and had
never been anyone else's! One that would allow her into
the school programs that so few of the kids she knew
seemed to care about at all.

Now she cocked her head at Mama Bobchik, know-
ing perfectly well that an ID was essential when the
PHOs were swarming the Linear. Mama Bobchik pre-
tended to consider, giving Tirla just a few moments of
anxiety.

"Eto tak! For PHOs, we use one." With a flounce
of her skirts, for Mama would not wear the single-piece
coverall without proper skirts to conceal her limbs, she
turned her back on Tirla again. No matter how hard
Tirla listened, she could not tell where Mama secreted
those precious counterfeit IDs that Buril had also con-
trived. They were good for one day's use only—one
day, because while the band would be accepted by a
portable reader such as the PHO would have to record
vaccinations, it would show up as a fraud later, when
the day's entries were checked.

Mama-Bobchik turned around, dangling the precious
ID band. "You split the take for the warning with me.
As usual."

Tirla nodded solemn agreement to the terms, her eyes
watching the swing of the band.

"And if you can steal enough vaccine, I will give
you thirty percent of that take," Mama added.

Tirla gave an incredulous snort. "Sixty. I could get
caught stealing."

"Forty, then. No one has caught you yet. After all,
I gave you the ID at no cost to you and have the ex-
pense of the spray gun."

"Forty-five!"

The two hagglers eyed each other, and then Mama's
broad face beamed down at Tirla's unyielding expres-
sion. She spit in her palm and engulfed Tirla's delicate
hand in her own to seal the arrangement.

"You are a clever one. You must huny now."

The girl was already slipping through the half-opened
door and down the hall to spread the warning.

Despite her speed, Tirla barely finished her route be-
fore the PH officers began to penetrate the levels,
checking the IDs of each squat's occupants and herding
them out and down to line up for their hypospray. She
soon learned that the health threat was not a 'mune
plague but a virulent intestinal disease that had started
in Linear B with devastating results. All Linears were
being vaccinated in an attempt to stem the spread of the
ailment. The PH public-address system droned on con-
stantly giving a short explanation in all the languages
registered in Linear G; Tirla did some rapid translations
of her own when requested by nervous mothers.

"It's only another food contamination," she assured
the skeptical. "They've isolated the source, who have
been heavily fined and lost their license."

"Huh!" Mirda Khan said, her dark eyes glistening
with skepticism. "That will be gone as long as it takes
to send in enough credit to reissue it. How long will
the protection last us?"

"Oh, this one'll do us for a year!"

"A year? They are improving."

Trudging forward step by step in the long line, Tirla
and Mama Bobchik finally reached the PH, dropped
their wrists across the reader, and received their shots.
Immediately Mama pretended to become faint and stag-
gered against the table. While the PH woman was cop-
ing with that, Tirla swept an entire tray of the vaccine
ampoules into the shopping sack Mirda Khan had ready
as she, too, came to Mama's assistance.

"Okh, kak bolit golova!" Mama said in an appropri-
ately wispy tone, the back of her fat hand against her
head. The pain in her voice was not entirely faked,
considering the hangover headache.

"What's she saying?" the PH officer asked, hovering
between concern and annoyance.

"Her head hurts," Tirla replied.

"Not from this injection," was the callous response
of the PHer. "Now move along!"

Solicitously Mirda Khan and Tirla propped up Mama
Bobchik as she made her way slowly toward the nearest
side aisle. Once safely out of sight, Mama immediately
reached for Mirda's sack and peered inside it.

"One whole tray? Miraculous, Tirla, truly miracu-
lous. There are more than enough. Run ahead and tell
them to come in small groups. The PHOs have already
checked our three levels. It will be safe."

In the course of her errands, Tirla tried her ID brace-
let on as many public dispensers as she passed, no mat-
ter what commodity emerged from the slot. She tucked
each purloined item into the extra material at the back
of her coverall, or into a sleeve or a trouser leg. It
became harder to move quickly, but she managed. By
evening, she had enough small floaters and illegally ac-
quired items to keep her well fed and content for the
next month. If she stretched a bit, it might even be six
weeks before she need bother about working again.

CHAPTER 2

  There was no aura of menace or threat," Rhyssa
Owen told Sascha Roznine as he stood glaring down at
her. To reduce his threatening glower to a more pro-
ductive, thoughtful mood, she touched his arm, rein-
forcing her statement with a mental See? Curiosity. An
impingement, not a threat.

Sascha subsided, but he continued to glare at the
graph recording of Rhyssa's eariy-moming sleep pat-
tern, where the wide black mark of the spoke showed
that she had been roused from an REM dream sequence
to full alertness by a mental intruder.

As the director of the Center for Parapsychic Talents
on the North American East Coast, Rhyssa Owen lived
on what had been the Henner estate, a reserve of trees,
lawn, and mature gardens above the Hudson River on
the PaIlsades. This archaic remainder of the twentieth-
century residential suburbs interrupted the flow of Lin-
ear structures that housed the millions who lived and
worked in the massive Jerhattan complex. Rhyssa's
quarters were undistinguished from any of the other
three-story apartment blocks set among the gardens and
trees. As with all dwellings for the Talented, these were
secured and shielded from unannounced entry. In fact,
even those who tenanted the Linear constructions run-
ning on the long sides of the Center's extensive grounds
did not know of its existence, so artful were its screens.
No one should have been able to intrude on Rhyssa,
much less in her sleep.

"Awkward, rousing you so thoroughly. You need all
the rest you can get." Sascha projected a vision of him-
self and Rhyssa curled together in her bed, the double-
thick duvet tucked around their spooned bodies.

Yes, yes, Rhyssa replied. She responded with a vision
of a firm foot pushing the Sascha body out of the bed. But
even if you had been there physically, you couldn't've
helped, Sascha-bear. It was all in my mind, in my dreams.
And that's your duvet, not mine. I never use plaids.

Rhyssa smiled up at him, fluttering her eyelashes to
mock his projection. He raised his brows in resignation.
They both enjoyed this game. They had been playing it
for years.

Picky, picky. Don't avoid the issue, Sascha said.
"Who, I'd like to know, could knock in on your mind?
And why?"

"Indeed!" Rhyssa crossed her arms and stared off
into a view of the lowering clouds and dismal rain that
obscured a usually breathtaking view of Jerhattan.
That's what perplexes me.

Don't range, Streaky. Sending your mind out search-
ing for him takes too much out of you. You're going to
need all your energy to deal with the Zealots. He pro-
jected the vision of three persons with limbs so entan-
gled they resembled an Oriental fetish, each caricatured
face wearing an expression of mixed intransigence and
skepticism.

Oh, don't! She laughed as her return image untangled
arms and legs and set each person upright, a whisk-
broom smoothing tunic and trousers while emblems of
rank were straightened. I can't remember that when I
have to deal soberly with their urgent requests for Tal-
ents I don't have. They 're laughable enough as it is.

"Good. That's all they deserve. Shall I have Sirikit
check back and see when this phenomenon first regis-
tered?" Sheer impudence! Sascha snorted his annoyance.

"That's an idea." Rhyssa smiled ruefully as she
pulled clothes from drawer and closet. She continued to
talk as she dressed in the bathroom. "I only thought of
checking my graph this morning. I really do need my
sleep."

"Probably some emergent Talent who doesn't under-
stand protocol. I do wish they didn't always feel required
to overreact to their newfound mind-powers.''

"Damned strong one!" Maliciously, Rhyssa pro-
jected an image of a very young Madlyn Luvaro, mouth
wide open, and the circle of people cringing away from
the waves of sound emanating from her.

Sascha grimaced. Madlyn Luvaro had a mental shout
that could penetrate to the space station and any of its
peripheral dockyards. It had been Sascha's task, as he
was nominally in charge of Training and Development,
to teach her how to focus and moderate her mental
voice. Madlyn adored him passionately and was em-
barrassingly possessive of him, an adulation he was
finding increasingly difficult to discount—it was the rea-
son that he assiduously cultivated the notion that he and
Rhyssa were on the brink of a total partnership. Kindly,
Rhyssa did not disclaim the rumor.

"I'll have Sirikit run a check on possible emer-
gents," he told her, then sent the request to Sirikit in
the Control Room, also asking her to check Rhyssa's
encephalograph charts for the previous months.

Emerging washed and dressed, Rhyssa beckoned Sa-
scha to follow her through to her office, which adjoined
her living suite. She yawned as she sat down at her
desk, kinetically pulling some pencil files into her reach,
fanning them out, and turning each until the index-code
side was visible. She selected the one she wanted and
neatly piled the others in front of her, code side out-
ward, as her first selection inserted itself in the reply
slot. Simultaneously the reader net came off its hook
and settled lightly on her head. With one finger, she
poked the left contact pad against her temple in a final
adjustment.

"We won't find him there," she said, and was as
startled as Sascha was that she used a gender. "Well,
I know a trifle more than I thought I did from that fleet-
ing nudge."

"A secret lover?"

"Could be," Rhyssa murmured, projecting an image
of a sly grin and a come-hither expression directed at
an amorphous shadow. Although her tone was light,
Sascha perceived that her surprise at making any kind
of an identification went deep.

"I'll follow through," Sascha said, and left her of-
fice. As he took the antigrav shaft down from her tower
to the vast basement complex where most of the Cen-
ter's training and research was conducted, he carried
with him a vivid mental picture of Rhyssa Owen at her
desk, the reader net covering her black hair, a spider-
webbing across the wide silver lock that she had had
since her early teens. That streak grew broader every
year, and by her late thirties her hair would be all Celtic
silver.

Rhyssa would always have a young face, Sascha
thought, as both her father and her illustrious grandfa-
ther, Daffyd op Owen, had had: young, vibrant, with
dark blue eyes that sparkled and gleamed with intelli-
gence, humor, and unassailable energy. Rhyssa was
nearly as tall as the males in her family and a shade too
thin; she clothed her long bones in elegant, if often
bizarre styles: generally long flowing garments that set
her off in a society which had stripped apparel to the
minimum.

She was not pretty—her features, though small, were
too uneven and mismatched, her right eye socket canted
above the cheekbone, giving her a gamine expression
that no one who knew her would misjudge. Her nose
had a slight bump, making her profile look haughty,
and her mouth was too generous above a strong jawline.
Still, one forgot such details within moments of meeting
her. She had inherited the full measure of charismatic
personality, as well as the strong psionic talents, of her
parents—and of the grandfather who had battled to se-
cure the position of Talents in the present socioeco-
nomic-political atmosphere.

Sascha Roznine, himself a third-generation Talent and
younger than Rhyssa by three months, preferred his cur-
rent role as chief trainer and recruiter in the Center. Not
for him the petty power ploys that Rhyssa coped with
admirably, for he had struggled all his life to manage a
quixotic temper. The nerve-racking sessions with Jer-
hattan's managers and all the picayune details she had
to deal with would have set him raging in five minutes.
Sascha, on the other hand, had immense patience with
emergent Talents, coaxing, cosseting, and curbing,
gently allaying their doubts and building their confi-
dence. When Rhyssa had once pointed out that, in their
own way, emergent Talents were as obnoxious as man-
agers, Sascha had replied mat at least Talents learned
from their mistakes.

There were so many strengths and varieties of Talent.
Of the precogs, there were those who could foresee
events, generally those which would have a major effect
on a large number of other people; those whose pre-
science was limited to people they knew or were assigned
to watch; and those whose precognirions had affinities with
fire, water, males or females, children—there was as wide
an assortment of focus points as mere were strengths of
perception.

Telepathy was the most common Talent, though some
people could only receive thought, and others only send
it. Telempaths felt emotions and responded to the per-
vading ones. A trained telempath could either dampen
negative auras or reinforce positive ones, a Talent use-
ful for altering the tension in a crowd, preventing ram-
paging emotions from turning groups of people into
disorderly mobs.

Finders were those Talents who could locate things,
using only a facsimile of the desired item, or, in the
case of a missing human or animal, a garment or some
other personal object.

Teleldnetics could work on the largest objects, or the
most minute particles that could not be seen with the
naked eye or even a microscope, though there had only
been one known genetic manipulator, Ruth Horvath.
Teleldnetics were invaluable in so many walks of life
that those with this Talent were encouraged to have as
many children as possible.

The rarest of the Talents were the pure and double
telepaths—like Rhyssa, who could send and receive
communications across the world as long as she had
met the person she wished to contact. She could pene-
trate any mind not shielded by the thin metal caps the
nervous wore or by the natural mental shield that some
normal people were born with.

Sascha, also a strong double telepath, lacked the
phenomenal range that Rhyssa possessed, but he never
resented her for it. Once her strength had been estab-
lished by her grandfather, Rhyssa had been committed
to a Center directorship and all its responsibilities-
responsibilities that Sascha would never want to take
on. As far as he was concerned, Rhyssa was welcome
to her Talent.

He heard Madlyn Luvaro before he landed on the
shaft cushion at the basement level. She was trying to
be quiet, but she was as successful as if she had been
tap-dancing across a sound-resonant surface.

Until you leam to damp down your aura, it won't
work, Madlyn, he told her. Improper flow! Low positive
energy is what you need to be 'silent.'

Dammit, I thought that's what I had! Her mental re-
sponse was contritely discouraged.

Sascha pushed out of the shaft and there she was,
flattened against the wall.

"I did 'hear' you coming," she said aloud.

Sascha: Giant step forward! Madlyn was a powerful
sender, but generally she could "hear" only those in
her immediate vicinity.

He tugged a strand of her tangled mane of black hair
as he passed, and she fell into step behind him, her
large and expressive eyes rueful. Madlyn was a volup-
tuous eighteen-year-old with a sensual nature to match
her appearance. She, and her Talent, had matured at
fourteen, and since then Sascha had been struggling to
teach her the necessary discipline that any Talent had
to master, and that she would certainly require before
her penetrating mental shout could be utilized.

Sirikit's already checking Rhyssa's Goosegg read-
ings. Sascha had not tried to dampen his immediate
concern. With so many telepaths aware of the alarm,
keeping the investigation under wraps had been impos-
sible.

Someone actually intruded on Rhyssa? Madlyn pro-
jected an image of herself throttling a large, amorphous
intruder and squashing it into a little ball which she then
flushed down the toilet.

Sascha snorted. Madlyn was quite capable of attack-
ing anything that threatened Rhyssa. Who in the Center
wasn't?

They found Sirikit already scanning Rhyssa's Goos-
egg encephalographs for the previous month. Several
were paused at the spoking that indicated intrusive wak-
enings. The Goosegg, initially developed to monitor the
odd light flashes experienced by astronauts, was espe-
cially sensitive in registering delta brain waves, which
had been discovered to be the seat of paranormal or
extrasensory perceptions. A Talent, trained to recognize
his or her own slight mental alteration prior to paranor-
mal activity, slipped on a net that could read brain ac-
tivity. Many Talents, particularly the precognitives and
clairvoyants, wore them night and day. They were
lightweight, of a strong fine mesh matching the wear-
er's hair color. The net transmitted to the Center's main
banks, so that Incidents of paranormal activity could be
officially recorded, studied, and consulted. It was proof
positive to any skeptics that the extrasensory percep-
tions did occur.

"Look at Rhyssa's recordings, Sascha. There's no
question that the Incidents have been increasing," Sir-
ikit said as Sascha strode to the bank of horizontal spin-
dles used in such comparisons. "First one three weeks
ago, second four days later, then three, and this past
week once a night—about four-ish."

Sascha: Odd time for a voyeur!

Sirikit: With three-quarters of the population asleep
in bed.

Madlyn: Insomniac?

Sascha smiled, for not only was her mental tone ap-
propriately soft but she had caught the quick exchanges.

Sascha: An adolescent generally has to be pried from
his sleep. Rhyssa thinks it's an emergent Talent.

Madlyn: You keep telling me that emergent Talents
follow no rule.

"Any statistics on insomniacs?" Sirikit asked.

"I'll program it," Madlyn said, flipping her hair back
as she seated herself at a monitor, keying in directories
that could access any computer bank in the world under
the special concessions granted the Centers. She was
cleared for normal use, although passwords were needed
for any sensitive files. Madlyn might have been blatant
in her sexuality, but her mind, open to inspection at all
times, was as transparently guileless as a child's.
"Well, this won't be productive. Anyone can have in-
somniac phases. Anxiety is the biggest cause. There are
some people, the elderly in particular, who can get along
on only four hours of sleep a night!'' Her mental picture
was of a horrified grimace superimposed on a tossing
body in a rumpled bed. "I'm wrecked without eight
hours!"

Sirikit leaned back from the spools, which had all
paused to display the telltale spoke of intrusion. 

Sirikit: Three-thirty to four, predawn, too early for
most shift workers, even air and road haulers.

Sascha bent over her shoulder, studying the reels as
if he could glower the riddle into the open.

Sascha: Rig her net.

Madlyn gasped and stared at him. Sirikit blinked,
sighed, and then, rising from her stool, went to the
main board to enable the necessary program.

"Some early-moming joy seeker has to be overflying
the Center. Set an alarm through her net, and we can
catch the bugger in the act." Sascha's voice was vin-
dictive.

Madlyn shot him a worried glance. She could feel the
wave of high negative energy he exuded.

CHAPTER 3

Barchenka, Duomi, and His Highness Manager
Prince Phanibal Shimaz arrived promptly for their meet-
ing with Parapsychic Center Director Rhyssa Owen at
the Jerhattan City Manager's Tower, a massive struc-
ture in the center of Central Park, the last vestige of
nineteenth- and twentieth-century Manhattan. The
tower, rising above the tallest of the mercantile build-
ings, was crowned by ziggurats of communication
dishes, giving it an appearance from any distance of a
grotesque bunch of stiff daisies rammed into an im-
mense glass brick. Skycars of varying sizes, at the land-
ing level, stuck out like a fringe of angular, multicolored
leaves.

Space Station Construction Manager Ludmilla Bar-
chenka entered first, her odd bouncing gait indicating
mat she was wearing her antigrav boots. Her infrequent
visits back to surface gravity were difficult for her—but
they tended to be worse for those she confronted. The
woman's appearance did nothing to mitigate her abra-
sive personality: she was stocky, big-boned though not
fleshy, with a flat, broad face and unexceptional fea-
tures. Pale blue eyes and short-cropped hair only added
to the image of a tough persona—cold, inflexible tenac-
ity. To top that off, Ludmilla invariably wore a thin
metal skullcap, a shielding device that was almost an
insult to Rhyssa in her capacity as director of the East-
ern Center. Rhyssa was not sure if Barchenka used the
shield merely out of concern for security or because she
was pathologically wary of the Talents whose sendees
she desperately needed even as she deplored their abil-
ities. Sascha was convinced that Barchenka had some
sort of Talent, even if it could not be scanned, and that
she refused to acknowledge the possibility.

Despite her total lack of social graces, the Exalted
Engineer's dedication could not be faulted. Padrugoi
Station was due to be completed, and on budget, at the
end of the current year.

With interstellar voyages now possible and habitable
planets located in two near systems, the pressure to im-
plement the colonization program was incredible. But
first the Padrugoi Station, the essential springboard to
the stars, had to be completed. The project had world-
wide priority and the enthusiastic support of every po-
litical and economic faction on Earth.

Considering that the first laboratory station had gone
over budget by trillions and had been five years late in
completion, Barchenka's achievements so far were con-
siderable. But Rhyssa knew the truth: that the Exalted
Engineer was beginning to fall behind schedule despite
all her efforts. It was rumored that the woman slept no
more than four hours a night and daily accomplished a
prodigious amount of work—but that she expected the
same dedication from everyone on the project. Unfor-
tunately she did not have the charisma or leadership
ability to generate either loyalty to herself or to the pro-
ject. Initially many Talents had volunteered to assist,
but one after another they declined to renew their con-
tracts. The many enticements to return with their unique
capabilities to work on Padrugoi Station had met with
failure.

Personnel Manager Per Duomi, coming in behind
Ludmilla, moved with the heaviness of someone accus-
tomed to lighter gravity, but he managed without the
antigrav assists. A Finn, as capable and dedicated as
Barchenka, he was slightly easier to deal with. And
though he, too, tended to wear a metal shield, the Tal-
ents had liked working with Duomi: he was fair, com-
petent, and had succeeded in persuading a few Talents
to return for special, short-term assignments. But still
most had declined to extend their employment, and they
could not be conscripted. And though Rhyssa had du-
tifully asked the directors of every Center in the world,
she had no takers to offer Duomi.

Program Manager Prince Phanibal Shimaz pounced
in behind Per Duomi, and his presence was neither es-
sential nor welcome to Rhyssa. Peculiarly arrogant and
impervious to her continued, and lately overt, distaste
for his company, he used any excuse available to press
his suit on her. Rhyssa often wondered why he had
bothered to develop an impenetrable mind shield when
his face revealed all that most men would have had the
courtesy to hide. The prince was a computer genius-
some said he had thought in binary codes in his creche
and teethed on chips—and when he was barely out of
his teens, he had mastered the use of the Josephson
junctions in what he termed an "idiot proof" applica-
tion to regulate with complete safety the vast flow of
skycars and drones in and out of major Linear depots
and over densely populated areas. He was currently ap-
plying his efforts to create a similar basic and safe flow
of spatial traffic.

Rhyssa composed her face and her mind, smiling with
a warmth she did not feel as the three settled them-
selves.

"I do not," Ludmilla began with no preamble, her
deep voice guttural with only a slight trace of her native
language, "have the required personnel." Her pale eyes
accused Rhyssa.

"As I have told you repeatedly. Manager, I cannot
and will not order the Talented into space."

Ludmilla brought her fist down with a wince that re-
vealed that, in her frustration, she had forgotten the
gravitational differences. She brought the bruised hand
up in a gesture that in the space station would have been
flamboyant but was less graceful on Earth.

"You must insist—"

"I can insist, but they can resist," Rhyssa replied
equably.

"How can I maintain schedules without the personnel
to perform the necessary tasks? Day by day we fall
minutes behind: minutes which your diffident workers
could make up in seconds. I will not fall behind the
schedule. We will make our completion deadline. We
must have the suitable personnel. You told me that you
have them, and I have here the proof." Triumphantly
Ludmilla extracted a pencil disk from her tunic and
brandished it at Rhyssa.

"In that reply I said that I would certainly approach
all Centers with your specific requirements. I most cer-
tainly did not promise to fill the vacancies."

Barchenka narrowed her pale eyes into a basilisk
stare. "You recruit constantly. It is public knowledge
that you find new Talents—"

"It does not follow," Rhyssa inserted smoothly,
"that those we recruit are the kinetics that you specifi-
cally request. Certainly I could not ask untrained Tal-
ents to go into the hazards of space."

"Why not?" Ludmilla dismissed that consideration
with a broad wave of her hand, inserting the pencil file
back into its pocket at the end of the gesture. "We will
train them on the job—to be useful, to be careful, to be
specialists. They will love space. They will make many
credits and be wealthy."

"The Talented do not accumulate wealth, Manager,"
Per Duomi stated in his flat, nearly toneless voice, his
patient eyes never moving from Rhyssa's face.

"Nonsense! Everyone acquires wealth." Ludmilla
had more than the usual contempt for altruists. "In the
beginning we had many Talents working for us."

"We wished to assist the world project," Rhyssa
said. "But you would not accept their stipulations when
their contracts came up for renewal."

"Stupid clauses, untenable for us. Shifts of no more
than six hours when we work twenty-four on the plat-
form. Special shielding for noise. There is no noise in
space.'' Her scornful gaze rested hotly on Rhyssa.

"No noise which is audible to you, Madame Engi-
neer, but which is extremely unpleasant to sensitives."

"Bah! Sensitive!" Once again Barchenka summarily
dismissed that consideration. "Spoiled, pampered, ca-
tered to."

"No, Madame Barchenka, not pampered or spoiled,
but yes, catered to," Rhyssa flashed back. "The Tal-
ented are skilled personnel and require some minor con-
siderations to enable them to perform at their best in
the hostile environment of space."

Barchenka plowed on as if she had not heard. "It is
incredible that such a minority can exert so much influ-
ence on the economic life of our world. In the airport,
in the spaceport, in industry where, while I order ma-
teriel, I see the very Talents I must have to complete
the most important project of the world, a project which
has universal approval, which means mankind may
reach beyond the limits of this solar system and explore
the very stars themselves. Yet you and the other Center
managers do not permit me to hire the specialists I
need."

"It is not the permission of the Center directors that
is required, but the consent of the employed," Rhyssa
reminded the engineer. "Center directors negotiate the
individual contracts with the necessary safeguards."

"I can buy the contracts." Barchenka's challenge was
also a threat.

"Such contracts cannot be sold. Engineer Barchenka,
and if you would accept the necessary safeguards, you
might be more successful in attracting Talent!" Rhyssa
replied sternly, beginning to lose patience with the wom-
an's dogmatic pursuit. She could ignore Per Duoml's
mournful expression and even keep her gaze averted
from Prince Phanibal's hot eyes, slightly wet lips, and
nostrils that flared slightly from his rapid breathing; but
all three glaring at her were an unnerving combination.
She kept a smile on her lips, deliberately increasing the
flow of her limbic system.

"You can insist," Ludmilla repeated. "It is in all
your contracts that 'it can be voided at the discretion of
the Center in emergencies.' "

Rhyssa suppressed a rush of anger that Barchenka
had been given access to a Parapsychic Contract and
had to remind herself that such contracts were public
knowledge. "My fellow directors do not consider that
you have a true emergency. Engineer Barchenka."

For the first time Barchenka flared angrily. "I say
this is an emergency! I say I must have a larger work
force to complete mis world priority project."

"You have unlimited access to the conscriptable pool
of workers."

"Bah! They are useless—sterile, uneducated, un-
trainable grunts! I cannot build a space platform only
with grunts. I will have the kinetics I need. I promise
that, Director!" With that she wheeled and, in a dan-
gerous imbalance, made a lurching exit. Prince Phani-
bal following her.

Per Duomi took one step forward, bowing slightly at
the waist. "Even half a dozen kinetics would improve
the situation tremendously."

"As I have explained repeatedly. Per Duomi, insure
the Talents shielded quarters and a six-hour maximum
shift and they will be amenable. Surely if there's credit
enough in your budget to support the number of trips
back to Earth that have been made for the purpose of
recruiting Talents, the funds can be found to supply
their basic needs on Padrugoi!"

"Engineer Barchenka must adhere to the budget. No
alterations can be made to existing staff accommoda-
tions."

"Then Engineer Barchenka is stuck with the result."
Rhyssa fervently wished that Per Duomi would relax
his mental shield long enough for her to place directly
in his mind the information her words patently did not
convey. "You require kinetics to shift objects of mass
proportions in the assembly of Padrugoi. You also need
kinetics who can assemble chips of the most complex
delicacy in the total vacuum of space. The kinetic en-
ergy required by both tasks is the same and exhausting.
They need quiet to restore their strength—they are sen-
sitive to the metallic vibrations of Padrugoi itself, the
inhumanly close quartering, the lack of privacy, and the
appallingly bad rations which are insufficient to replen-
ish their bodies and minds."

Per Duomi nodded impassively and then shrugged,
unwilling to comment before he, too, turned to leave.

His departure left Rhyssa with an uneasy sense of
foreboding. She directed a query to Sirikit on duty in
the Control Room of the Center. Any precogs in just
now?

Sirikit: None. You're expecting one?

Rhyssa projected an image of Ludmilla Barchenka's
grim visage: Possibly!

CHAPTER 4

The &oy blinked three times, and the channel on
the ceiling screen changed again. He sighed. Yet an-
other oldie he had already seen often enough to have
memorized the good parts. He blinked the switch signal
again, and realized that he had been through enough
of the channels to be sure that there was nothing on to
catch his attention—not even an educational program
unfamiliar to him. The first few weeks he had been in
the ward it had been lots of fun, watching the tri-ds all
through the long nights. Kept his mind off—things-
after his headaches had eased. Sometimes he almost
missed those headaches, because at least then he had
been feeling something in his body.

He sighed. He could do that, too, he reminded him-
self, thinking positively as Sue, the therapist, said he
must. He didn't understand a lot of what she told him,
like imagining himself walking and running, thinking
hard of how he used to do it—before he had run along-
side the ruins and that brick wall had collapsed on him.

Why? The agonizing question made him gasp. He had
thought he had stopped thinking about that. Asking
"why" was definitely negative and always depressed
him terribly. Why had that wall come down just as he,
Peter Reidinger, had been running past it? Had he
kicked a stone that had been enough to trigger the col-
lapse? Had one of the boys chasing him lobbed a stone
at the wall? Why, since it had been standing for fifty
or a hundred years'all by itself, why had it picked that
moment to come down? Three seconds later, he would
have been safe—safe from both the wall and the bays
chasing him. Why had he turned into the forbidden
area, anyhow? He'd had a choice at the end of the
alley: over the wall, only it seemed very high to him
and he had nothing to give him a leg up; to the right,
only that took him back into the Alley Cats' territory
and possible ambush; or to the left, weaving his way
through the ruins, making it more difficult for them to
know which way he would go. Why?

Negative! Negative! Peter screwed up all his face
muscles and then made them relax, group by group.
Then he smiled, slowly and consciously spreading his
lips and bringing the comers of his mouth up, stretch-
ing them until his cheeks lifted, his chin dropped, and
his lips parted over his teeth; willing the nerve impulses
in his face to change the limbic system. As Sue had
taught him, he pulled his most happy moment out of his
mind: his eleventh birthday, when his father had come
home on leave from the space station in time for the
party.

Planting that memory firmly in front of "why," Peter
rehearsed the details of that happy experience until he
could relive the entire scene from the moment the door
chime had announced that his father had made it home
until Dad had tucked him into his bunk. He had gotten
so he could even feel the touch of his father's hand on
his forehead.

Good thing Dad had touched him there—one of the
only places he still had feeling. Peter sighed again and
refelt the touch. Then he closed his eyes and "heard"
his father leave the room, "heard" the muffled sounds
of his parents talking and laughing. He expelled an-
other deep sigh.

He was lucky. He could breathe on his own now. Sue
had been so proud of him when that autonomic reflex
had returned. He filled his lungs, knowing that his chest
was rising, his diaphragm tightening. He could feel the
air in his windpipe. He held his breath until spots came
in front of his eyes; then he expelled it.

Immediately he heard the steps of the duty nurse. Miz
Alien did not like to be disturbed, especially when he
knew that they had a critical case on Pie 12. He counted
ten steps and then she was peering down at him, making
eye contact. She then peered at the wall panel that dis-
played the readings from his monitors.

"Why was there a respiratory fluctuation, Peter?"

"Aw, I was just doing my breathing exercises. "

"You were not. " Miz, Alien glared at him a moment,
and then her long thin face relaxed. She laid a light
hand on his forehead and then drew one finger down
his cheek to press it against his lips. ' 'You were fooling.
Don't fool with your breathing, Peter. Your brain needs
oxygen. And it needs sleep, too. It's quarter of four.
You should sleep. You know how to achieve relaxation,
Peter. Do your progressives, there's a good boy. "

They both heard the sudden whimpering of the bum
girl on the other side of the circular ward.

Miz Alien, reproving smile and all, disappeared, and
Peter counted her steps, twenty-one, to get to the crit-
ical case. Then he counted to thirty, and the whimper-
ing ceased. He knew burns hurt. He wished he felt
something, even burns!

He immediately put his mind to the few progressives
available to him: the relaxation of every muscle in his
face, head, and neck. He could not move his head, but
he had sensation in his neck. He reached total slack
and thought carefully of his place, feeling the spring of
grass under his feet, hearing the shimmer of leaves as
a wind soughed through them, smelling the fragrances
of the garden, gazing up at the sky above, the sun warm
on his back. He began to float again. He had the sen-
sation of drifting up, out of the supine body resting on
its cushion of air, amazed and annoyed at the various
tubings and wires shunted into him that he never felt.

The garden of his dreams was miles away from Jer-
hattan. It had been part of the vacation farm to which
his parents had taken him when he was eight. For some-
one raised in Linear Jerhattan, surrounded constantly
by the noise and smell of people and maintenance ma-
chineries, he had been totally entranced by the farm.
Peter knew that there were small green belts throughout
the Jerhattan complex; he had even been to several,
trying to relive that vacation, but none had evoked the
same response in him, being too small and cramped to
close out the eternal noise of the city.

He had found a place, though, where he could float
when he got to the proper state of relaxation. It had
grass and trees, barely visible in the eerie predawn
light. And he was strangely attracted by other inexpli-
cable strands, comforting wisps of thought, enticing him
to linger. One in particular intrigued him, and he hov-
ered as close to it as he could, tantalized by a sense of
tranquil familiarity.

All of a sudden he was nearly blinded by powerful
lights that flooded the scene. He felt a moment of terror.
He could not suppress his scream, steadying only when
he heard Miz Alien's steps. He did not open his eyes
until he felt her hand on his forehead and knew he was
safe back in Bed 7 of Pie Ward 12.

"What's the matter, Peter? " Miz Alien always knew
if a patient was shamming and she did not tolerate false
alarms. Her eyes flicked to the wall panel. "Bad
dream?"

"Yes, bad dream. " Despite himself, his voice qua-
vered, and her expression softened.

"Yes, your endorphin level shot up. I think you'll
have to have some sleep. "

Peter nodded, relieved at her decision. "I've got
VMR tomorrow . . ." He began, but then darkness
overwhelmed him.

You scared him off! Rhyssa accused Ragnar, fuming
that someone had triggered her net to alert the Center's
security forces if her pattern spiked during the night.
The field lights had blazed up. Moments later she had
heard the thrumble of the skycars, shooting off in all
directions. Sascha! she roared. He was the only one
empowered to set surveillance on her!

Sascha: We'll catch the bugger!

Not that way! Rhyssa forced controls on herself to
disperse the white-hot fury. Sascha had exceeded his
authority—even the boundaries of friendship.

Sascha: I have not!

She inhaled deeply, aware that she was still trembling
with anger. She expelled the breath right down to her
toes, continuing to press downward until her belly mus-
cles were taut. There was NO threat!

There was intrusion! His mental pattern broke briefly
as he responded to some exterior stimulus. That's
bloody strange, he said a moment later. There was no
intrusion. Not a physical one. Not a blip on any screen
that can't be accounted for. And nothing—read that—
nothing in our airspace.

An emergent! Rhyssa colored the thought with satis-
faction. That is, if you haven't scared him out of his
Talent! She sent an image of herself turning back onto
her stomach, hauling the duvet in its pastel print tightly
around herself, and dragging a matching pillow firmly
over her head—which was what she did.

"An emergent from where?" was the question that
circulated the Control Room.

"Who's awake at four o'clock in the morning?" Sa-
scha asked.

"I can do a probability curve," Madlyn suggested,
"eliminating all the obvious shift workers."

"Why eliminate them?" Budworth asked.

"If they're working, they're not doing o.o.b.," she
replied.

"And who says this is an out-of-body job?" Sascha
asked, turning on Madlyn with surprise.

"What else could it be?"

Sascha grinned. "You may very well be right, Mad-
lyn, and it's so obvious I wonder none of us thought of
it before. Okay, who would go o.o.b.?" It was a lead-
ing question to which he already had an answer.

"Someone who doesn't like the bod they're stuck
with," she replied.

"But o.o.b.'ing is Talent," Budworth said, "and all
of 'em are registered, so they have better things to do
than o.o.b."

"If they're registered," Sascha pointed out.

"I see, so we run a check on new ones."

"That's right. With the hospitals."

Madlyn groaned. "D'you know how many hospitals
there are in Jerhattan?''

"Not intimately," Sascha said with a grin, and
pointed an index finger at her. "Think of it as a survey
question in your training. Ask for paralytic cases, teen,
preteen, insomniacs ..."

"Why blame the teens?" Madlyn asked, bridling.

"They won't have been scanned for Talent yet.
Okay," Sascha added graciously, "try anyone faced
with a sudden lack of mobility. I'll add the prison sys-
tems, too." He grinned at Madlyn's groan. "One of
the most famous was a guy escaping a sadistic jailor."

Madlyn's eyes widened. "Can the Center get pris-
oners released?"

Budworth chortled. “Don't you remember your Center
history? This place was started by rejects from prisons
and mental institutions—" He shot a sly look at Sascha.
"—and all kinds of otherwise asocial andIor eccentric
personalities."

"If my brother were here ..." Sascha waggled an
admonitory finger at Budworth.

"Huh!" Budworth snorted. "I'm not afraid of your
brother even if he is the high-and-mighty Law Enforce-
ment and Order commissioner."

"I would be," Sascha replied. "Which reminds me,
I'm late for that appointment. Get the program started
on checking hospitals and prisons. And buddy boy, you
can do the mental institutions. I appreciate the re-
minder."

"Ha!" Madlyn said to Budworth as Sascha left the
Control Room.

"How can there be that many illegal children in the
Residentials?" Jerhattan City Manager Teresa Aiello
demanded of Medical Chief Harv Dunster. "Your peo-
ple are supposed to tie off after a second pregnancy."

Harv's angular face was grim. "Only if we get to
deliver 'em. You know that some ethnic groups still
refuse to practice contraception. Until we have the right
to use infertility drugs in subsistence-level food, there'll
be unreported births—and continued traffic in preado-
lescents for sexual perversions, or cheap labor in illegal
factories. And the ones with the right blood factors and
healthy organs will still be stashed away by the very
rich for transplants as needed." He gestured at the fax
sheets on Teresa Aiello's desk.

"And ruthless people will still dispose of the used
ones," added Boris Roznine, commissioner of Law En-
forcement and Order. "Even illegal kids have rights."
He glanced obliquely at the faxes scattered on the work-
top.

Teresa inadvertently glanced down. She was a tough-
minded woman, but she had a ten-year-old daughter,
and the fax of the bloated bodies discovered as flotsam
off the North Shore of Long Island spared no one's
sensibilities. She averted her eyes. The coroner reported
that the oldest had been twelve, the youngest five.

Boris Roznine had contacted her the moment the ap-
palling discovery had been made. The temper of Jer-
hattan was always uncertain when faced with such news,
and Teresa had called an emergency meeting of her
commissioners to prepare for a possible eruption if the
news was leaked to the media. Boris's twin brother,
Sascha, was due to arrive with the Parapsychic Center's
suggestions. To insure the tight security around the
tragedy, the four were meeting in the shielded privacy
of the city manager's tower office.

"Ah," Boris interrupted what Teresa had been about
to say, his right hand lightly touching his temple in
indication that he was receiving a telepathic message.
"Positive ID of one, the Waddell girl who was kid-
napped six weeks ago ..."

Teresa winced and let out a groan. The Waddells
were acquaintances of hers, high-tech executives; the
child, bright and extremely pretty, had been a school
friend of her daughter. Teresa had put a top priority on
the abduction, and had officially requested that Rhyssa
Owen assign her best finder to the case.

"Two others are listed as runaways, reported missing
two months ago. Of the others ..." Roznine shrugged,
glancing at the medical officer. "The best the lab can
do is genotypes, and it's all-sorts."

Every citizen of the United World was permitted—
provided they did not cany the proscribed genetic re-
cessives—to produce a replacement. One parent, one
child. Two parents, two children. ZPG was stringently
enforced until the pressure of Earth's population could
be released on the new habitable worlds, identified but
not yet attainable. The Propagation Laws were easier to
enforce in rural communities than in the huge residen-
tial warrens of cities like Jerhattan, with its population
of over thirty million.

Teresa turned to the LEO commissioner. "You haven't
stopped the spot checks, have you, Boris?"

"Hell, no, but we're still not locating the early preg-
nancies no matter how we try. If I had the personnel to
mount simultaneous level searches, we'd catch more."
Boris brought his clasped hands together as if closing a
net. He gave a ghost of a grin. "We did pretty well at
the Residentials, six weeks after the last big power out-
age, but that was a once-off.'' Then he spread his hands
wide, matching Dunster's resignation. "You know our
situation. We manage to keep a lid on most of the trou-
ble—if we're all sitting down as hard as we can. It isn't
as if we need more bodies."

"The ones that ignore the legal control," Harv said
dejectedly, "are exactly the ones educational and hy-
giene programs don't reach—in any language."

Teresa grimaced. "So there's no indication where the
rest of those poor kids were snatched?"

Roznine shook his head. "Could have come from any
subsistence level."

"m the last gruesome chucking, three months back
or so, only four were recognizable ethnic types," Harv
Dunster said grimly. "Near Easterners—Lebanese and
Arabic. Two were Tay-Sachs, ten were dark-skinned,
and one was an HIV carrier—which may well be why
they were all ... disposed of." The medic sighed
heavily. "I suspect Lab may also find anti-body posi-
tives among this latest—"

"Spare me, Harv," Teresa said firmly, and called up
the main Jerhattan map on her screen. "We've just had
a go-round of the Residentials with Public Health. We
haven't got the funds available for another. Exactly
where were the bodies found, Boris?" Her fingers hov-
ered over the terminal as she waited for an answer.

"Washed up out by Glen Cove, not far from some
of the more exclusive residential hives bordering the
Sound."

"Great!" Teresa's frustration came out as sarcasm.
"No Incident logged?" she asked Boris, though that
would have been included in the initial report.

"The storm, yes. The flotsam, no."

"Shouldn't your brother be here by now?" Teresa
frowned, glancing at the clock ticking off the seconds
in the comer of the main screen. "We need all the help
we can get on this."

The focus of Boris Roznine's blue eyes locked briefly
as he linked minds with his younger brother. "Traffic
snarl's breaking up. But he says"—his voice suddenly
deepened as the Talent peculiar to the twin brothers
allowed one to speak through the other—"Look, I want
to save time—yours and mine. These murders go deeper
than the loss of thirty juveniles. Forget the HTV factor-
it's irrelevant here. They were disposed of because we'd
got too close to them, but not close enough, soon
enough. Teresa, Carmen's been on search-and-find duty
ever since you handed us the Waddell kidnap file. She
got a whiff or two of terror, but never enough light to
pinpoint. Except that she got a hint of water." Boris's
wide mouth quirked briefly, reflecting his brother's cha-
grin. "Most of those children had to be illegals. We all
know that that group of pederasts is active—and sup-
plied—despite international efforts to eradicate that sort
of traffic. We know that kids are bought as cheap labor
and shipped who knows where. And that some are also
secreted as possible transplant donors.

"We haven't been idle," Sascha's voice continued.
"This could, in fact, be the break we've been waiting
for. We got too close. It'd be nice to know—" and at
that word the door to Teresa Aiello's office swung open
and Sascha Roznine strode in, smiling at everyone. As
he gave his brother's shoulder a grateful squeeze, he
continued, "where exactly we got so close. We're
working on it, and with your assistance, Harv and Te-
resa, I think we have a line to throw out to those
sharks." His smile took in each of his listeners, but he
cocked his head at his brother and winked.

Slowly a smile began to lighten Boris's face as he
read the detailed thoughts in Sascha's mind. "Tag kids
with strands through the school system? That might just
work! We might even catch the bastard child-stealers
this time." Boris leaned forward across the table. "You
are all familiar with the restraint filaments that were
recently developed? Sometimes those we tangle with
the strands escape before they can be secured. A second
application has been made with a slightly altered for-
mula, and now the altered strand can be traced for up
to six months. There're certain anomalies to be re-
solved, but it's worth the effort to tag every child in the
vulnerable group."

"You mean, this side of the river?" Teresa waved at
the panorama visible from her tower office, the uptown
cluster of beehive, cone, and single-tower Residential
buildings clearly visible on this bright morning. "But
statistically, it's the illegals in the Linear Residentials
who are more at risk."

"If we could catch Linear kids to strand 'em," Boris
said, raising his hands palms-up in resignation, "we'd
be way ahead. Meanwhile we'll strand as many kids as
we can on both sides of the river and hope."

"Hope?" Sascha asked softly.

Rhyssa! She recognized the mental touch of John
Greene, the Talented bodyguard of Secretary of Space
Vemon Altenbach.

We got problems? she asked.

Girl, you really deserve all the headaches of admin-
istration if you can guess that much from just hearing
me speak your name.

No precog needed, JG, because you never bother me
unless there's political pussyfooting. What is it this
time?

A bill to draft the Talented into whatever position the
government needs them!

Not again? Rhyssa's response was half-amused, half-
irritated.

Concerted attempts had been made in the past by
government agencies to circumscribe the freedom of
choice originally granted to the Talented. That was prior
to the point at which the government began to appre-
ciate the applications of Talent—after the days when
Daffyd op Owen, her illustrious grandfather, abetted by
Senator Joel Andres, had fought to gain legal immunity
for Talents exercising their abilities.

Immunity had been particularly vital for precogs be-
cause, when they warned of disasters which were, by
those warnings, averted, they had been subjected to ex-
pensive and time-consuming lawsuits. There had been
attempts since then, from the ridiculous to the deadly
serious, to regulate or restrict, all manner of Talents to
military, civil service, or mercantile uses.

But the Talented had always managed, quite legally
and with no untoward exercise of their particular abili-
ties, to circumvent such attempts. Many Talents had
willingly sacrificed personal freedoms to serve in the
public sectors, some on a lifelong basis, to preserve the
right for their peers to choose. Rhyssa's parents had
done that, to give her the opportunity to achieve the
position she now held.

Again, and this isn't funny, Rhyssa, Johnny Greene
went on, space is in a bind. The platform has to be
finished on schedule before the sheer weight of numbers
on Earth becomes more unmanageable than it already
is.

So Ludmilla's been lobbying?

She's got some hefty help, and Vemon's got tremen-
dous pressure on him. I'm the loudest of the Washing-
tonILuxembourg voices, so I'm making the contact with
you for the rest of the minders. We 've been excluded
from far more sessions than we ought to be—sessions
that have been attended by some of the most antagonis-
tic Right Mutes that have ever been lined up against
Talents. And when you think that I helped him develop
his shields against unauthorized peeking, I could spit!
The nerve of him closing me out!

One of the more sensitive professions open to em-
pathic Talents was that of "minding" vulnerable top-
ranking officials. Terrorism was still a fact of political
life, and although the problem of the displaced and the
minorities had been somewhat eased by the mass reset-
tlements and the institution of the Linear developments
near every major urban area, and the incidence of as-
sassinations had been drastically reduced, empaths were
still employed to "mind" those officials who might be
targets for the fanatics who still occasionally emerged.

Rhyssa could hear the hurt in Johnny's voice that
Vemon Altenbach had been shielding his thoughts from
his minder, especially since Johnny was also Vemon's
best friend, as well as his brother-in-law. In his official
capacity, Johnny served as under secretary in the Space
Secretariat. Prior to that he had been a trained etop—
earth-to-platform—pilot with twenty successful launches
. . . until the twenty-first had grounded him forever.
His Talent had saved his crew from death but not him-
self from losing both left leg and arm. Despite state-of-
the-art prostheses, a new career had seemed advisable.
So far Johnny had already prevented four attempts to
kill or kidnap Secretary of Space Altenbach.

Johnny: I shoulda been included in these latest talks,
but I wasn 't.

Rhyssa: Which means that Talent was being dis-
cussed. Barchenka and Duomi want more kinetics on
the platform in the worst way. I'm doing my best to
help . . .

Johnny, in an uncompromising tone: Anyone thought
of telling Barchenka that she's the reason why Talents
won't work up there?

Rhyssa: Lance Baden did. He thinks she has selective
amnesia. Can't even get her replaced, not with the per-
formance record she's got!

Vemon's tried! She's so bloody good at what she
does— it's only how she does it. I'll keep in touch, but
we felt you ought to be forewarned. There was a hint
of criticism in his voice.

Nothing has come up with any precog, Johnny.

I know, I know. That worries me as much. This thing
could be very very big, and not even Mallie's got a
whiffl

Rhyssa: Then obviously the matter is solved before it
reaches critical. She tried to sound firmly optimistic
even as a little shudder rippled down her backbone.
Someone should have been sensing something! Mallie
Vaden was one of the most sensitive precogs the Center
had ever produced, and her lack of foresight—if John-
ny's reading of the situation was correct—was surpris-
ing.

I'll be in touch, Johnny assured her. I'll even see
what the ghosts think. You know how they 'd like to see
our Talented noses out of joint.

I think I'll try a frontal attack, Rhyssa said. Might
jog a few brain cells loose.

When'll I see you then? Johnny asked, his tone
brightening.

If possible, today. Run me through Vemon's sched-
ule. When Johnny did, Rhyssa stopped him at the
lunchtime engagement. I like the food there. I'll just
drop in!

Rhyssa always experienced a mild shock when she
encountered Johnny in the flesh, for the light tenor of
his mental voice was at variance with his strong phys-
ical appearance. Medium tall, he kept himself physi-
cally trim, and one would never guess his serious
injuries from seeing him walk or manage eating uten-
sils. Some latent kinetic ability had proved to be an
asset with his prosthetic limbs. He rose as he spotted
Rhyssa approaching the table where he. Secretary of
Space Vemon Altenbach, Exalted Engineer Ludmilla
Barchenka, and Padrugoi Personnel Manager Per Duomi
were seated. Johnny's broad smile welcomed her, and
they exchanged touch and a kiss.

Would you have dared look so stunning if the amo-
rous Phanibal had come, too? Johnny's green-flecked
amber eyes twinkled with devilment.

Rhyssa: Why doesn't that odious man go back to the
Pacific island that spawned him and attend to the fam-
ily 's plantations ?

Johnny: All you need is a strong handsome man
who 'II scare him off. Right now you 've got this lot em-
barrassed by your appearance, and yet they haven't
said a thing out of line, he added, all in the split sec-
onds of the greeting.

Rhyssa gave Altenbach a genuinely glad smile, then
nodded politely to the fiercely scowling Barchenka and
the bland-faced Per Duoml. "Just the people I hoped
to see. When I saw you were to be in Washington,
Madame Barchenka, I realized that I should put in an
appearance before matters get out of hand."

"Now, Rhyssa," Altenbach said, signaling a waiter
to bring a chair and set up another place for his unex-
pected guest, "you can't disrupt the established proce-
dure of lobbying. That's not the way to play the game."

"Nor is going behind my back," Rhyssa said, smil-
ing to take the sting out of her criticism. She turned to
Barchenka. "You have a schedule to keep. What you
will not appreciate is that one cannot schedule Talent
or lobby it. The kinetics you so desperately need cannot
materialize to help you meet your schedule. That many
kinetics don't exist. Talent is a random and highly in-
dividual trait, not an imposed one. No one can dictate
to a Talent and expect the person to perform to the best
of her or his ability. That dictation inhibits the Talent
as surely as seasickness inhibits appetite. There is no
legislation in the world that may chain the mind."

"There is legislation that will recruit those needed to
do the job that the entire world has decided must be
done." Barchenka's stolid words complimented her un-
compromising expression. "The platform will be fin-
ished as scheduled. The kinetics will participate."

Rhyssa caught another strong emanation, this time
from Per Duoml, who nodded solemnly to support Bar-
chenka's statement.

"There are ways," Barchenka added, her cold eyes
scanning Rhyssa's whole appearance from the elegantly
coined hair and subtle makeup to the couture outfit.

"Legal?" Rhyssa asked with a slight smile.

The secretary cleared his throat and handed Rhyssa a
menu. "I'm still of the opinion that this—impasse—can
be negotiated to the satisfaction of all concerned."

Barchenka made a monosyllabic noise of disbelief and
resumed her perusal of the menu. After only seconds,
she tossed it negligently to the table. "I would prefer
nutritious food to this ..."

Johnny Greene beckoned to the maitre d', who was
famous for his poise under the most trying situations
that Washington could produce. "D'Amato, Manager
Barchenka requires the other menu."

At a snap of D'Amato's fingers, an underling ap-
peared and handed him a slim folder, which he pre-
sented to Barchenka with a flourish. She gave him, then
Johnny, a sardonic look that turned to agreeable sur-
prise as she scanned a menu composed of the foodstuffs
available on the platform.

"Five, twelve, and twenty, taken with tea," she said
in a voice that still vibrated with controlled anger.

Watch it, Rhyssa! Johnny cautioned. Did you catch
that flash? She's poison-sure she's got us where she
wants us.

Simultaneously three other minders, dining with their
charges in the same room, sent Rhyssa similar warn-
ings. She was particularly glad to feel the mental touch
of Gordon Havers, the youngest Supreme Court justice
ever appointed, whose expertise might be extremely
useful.

Fine! Now discover what? Rhyssa said mentally as
vocally she chose her luncheon of cold fruit, soup, and
salad. Gordie, are you available for some quick scans
of obsolete statutes that could cover such a contin-
gency?

Been driving myself and my clerks all hours trying to
find one, Rhyssa, replied Gordon Havers. There's noth-
ing in our constitution, but since the Russians won the
contract for Padrugoi, there may be something in the
Russian section that does! Their legal system is as con-
voluted as their grammar!

"You can, of course, invoke some forgotten but still
active statute," Rhyssa remarked all too blandly, wait-
ing for reactions, "to conscript Talents ..." Both Bar-
chenka and Duomi looked startled.

Bingo! Gordie cried. I'll concentrate on the Russian
end of space law.

"But," Rhyssa continued soothingly, "it has always
proved unwise to force Talent to perform in an area that
is either personally or professionally distasteful to them,
and under punitive conditions."

"We have been too lenient with your temperamental
tricks and traits," Barchenka said, leaning across the
table in anger. "You will do this, you won't do that!"
She affected a child's petulant tone. "Many conces-
sions were made to eater to the whims and fads of your
Talents, and still no significant numbers will volunteer
for the most important world project of all history. Your
attitude is unacceptable."

"I am protecting my colleagues, not being obstruc-
tive. I must repeat," Rhyssa continued smoothly, "it
has always proved unwise to force Talent to perform
duties unacceptable to them and under punitive living
conditions."

"That will change! Will be changed! The platform
will be finished on schedule!" Barchenka's voice had
risen with each sentence until it stopped conversation
throughout the opulent dining room. She pushed herself
from her chair, wobbling slightly as her movements,
more suited to half grav, brought her stocky body pon-
derously to an upright position. She kicked the chair
away from her. "I do not tolerate insubordination!"
And she clumped away from the table.

"I was doing my best for you," Vemon Altenbach
said to Rhyssa, his face and manner resigned as he rose,
his chair pulled back by a hovering waiter.

"You do not understand our position. Director
Owen," Per Duomi added, but he, made no move to
leave the table. "We are forced to use unpleasant al-
ternatives to avert far more serious disasters overtaking
the world!"

"I'll see if I can calm her down, make her see rea-
son," Vemon said with a gesture for Johnny to remain.
"D'Amato, send my meal and hers to the private room.
I'll be there."

"Do you believe, in your own heart. Per Duomi,"
Rhyssa asked, leaning across the table to the man, "that
we are evading our duty to the world?"

He shrugged, his mind, with its metal shield, as im-
pervious, Rhyssa thought, as his unwillingness to un-
derstand the nature of Talent. "It is the opinion that
this—reluctance—puts the whole platform project in
jeopardy."

"It is Ludmilla Barchenka who puts it in jeopardy,"
Rhyssa said with more heat than she had intended. She
smiled quickly, hoping to repair the damage of her can-
dor. Per Duomi might not be Talented, but he was
scarcely stupid.

"Ah! My esteemed colleague was correct," he said.

"I am not standing in her way. I am protecting my
professionals even as she is protecting her project."

Well, she is why Talents won't work for her, Johnny
said in swift reassurance. And we all know it!

Gordie: Yeah, but she stays! This will be an interest-
ing power struggle, speaking from a purely legalistic
viewpoint.

"I admire Barchenka's unquestionable abilities as a
spatial engineer. I would prefer that she return the pro-
fessional compliment," Rhyssa said amiably. "This
soup is excellent. Per Duomi. Let us enjoy it."
You've got it! I've been over the statute—and it is
Russian, from the pre-glasnost days, and should have
been repealed long ago it's so archaic. In the good old
Bolshevik days, it was illegal—get that, illegal—to be
unemployed. The State was the only employer—not the
employer of last resort—but the only employer. Ergo,
everyone worked. Consequently, the only employer in a
system that makes it illegal to be unemployed can cer-
tainly do whatever is deemed necessary with its work
force. Legally, it gives Barchenka the right, under Pad-
rugoi's International Charter, to draft any technicians,
professionals, or workers required by the space effort—
the space effort in terms of the original law being the
Russian one. But the statute is still in effect, and, by
legal crook, she can apply it to Talents. We can fight
it, of course!

And? she prompted.

With a glib-tongued attorney like Lester Favelly, we
might just win. But the trial would take years, and could
be construed by Barchenka to prove her contention—
that the Talents are obstructing the Good Work. He
paused significantly. We could just give her enough rope
to hang herself?

The Talents will be miserable, and they won't per-
form well. That was what rankled Rhyssa's fine sense
of integrity. Talents did the best they could no matter
what the circumstances. To give the slightest suggestion
that they skimped was against the most stringent of te-
nets for the parapsychic. But, in space, worn down by
punishing hours and psychic static they could not avoid,
inevitably their performances would suffer.

Exactly, Gordie said. Ask the other directors. You
must appear to be accepting the inevitable.

The sort of press this could give Talents would undo
the work of the last century, Rhyssa said despairingly.

I know. Although to sweeten this very bitter pill,
Rhyssa, Mallie Vaden sees nothing going wrong.

Whose side is she on? Rhyssa could
bitterness out of her tone.

Ours, as you well know, was Gordon
reply. Ergo, it has to work out by our c<
I've initiated some investigations that mi,
a lever against Barchenka. Meanwhile, c,
Quick action might shift public support i

CHAPTER 5

Some of the fourteen other Center directors were
not best pleased to be roused by her urgent request for
conference in the middle of their nighttimes, and there
was some grumbling. Though all Centers were theoret-
ically equal, no director decided issues mat would affect
all Talents without consulting the others first, and
Rhyssa—in charge of negotiations for the Talents be-
cause Padrugoi's administrative headquarters was in
Jerhattan—deemed a meeting necessary. As soon as all
were attending, she explained the situation.

And from what equally .critical positions does this
Russian think we can draft these essential kinetics?
Lance Baden, the Australian director, demanded.
Rhyssa always found it odd that his mental voice was
devoid of the Aussie accent. We sent everyone we could
bribe or blackmail up there. Sheer bloody-mindedness
keeps some of 'em in place, but my staff's down to
nubbins or feather-movers.

I have told Ludmilla Ivanovo, said Vsevolod Ge-
browski of me Leningrad bureau at his most apologetic,
time and again, that there are few kinetics not already
doing double, triple work in order to supply essential
services in Russia. Believe me, I have tried to educate
her to the practicalities . . .

We do believe you, Geb, we do, was the mass thought
that reassured him.

What's the levy, Rhyssa? Miklos Horvath, the West
Coast director, asked.

She's demanding one hundred forty-four kinetics!
Rhyssa said grimly, and threw up a buffer against the
cries of outrage. The number of registered Talents in
every Center was open knowledge to every director, as
transfers constantly shifted key Talents at need from
one Center to another.

We don't happen to have a handy gross of kinetics,
the Brazil director said angrily. And I spent six months
up there, in the most godforsaken barrio I've ever seen.
Constant noise! Dreadful food—nutritious food could at
least have a distinctive flavor. How she can expect us
to junction ...

If we use the discretionary clause, we can remove the
required number from commerce and industry. Max
Perigeaux of the large European bureau began in his
slow, thoughtful way.

Ignoring the howls . . .

Under the circumstances, at least we 're not liable to
penalties ...

That's a real comfort to those forced up to Padru-
goi...

Well, Commerce and Industry want this station—they 'II
have to suck lemons along with the rest of us . . .

Max went on, his message weaving inexorably
among the asides: . . . put the trainees where at least
they can be overseen, we could just about manage it.
But how can we expect our people to endure the con-
ditions up at the platform and still perform creditably?
To do less than our best reduces our reputations, but
how can anyone operate at his best in that milieu! And
the noise! The tall aesthetic man imaged a shudder of
revulsion.

But something must be done to give those who are
conscripted some relief!

Barchenka believes we set up the conditions of
shielded quarters and short hours to be obstructive!
Rhyssa said. I was informed that there is no noise in
the vacuum of space, and, because there is also no
gravity, there is less physical stress and longer hours
can be worked, not fewer.

The woman is utterly without a shred of understand-
ing or empathy, the director of Africa North said.

Has anyone tried to adjust her thinking? Hongkong
Jimmy asked.

You've never met Barchenka, have you? Shields
tighter'n a chastity belt! Baden said in an acid tone.

What's a chastity belt? Hongkong Jimmy flicked back
in genuine innocence.

Images from nine helpful telepaths enlighted his ig-
norance. Rhyssa was grateful to him for easing the
growing tension in the linkage with that byplay.

We are compelled to comply, are we not! Perigeaux
said, at his most mournful. And without delay, so that
we can bargain on the best possible conditions for those
who must sacrifice themselves. A rotation scheme, per-
haps . . .

If she's after the gross, that makes rotation impossi-
ble!

I can try to insist on some sort of short-term stretches,
Rhyssa said.

Let us also issue some publicity, Miklos Horvath sug-
gested, about conditions up there.

Of dubious value when she needs to recruit so many
grunts. You know she has to go to the shelters for any-
one below Civil Service-8.

But the public must see that Talent's objections to
working in space are valid!

The most valid being Barchenka herself. . .

Can no one lean on her?

It's been tried . . .

Who's the best we've got?

What about her associate, PerDuomI? Any chinks in
him?

It isn 't that we don't want to help with the project,
but she is her own worst enemy.
Did she specify kinetics only?

No one's told her that some kinetics are also tele-
paths!

Don't anyone mention that! Lance Baden said with
unusual vehemence.

Wouldn't dream of it!

You mean, she doesn 't know?

Ludmilla Ivanovo knows what she wants to know,
Vsevolod said wearily. She only hears the explanations
she wishes to hear.

In twelve minutes of rapid-fire exchanges, the Talents
arrived at a grim but workable course of action. Max,
Baden, and Jimmy would do the actual selection of suit-
able kinetics. Some Talents could be excused on
grounds of infirmity, pregnancy, or unsuitable skills—-
though two of Baden's "feather-dusters" were well able
to handle the fine tunings. Rhyssa, Miklos, and Dolores
of the Brazilian Center would attempt to achieve
shielded quarters and work shifts of six hours maxi-
mum, four for the less experienced kinetics. Barchenka
might be running her operation twenty-four hours a day,
but eight hours of telekinesis were impossibly draining,
even in space and hi 0.5-grav conditions.

What we must also organize, for ourselves, Kayan-
kira of the Delhi Center said as the main issues had
been resolved, is an emergency system in a disaster
situation. In her mind churned images of the previous
year's catastrophic floods in the northeastern sections of
the Indian subcontinent, mitigated only by the rapid
mobilization of hundreds of kinetics when the precog
had come in.

Kayan, you 've had far more experience with that sort
of thing than anyone needs, Baden said with unexpected
humility. Advise us and we will comply.

You always do! We'll have to strip all nonessential
industrial firms and reduce Port Authority staff to a
dangerous minimum. But we shall be very short of those
we most need.

Weather permitting! was Hongkong Jimmy's droll re-
mark. When are we going to find a weatherman ?

If we weather this one, Miklos said, we can all apply!

The mindlink was dissolved, and despite the massive
task ahead, the Center directors were much heartened
by the contact. When Rhyssa informed Gordie Havers
of the results, he gave a loud mental cheer for solidarity.

There're going to be some mighty unhappy kinetics!
she told him. Every Center is going to be stripped, and
I'm steeling myself to endure the slings and arrows of
outraged businesses.

Machinery predated kinetics, and men used their
muscles before that. Let 'em go back to traditional
ways. It'll make 'em appreciate us more than ever,
Gordie imaged an archaic block and tackle to move ma-
teriel usually hoisted by a kinetic. Who's handling the
publicity ?

We 're going to have to be careful about that—don't
want Barchenka to say we're interfering with her on-
going employment drive.

The man I have in mind is not a valid Talent, but
he's a brilliant publicist, Rhyssa. Let me get Dave Le-
hardt to wave the flag for us,

Dave Lehardt?

He put our honored president in the White House.

And he's not Talented? That's unfair! That campaign
was sheer genius!

We have to allow the Mutes a few prerogatives, you
know. Shall I approach him on this delicate matter?

Please do. I'll give him all the help I can.

By the by, did you realize that most of what you do
is totally illegal in Scotland, which still has antiwitch-
craft laws on the books ?

Spare me!

I had, and look what it got us. I'd been working up
to the Russkis by 'way of the British Isles and Scandi-
navia. Sorry about that! You never know where to start
in nullifying age-old bigotry, do you!

When Gordie had broken their mental link, Rhyssa
spoke to Sascha.

You got touched again? he demanded.

In the head, but not by my peeper. She put in his
mind all that had happened in the past half hour.

He whistled in a descending scale. We're going to
get a lot of flak from Commerce and Industry!

They can't have it both ways. They 're the group that
gave Barchenka such punitive fines if she doesn't de-
liver on time. That clause is just coming home to roost
where they didn 't expect it. They 'II have to dust off their
machinery and toughen up their muscles. We've made
it far too easy for them.

What if they like the old-fashioned ways and don't
want to rehire our people?

Rhyssa snorted derisively. Just consider how much
money kinetics save industry every year in equipment
and maintenance costs—the arguments we used to get
them to take kinetics in the first place!

Yeah, but how do we explain it to our kinetics?

Rhyssa projected an image of her on her knees, tear-
ing her hair out, pleading to amorphous faces, offering
jewels and ingots of gold. Enlistment has always been
preferable to conscription. And then we can insist on
shielding and short shifts. We can't if she implements
that blue law. We 're over a barrel, and every Talent
will realize that!

Vsevolod can't help us there? Sascha asked.

He was appalled, apologetic, and all, but apopleptic
that one of his nationals was doing this to us.

Nothing mentioned about getting the law wiped off
the books?

Gordie's working on it! Rhyssa did not bother to
lighten the grimness she felt.

Dave Lehardt swung into Rhyssa's tower office at the
Henner estate within an hour of the Talents' reluctant
acceptance of the inevitable.

"My God, do you have wings?" Rhyssa commented
as the energetic Lehardt shook her hand. He was a full
two meters tall, athletic in build, and he emanated a
competence and geniality that could only come from a
secure, well-adjusted personality. He was handsome
enough, with mid-brown hair, blue eyes, and regular
but not remarkable features, and he dressed with con-
servative elegance.

"Not wings! Vanes! More reliable," he said with a
charming grin. He began sorting through the papers in
his attache case. "Gordie said it was urgent, and I watch
the news." He stopped when he noticed her baffled ex-
pression. "What's the matter? Did I break out in
spots?"

"No, but you haven't an ounce of Talent, and you
ought to."

"Why?" Dave Lehardt shrugged. "I've never needed
it. Astute student of human psychology and keen ob-
server of body language.''

He also had an impenetrable natural shield. With all
her skill, she could not read his mind.

"Now," he said, hauling a spare chair up beside hers
and spreading out hard copy of advertisements and
graphics, "we get in there before Barchenka even thinks
of crowing in triumph, so the public will see that Tal-
ents are graciously mobilizing all available personnel to
be sure Padrugoi Platform is finished on schedule—with
phrases that imply she can't make it on her own without
Talented help."

"That's true enough," Rhyssa said grimly.

"Ah, but there are ways and ways of saying the same
thing," Dave Lehardt said with a truly malicious smile.
"I tangled briefly with the Barchenka Stonewall for an-
other client, and believe me, I'm on your side!"

Rhyssa smiled to herself. Dave Lehardt did have
something like a Talent—a self-confidence that radiated
from him like an aura. She had never met someone like
him before: someone whose mentality she could not
delve into, however discreetly. It was a new experi-
ence, and she found herself watching his expressive
face, noting the way his hands emphasized points and
how he occasionally added a shoulder movement that
reinforced what he said. He also kept glancing at her,
meeting her eyes as few non-Talents would. Clearly he
was not the least bit in awe of being in the presence of
one of the top telepathic Talents.

Oblivious to her reactions, he went on. "I've been
yearning to score on our gracious 'Milla." A flicker of
some quickly suppressed emotion shot across his face,
but Rhyssa could not decipher it. "All-out Talent as-
sistance, even at the expense of long-established links
with the public sector, at considerable personal sacri-
fice—'Milla doesn't pay the going rates, since hers is a
priority contract and has worldwide backing."

"She will not believe that money is not a considera-
tion . . ."

"Are you aware of the size of her bonus if she gets
the station fully operational on time?"

Rhyssa grinned. "One of the best-kept secrets of the
Talents. We also know the percentage she has to cough
up if she doesn't."

"You are well informed!" He paused with a hopeful
expression and then sighed as she merely smiled. "No,
I didn't think you'd tell me." He snagged the comer of
a graphic sheet from me pile and spread it out. "To
address your two points: six-hour shifts and shielding—-
very alliterative. I'm going to be able to use that as a
slogan, you know . . . Have you demonstrated the
problem?"

"How do you mean 'demonstrated'?"

"Time and motion studies, energy expenditures—that
sort of recordable data. Remember, I've seen your ki-
netics in action, but I doubt that Ludmilla or even Per
Duomi have taken the trouble to watch them work.
They've been too busy hitching about weightlessness
and the silence of space to appreciate the effort kinesis
actually takes. I thought you might not have thought of
that gimmick. So I had a chat with a Talent I know who
was up on the platform, and he gave me some remark-
able insights into the actual shift mechanics. If the day's
materiel was properly organized, the kinetic could put
everything in place for the grunts to lock on and weld.

"Then, the noise element. Samjan ran some of the
'noises' past me—" He grimaced and crossed his eyes
in sympathy, "—and I think if we did a tape simulation
of what a sensitive hears in unshielded quarters and
played it back ..."

"Not to Ludmilla. She insists there is no noise in
space."

"She's more of a Mute than I am."

"But I take your point. I hadn't thought of a trick
like that."

"No trick, my dear, just presentation—and that's
where I'm the expert." His grin was a mixture of im-
pudence and malice.

For the first time in her Talented life, Rhyssa found
herself fascinated by a Mute, and half of that fascina-
tion was due to the fact that she could not predict what
he would do or say next. It was fun matching wits with
him during subsequent interviews, giving the onerous
task an unexpected exhilaration.

Dave Lehardt was at her side for the initial meeting
with a Barchenka who oozed smug satisfaction that she
made no attempt to disguise. Rhyssa was hard put to
remain civil. Dave Lehardt talked so fast that the en-
gineer had to listen attentively to catch his points. Per
Duomi was, as usual, with her, but Rhyssa had been
spared another confrontation with Prince Phanibal.

"All we have had is talk, empty talk," Ludmilla Bar-
chenka said when Dave had explained the dual prob-
lems of short shifts and shielding. "Even the physically
impaired are able to work proper shifts in space: no
gravity, no sound!" She shot an accusatory look at
Rhyssa.

"Ah, but it is not gravity which is a problem, nor the
vacuum. Ludmilla Ivanova, I have arranged a demon-
stration ..."

"I have no time for demonstrations," the Exalted
Engineer stated dismissively. "I must return to the plat-
form. Already there are delays which must be recti-
fied."

"Understood, Engineer Barchenka," Dave said
soothingly, with just the right amount of respect and
understanding. "Perhaps Per Duomi will attend. This
demonstration is likely to put the basic problems into
proper perspective, and thus help us all resolve the main
problems with the maximum benefit to your project."

Duomi would be much easier to deal with—his mind
was not totally closed, although he was as dedicated to
me project as Barchenka. If they could prove their points
to him, they would be halfway to victory.

"I think she's disappointed she didn't have to invoke
that wretched statute," Rhyssa told Sascha later.

"D'you think we gave in too easily?" he asked.
"The news quotes Barchenka calling it the 'cowardly
capitulation of the effete.' "

"Let her. If we can just swing Duomi to our side."
Rhyssa frowned. "I don't see what else we could have
done. Dave Lehardt is running public-opinion polls.
One point is clear: Everyone wants Padrugoi to be fin-
ished, everyone wants someone else to work up there,
and everyone thinks people who volunteer for anything
are crazy."

The next day, Dave Lehardt and Rhyssa Owen took
Personnel Manager Per Duomi to the most prestigious
exercise complex in Jerhattan, a facility that occupied
me first nine floors of a Residential ziggurat near Cen-
tral Park. The largest gymnasium was set up with three
sets of stress-monitoring paraphernalia and technicians,
three pyramids of standard-size packages, a forldift, a
bevy of impartial observers, and the Complex director,
Menasherat ibn Malik, who had been a multiple Olym-
pic gold medalist for four times running.

Per Duomi was suitably impressed by ibn Malik. So
was Rhyssa, for the man exuded physical vitality and
competence. He also had no more Talent than Dave
Lehardt, who appeared well acquainted with him. Dave
stood by, a slight smile on his face, while ibn Malik
accepted Per Duomi's homage and conversed amiably
with him.

"Now, Manager Duomi," the Complex director said,
gesturing to the three men who entered from the side.
Stripped down to their shorts, they were all festooned
with wires, which were in turn hooked up to the ma-
chines. "Let me introduce you to Pavel Korl, bronze
medalist in heavyweight boxing; Chas Huntley, a fork-
lift operator with International Canning; and Rick Hob-
son, the kinetic."

Rhyssa was almost as bemused as Per Duomi as ibn
Malik made the introductions. Korl and Huntley were
big men, towering over Duomi and certainly making
Rick Hobson, who was average in height and build,
look insignificant.

"Now, if you would care to check the movables in
each pile. Manager Duomi, to assure yourself that they
are equal in weight ..."

Duomi complied, and it was clear that he had to
struggle to lift any of them.

"Then once our guinea pigs' wires are double-
checked, we can start the test—which is rather simple.
By muscle, by machine, and by mind, our subjects will
transfer their piles across the floor. The energy levels
required, the stress factors, and calories consumed will
be displayed on the monitors. Now," ibn Malik said,
moving to the big screen set in the wall for use at sport-
ing events, "on Padrugoi, three men will be doing ex-
actly the same in Q hangar." He spoke into his collar
mike. "If you're ready up at Padrugoi?" The big screen
lit up with a scene not dissimilar to the one around
them, except that all the men wore space suits. "In
space, our hand shifter is Jesus Manrique, the lifter is
operated by Ginny Stanley, and the kinetic is Kevin
dark. Are you all ready? On your marks—" The gold
medalist raised his arm. "Get set—go!" His arm came
down, and the activity on the gym floor and in Q hangar
commenced. ' 'This test will last an hour,'' he informed
Per Duomi, gesturing for the observers to take seats to
one side.

After the first few minutes, Per Duomi stopped
watching the burly figure of Korl manhandling the
packages down the floor, or Huntley zipping back and
forth on the loader. He kept his eyes either on Rick,
who had seated himself at a table and, with no visible
effort, kept a steady stream of packages flowing, or on
the platform kinetic, who was doing his work while
leaning against a stanchion. Occasionally Duomi flicked
a look at the monitors chattering out their hard copy.

Both Talents worked their way through their piles in
half the time it took the others. The instrumentation
proved that they had expended half again as much en-
ergy and used up twice as many calories.

When the test had been completed, Dave Lehardt
stripped the hard-copy sheets from all six printers.
Neatly folding them, he handed the sheaf to Per Duomi,
who took it without a word. The test subjects were all
thanked and left the gym, Rick Hobson throwing Rhyssa
an impudent wink as he walked by.

"You will, of course, wish to analyze the results of
this test with your own motion experts. Manager
Duomi," Dave Lehardt said, "but I'm sure you rec-
ognized the fact that weightlessness grants no bonuses
to the kinetic. As to the noise factor ..." The publicist
took a compact recorder from his hip pocket and
thumbed it on.

At the babel and squeaks and metallic groans. Per
Duomi covered his ears in defense and stared in shock
at Rhyssa.

"That is what a sensitive 'hears' on the station,"
Dave said, raising his voice and inserting his words in
between the worst of the noise. It was a fair selection,
representing the streams of consciousness of eighty
mentalities: resentments, complaints, shouts, pains, an-
gers, and myriad metallic noises that some of the ki-
netics endured. "With ten thousand people living up
there already, the mental noise is never-ending. So all
that garbage is a constant secondary drain on their
nerves, reducing their efficiency if they have no respite
from it in shielded quarters."

Having set the decibel rate herself, Rhyssa knew that
covering his ears gave Duomi frail protection, but she
did not reduce the volume until Dave had finished his
little speech.

"I see that you hadn't realized just what we meant
by noise," she said finally. "But the cost of shielding
personnel quarters for the kinetics is going to be less
than the cost of materiel lost or damaged due to tired
minds."

"You have made your points," Per Duomi said with
a grim expression. "I shall present them to Ludmilla
Barchenka."

"Present them and insure their implementation, Per
Duomi, and you will have the kinetic assistance you
require. Oh, and one other minor point," she added,
smiling to take the sting out. "Barchenka is to relay all
orders to the kinetics through the regular channels. We
will have no more of her rousting Talents out of their
quarters at inappropriate hours and insisting on 'extra
duty' because her schedule is two minutes out of line!
Have I made myself clear on that point?''

He nodded, his expression solemn.

Rhyssa hoped he could convince Barchenka.

CHAPTER 6

No, please! Peter Reidinger cried as the elec-
trician was about to disconnect the tri-d in the ward.
His cry was echoed by the other children.

"Look, kids, there's some kind of freaky drain on
the hospital's power supply, and we've finally traced it
to this ward. I gotta fix it, or some of your support
systems will go down when they shouldn't," the elec-
trician said with a hint of exasperation in his tone.

"No, wait, please," Peter said. "The program's all
about the space platform and the Talents."

"Huh?" The electrician took a better look at the
monitor.

"It'll only be a few minutes! Just the newscast!"
Peter pleaded.

"Wal, I guess-"

"Shhhh," Peter interrupted, straining to hear the
commentator. Not that he really needed the voice-over
to identify the scene as the estate of the late George
Henner, one of the earliest supporters of the parapsy-
chics. As the camera panned across the trees and lawns,
the boy was startled by the place's eerie familiarity.
This was the place he had sought—a place of tranquil
greenery and huge old trees and vine-covered buildings.
The place that had scared him away. And now he knew
why. They would not want to have their precinct in-
vaded. They needed their privacy to do all the wonder-
ful things they did. Like help to finish the last three
spokes of the Padrugoi Platform so that mankind could,
at last, reach for the stars.

"It's not only the Talented who are making a sacri-
fice," the commentator went on, still standing in that
marvelous oasis, "for Industry and Commerce have
granted leave of absence to their Talented employees to
assist with this final push out to space. Platform Man-
ager Ludmilla Barchenka announces that the most am-
bitious world project yet undertaken will be completed
on schedule. And now to other news in the Jerhattan
district ..."

"Okay, mister," Peter said, relaxing against his
frame. "That's what we wanted to see."

"You're not looking for a career in space, are you?"
the electrician asked, half-teasing. He was always a lit-
tle nervous around kids who were so badly injured.

Peter cocked his head at him. "Why not? With no
gravity, I wouldn't be stuck in this frame, and a push
of my toe or my little finger—" He waggled the two
extremeties, which were, after months of therapy, all
he could move. "—I could float about."

"Yeah, I guess you could. Now, nurse, can I start
with this frame?" the electrician asked, gesturing to the
multiple-tasking device that gave Peter what indepen-
dence he had in his condition.

"Yes, it's time for Peter's body-brace session any-
way," Sue Romero said. "C'mon, Peter."

"Aw, do I have to? Couldn't I watch what he
does?"

"No, the moment for positive thinking has come.
Let me see that limbic-system smile on your face."

Peter hated the body brace and the morning's 'tor-
ture session,' as he mentally categorized the therapy.
He felt heavy in the frame, his body more lifeless
than ever. "But see, I can move my big toe and my
little finger. Please ..."

"Hey, what the—?" the electrician exclaimed.

The diagnostic reader he had just hooked up had un-
expectedly registered a blip.

While Peter gamely concentrated on his body-brace
drills, the electrician checked out the bed's wiring,
but except for that one brief blip, he could find no
short, no dysfunction in any of the circuitry. By the
time an exhausted Peter was back in his bed, the
electrician had done a thorough test of all the spe-
cialized treatment electronics in the ward. Baffled by
the continual surges on the ward's circuits, the man
left a small monitor attached to the one piece of
equipment that had registered an abnormality, slight
though it had been, and left.

Peter knew by her face that Sue Romero was dis-
appointed in him. He did try to make his body re-
member how to move. The frame sent electrical
impulses into his atrophied muscles, the theory being
that the little jolts would restimulate neural and mus-
cular activity. He hated that intrusion into his body
even more than he hated being paralyzed.

"Peter, if you would only stop resisting the mech-
anism," Sue said reproachfully. "If you would only
go with it, instead of denying the help it could give
you. You could, you know, even get to the platform.
Your schoolwork was excellent—there'd be no prob-
lem with the educational end . . ," She trailed off,
fighting her own dispiritedness. Sometimes with the
very badly damaged children, she felt she was
pounding at the well-known immovable object—gen-
erally, as in Peter's case, the child itself.

The boy was exhausted, eyes closed, arms and legs
sprawled just as he had been rolled out of the body
brace. Sue Romero could not afford to pity him—it
was unprofessional and helped neither of them in his
rehabilitation—but she did. As she turned away, she
thought he was sleeping. She would have been
amazed to leam that he was reviewing that vision of
the Center, with its trees and lawns and . . . Rhyssa
Owen.

That night, Rhyssa was wakeful, going over and over
that telecast. She had felt good about it during filming.
Dave Lehardt had done his job well. They would, of
course, have to wait until opinions had been sampled, but
Rhyssa felt that Barchenka was coming out a poor second
at the moment, despite her apparent triumph at the cow-
ardly capitulation of the effete Talents. Rhyssa fretted that
she had somehow weakened the consolidated strength of
Talents and wondered how she could rectify what was
still, in the minds of most Talented, an untenable position
with Barchenka getting her way.

She felt then the gossamer touch—envious, yearning,
wistful, and so terribly sad that a sob clogged her throat.

Wait, little friend,. she murmured in the softest of
tones.

Say what? With the voice came mixed impressions
of startlement, sense of apology-denial-rejection, and
an astringent smell. And then the touch—timorous and
reluctant—was gone.

Rhyssa tried to follow, her touch feather soft, but the
retreat had been too swift, like a flicker of shadow
across the moonlight outside her window. She made a
quick note of the time: 3:43. Then she lay there savor-
ing that touch, examining it, letting her perception an-
alyze it.

Such swiftness suggested a young mind—no old
thoughts or experiences to slow the instantaneity of ac-
tion. A boy on a prank ... A boy? Doing an out-of-
body maneuver? A boy in a hospital—yes, a hospital
would account for the astringent odor—his movement
constrained so that only his mind could travel?

That fit the pieces together so perfectly that Rhyssa
got out of bed and paced over to the console.

"Bud, I want a call out to all hospital Talents," she
said, unable to keep the elation out of her voice.

"The peeper caught you again?"

"That's right. An adolescent boy, quite likely crip-
pled or paralyzed. I want to see who was awake on the
wards at three-forty-three this morning."

"The last thing you need tonight is some pimple-
faced nerd rousing you."

"On the contrary. Bud, I think that's exactly what I
did need. A youngster able to go out of body? He's got
to have fantastic potential."

"For what?" Budworth wanted to know.

"That," Rhyssa said with a surge of hope, "is what
we'll have to find out."

As she climbed back into bed, she had a lot to think
about before she could compose herself for sleep. How
long had it been since a new Talent that strong had been
identified? And what sort of a Talent was it? Even strong
telepathy did not leave an image, however transparent.
A new type of kinesis? Very few kinetics could move
themselves! Inanimate objects, yes, but animate ones,
no. Most out-of-body experiences were the results of
traumas and useless in a commercial sense—and theo-
rists still argued over whether the out-of-body phenom-
enon was a kinetic manifestation or a strong telepathic
projection.

Just remember, she told herself that it was the com-
mercial applications of Talents that provided us with
legal immunities, good jobs, and special status for the
past four score years . . . and let us get marvelously
complacent. Maybe it wasn't really "noise" that even
kinetics heard in space but some other form of inter-
stellar communication, a multilingual garble that they
were picking up. Open your mind up, gal. Look around
you. Look at Dave Lehaidt. He has to be Talented,
even if it won't register on a Goosegg graph.

Why, Rhyssa Owen, she asked herself, does Dave
Lehardt have to be Talented?

And that was the quandary she fussed over as she
finally slipped into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

"I discovered some interesting new facets of employ-
ment on the platform," Dave Lehardt told Rhyssa in
her office two days later. "Came out in further talks
with my platform contact, Samjan, and a few judicious
inquiries." He gave her a humorless grin. "The casu-
alties."

"Yes, the total is horrific." Rhyssa shuddered. "But
working in space there were bound to be some."

"Some?" Dave raised his eyebrows. "Some, yes,
but when I checked with Johnny Greene in Altenbach's
office, we found several different sets of figures on the
casualty rate."

Rhyssa straightened. When Dave had arrived unex-
pectedly, she had been busy reshuffling the rotas of the
Center's kinetics, steeling herself to endure their un-
derstandable reproaches and arguments. Any interrup-
tion was welcome.

"Then I got JG and Samjan together, and they both
did a bit of research," he went on, "and, using their
security clearances, they came up with what we think
are the real statistics." His expression was bleak, and
there was a stillness about his body that forewarned her.
"You know how the unemployed are terrified to be
conscripted to Padrugoi? They may not be Talented, but
they've got an instinct about baaaaaad situations. They
have good reason not to want to get conscripted. She
loses grunts at a frightening rate, far beyond the allow-
able. The major reason is because Barchenka's so
bloody-minded about keeping her Sacred Schedules, she
won't interrupt a shift to retrieve drifters!"

To be sure she understood his meaning, Rhyssa un-
consciously tried to read his mind. It was like stubbing
her toe on a stair raiser, and she blinked. "Run that
past me again, please, Dave," she asked, struggling
with confusion at her inability to read him the way she
was used to reading most of her friends.

"Surely you've seen the promotional footage," he

said, "with the grunts suited up and pushing gi-nonnous
sections of a spoke with the tips of their fingers or a
spare foot?"

"Yes ..."

"In the real working situation, not that mockup they
did for recruitment, a worker'll push too hard, and with
every action causing a reaction in space, the poor sod
goes spinning off into the dark deeps."

"Yes ..."

"Well, Barchenka doesn't stop work to rescue them.
Oh, no, anyone that stupid has to wait until the shift is
over before his buddies are allowed to go after him.
That is, if a skiff is available, and if the bod's been
tracked."

Appalled at the vivid scene his words evoked, Rhyssa
stared at him. "Is this public knowledge?"

He gave her a cynical look. "Why do you think the
grunts never take surface leave? It's not the fact that
they're paid so little that they can't afford surface leave,
or that there's no available space on shuttles for mere
grunts, or that they're unlikely to have any family to
visit on Earth. It's that they're plain not allowed back
down to tell anyone what's happening. The grunts are
also segregated so that even the observant among the
more elite employees don't know exactly what's going
on. It took both JG and Samjan and some long program
analyses to piece fact out of the publicly available fic-
tions."

"But all the recruitment films show safety lines
and ..." Part of Rhyssa crowed with delight at discov-
ering Barchenka resorting to very questionable tactics,
while another part balked at the enormity of the crime.

“That's promo footage, my dear director. The theory
is great. In practice, Barchenka dispensed with safety
lines—they kept getting tangled in equipment, slowing
down her precious work schedule. So safety lines are a
space myth.

"And Barchenka has such saving ways." Dave Le-
hardt perched his lean frame on the edge of her desk.
"For instance, we discovered by an analysis of records
that a suited grunt is given only enough air in his tanks
for that shift and maybe a sniff or two left over. Oh,
there's plenty of safety regs for the engineers and su-
pervisors and skilled technicians—but not the grunts.
She doesn't care what happens to them. There're plenty
more where they came from."

Rhyssa was outraged. "You just validated my in-
stincts about that woman. Law be damned, I won't ask
my kinetics to face such risks!"

Dave gave a snort. "They're far too valuable to be
risked. There'd be too much of a stink kicked up if a
drifting Talent wasn't retrieved right then. Overworked,
yes. Samjan confirmed the notion that eight-hour shifts
are another platform fallacy.

"On top of that conspicuous savings of consumables,
I uncovered several other little anomalies: grunt suits
have limited-range corn units. They can't be heard
shrieking for help! Might disturb their fellow workers."

Rhyssa stared at him aghast.

"There's also a high incidence of agoraphobia among
the grunts and genuine space cafard. But ailing grunts
are never transferred down. They just disappear! Acci-
dental death! Never suicide! Always accidental. After
all," he said, taking on a mock Russian accent, "ev-
eryone knows how dangerous it is to ignore safety
warnings and procedures. And then there appears to be
a neat little system which causes unexpected casualties
during the routine drills they so conspicuously hold from
time to time on Padrugoi." Dave paused again.
"Checking through medical records, it becomes appar-
ent that the unfortunate victims of those drill 'accidents'
are always either the injured or the headcases."

"Oh, my God, Dave!" Rhyssa propelled herself from
her chair to pace agitatedly up and down the tower
room. "Why haven't any of the precogs caught this?"

"According to your brief summary on Talents' 
capabilities, precogs usually latch onto large numbers,
Rhyssa. There are never enough—"

"Numerics is no excuse!" Rhyssa was surprised by
a vehemence that answered the despair in his voice. She
wondered if his mind, too, was filled with faceless
forms, twisting and turning in space, drifting farther
and farther from the network of lights that was the oasis
of air and warmth in the blackness, and a violent shud-
der seized her.

A warm hand cupped her shoulder. "Easy! Talent
spreads itself thin enough as it is. You're not God, or
gods, to mark each sparrow's fall."

She blinked and looked up at him. Though his mind
was as closed to her as ever, the sympathy and under-
standing in his warm blue eyes was obvious. She would
not tell him that Talents generally disliked tactile con-
tact—surprisingly enough, she had discovered that she
liked him touching her.

"Armed with this information, however, you can
spread Barchenka over a barrel." His voice was soft
and teasing. "If you see what I mean. Or, maybe you
Talents are too simon-pure to lower yourselves to out-
right blackmail."

"Not when the lives and safety of my Talents are at
risk, I'm not," Rhyssa declared stoutly. "Not to men-
tion those poor sods who've not even been given half a
chance to survive. I'll insist on short shifts and shields,
and we'll increase that ante to safety lines for everyone
working on the platform and the deployment of rescue
skin's. Or do skiffs have limited power and air on them,
too, so as to save costs?"

He crossed his arms on his chest, grinning at her.
"Your Talents wouldn't be at risk anyway, unless I've
misunderstood their capabilities. There's no way Bar-
chenka can pull the same tricks on them that she does
with the poor grunts. And unless your response is unique
among your ilk, I can't see your folk standing by for
some of her tricks, once they know what to look for.
Some of the kinetics are telepaths, aren't they?"

"Quite a few." Rhyssa gave a sardonic chuckle. "A
fact we haven't actually mentioned to Barchenka, whose
understanding of Talent is severely limited."

Dave let out a bark of laugh. "Not the whole truth
nor even half the truth, huh? Good girl, Rhyssa!" He
playfully knuckled her chin. "Is distance a problem?
Or the vacuum of space?" When Rhyssa shook her
head, he went on. "Well, you guys could sure be pop-
ular with the grunts because yo«"—he waggled his fin-
ger at her—"could be their insurance. A Talent could
haul back a drifter, couldn't he? Without asking for
permission during his shift, or waiting for a skiff?" He
gave her a broad smile. "That'll help a lot of ways.
Damned good PR, too. The best, because it proves that
the Talents will help the ordinary grunt where Bar-
chenka just simply hasn't!"

Rhyssa suddenly turned away, not wanting Dave to
see her expression. Sascha? she called. I've just found
the perfect job for Madlyn! Tell you later!

I can read your evil mind, Sascha said, and she's not
even on the list for the platform.

She is, as of right now, Rhyssa replied. How often
have you said that Madlyn could be heard at the space
platform? We'II just put it to the test! She smoothed her
expression and looked up at Dave Lehardt, who was
eyeing her keenly.

"Who were you talking to just then? And don't hold
out on me. I'm getting used to your ways, woman!"
His voice rippled with an odd emotion, and the gleam
in his eyes intensified.

Rhyssa's grin was half embarrassment at his scrutiny
and half delight with her inspiration. "We've got a tele-
path with an extraordinarily loud voice. We'll send her
up in an administrative capacity. Put her on a radar
scope, and she'll locate and reassure any drifters for the
nearest kinetic t&haul back to safety."

"Lady, you don't realize what a difference that could
make to morale up at the platform." Dave's grin was
so infectious that Rhyssa had to grin back. "Not only
is Barchenka unaware that she's her own worst enemy,
but her ignorance about Talent in general will prevent
her from realizing that she's just hired a battalion of
undercover agents."

"That's the beauty part!" Rhyssa said, grinning more
broadly. "Does Duomi? Or Prince Phanibal?"

Dave Lehardt considered briefly. "Prince Phanibal
might, but he's not on the platform as much lately-
some crisis in Malaysia that occupies a lot of his time.
Besides, I read him as being just ornery enough not to
tell her something as crucial at this time for the sheer
pleasure of watching her squirm. Now what's this
emergency clause Lance Baden wants added to the con-
tracts?"

"In case of a major emergency, we must be able to
bring Talents back down. You remember the floods last
monsoon on the Indian continent and that major shake
in Azerbaijan? We knew about each of them ten days
before, so we were able to muster help and reduce the
effect of the catastrophe. Sending her a hundred and
forty-four kinetics has wiped out our disaster-squad or-
ganization. We want a twenty-four-hour clause—to
bring key personnel back to Earth in time to cope here.''

"Can't you teleport 'em down?"

Rhyssa laughed. "No, more's the pity. Our Talents
are finite, definite, and nowhere near such a fantasy
application as instantaneous transmissions. That takes
more power than a human brain can generate."

"I thought the Moral Code on legitimate bio-
engineering permitted—"

"Hold it right there, Dave." Rhyssa held up a
warding hand. "Read the Code: congenital defects,
yes—manipulations, no. And I doubt any genetic en-
gineer would monkey with the brain yet—even a
monkey's brain."

"If you can find one. Though don't you think it's
likely that someone has been doing illicit experimenta-
tion, the world being what it is these days?"

"That's cynical of you, Dave."

"Sometimes- saying no is registering a challenge,"
he replied with a shrug. "I wouldn't nile out the pos-
sibility."

"Meanwhile," Rhyssa said, bringing the discussion
firmly back to relevant matters, "I'd very much like to
see a full report on what JG and Samjan have been
discovering about platform personnel problems."

Dave grinned, taking three diskettes from a breast
pocket. "I thought you might. Gives you a stronger
bargaining position for shields, short shift—"

"Safety lines and skiffs," Rhyssa finished, taking the
diskettes but letting her fingers linger on his a little lon-
ger than the transactions required. "I thank you, sir."
What on earth was happening to her in Dave Lehamt's
presence? She felt as giddy as—as Madlyn could be in
Sascha's company.

When Per Duomi, Prince Phanibal Shimaz, and two
other minor officials, one of them the accommodations
officer, arrived to settle the minor details, Dave Lehardt
had another presentation that altered the proceedings.
Rhyssa, sitting with Max Perigeaux, Gordie Havers,
and Lance Baden, found the meeting eminently satis-
fying.

Showing the accurate fatality statistics—figures that
bleached all color from the faces of Duomi and the
prince—Dave Lehardt talked knowledgeably of some of
the "minor" problems that the Talents would be will-
ing to undertake, such as the retrieval of any suited
workers experiencing "malfunction of suit jets," and
telepathic contact "with those using short-range corn
units," plus monitoring systems; they would also in-
clude among the Talents two with broad diagnostic ca-
pabilities. Dave pointed out that the savings on skiff
fuel and man-hours required for retrieval would more
than compensate for the cost of shielding required in
Talent accommodations.

Nor was there any discussion about the emergency
clause. Lance Baden announced that he was to be Tal-
ent liaison with the engineering staff and that was that.

And what were they saying about cowardly capitu-
lations? Lance commented.

Rhyssa was so weary from accumulated stresses that
she experienced no elation at having forced every single
concession out of the Padrugoi officials. She wanted
nothing more than a quiet supper and some mental
peace. Per Duomi had a natural shield, but the other
project representatives at the meeting had not, and when
their initial euphoria at coercing Talents onto the work
force was burst by hard facts and figures and compro-
mises, their emotional responses of anger, horror, and
embarrassment had been hard to deflect.

Sascha: I've cleared everyone out of the first floor.
Relax!

Rhyssa: Oh, you are a pet!

Sascha: Lot of good it does me! But she knew he was
only teasing.

Rhyssa entered the Henner house, appreciative of the
deep silence in the elegantly appointed rooms. Very lit-
tle had been altered from the days of George Henner,
the parapsychics' first benefactor: all had been lovingly
preserved in his memory. The subterranean offices, the
annexes, and her tower were modem, with state-of-the-
art technology, but the main reception rooms were re-
minders of more leisurely times. The kitchen, where
modem appointments were hidden behind old-fashioned
cupboards, exuded an aura of comfort—it was spacious,
with an archaic but working fireplace, a huge table, and
comfortable chairs. The dining portion faced onto the
gardens at the rear of the main house, bright with
blooms and bushes.

Some thoughtful kinetic had activated the kettle. She
made herself a cup of tea, found sandwiches in the
crisper, and kicking off her shoes, curled up in one of
the wing chairs.

There was something amazingly restorative about
looking out onto the garden, watching the flowers move
in the light breeze. She set her mind adrift, savoring
the quiet, despite the deep-seated nagging presentiment.

"I'm not a precog," she told herself and sipped her
tea. "What I am feeling is just reaction to the last few
hectic days. A quite natural depression."

Then she felt me touch, once again colored with wist-
fulness and a deep sadness that pierced her to the heart,
making her own malaise seem insignificant.

She dared not reach out for fear of startling the boy.
Boy he was, and despairing. Had her transitory unease
triggered a response from him midday? Or was it his
need seeking consolation? What could so desolate a
young person? One could endure detached misery-
tragedy happening at a distance to people one had never
met—but to feel the palpitating misery of another person
was an intense experience.

Delicately she impinged on the boy's mind, hoping
to gain some clue to his whereabouts. He was dreading
something, and the yearning for trees and lawn and
flowers and someplace that was not hospital had precip-
itated the nebulous contact. And her mind, less con-
trolled than usual in its weariness, had attracted his.
Dreading what? She inserted the question.

The body brace!

Rhyssa had not expected an answer. She tried to keep
the lightest of contacts, though, oddly enough, he felt
very close at that moment. Isn't it meant to help? she
asked cautiously.

It doesn't. It hurts. It's artificial, it's awful. It's a
cage. The bed is bad enough. I don't want to. I—don't—
want—to!

A wail from the depth of a forlorn and comfortless
mind reached her—then it was abruptly cut off.

"We got another one of those surges this afternoon—
usually we get 'em at night," the hospital's maintenance
man said as he held up the printout to the consultant en-
gineer whom the concerned hospital administration had
finally called in.

The engineer peered at the peak, a sudden sharp devi-
ation lasting seventy-two seconds. He asked for the other
anomalies and was presented with further examples.
"Shouldn't be any drain on the systems at three-forty-
three, three-oh-three, three-fifty-two, or three-thirteen.
You've checked all the equipment?"

"I put meters on several floors. Got a blip on PedOrth
Ward Twelve when I was installing it. So I took every-
thing apart on that ward and there wasn't nothing mal-
functioning. Craziest thing I've ever seen. And you
know how Admin is when you got outages and anom-
alies with all them life-support systems hooked up.
Funny though, nothing in the ICUs."

"Okay, screen me your schematics for all the equip-
ment on PedOrth and see what's being used there." The
engineer sighed heavily—he could see it was going to
be one of those days.

A stir around the beds in the circular ward alerted
Peter Reidinger, and he blinked away the screen that
blocked his view. A very old lady stood in the doorway,
Miz Alien hovering with her "you'd-better-behave"
look on her face as she glanced around the ward to be
sure everything was in order for the visitor.

Instantly Peter's attention was riveted on the lady.
She was different. That became more apparent to him
as Miz Alien began to introduce her to the kids in the
ward. Cecily even smiled and answered the lady. Cec-
ily was a spina bifida case who "ought" to have been
corrected in utero but had not been. Osteomyelitis had
caused her to have one leg amputated, and her recovery
from that operation was very slow. She rarely opened
up to other people—and particularly not to strangers—
so her response to the old lady was a minor miracle.
Peter was in a sweat of anticipation by the time the lady
reached him.

"This is Peter Reidinger, Ms. Horvath." The way
Miz Alien cocked her right eyebrow told Peter that he
had better behave himself.

Ms. Horvath just smiled down at him, her eyes twin-
kling, and they were not at all old, or rheumy, or hard.
He wondered she let herself look so old.

I promised my husband that I would grow old grace-
fully, she startled him by saying. That way I wouldn't
surprise people so much when I don't act my age.

Peter goggled at her. She had not moved her lips—
and yet he had heard her voice clearly in his mind.

"Peter ..." Miz Alien prompted him.

"Pleased ta meetcha!" Peter managed to get out. Miz
Alien cleared her throat wamingly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Alien, I'll just chat a bit with
Peter," Dorotea Horvath said, pulling a chair to Peter's
bedside and dismissing Miz Alien in a manner that
astounded the boy. Miz Alien doesn't really believe in
telepathy and Talents. And we just haven't had the
chance to go around the pediatric wards lately. So we
missed you.

"Missed me?"

Dorotea smiled again, a smile that was magical be-
cause it seemed to envelop Peter with warmth and car-
ing. The hard knot of self-pity and resentment that had
been building up at the thought of another body-brace
session dispersed.

"That is, until you started visiting Rhyssa."

"Rhyssa?"

Into his mind came a new touch. I'm Rhyssa. I sent
Dorotea to you because you run away from me. Doro-
tea says you can't run away from her right now, Peter
Reidinger. Please come live with us where I know you
long to be.

"Now that you've had an official invitation, will you
accept?" Dorotea asked, brimming over with amuse-
ment at his stunned reaction.

"But I can't. I'm crippled. I can't go anywhere ..."

Ahahahaha! Dorotea chided him, still smiling. A boy
who can go out of body on tours of Jernattan at three
in the morning is no cripple!

"But I can't use the body brace!" Peter was horrified
to hear himself blubbering and to feel tears streaming
down his face. He had not cried in months.

Crying's a natural release for emotional pressures,
Dorotea said as she blotted his cheeks matter-of-factly.
All that manly repression has also been blocking Tal-
ent. I do believe that the brace also posed an inhibition.
I think it short-circuited natural ability. We'll sort it
out. Cytbat I'm positive.

And suddenly Peter had no doubt at all.

"First, of course, we have to get your parents' per-
mission." Dorotea was always practical. "Do you think
they'll mind?"

"Mind?" Peter nearly shouted. He knew that the
hospital fees, even with the huge compensation the city
was forced to pay since he had been injured on city-
owned property, had been a terrible financial drain on
his parents. His mother came to see him regularly, but
his father's visits grew fewer and shorter. His mother
always had some plausible explanation for Dad's ab-
sence, but Peter had not been fooled.

Suddenly Dorotea's eyes widened in pleased surprise.
"I don't think you'll need much training after all," she
said, pointing at him.

"What?" And at that moment Peter realized that he
was hovering above his bed—and that an alarm just be-
neath it had gone off.

Rhyssa! Dorotea's mental shout was a very welcome
diversion for Rhyssa.

The Eastern director had not been able to make that
first contact for several reasons, the foremost one being
the Padrugoi priority. The other reason was that Dor-
otea was still the most accurate Talent diviner in the
entire world, with the deftest touch to allay fear and
suspicion.

Rhyssa, Peter Reidinger reeks of Talent. I can't
imagine why the resident didn't tumble to it a long time
ago, despite the fact that Peter's been suppressing his
natural feelings to be considered a brave boy. Being in
a hospital situation, he 'd have to blank out all periph-
eral static or get wound up in everyone else's pain.
Though he's not your garden-variety kinetic or tele-
path. In fact, I've never touched anyone quite like him.
One thing's sure, he no more needed a body brace than
you need a videophone.

Can you expedite his release to us? Rhyssa asked.

In my best granny mode! I don't anticipate any trou-
ble with the family—they've been struggling under the
medical costs. I gather the father has trouble visiting
his "crippled" son. They should regain some perspec-
tive now that Peter'II be able to pay his own way.

How medical is he?

Dorotea gave a mental snort. With a little help from
his friends, he won't be medical past the gate of the
Center. Whoops! We've just been charged by an irate
electrician and a stupefied consultant, and—my God!

Dorotea broke off contact, startling Rhyssa—Dorotea
usually had no trouble double-talking. Rhyssa waited
for the old woman to come back and explain her abrupt
disappearance. After three minutes with no further word
from her, Rhyssa reluctantly resumed her immediate
task.

Worried about Dorotea and the boy, it was difficult
for her to keep her mind on the reassignment of kinetic
Talents, but the-matter had to be cleared up as soon as
possible. The Eastern Center would be left with just ten
to do the work of thirty, along with five trainees who
could be slotted into some of the less exacting hoist
work. Airshuttle clients, passengers or commercial,
were just going to have to wait longer to collect their
luggage; all construction firms would lose kinetics, save
those on two nearly completed projects where kinesis
was the only way to safely install heavy equipment on
the uppermost stories.

She and Miklos Horvath, Dorotea's grandson on the
West Coast, also had to arrange "fetch and cany"
teams, telepaths and kinetics who could work in tandem
and at long distance. But such skills were exhausting
and would have to be reserved for emergencies.

Dave Lehardt had come up with yet another valid
suggestion that might not improve relations with Bar-
chenka and Duomi but would certainly make more ef-
fective use of the four-hour shift of each kinetic.

"I looked at some of the motion studies," he had
told her, "and some videos of an actual working day.
Samjan mentioned that he spent a good portion of every
shift on Padrugoi doing nothing—waiting until materiel
was organized from the storage yard or bins, or while
the engineers sorted out minor discrepancies. So I got
Samjan and Bela Rondomanski, who was Space Lab
designer, together with Lance Baden, who's a trained
engineer. Bela said a lot of the delays on Space Lab
were caused by a chronic disorganization in Supply.
Lance said that the problems hadn'-t been completely
solved when he did two tours at Padrugoi, but one of
Barchenka's strengths is her organizational skills. Take
them one more step forward, and, in a four-hour shift,
a kinetic can get everything in a spoke section lined up
so that all the grunts need to do during the next twenty
hours of shift time is give a tiny shove and the elements
will fall into place.

"Of course, it'll mean a good deal of reorganization
in the stores and materiel already up at Padrugoi, and
maybe some shipment rearranging, lighting a fire under
the taidy suppliers, but the time spent doing that will
cut down on the man-hours upstairs."

"Duoml's returned to the station," Rhyssa said.

"We'll just borrow Hangar Q again for another handy
little demonstration. I'll work out the details. Hey,
you're looking mighty good today. New hairstyle? Sure
shows off your skunk streak." Her screen diffused on
another of his famous confidence-inspiring grins.

Skunk streak indeed, she thought, her fingers
smoothing it back. At least he had noticed. With a sigh,
she went back to her analyses, until she realized that
she had not heard another squeak from Dorotea.

Then, as abruptly as the contact had been broken,
Dorotea returned.

Well, I said I'd come back as soon as I could. It's
too soon to be sure what he does do, Rhyssa, but he
apparently taps into electrical sources. He's been
glitching the hospital circuits fit to drive the electrician
and a high-priced consultant barmy. And it also ex-
plains why he couldn't cope with the body brace: the
impulses which were fed directly into his synapses were
short-circuiting inherent abilities, so the poor lad was
trying to cope with an overload. Sue Romero is in bits
thinking of all she's been doing to Peter, and he's in a
state because he had no way of explaining why the body
brace was all wrong for him. . . and the head nurse, Miz,
Alien, is one of those by-the-bookers and compounded the
problem. Oh, his family are delighted, especially to know
that Peter will not be "handicapped"—but their heads
read "crippled, useless, financial drain. " It'll be stan-
dard contract until he's eighteen and fully trained. Here's
one kinetic Barchenka won't get her space gloves on!

When can you bring him home?

We're on our way! Dorotea replied triumphantly. Get
Roddy's room in my house ready. She shot Rhyssa a
mental glimpse of Space-Force posters on every wall,
models of space' shuttles, mass passenger hotels,
stealths, space labs, and generation ships descending
from the ceiling, and a bunk bed with desk space be-
low. Nothing could be more distant from the antiseptic
environment he's been living in for months.

The physical meeting between Rhyssa Owen and Pe-
ter Reidinger was not quite an anticlimax. Dorotea had
warned her that Peter's mother and older sister were
accompanying him in the heli-amb, excited but slightly
apprehensive at his new circumstances.

llsa Reidinger was a pleasant enough woman, terribly
concerned for and certainly extremely proud of her Pe-
tey. She struggled with a less than congenial job in
order to help meet the medical bills. The sixteen-year-
old sister, Katya, was what Dorotea called "pushy,"
trying to figure out how her brother's good fortune might
spill over on her and disgruntled that Peter had Talent
and she had none. Dorotea said that Katya resented Pe-
ter because the cost of his hospitalization had kept her
from having many of the things that she, the elder child,
ought to have been able to enjoy. Perfectly understand-
able reaction, Dorotea told Rhyssa as the women deftly
maneuvered Peter's gumey into Dorotea's house and on
through into Roddy's room.

Both telepaths could feel Peter's spirit lifting as he
saw the unmedical furnishings and artifacts.

"But how'll you do all that has to be done for him
all the time?" Ilsa Reidinger began in surprise.

"Oh, Peter’ll only need a little help in the beginning,
Mrs. Reidinger," Dorotea said. Her mental Alley oop
was the signal for Rick Hobson to "lift" Peter up into
the bunk bed. "Now, let's all clear out and let him
settle himself in. And," Dorotea added as she shooed
everyone before her, "the heli-amb is waiting to take
you and your daughter home. Here's the vid number.
As you saw, Peter has a set in the room. Call him any
time. Unlike the hospital, here you can see what mis-
chief he's getting into. All right?"

Dorotea's positive manner made refusal impossible,
and soon the heli-amb was thunking its way up out of
the Center's grounds.

Rick, hook me up a line from the 4.5-kpm generator
in the garden shed and bring it right into the room with
Peter, Dorotea requested.

What is this all about? Rhyssa demanded.

I 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 painIdespondencyIanguishIguilt, 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.

"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."

"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: Well, 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: I 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: I 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,
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

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-
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."

llsa 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 do?” Ilsa 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,

"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 Ilsa 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 llsa 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 Ilsa asked more timorously, "Would Petey go
into space?" In her very audible public mind, Ilsa 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. Ilsa 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?"

"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?"

Ilsa 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,
Ilsa 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
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."

How many know of our Petey boy?

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

I 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—
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 that.”

"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-
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 the 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,
Daffyd 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."

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 Tirla 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 day work to keep out of Conscriptive
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.

Tirla 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. . ."

Tirla 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 Tirla to translate the medical bulletins for her.

So, Tirla 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-
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, " Tirla 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."

Tirla 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 Tirla 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 Tirla 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."

Tirla 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 Tirla was quicker, moving to flatten herself
against the Concourse pillar. She had heard enough
anyhow and left.

So this Religious Interpreter, this RIG, had a rep-
utation? As Tirla 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, Tirla 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,
Tirla thought cynically. Well, Religious Interpretations
were very popular in Linears, better than fights some-
times and often more showy. Tirla 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
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 Tirla 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 Tirla's birth, would al-
ways defend the girl, Tirla was committed on two
counts to attend.

Prepared with several contingency plans, Tirla 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 Tirla was absolutely
the only person who would faithfully tell them every-
thing he said. There was a limit, however, to how many
people Tirla 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, Tirla 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.

* * *

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

CHAPTER 8

Tirla 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 Tirla 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, Tirla 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.

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? Tirla wondered. Didn't
he trust her? As her camouflage dropped one arm to cup
his hand to his mouth to shout a direction, Tirla 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 Tirla 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 Tirla knew what he was doing there.
With equal certainty, Tirla 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. Tirla 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 Tirla
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 Tirla 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 Tirla to their segment of the circle. Mirda
jammed Tirla tight against her angular body while
Mama Bobchik somehow got ahold of Tirla's free arm,
effectively pinning her between the two formidably large
women.

"He's here," Tirla 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'll 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?''

Tirla 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 Tirla.
Tirla 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 Tirla
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 Tirla 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! Tirla 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 Tirla 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 Tirla, 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
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,
Tirla 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, Tirla 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. Tirla 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, Tirla 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. Tirla 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 Tirla 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 Tirla
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," Tirla 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."

Tirla 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-
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 Tirla 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.

Tirla, 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. Tirla
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!"

Tirla 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
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, Tirla 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.

Tirla 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 ..."

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

More syllables and almost-words that Tirla 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?" Tirla
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? Tirla wondered. Hair,
face, and throat of the mark were shimmering with
gold; the man's expression was first ludicrous and then
ecstatic. Tirla 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 Tirla 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 Tirla 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 Tirla'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 Tirla back.

"Break it, Cyoto. Help me, Lao Wang. Elpidia!
Zaveta!" Tirla 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 Tirla.

As she had done before in such situations, Tirla
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
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, Tirla 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
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.

I 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: I 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
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
pastel-covered duvet and started dressing.

”As neat a 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.

I 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 I 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
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
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: I 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.

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 the heli.

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

"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 
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."

I 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.

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
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.

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.

"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?''

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—I 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."

"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.

"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: I 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. I 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," 
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.

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 Tirla 's fault."
Tirla is, I think, a feminine name.

"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,
Tirla—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 Tirla'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
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 Tirla 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. Tirla 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-
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!

Tirla woke suddenly, jolted out of her exhausted sleep
by someone calling her name softly and appealingly.
Tirla 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, Tirla 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 Tirla.
None of them was pretty or young, or even on the lay—
not with their husbands!

The noise of search was diminishing, and carefully
Tirla 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,
Tirla 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?"

"We believe so, even if we don't know specifically
why."

Carmen regarded him with some surprise. "It's a
lovely clear mind. Like a bell—when she's asleep. She's
wary and cautious awake, that one. I can touch her but
not read her. And with her in the darkness, I can't even
help you home in on her."

"She'll come out in good time."

Carmen shot a look that suggested that Sascha Roz-
nine might—this once—be wrong. He grinned and
winked as he turned to leave her quarters.

* * *

"Frankly, Sascha, we've run everything we got on the
people Flimflam fingered for Yassim," Boris Roznine
said, tossing a sheaf of hard copy onto the desktop, "and
we can't find a common denominator. They're mostly
able-bodies, doing enough work to keep away from Con-
scriptive Work Services, only minor misdemeanors on
their sheets, none of 'em known to gamble or dip."

Sascha smiled knowingly and felt his brother poke at
his mind, but he kept his shield in place. He could do
that to Boris, whereas Boris could not keep him out at
all. "You've had a hard thirty hours, so I'll tell you.
They were all fathers.''

"What?" Blood suffused Boris's face.

"Flimflam had accessed ordinary info on residents of
the Linear. Mind you, it was so simple we didn't see it
at first. Bertha's sensitive to females and children, Auer
to the blacker side of life."

Boris scrubbed at his head. "Sometimes it is the sim-
ple things we miss. So Flimflam was fingering fathers
with likely youngsters, and the girl was a bonus?"

"I guess, and we're still in the daric about her," Sa-
scha added, aware of his brother's next query. "Car-
men's latched, but the girl's cautious and hasn't moved
since she went to ground."

"Scared?"

"Strangely enough, no. I'd hazard that she's had to
keep a low profile before. She's a preteen and illegal."

"That will sharpen the senses."

"How're you doing with Yassim's operation?"

"We figure he picked up at least nineteen children,
maybe a few more." Boris grimaced. "We collected
eight hundred and three illegal kids from Linear G. If
what Harv believes is possible—mat every one of the
related mothers has been having a kid a year—we're
minus a possible forty. We located eighteen of that forty
in a storage basement, but they've got the entry jammed.
We're working on it." Boris shook his head. "They
really will be better off in hostels."

"And in space?" Sascha asked wryly.

"Even in space they have a better chance than stale-
mated in a Linear."

"But they won't be able to reproduce themselves."
Sascha had never approved of the law that required the
sterilization of illegal offspring.

Boris raised his hands in resignation. "I don't make
the laws, Sascha. I only enforce them." Then he leaned
forward and tapped up a new program on his big screen.
"All right. Now, we have to find Yassim in his warren
and save nineteen kids or more from him.''

"She's moved, Sascha," Carmen said, her tone half-
triumphant, half-anxious.

Sascha consulted his watch. '”This time of day?''

"Linear will be crowded with those coining off
work."

"Keep as close as you can to her."

"It's very difficult, Sascha. It's almost as if she isn't
seeing the things she's looking at. I can't get a real fix,
except that there are people all around her. Wait! She's
stopped. No, that's no good. All I get is a mass of
standard-issue clothing. She's still in a crowd."

"I'm in touch with our teams on the main levels of
G. Just give us a direction. Carmen. Any direction."
Alert to our quarry! he added in a mental call to Cass
and Suz.

Tirla was relieved that it had been Mirda Khan she
first came across. Mirda was full of the whole affair,
her black eyes snapping with indignation and a certain
sly malice that she had not suffered at the hands of the
Public Health—it had been a long time since her womb
had borne fruit. But she had the grace to mourn her
friends' losses, of both their existing children and their
hope of more.

"They will see how hard it is for those of us who
have no children to sell.''

"Was that why Yassim was there? To buy chil-
dren?"

"Why else?" Mirda lifted her shoulders in an elo-
quent shrug. "He would have no interest in spiritual
things."

"Did he get them all?" Tirla was aghast. Yet if a
big score put Yassim in a very good mood, he would
be easier for her to deal with over the matter of the
tieds she had been unable to wash.

"No, they got most of them. Yassim cannot have
many, but those he got he got for nothing!" Mirda was
indignant. "No price was paid to their grieving mothers
and fathers. They ran into his arms to escape the LEOs.
Ran! And no credits exchanged, not even a bargain
made. Oh, he will not dare to enter G again." Then
suddenly Mirda latched steely fingers into Tula's shoul-
der. "What was the Lama-shaman saying? You didn't
tell us. Aiiiye, and to increase insult, you did not even
have the grace to accept the strand mat chose you. You
have earned the undying hatred of Bilala and Pilau for
not accepting his choice."

Tirla wrenched herself free. "Choice? I am nothing-
why would he choose me? I think he missed. Tell Bilala
that I think he was aiming for her and missed. But, as
for what he said, you missed nothing. That Lama-
shaman spewed stupid syllables only. Not a proper word
in any language. Even in his head he wasn't using real
words. He didn't mean to. He is a sham man, not a
shaman. It was all set up for the Public Health to raid
Linear G."

"How could that be?" Mirda was startled. "No, it
could not be. Not with traders there with all their goods
and some of it not things the LEOs should discover on
them. And certainly not when Yassim, and every lad-
rone, hitter, and sassin he employs, were also present.
They would have known. Perhaps the strand was meant
for Bilala, as you said. She felt that was proper for her,
too, you understand, for she has been worthy. A woman
who has borne a child every year for her husband.
Aiyyee, and they have taken that from her now, and his
pride from him. He will reproach her until the day of
her death." Mirda began to beat herself across her
breasts, and Tirla used the distraction to slip away.

So, Yassim had children from G and had not paid for
them. And she had tieds that she could not deal for him,
which she had better return. If he had enough children,
men with luck he would not take her.

It was wrong of Bilala to hate her. Tirla wished that
she had asked Mirda if any more of her clients did. It
was essential for Tirla to stay on good terms with ev-
eryone in Linear G. She was just as illegal. Bilala or
Pilau could be spiteful enough to turn her in, as a token
revenge for the loss of their own children. Unless . . .

Unless Tirla could get a price for the children who
had run into Yassim's clutches. She knew where he
kept such merchandise. It would depend on who he had
taken.

She skipped down a side aisle where, looking around
to be sure she was not observed, she yanked at a con-
duit grille. It resisted, and she saw that the screws had
been replaced. She felt inside the grille to be sure there
were no wires or eyes, but this was a small opening,
one only a very small or thin child could have used,
and had not been staked out. She got out the vibro-blade
she had earned for some long-forgotten favor and
sheered off two screws. Then she climbed into the dark
conduit.

Carmen was exasperated. Just when I had a good
placement—or thought I did—she's gone into the dark
again. No, wait, Sascha, there's light around her now.
She's in some sort of a cramped tunnel.

Sascha: Uses the bloody conduits like a subway. I'll
have the schematic of G on my screen for the next year
at this rate.

Carmen: Think how well you 'II know the innards of
a Residential by then.

Sascha: Thanks. Keep track of our mole.

Carmen: Wait a minute, Sascha, I think she's moving
out of G.

Sascha, startled: How can she?

Carmen: She's in the underground. Red light. The
freight subways are the only tunnels illuminated in red,
aren't they?

Sascha: Omigod, which direction has she gone?

Sascha, Cass here. Mirda Khan was just seen talking
with our quarry. Khan insists that the girl escaped from
her. I'll believe that when pigs fty.

Sascha: What were they talking about?

The meeting, Flimflam, Yassim. Khan has gone into
panic and isn't making much sense. She's afraid—
there's suddenly a real big dollop of guilt, anxiety,
mainly fear. For herself and just a little for Tirla.

Sascha: Boris! Our quarry may be venturing into one
of Yassim's industrial territories. Alert your surveil-
lance.

At his desk in the Parapsychic Tower, Sascha Roz-
nine experienced the sort of frustration that plagued few
Talents. Hardened criminals were easier to apprehend
than one preadolescent child who looked nearly half her
actual age. And what on earth was the child doing in
Yassim's territory? She would have done better to crawl
back into her very secret hidey-hole. He was tormented
with memories of the pix of vivisected child bodies.

CHAPTER 10

Barchenka was furious when informed that she
would be deprived of her strongest kinetics for the week
it would take to mitigate the monsoon flooding. She first
cried mutiny, then grand larceny, but was brought up
short by her own Station Authority, who pointed out
that the Talents had a legal right to attend major dis-
asters such as the one that undeniably existed in the
Bangladesh flooding. Also, the pilot was an off-duty
volunteer, and there had been no damage to the Eras-
mus, which he had returned to Padrugoi as soon as
Woomera cleared him for a launch.

Massive efforts in shoring up the levees and careful
manipulation of the barriers and dams prevented the
Ganges from turning the lower portion of Bangladesh
into a vast lagoon from Bogra to the sea. Still, whole
towns had to be evacuated and necessary supplies
shifted, difficult even kinetically in the appalling con-
ditions. The force of the channeled flood did inundate
Chittagong and coastal towns below it, but not as dis-
astrously as the precog had predicted. Talent once again
had reduced the impact of a major natural catastrophe.

Peter Reidinger, on the other hand, slept late into the
next morning, but when Don Usenik checked him over,
he seemed none the worse for his major gestalt effort.
But mere was no doubt that his achievement had altered
him: he neither floated nor essayed to walk—he strut-
ted, chin high, with a slightly superior smirk on his
face.

"What was the saying? 'Power tends to corrupt, and
absolute power corrupts absolutely'?" Sascha asked
Rhyssa, peevish in his frustration over the lost girl.
"He's insufferably smug this morning."

Dorotea gave a snort. "Don't overreact, Sascha! He's
got a right to crow. Perfectly natural in anyone, espe-
cially a fourteen-year-old boy whose only available
movement until recently was tonguing a switch or
blinking his eyes at tri-d to change channels. Pretty
heady stuff to save a country. I scanned him pretty
deeply at brunch while he was still sleepy, and there's
nothing in his mind that smacks of corruption." She
grinned. "A bigger generator, more derring-do, and
plenty of self-satisfaction."

"Lighten up, Sascha-bear," Rhyssa said, smiling en-
couragingly. "Or don't you remember some of the
tricks you and Boris pulled at that age?"

“A telepath can't get into quite the same sort of trou-
ble a kinetic can," Sascha said, grimly thinking of a
girl rumbling in red-lit freightways. What was her Talent?

"Peter's got a fine sense of integrity, Sascha,"
Rhyssa said. "He's sensitive and sensible. We have to
think how to bring him back to cruel reality after his
minor miracle."

"A diversion usually helps," Dorotea remarked with
a gleam in her eyes. "I used that ploy often with my
lads." She wrinkled her nose and sighed. "All too of-
ten."

"It's going to have to be pretty good to distract him
from the Erasmus stunt," Sascha said with uncharac-
teristic gloom.

Rhyssa was distracted from the conversation by the
mental hail of Johnny Greene. Rhyssa, you guys called
a G and H. Did it have something to do with the spec-
tacular landing and takeoff of the Erasmus?

One of the phones on Rhyssa's desk rang, and being
nearest, Sascha picked it up.

"Yes, Dave? No, Rhyssa's got a call on her mind.
Can I help?" He listened for a moment and then re-
placed the handset, his face grimmer than ever.

Johnny, Rhyssa was saying, it's very complicated.

Sascha: You haven't heard the half yet, dear. Dave's
got bad news for us, too. Ludmilla 's claiming that we 've
perjured our immortal souls and deliberately falsified
our Register.

Johnny: Vemon's had all kinds of flak from NASA,
the Space Authorities, the Padrugoi Authority . . .

Rhyssa, fiercely: Remind Vemon what kinetics are
doing on the Indian continent. Sascha, tell Dave that
his public pitch is that, despite all odds, Talent has kept
its covenant of disaster assistance. And I want Johnny
and Dave up here as fast as they can make it. Partic-
ularly you, Greene. To Dorotea, she said, "I think Pe-
ter's immediate illusions of grandeur are going to be
heavily dampened."

Boris entered the telepathic conference. The Power
Resources commissioner is also demanding an expla-
nation for a G and H that caused last night's brownout
and wiped out all his power reserves, he said plain-
tively. The city commish wants a lot of answers. Sas-
cha, you heard anything?

Sascha, savagely: No!

Vsevolod Gebrowski, urgently: Rhyssa, Barchenka is
out to get you! And there's nothing I can do to distract
her. I told her G and H. Her telempaths have explained
that this is a Talent emergency code which needs no
elaboration. She does not accept that.

Rhyssa: You tell Ludmilla from me that she's had
plenty of secrets she doesn 't share, like early-completion
bonuses, as well as fines on delays. I don't question
her; she doesn't question me.

Vsevolod: She does. I warn you.

Dorotea, helpfully: Amalda Vaden sees nothing un-
toward.

Rhyssa: Why did you bring her in on this?

Dorotea: I think we need all the reassurance we can
get.

Sascha: Dave Lehardt, Gordie Havers, and two top
NASA generals are on the same heli with Johnny.

Rhyssa remembered how satisfied Peter had looked
after dealing so beautifully with the Erasmus crisis. She
groaned. "He's only fourteen."

Carmen: Sascha, I've got a fix on her.

Sascha was out the door in a flash. Good luck!

Rhyssa: Right back at you!

"Peter's far more mature than most fourteen-year-
olds I've dealt with," Dorotea mused. "Including
you," she added, favoring Rhyssa with an admonitory
glance. "And he's got all the right instincts for being
Talented."

Tirla did not like using the freight subways. The red
light was off-putting. However, a cargo train servicing
the automatic industrial complexes all along the river-
side was the only way to get to the secreted holding
place Yassim used to stash his merchandise, a train go-
ing into the J industrial. Then she would have to walk
to the correct shunt. There were emergency alcoves set
at intervals all along the right-hand side, so she could
avoid being crushed by any passing cars. Dead unthink-
ing things like tram trains did not frighten her. Live
unthinking things like some of Yassim's sassins and
hitters did.

She waited a hundred meters from the yawning red-
and-black mouth of the G shunt for nearly an hour be-
fore a J train arrived. It would have to slow as it reached
the junction, so it was no problem for an agile person
to drop onto the first segment, catch a good hold of the
flange, and settle down for the trip. Flattened on the
top, she was small enough to have several centimeters'
clearance from the curved ceiling of the tunnel. She
reset her grip as the train picked up speed again, vi-
brating under her. The fetid wind, a noxious combina-

tion of overheating metal, grease, and the acrid stink of
electricity, roared down across her body, and she an-
gled her face down.

When the J train finally slowed with screeching brakes
and made the left-hand turn into the cargo docks of its
destination, she readied herself to jump off. She had to
land clear of the coding machinery that opened and
sorted out the goods to be delivered from the load. But
she had done it with no problem before and did it again,
dropping lightly down and running up the narrow ledge
by the various chutes and moving ramps that began the
unloading.

When she came to the first curve in the narrow tunnel
and the last of the red light was gone, she used her
handlight, glad that she had filched a fresh charge for
it only the previous week. With the dim beam to light
her way, she trotted along in a half crouch until the
muscles in her legs and back ached. She dropped to her
knees then and rested a moment before continuing on.

Motivated by her keen sense of self-preservation,
Tirla had once taken the precaution of investigating his
holding cell, a room hidden behind a false wall of bar-
rels at the back of an automated factory, where the noise
of the ill-tuned machinery would drown any screaming.
But he did keep the children reasonably well cared for,
since purchasers could view them on a closed-circuit
system he provided. Disabling the archaic scanner
would be no problem for Tirla, and she knew the pre-
cise location of the ventilator hatch in the room's ceil-
ing.

The kids had been in there nearly two days. They
would be rested, she knew, and possibly feeling pretty
good about their new conditions, which were, after all,
a considerable improvement over squats. They might
not want to leave. She wished she knew whom Yassim
had grabbed—then she could figure out how to stir them
to leave Yassim's hospitality long enough to force him
to pay their parents proper compensation.

She loosened the appropriate wires on the ancient
scanner so that the static would snow the visual. Then,
gaining entrance through the ventilator hatch, she dan-
gled from the ceiling to the excited clamor of young
voices.

"Hey there, cool it way down!" she ordered in Ba-
sic, repeating the message for those who might be slow
to translate or need to be reassured. "Yushi, pull a mat-
tress down so I can land soft. It's a drop."

While Yushi and his younger brother complied, she
did a quick estimate. Yassim must have been quite
pleased at his catch: twenty-four prime kids to sell. The
remains of a recent meal relieved her of one obstacle—
the guards were not likely to check soon again—but it
meant that the kids would have one less reason to want
to leave such a cushy setup. Why, there were only two
kids per bunk. They all had new gear on, and the girls
were tarted up like their mothers.

"Yassim take any of you yet?" Tirla asked, imbuing
her voice with trembling urgency and widening her eyes
with real fear. "I got here as quick as I could!" she
added, implying that maybe she had not been quick
enough.

"Huh?" Yushi was good at taking orders but not at
thinking.

"They took my sister!" Suddenly little Minnalar's
painted face screwed up into tears. "They took her an
hour ago. And she had on the prettiest things—orange
and brown with gold, and new earrings ..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Mil-malar. I did everything I could
to get here in time." As Tirla lavished sympathy on the
weeping seven-year-old, she could see panic beginning
to spread to the others. She got madder than ever at
Yassim. It was one thing to take ten-year-olds, but not
seven- and eight-year-old babies'. What kind of pervs
did he supply?

"Whaddya mean?" Tombi, Bilala's eldest son,
asked, his manner slightly aggressive. He was nibbling

at a sweetbar; judging from the smears on his face, it
was one of a series.

"We gotta git out of here," Tirla said, releasing Mir-
malar with a reassuring pat. "This place has a baaaad
stink."

"It ain't got any at all," Tombi replied, though he
turned his head immediately to the rudimentary sanitary
unit in the comer.

"They take Raina already, you all are in biiiiig trou-
ble. I'm gonna get you all out. Now. Before more bad
men come. You girls know what I mean," she added,
waggling a stem finger at them. Tombi and Dik snick-
ered. "Same thing happens you guys, too, and you
know you too small for that cany-on yet.''

Tombi stopped nibbling the sweet and looked appre-
hensively at the door.

"Sure they feed you up good. Sweet stuff coming out
your ass, giving you a bellyache," she said, dismissing
the remains of the recent meal. "This place's good to
keep you from crying much. You cry plenty soon and
no one hear you ever. Stick it up you good, every which
way, and that's the best of it. You know what your
mothers tol' you. You know what to watch out for."
She was succeeding in scaring them—the younger ones
were beginning to weep. She did not want them so
scared that they could not move. "Yushi, Dik, Tombi,
help me move the bunks. We make a stepstair. There's
room up there to stand.''

"I ain't goin'," Tombi said, glaring defiance at her.
He was heavier and taller than Tirla, but she kicked
him so hard that he doubled up.

"You're going 'cause your mother sent me to get
you," Tirla knew how scared Tombi was ofBilala. "So
you're coming. Now, move! And crying won't do no
good, so stop. You need your breath for climbing and
walking."

Just then the enormity of moving twenty-four scared
and perhaps unwilling kids sank in. Tirla allowed her-
self only a moment to reflect on it. She had to do it,
somehow, because otherwise she would have to leave
G, and she did not want to. Linear G was home. She
had made herself a place there, she had a business—she
was safe there. Well, safe enough, if she laid low for a
while.

She chivvied and bullied all the kids up into the ven-
tilation shaft, kicked the telltale bunk over, and re-
placed the grille. Someone might think that the kids
were small enough to escape through it, but where
would twenty-four of them go7

She led the way, grouping the kids so that there were
bigger ones holding the hands of the smallest. She made
Tombi rear guard to give him some responsibility and
put Yushi in the middle. He would always follow or-
ders.

The unloading platform with its eerie red light gave
her no comfort—she knew that some of the kids would
not be able to manage the acrobatics needed to get on
one of the drones. They could, of course, straddle tracks
all the way back to G, but it was a long, long walk,
and there would be danger every time one of the speed-
ing trains went by.

Well, maybe they could all make it back one station
to I and get lost in that industrial complex. It was safer
than staying in J. Or was it? Maybe she would just take
the older ones, who would be in more danger? No, they
were all in danger, because whoever was left could be
made to tell who had rescued the others. Maybe if she
put the younger ones in a safe place and went back for
help . . . Mirmalar's father adored his daughters and
would do anything to save the remaining one. And Yu-
shi's father was one of the strongest men in G.

The vibrations that told her a train was on the tracks
beyond the shunt alerted her. How much time did they
have before they would know if its destination was J?

"Hide in the tunnels! Quickly! Stand on the ledges!"

She took Mirmalar herself, for the little girl was puck-
ering up to cry again.

"Ah, there's never anyone on goods trains," Tombi
said.

"Yeah, and how d'you think Yassim's people get
back and forth? Dumper cars are big enough to hold a
dozen people."

That shut Tombi silent and lost him more face in the
eyes of the other boys. Tirla shoved him toward a tun-
nel as she pulled Mirmalar after her.

The screech of distressed metal announced another
goods train being shunted into J from the north. She
had not counted on one arriving quite so soon. She
would never get the kids on this one even if it was going
in the right direction for them to get home—unless there
was a dumper car.

But there was something odd here: Tirla realized with
a sinking feeling that there was no cargo waiting on the
platform to be loaded onto the arriving train. If a goods
train was coming in here, what was it coming.Iw? Could
Yassim have someone in the main Dispatch office?
Could he know that she had emptied his cage?

There were five cars on the double-ended train. Two
looked like empty dumpers. Without waiting to ques-
tion such great good fortune, Tirla hauled Mirmalar out
onto the platform.

"Quickly. It won't stop long. We must all get in."

They were, therefore, all on the platform when the
train stopped. So none of them escaped the sleep gas
that suddenly spewed out, catching them all in its mist.
They fell like wilted flowers onto the plastic-coated
loading surface.

"She's some kid," Sascha said as he and Carmen
carefully placed the object of their intensive search on
a blanket pad and covered her. "Christ, but she's a bit
of nothing."

Carmen smiled slowly and turned the sleeping child's
head to one side to see where the lock of hair had been
wrenched out. Her other hand reached halfway to touch
it but then stopped. "She's nothing but skin and bones,
Sascha. We'll have to improve her."

Sascha frowned a bit, looking around to see the rest
of the team attending the other children. "We may not
want to. Carmen. Boris and I have a feeling about this
one."

"So do I." Carmen smiled at him with her most mys-
terious smile.

Boris: Did you catch her?

Yes, Brother dear, her and them. She'd sprung the
lot of 'em. She must have known exactly where to go.
Sascha spoke aloud. "I'm wondering how."

What the hell possessed her? Boris swore with frus-
tration. He and Sascha had followed Carmen's lead,
and while Tirla was haranguing the kids, a team had
been cautiously organized, aware that Yassim had in-
terests in Industrial J.

How about we find out where they were kept? Sascha
asked.

What good will that do now? He's not likely to reuse
a holding area that's been breached.

He might if he thought the kids had escaped on their
own.

Can you manage that? Boris's tone leaped to hope-
fulness.

I can try.

If you could, and rigged it, we 'd have one more bolt-
hole filed on Yassim. Why did she do it?

"Let's wake Tirla up," Sascha said to Carmen,
reaching for the oxygen. "If she can show us where,
we can get some good out of this operation."

"We already have. We've found more than we
hoped, haven't we?"

"Yes, and no. Bear with me. Carmen. There's a lot
more than this valuable young girl at stake."

Revived, Tirla went immediately on the defensive, wary
and contained, her dark eyes darting around, taking in the
unconscious bodies and noticing the medic, who was
daubing scrapes and bruises with nu-skin. Carmen offered
a restorative drink, deliberately taking a long swallow of
it before handing the cup to Tirla.

Sascha, lightly trying to get inside the girl's mind,
could sense only her fierce thirst. With great restraint,
she took a very small sip, rolling it around in her mouth
before drinking more deeply. Her bright dark eyes chal-
lenged him. He sat down beside her in a relaxed posi-
tion, hooking his hands around his knees and leaning
back against the wall.

"Tirla," he began. He saw her start of surprise. "Oh,
you're well known in G. And your bravery in releasing
the children will be appreciated, and not just by their
grieving families."

"How could you find me here, with them?" She
glanced inquiringly from him to Carmen and then saw
the lock of her hair, which Carmen still wore as talis-
man. Involuntarily her hand started to the scabby patch
on her head. Her shoulders sagged around her narrow
chest, but any emotional reaction was carefully guarded
in her mind. "I've heard of people like you. You found
me because you had my hair."

"It's not witchcraft, Tirla," Carmen said gently. She
handed the strand back to the girl. "I have a Talent
which allows me to find lost people and things."

"I wasn't lost."

"No," Sascha said conversationally, with an approv-
ing grin, "but you found what was missing from Linear
G."

"He hadn't paid for them."

Carmen gasped. "You mean, once he's paid for
them, he can have them again?"

"Sure. The parents live on subsistence. They need
the money for extras only floaters can buy."

Sascha was well aware that the girl's seeming cal-
lousness distressed Carmen, who had seen the child in

a much different light. "Also puts you in well with your
clients, who were rather upset with your abrupt depar-
ture from the meeting," he said amiably.

Eyes never leaving his, Tirla nodded once.

"They're all illegal, aren't they?"

Tirla's thin shoulders lifted in an indifferent shrug.
"Sure, so it's no credit out of your stash what happens
to them."

"Oh, no," Carmen said, pained. "They're alive.
They have rights!"

Tirla gave her a quick look before resuming her scru-
tiny of Sascha. "Illegals don't have rights."

"Only their births are illegal, Tirla," Sascha said.
"They're alive. They have the right to shelter, food,
clothing, training, and useful occupation. They do not
have the right to reproduce themselves." Sascha was
about to explain the legal anomaly in simple terms when
he realized that she understood perfectly. She was ma-
ture far in excess of her chronological age, and well
conditioned to the realities of Residential life. She was
not a romantic like Carmen. "But they do not deserve
the occupations Yassim had in mind for them." Sascha
caught that instant spurt of fear, followed by the hard-
ening of the young eyes and the flick of hatred. "You
don't like Yassim either."

Again one of her indifferent shrugs.

"Would you by any chance help us disable him?"

She had been wary before, but now she appeared to
Sascha to coil in on herself. "You're not LEO. Why
do you want to queer Yassim?"

"No, I'm not LEO myself, but we have a connec-
tion. Especially against someone like Yassim.''

Tirla gave a snort. "Someone like Yassim buys him-
self off every time LEO collars him. He has powerful
friends; LEO can never make it stick."

"You wish that LEO could?"

She hesitated briefly, then gave him a candid look.

"There will always be men like Yassim, but I could do
without him very much, thank you."

Sascha would have given a great deal then to have
been able to read her mind, to delve that reply. Tirla
was far deeper than they'd had any reason to suspect.
She sat there in front of him, cross-legged, completely
composed, alert—and bargaining just as if she could get
up and leave the scene at any moment.

"I want to get rid of Yassim, too, Tirla. Will you
help me?"

A glimmer of a smile touched her eyes and mouth.
"What's in it for me?"

Carmen inhaled in surprise. Sascha sent the finder
soothing thoughts, urging her to let him handle the sit-
uation his way. He flicked his fingers, fanning out crisp
new floater notes.

"How did you manage that?" Her eyes widened in
surprise and indignation.

Sascha did not often employ his kinetic ability, but
this trick was always effective. "You help me now—
and we must be quick about it before Yassim discovers
his birds have flown—and these are yours."

She eyed the notes. Casually she scratched about her
ribs. Sascha kept his grin to himself, knowing that she
was checking on the tied notes hidden there. She con-
sidered his offer with all the solemnity of a computer
analyst.

"There's the little matter of your legality, Tirla," he
added gently.

Boris nudged him mentally. C'mon, Brother, we
don't have time for amiable lipflap.

On the contrary,—we nave all the time we need,
Brother. This is a strong personality and a deep one.
I'm not rushing her.

Get on with it then.

Tirla gave him a wide-eyed bright smile. "I am the
only child of my mother."

"But not her legally registered issue." 

"How would you know?"

Sascha touched her hair. "That told us. But it is a
small matter that can be quickly remedied."

She regarded him from narrowed eyes. "A small
matter?" The twist of her lips was cynical. "You must
be in real good with LEO." She considered, obliquely
watching Carmen's expression. "And I get to keep the
floaters, as well?" Her tone was ingenuous.

Sascha suppressed a grin. Legality would be the most
valuable reward he could offer, and still her fingers
itched to relieve him of the money. Not that he had
offered a large sum, but the amount would keep her in
extras for several months.

"If we get a move on—now!" he said, drawing out
his acceptance.

She spat in her right palm and held it out to him.

Without a second thought, he accepted the deal in ar-
chaic ritual. Her grip was unusually strong for the del-
icacy of her bones. Physical contact with the conscious
and vibrant personality startled Sascha with an odd
jolt—a sense of precognition that was gone too fast for
him to pin it down.

Boris caught the edge of it. What did she do to you,
Sascha?

I'm not sure, Brother, but this one we handle very,
very carefully. I want a special ID for Tirla when we

get back. Hear me ?

To hear is to obey! Boris might sound facetious, but

Sascha was relieved by his compliance. Keep the bar-
gain, but I want this wild one under control.

The deal struck, Tirla rose with lithe grace to her feet
and tilted her head back to look appraisingly up at Sas-
cha. "So how do we disable Yassim?"

"Can you lead me to where he kept the children?"
When she nodded, he went on. "We want to fix it so
that he will think the children escaped by themselves."

Tirla snorted contemptuously. "I had to frighten them
to make them leave at all. Such things I had to tell
them. Though it was all very true."

“How would Yassim know that they were all docile?
It need only look as if they had broken out. That one
of the guards had been careless locking them in."

She considered that. "Yes, that could have hap-
pened. They had only just brought food.'' She gave him
a shrewdly appraising glance. "You will have to
crawl." That seemed to amuse her.

"Up this tunnel?"

She nodded, then looked over her shoulder, for the
first time betraying some apprehension. "What happens
to them?"

"They can sleep on until we get back," he replied.
"We've got to move now."

She led him into the tunnel, and he did have to crawl,
wondering how she had managed her initial trip until
he saw the small circle of light that guided her steps.
She had the courtesy not to go faster than he could
follow, and he had time to reflect: she might not have
an ounce of telempathy, or was perhaps too wary to let
down the shield that had protected her so long in her
young life, but there was no question that she possessed
considerable Talent.

She halted at the end of the tunnel and turned to him.
"You wouldn't fit down the hatch I used, but if you
know how to open that inspection door, that's an easier
way to get to where he held the kids."

Sascha took the scrambler from his belt and decoded
the door. He opened it cautiously, aware of the hissing
intake of her breath, and listened—on another level than
Tirla, who was kneeling at the lower half of the open-
ing. The level and complexity of noise in the main in-
dustrial complex was appropriate for an automated
factory. He sensed nothing human, but it was Tirla who
first slid through the door. He opened it enough for his
larger frame and closed it carefully behind them.

Though the industrial space was lit only by occa-
sional green lights of operational machinery, Tirla
moved confidently forward. Sascha would have passed
right by the false wall, but she went unerringly to the
double drum and pinpointed the lock mechanism with
her pencil light. She glanced questioningly at him.

"Electronic, I hope?" he murmured, and she nod-
ded.

He scrambled the circuit, and the door swung back
to reveal the deserted room, the overturned bunk bed,
and the table with the empty food packages. She pulled
the door shut behind them, shooting him a disapproving
look for his careless entry.

"How did you get them out?" he asked.
She pointed to the darker square of the grille in the
ceiling.

"Good work." He righted the bunk bed and pushed
it back into its former position, managing to stick a
minuscule device on the wall behind it. Then he looked
about the place. It stank of many things, not all tangi-
ble. "I think you'd better mastermind this escape, Tirla.
Make it look like a kid had done it."

Tirla's upper lip curled in derision. "None of them
would have!"

"Point taken, but for Yassim's benefit it should seem so.”

With her eyes half-veiled, Tirla considered the prob-
lem. Sascha waited patiently, wishing he could have
been in her head, noting her thought processes.

"Okay," she said finally, leading across the room to
the comer where pieces of clothing had been discarded.
Deliberately she tore strips from several garments, her
hands clever in finding the break in a hem or seam that
would rip. "There'll be a fight . . ." She hauled mat-
tress pads off two of the lower bunks, and the soiled
blankets off the upper ones. She went back to the comer
and, using a shirt, gathered up some of the containers
and the remaining food before she knocked over the
makeshift table. "Now, we open the door just enough
to let kids out, and start leaving trails. Come out, I'll
just close the door over a bit. Now, you drop stuff half-
way to that wall. Then circle around. I'm going this
way. I'll meet you at the maintenance door."

He did as she directed, and they met again in the
chucking, clanking dark of the automated manufactory.

"Lock it?" Sascha held the door ajar.

"Yes."

"But how will Yassim know how they got out?"

"They're not there, are they? The cage door is
open." Sascha saw her shrug and felt, rather than saw,
her malicious smile. "Why should I make it easy for
him?"

By the time they reached the loading dock, Sascha's
muscles were protesting their abuse. The team had
loaded the children into the cars, and the dock was full
of cargo to be transshipped.

"You cut that fine, Sascha," the team leader told
him. "There'll be a goods train through here in two
minutes. We're not supposed to disrupt the service."

Tirla tugged imperiously at Sascha's sleeve. "My
floaters."

With one hand he passed them to her, with the other
he grabbed her wrist. "No tricks now. There's more
business we can do together. We'll discuss it back in
G."

Sascha did not know whether it was her surprise that
allowed him to capture her or if she was willingly co-
operating with him. But she entered the car ahead of
him as he tried to keep his grip from breaking fragile
bones.

Go! he told the driver, and the starting pressure of
the special train pushed him against the padded end of
his car.

"Are you taking us all to G?" Her tone was casual.

"That's what you wanted, wasn't it? To get the kids
back to G?"

"I kept our bargain." Her voice held an element of
antagonism.

"So will I. Back at G. Then we deal again."
She was silent for a long time, thinking that over.

CHAPTER 11

^ ^ Peter tried to follow the tri-d meteorologist's re-
port on the latest freak weather conditions that seemed
worldwide, Bangladesh being the worst example. It was
difficult to concentrate when he felt "problem" hover-
ing in the air. He knew he had done nothing wrong; in
fact, he knew that he had done something most extraor-
dinary, about which he felt very good indeed. But it
was hard not to be worried. He could sense the nebu-
lous anxiety emanating from Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Sa-
scha. He should not have asked Dorotea about a bigger
generator. The moment the words were out of his
mouth, he knew it was the wrong time. But he had
proved what he could do with enough power to increase
the gestalt, and that 4.5 felt like puny kid stuff now.

Kid stuff! Peter grinned to himself and gave the 4.5
a little shove; it whined obediently. Like a dog. And
who was he kidding? He was still only a fourteen-year-
old boy. He had already absorbed enough Talent dis-
cipline and seen enough examples of the sort of people
Talents were to realize that he had rushed the gate. One
did not climb mountains when one could not walk.
Rhyssa, Sascha, and Dorotea had supported him
throughout the entire Erasmus incident, ready to help
him, ready to keep him from burning himself out. And
he hadn't. But had it been because they had been right
there to protect him? Think about that, Petey boy, and
get your swelled head back to normal. There are a lot
of things you can't do just yet.
179

180

              81

He poured himself another glass of orange juice and
brought it to the living room as the broadcaster an-
nounced that once again supply shuttles for Padrugoi
had been grounded by weather conditions. The screen
depicted the rank of four perpendicular space vehicles,
locked into their gantries, waiting for lift-off conditions
with urgently needed materiel so that the First World
Project would be finished in time.

Talents were helping to do that, Peter thought with a
little thrill of corporate pride. He had just started won-
dering how big a generator he would need to send a
shuttle safely through the foul weather when the pro-
gram switched to coverage of the flooding in Bangla-
desh. There were no scenes actually showing the Talents
at work; teams of doctors and rescue workers were
filmed rushing about. There was also no mention of
exactly how the Erasmus had landed so safely at Dacca.
He had not really expected to be mentioned publicly.
But one would think that there would have been some
comment that Talents were risking their lives in the
appalling monsoon conditions. The results of their work
were shown, all right enough, but somehow that did not
seem to be enough.

Rhyssa and Dorotea were always subtly mentioning
how important it was not to rub Talent into people's
noses. People resented differences. Talent had always
to be discreet. The way his mother looked at him had
demonstrated that\ Peter grimaced. His own mother was
scared of him now. When he had been totally helpless,
she had been so good about coming to see him, hugging
him, kissing him, always bringing him something: a fax
clip about his favorite ball team, a couple of her special
cookies, a few flowers. Now when she visited she would
not hug him; she sat bolt upright in the chair and tried
not to look at him when he wanted so much to show
her what Talent allowed him to do.

When Mum was there he redoubled his efforts to ap-
pear to walk normally and carry things properly so it

would not freak her out. How often had she said she
prayed every night to see Petey on his feet and walking
around? And she never looked at him now. She never
once mentioned his ball team. Not that he would ever
play sandlot baseball again . . . Then Peter grinned,
thinking what homers he could whack and how fast he
could run the bases. Maybe now he could be the pitcher
he had always wanted to be ... His fastball would be
something else\ Even if he only used the 4.5!

But he had gone past that sort of ordinary thing,
hadn't he? When one could zap shuttles about like
gameboard pieces, ordinary accomplishments no longer
satisfied.

He drank his orange juice. Not all ordinary things,
though. Some very ordinary and extremely homely ac-
tions—like getting himself an orange juice when he felt
thirsty for it—were, in a special way, far more impor-
tant than what he had done with the Erasmus.

He sent the empty glass back to the kitchen, rinsed
it out, and put it upside-down on the drainboard.

He had to keep things in perspective. It was more
important to have the freedom to do little things and the
option to do bigger ones. But, jeez, it had been a won-
derful feeling to have all that power and do something
no one else could have done with it—just when help
was needed.

The tri-d was showing floodwater flowing obediently
away from a small town and its surrounding fields. The
sandbags and barriers along its torrent seemed to be
containing it, but Peter could recognize the subtle signs
of kinetic force. He wondered which Talent was at
work. Rick Hobson? Mr. Baden? Now, if he'd had ac-
cess to a generator, he would have been able to do that.
He settled down to leam what he could about flood
control from the program. Next time he would be ready
to help. The 4.5-kpm was portable, wasn't it?

His thoughts were interrupted by Rhyssa's mental
call. Peter, would you come up to my office, please?

182      183

Sure! He leaned briefly into the generator and sped
out to Rhyssa's building and in through the front door,
slowing to maneuver the staircase; he got his feet to the
ground as he reached the carpeted hallway leading to
Rhyssa's office. No effort!

Show-off. Rhyssa was standing by her office door, but
she was smiling. "We don't have any mountains for
you to move today, but there's trouble in the wind, dear
boy, there's trouble in the wind."

Peter stumbled in his forward motion and corrected
himself.

Trouble? Why? We didn't do anything wrong!

Her touch reassured him, as it always did. Dorotea
was great: she treated him casually, as she would any
of her grandchildren, and that relaxed attitude made
many things easier for him. But Rhyssa was different:

her mind had so much depth—not that he had disobeyed
the prime rule of mental privacy, but he could not help
but sense the depth and purity that was there. She was
also the most beautiful woman Peter had ever seen, on
or off the tri-d. And she was so good! Everything about
her was shining and brilliant. She made him feel whole
and strong.

"We did something a shade too right," Rhyssa said.
"And we were not quite as discreet as we should have

been."

Momentarily afraid, he reached out to see exactly
what they had done wrong.

Peter!

"Sorry."

Rhyssa, more fiercely than Peter had ever heard her:

Damn that Barchenka woman!

"Was I supposed to hear that?" Peter was confused.

"Yes, and double-damn Barchenka!" Rhyssa said
aloud, and waved him on through to her office, closing
the door behind them.

He halted, sensing the aura of crisis. Dorotea, who
was rarely perturbed, was brushing imaginary threads

from her slacks. Things must really be bad. He zigged
sideways, aware that Rhyssa just missed bumping into
him.

Dorotea: Well done, Peter!

"This is a strategy council, Peter," Rhyssa said, ges-
turing for him to sit as she resumed her chair in the
tower bay window.

Peter floated over to the conformable seat, grateful
for its automatically adjusted support.

' 'Don't ever forget just how proud we all are of you,''
Rhyssa said, her gesture including the entire Center.
"You've added a brand new dimension to Talent." She
gave him an impish smile. "And reminded this Cen-
ter's manager not to get too complacent."

Without violating etiquette, Peter could hear what she
was not saying aloud: Talent was very happy; the
unTalented were not.

Dorotea: The unTalented always resist a new Talent
which we haven't carefully led them to expect. In this
instance, you!

Rhyssa: We don't do something right, Peter, without
doing something wrong! Peter sensed a second qualifi-
cation behind the thought and, remembering his man-
ners, broke the contact.

Dorotea: And we've got to figure out how to improve
our testing methods! She cleared her throat in a busi-
nesslike manner, then winked at Peter.

He thought, very privately to himself, that something
bad was definitely about to happen, but he was assured
of their love and approval and that was all that really
mattered to him.

"If your main desire right now," Rhyssa said, smil-
ing with that special twinkle in her eye which she saved
for Peter, "is to have the biggest generator on the planet
at your disposal"—Peter flushed, looking hard at his
bony knees—"then the main desire of half the indus-
tries on Earth and in space is to have you using theirs,
and theirs alone."

184

             185

Space? He could get into space? He looked up in
surprise, staring at her. Clearly she did not mean his

way.

"How do they know about me?" He felt suddenly
very defenseless. His father was always talking about
the managers working a man to death with no consid-
eration for him as a human being, only how productive
he was, a cipher in a gigantic program.

"They don't know it's you," Dorotea said.

"That's the problem," Rhyssa went on.

"Why?" Peter asked, thinking of big generators.

"Candidly," Dorotea said, "you're fourteen, you're
only just beginning to understand your Talent, and pre-
mature exposure could—"

"Bum me out," Peter finished for her, though pri-
vately he did not think he could bum out—if he had the
right power source for anything he wanted to shift. "But
I didn't bum out..."

"Without in the least diminishing your achievement,
Peter, we were closely monitoring you the other night,"
Rhyssa went on. "What they have in mind for you is
another can of worms altogether. Speaking as a Center
director, I must tell you that it has never been the policy
of the Centers to assign trainees even part-time work
until they're at least eighteen."

"Even I," Dorotea put in, her hand gracefully
sweeping her chest, "wasn't permitted to do much until
I was eighteen!" She made a face. "As a child, I
thought I was just playing a game, guessing which ones
in the room could hear me—people who thought they
might be Talented." She shot Peter an image of herself
as a five-year-old, prettily dressed—and her early beauty
was still apparent in her face and manner—walking
through the Center's crowded reception area.

"But I've proved what I can do," Peter said. "And
I was the only one who could land the Erasmus."

"The situation is not about right or wrong, Peter,"
Rhyssa said, leaning toward him, a sad expression in

her eyes and face, "or even a moral obligation to re-
duce suffering and mitigate disaster." Then she opened
her mind to him so he could directly assess the current
problem.

Peter had known, of course, that the Parapsychic
Centers had had to send the best kinetics to Padrugoi to
help complete the station on time. He had not realized
all the undercurrents beneath the carefully contrived
public image of Padrugoi, much less the machinations
of Ludmilla Barchenka, who had forced the capitulation
of Centers, ruthlessly stripping them of kinetics in what
was basically a face-saving operation. He fumed when
he saw that this Barchenka woman was threatening his
Rhyssa with all kinds of offenses when it was now pa-
tently clear to him that Barchenka was at fault. And he
was part of the problem. No, at the moment, he was
all of the problem, because Barchenka was out to add
him to her force of Talent.

"And I used to think working on the station would
be the most special thing you could do," he said slowly.
It just was not fair!

"No, not fair, Peter," Rhyssa replied, "but Talent
recognizes that completing the station is far more im-
portant than individual personal considerations. Com-
pleting it on time is obviously Ludmilla's personal goal.
I can't deny her that, only her means of achieving it,
since by her achievement, mankind has made another
giant step to the stars. Don't be deflected too much by
the skeletons in the space lockers. There's been no ma-
jor forward progress in all of human history that has not
been accompanied by some problems."

"Like letting people float out into space and die be-
cause rescue would put her behind schedule?" Peter
was aghast.

"That's been taken care of," Dorotea reminded him.

"By Talents, and now she thinks she can conscript
tae?" Peter was so agitated that he floated above the
chair.

  

186

Dorotea, prosaically: You're drifting, dear.

Peter settled down. Well, I just won't work for a per-
son like her. And you 're not going to ask me to!

"Indeed and we're not," Rhyssa assured him. "But
first," she said with a grin, her eyes twinkling, "we
have to prove to them that you're you\ We've been try-
ing very hard to keep you sheltered until you've more
control ..."

How much control do I need if I can move a shuttle

about the world?

"Peter!" Despite the sharpness in her voice, Peter
knew that Rhyssa was amused by his outrage, proud of
his achievement, and concerned for his future all at
once. He subsided. "Thank you. Now, we were warned
to expect visitors of high rank and great prestige. We
wanted to brief you, since you are the cat we are about
to let out of the bag."

"I rather think he's the cat among the pigeons," Dor-
otea said with a sarcastic snort.

"Pigeons? War hawks, Dorotea," Rhyssa corrected,
settling into her chair. Then they all heard the unmis-
takable thunking of a big helicopter landing on the X
outside Henner House. "Peter, don't let the fuss get to
you. There's bound to be some bruised feelings and
outraged sensibilities. You just pay them no heed!"

But he could not help but heed the fine but controlled
aura of apprehension. They were worried. About him!

For him.

Ragnar's voice came through on the intercom. He
was duty officer, and twenty years in the Center had
made him impervious to rank and prestige. "Rhyssa,
there's a bunch here to see you. Do I send 'em up?"

"Yes, I'm expecting them, Ragnar."

His "humph" came over the speaker, and Peter no-
ticed Rhyssa's little smile. He also noticed that she was
nervously running the stylus through her fingers. Dor-
otea sat even straighter in her chair and managed to look

             187

not only larger and more imposing but very, very
queenly.

There was a polite knock on the door, and Rhyssa
pressed the release button. The first man in the room
was a telepath, Peter realized, and he was directing tight
private warnings at Rhyssa. The second man, very tall,
thin, and wise-looking, gazed directly at Peter and nod-
ded. He knew who Peter was even if Peter did not know
him, and he was also a telepath. He courteously iden-
tified himself to Peter as Justice Gordon Havers.

Peter knew the third man, Dave Lehardt, who im-
mediately moved to stand by Rhyssa's desk, facing the
others as they filed in. He made his partisanship very
clear. He exchanged a glance with Rhyssa and gave an
almost imperceptible nod of his head. She had a slight
smile on her face, and Peter sensed that she was very
glad to have Dave Lehardt so close by. But knowing
that Dave was not a Talent, Peter was surprised by the
intimate exchange. He felt a flair of jealousy.

The next six men to enter were obviously important
people; four were in uniform and only one of them was
Talented. That one appeared very nervous and kept
looking from Rhyssa to Dorotea. The last man to enter
gaped at Rhyssa in a fashion that made Peter very un-
easy—his eyes and his manner made Peter wonder if he
was one of those perverts his mother used to warn him
about.

As Rhyssa asked them all to be seated, Peter picked
up names: Vemon Altenbach, who was secretary of
space; the Russian officer was General Shevchenko,
Padrugoi liaison official, and even with the shield he
wore, he was bristling with aggression. The telempath
was Andrei Grushkov, and Peter felt sorry for him—he
had to be truthful to his employer, the general, but he
felt obscurely that he was betraying Talent in doing so.
There were two NASA officers, a general and a colonel,
and that pervert was the world-famous Josephson-
junction specialist, and a Malay sian prince besides, who

188           

189

did such fantastic programming of air and space traffic.
Peter did not like the man any belter once he knew he
was a genius, not when the man kept sloppily ogling
Rhyssa. The man who had come in first was Colonel
John Greene, and Peter watched in some awe as the most
successful etop pilot of the early days of the Padrugoi
Project placed a chair next to him, Peter Reidinger, and
smiled quite pleasantly at him. Colonel Greene seemed to
be the only one who was smiling. Even Justice Havers
looked solemn.

"It would be pointless for me to deny that I am aware
of the reason for your visit," Rhyssa said calmly.
"Shall I call up the Eastern Center Register for you to
check on our memberships?" She placed her fingers
over the keyboard.

Peter regarded her with pride. She even had a little
smile on her face. And that pervert kept smarming at

her.

The Russian liaison general cleared his throat. "We
have already seen it, Madame. But we believe that you
have not honestly declared your full kinetic strength."
He crooked his head to see his telempath's face.

"Andrei can certainly assure you that our declaration
is honest and complete. We have nothing to hide. No
Talent does."

"Andrei has also assured me, Madame Owen," the
general continued ponderously, "that no kinetic any-
where could have successfully landed the Erasmus, not
even the twenty-two on board her, or—" He paused
dramatically, "—assisted its takeoff from the Dacca
field in the weather conditions prevailing that day." His
chest seemed to deflate slightly once he had delivered
his accusation.

"It was me," Peter said. He wanted to get it all over
with, and get that smarmy-faced man out of the room
and away from Rhyssa. "I mean, it was I."

The stunned silence was worse than noisy disclaim-
ers. Then Colonel Greene started to chuckle and Dave

Lehardt began to laugh. He also winked approvingly at
Peter. Not one of the other visitors appeared to be the
least bit amused.

"And tell me just how, young man," Vemon Al-
tenbach asked, skeptically, "you accomplished such a
feat?"

Stick to the facts, man, the facts, Rhyssa said, mental
laughter rippling her tone.

"Well, the Erasmus needed help landing at Dacca
because the kinetics had to be there to reduce the di-
saster potential. So Rhyssa called a G and H—that's a
Talent mayday—and I got to use the generators at the
East Side power station," Peter replied. He kept his
face straight, but he was enjoying the incredulity of the
non-Talented in his audience; even the Russian telem-
path was admiring, and Peter sat himself even straighter
in the chair.

Dorotea: Well said, Peter!

Gordon Havers: In times of doubt, honesty is the best
policy.

Johnny Greene: You better believe it, because they're
not! Unobtrusively, he patted Peter's knee.

"You have, I must assume, a kinetic Talent?" Ver-
non continued.

"Yes, sir. I'm in training as a kinetic, but I can't do
as much as I'd like because the people who should be
training me are all up on the station."

Rhyssa: Don't spread it on too thick, Peter.

Johnny: Nonsense. They deserve that kick in the
shins.

"How much training have you had then?" the gen-
eral asked.

"Well, Rhyssa and Dorotea do the best they can, but
they're telepaths ..."
Rhyssa, dryly: Thank you!
Gordon: He's sticking to the truth.
"Initially Rick Hobson was helping me," Peter went

190      191

on, "but we'd only just gotten past the necessary stuff
when he got conscripted to the station.''

"Talents were not conscripted," General Shev-
chenko objected forcefully. "They volunteered to assist
in the completion of the first Great World Project.''

Peter gave a contemptuous little snort. "If you're not
given a choice, you've been conscripted."

"And you expect us to believe that a frail boy ma-
nipulated the Erasmusf" Prince Phanibal Shimaz shot
out of his chair and stood belligerently in front of Peter,
shaking his finger at him. "I, Phanibal Shimaz, prince
of Malaysia West, know that this would have been im-
possible from such a source! Tell us the truth, little
boy!" he demanded, making the adjective pejorative.

"He is telling the truth," Johnny Greene said, rising
to his feet to look down at the much shorter prince.
Dave Lehardt and Rhyssa jumped to their feet angrily,
ready to leap into the fray if need be.

"As Andrei confirms to me," General Shevchenko
said in a hard voice. "You exceed your authority. Your

Highness."

"And I shall prove it," Peter added, glaring back at
the prince. Just because he could do games with Jo-
sephson junctions and traffic-flow patterns that no one
else could do did not make him an authority on Talent.
"Look!" And Peter raised his right arm, wishing he
had enough small motor control to point a finger, but
he had not quite mastered that yet.

Actually, it was easy enough with power diverted
from the Center's equipment to raise and hold the big
helicopter just outside Rhyssa's bay window so that all
could see it—and see that the huge rotor blades moved
idly in the breeze of its ascent.

"Do be careful with it, Peter," Johnny Greene said
amiably, one of the few in the room enjoying the mo-
ment. "It's government property."

"I'm always careful, Colonel Greene," Peter replied,
feeling the euphoria of potency. He was almost sorry that

he could not think of an even more convincing demon-
stration of his kinetic Talent. Dorotea was glaring at him
significantly in her enough-is-enough look. He returned
the vehicle gently to the ground.

"How old are you, Peter?" Colonel Greene asked,
just as if he and Peter were the only ones in the room.

"I was fourteen on the eighth of September."

"And you get about now yourself under your own
power?" the colonel inquired.

Peter could see in his eyes that the man knew the true
extent of his handicap.

"I was that much"—his fingers measured a two-
centimeter gap—"away from paraplegia myself after
Mission Number 20," Greene continued.

Peter realized that Colonel Greene was very much on
their side and making it very clear to everyone else that
Peter's Talent was off limits. "I've learned how to
compensate just fine," he replied, and a glance at the
colonel told him that that was the right answer to make.
"Rick Hobson really helped me. We were just begin-
ning to go on to tougher things when he had to go to
Padrugoi."

"So you've been Rhyssa's skeleton crew? All by
yourself?" Colonel Greene chuckled and looked across
at the secretary of space.

"I'm not nearly as much of a skeleton as I used to
be." Peter extended his arms and legs and regarded
them dispassionately. "I'll get some muscle on them
yet. I've got to build slowly, you see, and it takes
time."

Colonel Greene rose. "I think that's the answer, gen-
tlemen. It takes time to build muscle, any kind of mus-
cle, and you build slowly to last longer."

"Now wait just a moment here," Prince Phanibal
said, recovering from his initial surprise. "That is not
the answer I came to find. You have indeed concealed
from4he world a kinetic Talent of demonstrated ability.
He can take the place of those at Bangladesh . . ."He

192

 

193

leaned across Rhyssa's desk, and Peter saw her flinch
back from such a menacing posture.

Peter could not stand it. Kinetically he dragged Prince
Phanibal backward from Rhyssa, the prince's face set
in a paralyzed rictus of amazement. The door that
opened to allow his exit closed firmly behind him.

"Peter!" Rhyssa could not quite disguise her relief
or her consternation at his breach of courtesy.

"He's got no right to threaten you, Rhyssa! No right
at all!"

Dorotea: Bravo, Peter, though I shouldn 't encourage

you!

"Now see here, young man—" Shevchenko took one
step toward Peter and stopped, blinking in astonishment
when some invisible force prevented him from moving
farther forward.

"That's enough, Peter," Rhyssa said with appropri-
ate severity. That was rather clever of you, dear, even
if you wouldn 't realize it. The mental image in her mind
showed suppressed laughter. "The general will not in-
timidate you any further. General, I think Peter has in-
advertently displayed another cogent reason why the
Center is unwilling to utilize his unique abilities except
in a crisis. At fourteen, he does not always abide by the
courtesies that a more mature personality has learned."

"I demand that the boy apologize to His Highness
Prince Phanibal immediately."

"You may demand all you wish, General," Rhyssa
said sharply, "but I don't even know why a traffic man-
ager, royal or not, was included in this gathering."

"Engineer Barchenka insisted on his inclusion,"
Vemon Altenbach remarked, attempting some diplo-
macy.

"I insist that he be excluded from any future meet-
ings involving the Center or myself."

Peter: He's a slimeball!

Johnny Green and Gordon Havers, simultaneously:

Where did you stash him ?

Peter: He's in the helicopter, and he can't seem to
get the seat buckle undone. He could not help grinning.
I won't let him.

Johnny: Buckle down, Winsockie, buckle down!

Dorotea: I didn't think anyone in your generation
knew that old song.

"Now, gentlemen, you have, I trust, seen to your
own satisfaction that we have only been protecting
young Peter, not deliberately denying the platform his
Talent. I'm sorry that you had a long trip for nothing,"
Rhyssa said, coming around her desk to shake hands
with Andrei Grushkov. "However, when Peter is fully
trained and we have a better understanding of the pa-
rameters of his potential, we will, of course, be obliged
to let prospective employers bid for his contractual ser-
vices."

Vemon Altenbach eased the disgruntled Russian gen-
eral out the door, the NASA colonel and the telempath
assisting. But the others lingered until the first group
had entered the elevator.

"Ms. Owen," the NASA general began. "Is it pos-
sible, given the boy's display of incredible ability, that
he could—from time to time, that is ... Well, we do
have a serious crisis right now ..."

"What kind?" Rhyssa asked in an unencouraging
tone.

' "NASA's supply schedule is at a standstill with the
current worldwide weather conditions ..."

Peter zoomed out of his chair, hovering between
Rhyssa and the general. Please consider it, Rhyssa.
Working for NASA wouldn't be the same as working for
Barchenka, would it? But it would be almost as good
as being in space. He exerted all his mind's pressure
against hers, begging her consideration. He felt her stem
resolve not to exploit him.

\ Johnny: It's something to consider, Rhyssa, though
we'won't be pushy about it. If you say no, we'll go
quietly. But it would gall me personally, and profes-

194      195

sionally, to have Barchenka saying that the Americans
couldn 't meet their contractual obligations. He cocked
his head at Rhyssa, grinning wryly.

Peter could feel Rhyssa beginning to relent.

Dorotea: Consider it a training diversion, Rhyssa.

Rhyssa: But that's it! He's had hardly any training!

Johnny: Repetition hones skills, gal, and it sure re-
duces the glamour quotient.

Peter did not understand that but felt Dorotea's ap-
proval become more urgent. He sensed that at last
Rhyssa was seriously considering the suggestion.

"Look," Johnny said aloud, "this is so important
that Vemon would actually get himself another minder
for a few weeks. I know all the technical data that Peter
needs to understand if he's flinging shuttles about the
stratosphere. Hell, I'd get a vicarious thrill out of it
myself, getting back into space by proxy. And if Peter's
working for NASA, Barchenka can't say Talent has
been obstructing Padrugoi's timely completion."

"I know it appears that it's always we who compro-
mise," Gordon Havers said, entering the discussion,
"but we put a wedge in her works if suddenly we insure
delivery of the materiel she needs."

"You'd have to go with Peter, Rhyssa. I'm no longer
up to that sort of sustained effort," Dorotea said. "Sa-
scha's too involved in the present crisis at Linear G to
leave that. And frankly, my dear, you are the stronger
telepath and, I think, more tuned in to Peter's mind than
Sascha is. Someone has to monitor him during the ge-
stalts. I can see you squirming to go, Peter Reidinger.
Is it what you really want? Will you behave like a ma-
ture Talent?"

Peter managed to curl his fingers around Rhyssa's.
"I'll behave. I'll do just as I'm told. I promise! And
I'dleamalot."

"You'd call the moves, Rhyssa," Johnny Greene
said.

"I don't think we have any choice in this either,"

Rhyssa said, and Peter leaned against her, wishing for
her not to sound so defeated. She looked down at him
and cupped his head with one hand, smiling tenderly at
him. "I'm not defeated, Peter dear, but I intensely dis-
like being left with no options."

"Think of the options that you've canceled," Johnny
Greene said with a malicious note in his voice as he
lifted his middle finger skyward.

"Put like that," Gordie said, grinning, "we're one
up on Barchenka."

Rhyssa turned to Dave Lehardt, her expression se-
vere. "And you keep Peter's name out of the 'casts and
the fax."

"Your skeleton crew at work again?" Dave asked,
pretending to ward off an attack.

" 'Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones, and hear
the word of the Lord!' " Johnny Greene sang, doing an
intricate breakdance step.

             197

CHAPTER 12

•^ <$• 'phe blond man had an air about him that fasci-
nated Tirla. She had never had much to do with Talents,
and she surreptitiously crossed her wrists. She had heard
such folk discussed in the Residential often enough, in
fearful, awed whispers, but she had not believed half
of the powers alleged to them: finders of persons and
things, seers of souls, readers of secrets, prophets of
future things, and movers of mountains.

She stole a look at him where he sat with his head
leaned back against the padded wall and his eyes closed;

daring to observe him more closely, she noticed the
quick flow of facial muscles, as if he were having an
argument in his head. His jaw tightened in anger, and
his lips thinned. He should have been pleased with his
day's work, Tirla thought. She was startled then, when
his mouth relaxed into a half smile, a clever sort of
smile, and his eyebrows twitched. Had he won his in-
ternal argument? He was a strange man, she thought,
even though outwardly he appeared no different from
others.

He was not LEO, and yet he was, and she could not
figure out where he fit in, or how he and his teams had
appeared so conveniently at the J shunt—especially
when she had just realized the difficulty of cajoling
scared whiney brats like Tombi into riding cargo pods
back to G. Without that unexpected rescue, Yassim's
ladrones would surely have recaptured them, herself in-
cluded. She shuddered.

196

So they had been rescued from Yassim. But not from
Authority. She wanted no part of Authority: too many
conflicting rules and regulations and silly restrictions
that only begged to be ignored or evaded. The prospect
of a new ID briefly dazzled her, to the point where she
could feel the narrow plastic strip knocking against her
wrist bone. But she did not—quite—believe that the man
would be able to produce any such ID, no matter how
well he seemed in with the LEOs.

No matter! She had clean floaters—more than she
needed for the tieds she had been supposed to launder
for Yassim—so she was well ahead in the game. The
matter of the hot tieds bothered her, but she was loath
to face Yassim as long as he was in the market for kids.
And it was very likely that the LEOs could not collar
Yassim, and that he would go into deep hiding some-
where to wait out the furor. So, morally, she could hide
the tieds for a while and discreetly exchange them, es-
pecially if Yassim was out of circulation, over the next
several months. This was the biggest hit she had ever
made.

But still she was uneasy. She was trapped in the
closed cargo pod and did not really know where they
were going, though she had been keeping mental count
of the rail junctions. The blond man could just as easily
leave, her off at the hostel with the others. Who would
believe that she had an arrangement with him? The train
began to decelerate, and Tirla, with a spurt of dread
anticipation, waited for the shunt connect. They were
going to the G platform. She was both comforted and
concerned.

"Where are we now?" she asked.

Sascha opened his eyes, and she saw that they were
an unusual shade of light blue. He looked amused.
"You know we're at G. So now we return the lost chil-
dren'to,their grieving parents. That is important to you,
isn't it, Tirla? That Bilala, Zaveta, Pilau, and especially

198      199

Mirda Khan and Mama Bobchik know that you helped
retrieve their lost ones?"

Now how could he know that? How much did he
know about her? Why was he playing her along this
way? He was a sharp one indeed. What sort of a scam
was he running? Not all of this action had to do with
that perv Yassim.

She refused to be drawn by what could just be a
shrewd guess on his part. LEOs were not above putting
surveillance on Meetings, even a silly RIG with that
Lama-shaman. Perhaps there had been eyes on her cli-
ents, although why such a gaggle of silly women would
be the object of LEO interest she did not know—unless
it had to do with selling kids. But none of them had
been there to deal kids—most of theirs were too young
yet. They had all been looking for "messages" and
"salvations." Yet Sascha had identified her clients, and
he had even known that Mirda Khan and Mama Bob-
chik were especially important.

"It just pays to be a good neighbor," she answered
diffidently.

"Oh, you have definitely been a good neighbor to-
day, Tirla. And a very good citizen!" He laughed
softly, throwing his head back and showing large white
even teeth. It would be a very nice laugh, Tirla thought,
if it had not worried her that he was laughing at all.
Perversely she liked him, for his strong grip and his
droll words, but she did not trust him any further than
she could have thrown Bulbar.

She gave him a quick stare for calling her ' 'citizen.''
Citizens lived across the river in the beautiful hives,
luxury cones, platforms, and complexes, not in Linears.

"Trust me, Tirla?" His eyes were not laughing, nor
was his mouth, and his voice was gentle and entreating.

"I have no reason to."

"If I give you one?"

She snorted scornfully. Just then the train braked to
an easy stop, an'd the lids of the pods opened to reveal

a group of adults, waiting to lift out the unconscious
children. A slim woman in a LEO uniform standing at
the edge of the platform spotted Sascha and thrust a
narrow plastic case at him.

"Here's a reason, Tirla." Sascha showed her the ID
bracelet in the case. He took advantage of her surprise
to clasp it around her wrist.

She stared at it, holding her arms away from her,
trying to absorb the significance of having a legal iden-
tity and then the slowly dawning knowledge that the
bracelet was not banded in the usual Residential col-
ors. Green banding meant that one could travel be-
tween Linears, but what did the gold and black stripes
mean?

"You are now legal, Tirla."

Just then the four freight elevators reached the cargo
level. A mass of women flowed out onto the platform,
raising loud lamentations when they saw limp bodies
on medipads. Sascha drew Tirla to one side as Public
Health personnel circulated, establishing the parentage
of those Tirla had rescued.

"What happens to them?" Tirla asked. This was not
what she had had in mind when she set out on her mad
venture. Parents would not be pleased that their chil-
dren were in the hands of Authority. Nor would they
profit as she had intended. She had an ID bracelet and
more credit than she had ever possessed in her life-
but what good would it do her if the tenuous position
she had carved for herself, her clients, her means of
supporting herself, were gone? Suddenly her future
seemed as bleak as that of the children she had saved
from Yassim.

A tall, slender, very handsome young man in a LEO
uniform planted himself squarely in front of the Sascha
person and saluted. "What do you wish me to tell the
women, sir?" he asked.

"That Tirla here," Sascha said, moving her to stand
in front of him, his hands lightly—and, she felt,

200           

201

kindly—on her shoulders, "found where Yassim had
hidden their children. She was leading them back home,
to their mothers and fathers, when we, also searching,
came upon them."

In a voice that penetrated the tumult of wailing
women, the young man rattled off the announcement
in the required languages—a task that made Tirla rest-
less under Sascha's hands. As each of the linguistic
groups understood, they fell to whispering among
themselves. When the translator had finished, Mirda
Khan and Mama Bobchik waded forward, their ex-
pressions grim. Under Sascha's hands, Tirla's narrow
shoulders tensed, and surreptitiously she shielded her
brand-new ID bracelet by moving her arm slightly be-
hind her.

"And the children?" Mirda Khan demanded in Ba-
sic, jutting her chin out. She stared pointedly at Tirla.

"The records have been checked," Sascha said, his
voice diplomatically apologetic. "Their births were il-
legal."

When Mirda Khan frowned, Sascha signaled for Ran-
jit to translate. The wave of hysterical weeping was
punctuated as mothers of now officially illegal children
threw themselves across the unconscious bodies, obvi-
ously determined to resist attempts to remove them.
Sascha ordered the crowd-control partners to neutralize
the incipient hysterics. He dampened his own reception,
but he could not remain immune to the intense emo-
tional agitation that battered his senses. He was per-
plexed. These same women would have sold their sons
and daughters in a few years.

Boris, he said, it's going to be a lot easier to buy
these women off with something.

How about the truth? Isn't a hostel a better fate than
the future Yassim plannedIor them?

I would think so, Sascha replied, but I do not think
they'll see it in the same light. I'll tap our slushIand if
you won't ante lip. Anything, Sascha thought, to shut

up the spine-crawling ululations. He was not used to
having to deal on this level.

Getting soft. Brother?

You're not here and listening. And there's Tirla to
think of.

You 're taking charge of her, aren 't you ? Boris asked.

I'd rather she wasn't jeopardized. Her Talent could
be very useful in multilanguage groups.

The noise was fearful, the aura exceedingly unpleas-
ant for any Talents with the least modicum of empathy.
Tears were streaming down Carmen's face.

"How much, Tirla?" Sascha asked.

Startled, she twisted in his hands to see his expres-
sion.

"How much will stop their tears and relieve their
loss?" he went on.

"You'd pay?"

He saw the leap of astonishment in her velvety brown
eyes before a canny veil settled over her expression.
Brother, this one's going to deal for the hairs on our
chests.

"For the youngest, you don't have to give much."
She named a figure. "Add ten percent for each year
they have, and that should be enough."

"I'd say five percent for each year."

' 'Seven!'' she retorted. ' 'The bigger they are the more
it takes to fill their bellies."

He spit in his hand and held it out. She closed the
deal and then stepped four paces nearer to Mirda Khan.

Ranjit, monitor this for me! Sascha ordered.

She's speaking Arabic, Ranjit said. She's saying that
she has been arguing hard for the grieving mothers ever
since they were caught in the tunnel. Only because she
has spoken out so forcefully has a way been made to
ease the sorrow of the mothers. Illegal children have
rights, the big man says, and she believes him. They
will be much safer than with Yassim, for which every
mother should be thankful, knowing perfectly well the

202      203

fate which awaited the children, despite the grief it
causes. For how else can people survive on mere sub-
sistence alone? A price has been agreed, as they must
have seen, and she has acted in good faith. Sascha,
Ranjit added as Tirla turned to face another section of
the women, this child is amazing. She's speaking Urdu
now as glibly as she did Arabic. Oho!

There was a commotion, and a plump little woman,
her face contorted with conflicting emotions until her
beady eyes were hidden in the folds of her cheeks,
pushed through. Sascha recognized her from her caste
mark and the vindictiveness of her roiling thoughts. She
would have leaped upon Tirla if Mirda Khan and Mama
Bobchik had not intervened. Sascha sprang forward to
protect Tirla, berating himself for not anticipating an
attack.

"Unwanted bitch," me woman shrieked in Basic.
"Illegal, you! The bint is illegal! She is illegal!" She
struggled against the restraining hands. "Take her. You
take her if you take my Tombi. You take her!"

"Of course I am illegal, wasted barren woman whose
husband will beat her morning, noon, and evening for
refusing a fair price that will feed him for many days
to come on lamb and papadums." Tirla leaned with
fervor into the task of returning verbal abuse. She had,
Sascha noted, managed to run her bracelet up under her
sleeve, out of sight.

Sascha restrained Tirla by her shoulders. "She is il-
legal, woman. She comes with us. Tell them, Ranjit!"
When the message had been translated, he added, "The
deal she spoke of will be good for only three more
minutes." He looked pointedly at his digital watch.
"Then there is no more to talk about. Let each mother
who accepts the offer stand by her child."

Then, to shut up the renewal ofBilala's caterwauling,
Sascha shot a strong silencing command compulsion on
the hysterical woman. She fell back in the arms of the

women who held her, her mouth working soundlessly.
An awed hush fell over the platform.

The business was quickly concluded then, and Tirla
watched solemnly as crisp floaters changed hands. She
had never seen so much money in circulation at one
time and in front of everyone. It was better so. No one
could claim afterward that one had received more than
another. Some of the women lingered, displaying real
distress as their children were loaded back into the front
four cars. Sascha propelled Tirla towards the last car,
which the search group was boarding.

Tirla held up her braceleted arm. "You keep the bar-
gain in fact but not in spirit?" she demanded as the
drone cover slid shut. She tugged at the coveted wrist-
band.

"The bargain is kept in fact and in spirit, Tirla, but
you can't go back to G, not with Bilala your enemy."

"Huh! That one!" Tirla snorted derisively. "She
wouldn't find me if I didn't want her to. I'm not afraid
of that stupid woman."

"Frankly, I would be, were I you," Sascha said.
"She'll certainly make sure Yassim knows what part
you had in clearing out his hide."

That caused her to reflect, although Sascha still could
not nudge his way past her shields.

"Then what was the point of making it seem as if
they'd escaped?" she demanded with some exaspera-
tion.

"That seemed a sensible safeguard at the time. Up
until you'd wanted to be such a good neighbor. C'mon
..." Sascha held out his hand. "I think I can find you
a safe squat for a few days with a friend of mine."
Dorotea? he called. Can you spare a moment for this
waif?

Tirla looked at his hand as if it were covered in acid.
"At the hostel? With theml"

"You're legal, remember?" he reassured her with
a little smile. "Technically, you're free to move any-

204      205

where you want to now. You've got a wad of floaters,
but—" He raised his hand in a cautionary gesture.
"—you know as well as I do that an unattached kid in
a Linear right now is in jeopardy. Yassim has got to
find replacements, and Mirda Khan and Mama Bobchik
wouldn't be there to defend you."

"Defend me?" Tirla was both indignant and aston-
ished.

"Oh, they did, in their own ways. And if a ladrone
didn't snap you up, the Public Health would, as you're
underage and should be in school." Wow! he exclaimed
to Dorotea as he sensed Tirla's sudden reaction. That
opened up an excited crack.
• Dorotea: Keep working it then!

"Frankly, I would be wary, were I you," Sascha
said.

Tirla fingered her precious ID. "School? I could ac-
cess Teacher?"

"You've the right to all the education you can stuff
into your head—that is, once you overcome the little
problem of being an unattached minor. C'mon, get into
the pod. It's ready to go, and I want you out of this
hostile environment."

Tirla cast a look over her shoulder at the knot of
women around Bilala and said "Stupid cunt" under her
breath, but she did not resist Sascha's guiding hand.

"Once you've caught up with the grade level, you
could even go to a regular school."

"Me? In a school?" Tirla was skeptical as well as
contemptuous.

"I suspect you've got a lot more talent than you re-
alize, Tirla."

Dorotea, acidly: You were never one to understate a
cause.

Tirla hunkered down beside him, balancing her torso
between spread knees, hands dangling limply between
her legs, her butt against the padded end of the cargo
pod. She cocked her head up at him, hauling the strands

of dark hair off her face, her dark eyes sparkling with,
it seemed to Sascha, a private amusement that, for all
his telepathic skill, he could not penetrate.

"Talent?" she repeated.

"Yes," he said. "Talent." He settled down beside
her just as the train began to ease forward.

"I'm nothing like you," Tirla said warily, swaying
a little.

"No, you're not. I cannot talk to everyone in their
own language as glibly as you do."

Tirla thought for a moment and then shrugged.
"That's not hard to do."

"Not for you. Ranjit, who's quite a linguist, was
making heavy weather of the translations just now."

Tirla shrugged again, dismissively.

"In a few years, you could earn a big wage just trans-
lating." He could feel her attention. "Enough to live
at the top of any Linear and never have to worry about
the Yassims of this world."

"Working for LEO?" She was plainly unwilling.

"For someone with your gift of languages, there are
far better opportunities than LEO. You do need some
schooling."

"I got schooling." Her tone was both rebellious and
indignant. At Sascha's prompting, she added, "I used
my brother's ID—as long as I had it. I got schooling."

Dorotea, would you check that out? The brother's
name and ID are on the Incident report.

I caught a glimpse again, Sascha, Dorotea said. I'm
going to need personal contact with her to get past that
shield. I gather you plan to bring her to my place and
I'm to play sweet frail harmless grandmama? Boy, this
has been a day! In for a penny, in for a pound. Did
you get any of the high-level interview?

Caught most of it! Sascha sent an image of him cheer-
ing like a mad soccer supporter.

When all the excitement dies down, Sascha, we are

206           

207

going through the testing procedures with the prover-
bial fine-tooth comb.

Just then Sascha felt the jar as the four forward cars
were detached to go on to the western hostel that would
accommodate the illegal children. He caught the look
of apprehension on Tirla's face and her quick glance at
him.

I'll take her to my spare room if you 'd rather, he told
Dorotea.

Nonsense. I may hate typecasting but I'm far more
suitable. Though you 're doing rather well, Dorotea al-
lowed somewhat grudgingly.

Sascha smiled and resettled himself. "It'll be
smoother from now on," he said to Tirla. "We're be-
ing shunted to the commuter track.''

"Where are you taking me?"

"To my grandmother."

I'm not sure I care to be related to a glib philanderer
like you, Sascha Roznine. No morals.

"If she'll have you for a few days until I can find the
right Residential school for you," he amended. "That
would solve the problem of nosy Public Health officials
and keep you out of Yassim's notice." The mention of
school briefly opened her shield and he saw a fearful
startlement—a hunger and a withdrawal—before it low-
ered. He went on casually. "But, as I said, you've a
legal ID, floaters enough for months, and you can suit
yourself."

Their car had been shunted several times, and the
progress became smoother and faster. Tirla noticed it,
and she also noticed how the other people in the car
were relaxing, smiling and chatting comfortably with
one another.

Residential school, my ass! Boris's disgusted tone
echoed in Sascha's mind. I can just see Fairmont or
Holyoke taking in that subbie.

Tolerance, Bro, tolerance. She's clean and healthy,
and that tight mind might conceal a genius.

Boris: For scams!

Dorotea, steel in her tone: You just let us handle one
of our own.

Since when am I disowned? Boris asked.

Dorotea: When you 're wearing nothing but your LEO
hat!

Sascha had a mental image of his brother withdraw-
ing quietly, offending hat in hand. No one took on Dor-
otea in a crusading mood. He glanced down at Tirla,
who was deep in thought, staring down at the floor,
though her body appeared relaxed. When the cargo-pod
door opened as they reached the vehicle park in the
quiet grounds of the Eastern Center for Parapsy chics,
she reacted with amazement and disbelief. As the other
members of Sascha's team piled out, laughing and
chatting over the successful assignment, Tirla just
stood, her large eyes wide and white as she stared
around her. Sascha did not hurry her. The old Henner
estate, with its big old beeches, maples, and oaks, the
wide lawns and the attractive two-story residential
units, was unusual enough in modem Jerhattan and
had to be a revelation to a Linear resident. Tirla looked
appalled.

"My grandmother lives over there," Sascha said,
pointing to the dwelling that had once been the garde-
ner's lodge. "There she is, weeding the border." You
are'the most complete ham, Dorotea. Weeding?

True enough, but I wasn 't going to swathe myself in
black subsistence and bedeck myself with bracelets and
nose rings to make her feel at ease. And the border
does need weeding.

What about your arthritis?

I always suffer for my art, m'dear. I've recruited
Peter, too. He needs to climb down from rarefied at-
mospheres, and something homely will help. Also, he
may be older than she is, but he looks young. He's
to appear with eats. Refreshments are always a good
way to start off a conversation, particularly for some-

208      209

one with a Near East background. "Why, Sascha,
what a pleasant surprise!" Dorotea hoisted herself to
her feet and held out her arms to him. Kiss me, you
lout. Even grandmothers need a ration of passion now
and again!

"Grandmother, this is Tirla . . . Tunnelle."

Inventive boy! Dorotea commented.

"She needs a place to stay for a few days. Would it
be too much of an imposition?"

Dorotea extracted herself from Sascha's enthusiastic
embrace and extended a mud-daubed hand to Tirla.
Since Dorotea had been accepted and acceptable from
the moment of her birth, she had about her an aura that
made rejection from anyone impossible; Tirla delayed
only a moment before grasping the extended hand. She's
got bones like a bird's, Sascha. How could she possibly
do all she's just done ?

"Tirla, this is Dorotea Horvath." There's nothing
frail about Tirla's mind, Dorotea.

"Actually, I was just about to quit and have some-
thing to eat and drink. The sun's warm today. Peter, is
the juice ready?" she called, and gestured for her guests
to precede her into the little house.

Sascha was glad that he had thought of Dorotea, in-
stead of taking Tirla to the far more daunting manor
house and its formality. Judging by the girl's stunned
expression, even this homey room was far outside her
experience.

"I expect you'll want to wash up, and I need to,"
Dorotea said gently, touching Tirla's arm and pointing
to the little hall. "Lavatory's second door on the left,
dear, plenty of towels. Peter," she said as she made
for the small kitchen, "we have two more guests."

Peter: What's she like?

Sascha: Scared.

Peter, wryly: Know the feeling!

Dorotea: Tight shield.

Peter, earnestly: I'll be careful.

Dorotea: And don't show off. You'll terrify her.

Peter: I did all the showing off I'm going to do this
morning.

An apprehensive Tirla reentered the room, surrepti-
tiously trailing fingers along wooden surfaces and across
me sofa backs. Sascha noticed that she had washed
hands, arms, neck, face, and that portion of her chest
that was visible above the round neck of her rather worn
clothing. She had brushed her long hair neatly back
over her shoulders. Sascha thought of the cheerless
functionality of subsistence living quarters and gave
Tirla another full mark for nonchalance.

"Here we are," Dorotea said, arriving with a large
tray laden with all sorts of fingerfoods: savories, small
open-faced sandwiches, wedges of fruit, and strips of
fresh vegetables. "Peter, don't drop the glasses!" For-
tunately, Tirla's back was to the boy who, with both
hands on the huge pitcher of orange juice, was allowing
four large tumblers to float along beside him.

"Hold it while I pour," Peter said, handing Tirla a
glass, a diversion that kept her from noticing the other
glasses sliding to positions on the low table near Dor-
otea and Sascha.

Dorotea: Peter!

Peter: She didn 't see it.

When all had been served with juice, Peter bounced
into theichair beside Tirla and took a long drink of the
juice, wiping his mouth and exclaiming with satisfac-
tion at the taste.

"Don't inhale the juice, Peter," Dorotea said as she
offered Tirla the tray of snacks. An uncommon fondness
for green pepper, she noted when she saw Tirla's eyes
brighten at the sight of the slices. Closely watching
Dorotea, me girl had closed her fingers about three,
then increased her haul to six when there was no reac-
tion. "The cheese puffs are hot and fresh," Dorotea
said, pushing them toward Tirla. "You'd better get
them now before Sascha or Peter hog them all."

210   

Tida let the pepper strips fall into her lap and obe-
diently took a cheese puff.

I couldn't make myself some coffee, could I, Doro?
Sascha asked plaintively.

Drink! Anything. She won't until we all do. "Peter,
this is just what I needed. I must have dehydrated in
the sun. Sascha, there're asparagus in the breadrolls.
I know you like them! And Peter, you are not to eat
all the chicken sandwiches. He would, you know,"
Dorotea rattled on, nibbling at a cheese puff which she
then put to one side to take a bite of a pated cracker.
Well, we 've all sampled everything to prove there's no
poison or drugs: Ah, good! Oh, my word! She's
starved!

Tirla had started to drink and eat with quick sharp
bites and snatched swallows, as if she was torn between
eating and drinking and afraid that the food would sud-
denly disappear. All three telepaths were aware of a
sudden lightening of her carefully guarded thoughts as
she made inroads on the snacks. The pastry melted in
her mouth, releasing tastes that satisfied unknown crav-
ings with textures that titillated her tongue, from the
reassuring crisp watery tang of the green peppers to the
bite of sharp cheese and savory meat fillings.

Food would be a trigger, Dorotea went on wryly,
when you consider she's probably been hungry all her
life. She took a long drink of the orange juice. ' 'I hope
you've more in the kitchen, Peter, because it tastes mar-
velous. But then, fresh-squeezed orange juice always
does, don't you think so, Tirla?"

Sascha! Boris's tone was authoritative. Your waif's
in good hands. Someone just snatched one of the Jer-
hattan schoolkids we stranded three weeks ago.

"Well," Sascha said, rising and dusting crumbs off
his fingers. "I'll leave you to it, Tirla. You're safe
enough here for a few days, and Peter can show you
how to log on to Teacher. Right?"

As he strode across the lawn to the main house, Dor-

             211

otea told him, She paused in her eating when you left,
but I fear the snack tray and the orange juice pitcher
are of far greater moment than you, honey.

Sascha was not certain, in his private mind, if he
liked taking second place to a batch of canapes, even
with a preadolescent.

CHAPTER 13

•$» •$» you been here long?" Tirla asked Peter the next
morning as they ate breakfast in the pleasant and, to
Tirla, amazing kitchen room. Dorotea was preparing
eggs—fresh eggs—in a pan at the stove, using, of all
things, a naked flame. Tirla did not wish to distract her
from the dangerous procedure, so she spoke in a low
voice.

"Hmm," Peter said amiably, taking neat spoonfuls
of the ripe melon. "Ever since I got out of the hospi-
tal."

Tirla watched to see how he dealt with the food—she
would have sliced it thin and eaten down to the rind.
"Why were you in the hospital?" she asked. Hospitals
were fearsome places to Tirla, who had always made a
practice of avoiding medics, as well as quacks. She also
had a wary distrust of sick people, never having been
ill or injured herself.

Peter gave a diffident shrug of one shoulder. "A wall
collapsed all over me."

"You must have been hurt bad." In Tirla's experi-
ence people did not survive walls coming down on
them.

"Couldn't walk for months. Couldn't even feed my-
self." His eyes took on an unfocused cast.

"And they let you live?" Tirla was stunned at such
good fortune.

Peter regarded her with some surprise. "Of course,
though for a while there, I really didn't want to live."
212

             213

Tirla absorbed that remarkable statement as she bent
to the task of eating melon. It was really good—not
gone off like most of those she scrounged. She nicked
careful glances at Dorotea to make sure the fire was
under control. Why didn't the woman use the hotter she
had right there in the wall? One of the first things one
learned in the Linears was not to mess with naked
flames. Fire was a sure way to bring down the wrath of
the LEOs.

"Why did you?" Tirla asked, realizing that Peter
was waiting for her to comment. "Live, I mean."

"Rhyssa taught me how to move again."

"You do move sort of oddly," she said, having no-
ticed the peculiar gliding motion he used. He did not,
in fact, seem to take real steps, though his legs moved.

Peter snickered, his mouth full of melon. He swal-
lowed and grinned broadly. "That's because I'm not
really walking. I impel myself kinetically." His eyes
glinted with mischief at her mystification. "I make my
body move. It can't."

Tirla stopped eating, staring at him until she recalled
that even in Linears a lengthy stare was impolite. "Your
body doesn't move? But you're eating. You're using
your arm and your hand—just like me." She held her
own hand up.

"I'm pretty good at it, aren't I?" Peter was delighted
with his effect on Tirla. "I've done some other stuff,
too, moving—" He broke off, with a slightly rueful
grin. "I hear you're pretty good at your Talent, too.
That was larky—getting the kids away from the per-
vert."

Tirla slowly shook her head, dismissing her achieve-
ment. "Nothing like what you do. I don't have much
Talent at all."

Peter snorted with good-natured contempt. "That's
what you think. It's not what Rhyssa said. I'm good at
what I do. But you're very very good at what you do.
Don't knock it."

214

            215

Slightly embarrassed by the sincerity of Peter's tone,
Tirla changed the subject, eager to pump him on puz-
zling topics. "You said Rhyssa helped you? Is she the
dark-haired one who was here last night after Sascha
left?"

Peter nodded his head. "She's the director here."

"Not Sascha?"

Peter shook his head, grinning. " Sascha's the deputy
chief. He takes over when Rhyssa's involved with
someone. Like me! I'm her special project—" He broke
off, blinking his eyes rapidly, and flashed a quick, al-
most apologetic glance at Dorotea before he grinned.
"Rhyssa has lots of special duties, being the director.
I'm not the only one."

Tirla noticed that his cheeks flamed briefly. What
could embarrass a boy like Peter? Then Dorotea was
passing plates with freshly cooked eggs and bacon and
urging Tirla to sample the hot toast. Tirla ate until she
was stuffed. She thanked Dorotea profusely for the ef-
fort of handcooking.

"I enjoy it," Dorotea replied, smiling gently. "Es-
pecially for appreciative appetites. Peter, why don't you
take Tirla to the study and log her in? You've got to go
through some assessments first, honey, but once your
standard's been decided, you'll be expected to be pre-
sent for all the classes you're assigned."

Tirla nodded briefly, far more interested in the way
Peter got down from his chair—indeed he did glide as
he conducted her to the study, and the curious fluidity
of his movements fascinated her.

"And you aren't really walking?" she asked.

"Nope, it's all kinetic. My spinal cord got severed
when the wall fell on me. Medical science can't splice
that—yet—but kinetic science gives me movement. Bet-
ter'n being stuck in a support chair," he assured her
blithely. "Here's your terminal, and here're your ear-
plugs. I've got to do my hours with Teacher, too. Can't
slip out of that with kinesis!" He made a face as she

slid into the chair he indicated. When she had slipped
the plugs into her ears, he typed a sequence with an odd
finger movement, and suddenly the blank screen
cleared.

"Tirla Tunnelle, may I, as your personal Teacher,
welcome you to this Educational Program." The screen
showed the School Room and a pleasant-faced woman
seated at the desk. Tirla knew that the Teacher was a
construct, devised to reproduce the old teacher-pupil
confrontation, but she had always liked the look of
Teacher; someone a person could trust, who would not
laugh at questions or honest mistakes, who was there
to help one leam. "Sascha Roznine told us that you
have had some credits under the name of Kail, Linear
G resident. Flat 8732a. Today, if you will bear with
me, Tirla, we will just see how much of those early
lessons you remember. Now, shall we begin? If you
need to be refreshed about the function keys, please
type H for help. Or, if you're ready to begin, strike
RETURN, and we'll begin the assessment."

With conflicting emotions—awe at realizing a long-held
dream and fear that the miracle might be withdrawn for
some capricious reason—Tirla touched RETURN.

"I think," Dorotea began, drumming her fingers rap-
idly on the kitchen table, "Tirla is going into an
education-overkill phase. She won't leave the terminal,
though Peter has been as slyly devious as you, Sascha,
in getting her outside. I also think she finds the grounds
daunting instead of pleasant. She sticks to the paths and
won't use the playground facilities. But all this study
and no play is not an improvement."

Don Usenik, who had joined the informal meeting as
medical advisor, shook his head, mildly amused by
Dorotea's fervor. "According to the medical reports,
she's in excellent shape. Amazingly so when you con-
sider the conditions under which she's lived."

"Well, I think it's wrong for a child her age to try

            217

216   

and absorb two years' education in four days," Dorotea
maintained.

"Any improvement in receptivity?" Rhyssa asked.

"What does Peter say?" Dorotea countered with
some heat.

Rhyssa laughed. ' 'Peter thinks she could if she would.
When she's involved in her studying, he can hear an
ongoing mental commentary. She has amazing retentive
powers, visual as well as auditory. She's answered him
telepathically once or twice when she didn't realize it."

"We have got to make her aware of her potential,"
Sascha said, frustrated.

Rhyssa leaned across the table. "It will take time,
Sascha. There's no need to force scope to her Talent."

"Boris would like a hundred more like her," Sascha
said, frowning.

"But I thought you and Boris had found the Jerfiattan
child," Rhyssa said, having followed his thought. She
did not like what she read: that Boris wanted Tirla to
work undercover with Cass.

"Oh, we found and rescued her all right enough,"
Sascha replied with no sense of achievement, "and two
others, but there were no leads whatever of any use.
Only a minor ladrone who reports by phone—another
of those conveniently illegal connects. So a dead end.
The girls could tell us nothing; they had been gassed,
blindfolded, stuck in some sort of smooth plastic co-
coon. Their trauma went pretty deep."

"The psychological scarring of their incarceration is
going to be difficult to neutralize," Don remarked,
frowning. "A new wrinkle in rendering the abducted
docile—tactile disorientation. Villainous trick." He
shook his head. "You and Peter are off today, aren't
you? So that leaves Dorotea and me to come up with
some brilliant ideas on sharpening up the Tests, huh?"

"And me," Sascha said, coming out of his gloom.
"I am after all, director of training for this Center. The
trouble with a unique like Tirla is that she doesn't re-
alize she's got Talent in the first place. And in the sec-
ond, how can you test children that aren't supposed to
exist?"

"What training have you planned for Tirla then?"
Rhyssa said.

Sascha shrugged. "Training? She's a natural at what
she does—getting into the communication center of any-
one's brain and adapting to whatever language they're
using." He spread his hands wide. "How can we im-
prove on that? And she can't explain any more than
Peter can explain how he does what he does."

"I'd do it myself, but I hate crowds and I can't walk
far," Dorotea said suddenly, "but Sascha, why don't
you start by hauling her away from Teacher for an af-
ternoon? Those issue shoes are useless, and while she
might feel happy in subsistence issue, I would like to
see her dressed in something nicer. Several something
nicers."

"Me?" Sascha glanced first at Dorotea and then at
Rhyssa and pretended not to see Don's amused expres-
sion.

"You!" Dorotea pointed a stem finger at him. "She
trusts you."

"But I've never bought clothes for a kid."

"No need to panic," Dorotea replied unfeelingly.
"I'm sure Tirla knows what she'd be comfortable wear-
ing; and^that's all you need to go by. She's still a trifle
young to want to bedeck herself alluringly."

Wanna bet? Rhyssa said in a tight aside to Dorotea,
who gave her an unfathomable glance without betraying
a mental explanation.

"Take her to one of the good malls. Let her see how
the other half lives—the one she's inhabiting now,"
Dorotea went on. "And then treat her to something
tooth-rottening and utterly satiating. Spoil her a bit.
Show her there's more to life on this level than a square
box and a wrist ID."

218      219

"She might know of other kids with unusual apti-
tudes," Rhyssa added. "She doesn't miss much."

"That's for sure," Sascha replied heartily. "Your
heli just landed, Rhyssa. I'll just see you all off."

"Peter!" Rhyssa called. "Dave and Johnny are on
their way. Are you all packed?"

Dorotea snorted. "He's been ready since before you
thought of the—" She paused and grinned wickedly.
"—distraction."

"I'm coming," Peter called. He glided to Tirla's
room. "I'll see you," he told her. "Keep clocking in
the study time."

She hit the HOLD and regarded him in surprise.
"You going somewhere?"

Peter grinned mischievously. "Rhyssa's got a job for
me." He winked.

"Job? For you?"

"Sure. I'm very useful, I'll have you know."

Tirla gave him a long disbelieving look. "Doing
what?"

"More of what I'm good at."

Tirla gave him a look of profound disbelief. "What
could you be good at?"

Peter made a clicking sound in his mouth, since he
could not snap his fingers. "I just wish I could tell you,
Tirla. But it's a professional secret."

"So don't tell me. I got better things to do than guess
secrets!" Tirla turned back to the monitor.

"But I'll be gone weeks."

Tirla wriggled her fingers at him over her shoulder.
"Have a good time," she said, keeping her eyes on the
screen. The Teacher on hold had her mouth open and
hand half-raised as she was making a particular point
in the lesson. Tirla tried to resume her studying, but
the truth of the matter, though she could not let on to
Peter, was that she would miss him. Weeks?

He was the first boy she had ever met who had some
sense. She knew' he was supposed to be a very clever

kinetic—he had talked to her about thought transfer and
telepathy, which made her a bit nervous—but he had
also been good about helping her with some of the
harder problems Teacher set her. At least Sascha would
be around. She would not like Sascha to be gone for
weeks.

She was surprised to have her lesson interrupted a
second time—and by Sascha.

"Tirla! Have you stirred out of this room today?"

"No," she said, tapping out the answer to the prob-
lem on the screen.

"Tirla! Turn that damned thing off! We've got some-
thing better to do with the afternoon."

She rolled over on her side to look up at him.
"What?"

"Buy you some new shoes and clothes."

Tirla looked down at the toes that were visible
through the latest cracks in her footwear. "I did try to
find the issue slot, but Dorotea doesn't have one."

Sascha hunkered down and firmly punched the Off
switch.

"Hey!" Tirla regarded him with astonishment that
quickly turned to antagonism. She reached for the
switch, and he caught her hand.

"You can pick up where you left off when we get
back. On your feet!" Sascha gave her hand a warning
pull, "We don't have issue slots at the Center. Gener-
ally we get ordinary stuff from the Remote Mail, but as
I haven't a notion of your shoe size or what colors you
like, I think this once, we'll go in the flesh. When we're
done, we're going to have a treat."

That got Tirla's interest. She bounced to her feet, her
black eyes sparkling. "What kind of treat?"

"That'll be entirely up to you, my dear," he said,
leading the way to the transport lot. "m our malls
there's a lot to choose from," he added in a provocative
tone.

Whatever misgivings Sascha might have entertained

220      221

about shopping for a child were swiftly compounded.
First Tirla had to recover from her initial shock at the
size of the mall that Sascha had chosen. Then she led
him a dance through every department of the twelve-
story complex, eyes and head constantly on the move
as she did an initial reconnaissance.

Back on the first floor, she mused at length over the
various items that had caught her attention the first time
and then began a second tar. On the fourth level, for-
tunately the one dealing with shoes and apparel for
young people, the sole of one shoe disintegrated—
"From the heat of the speed at which she was travel-
ing," Sascha told Dorotea later.

When an officious floor walker moved in on Tirla
with the obvious intent of removing the waif from the
elegant premises, Sascha intercepted him.

"I wouldn't," Sascha said in a low voice, pushing
out his sleeve so the special design of his wrist ID was
visible. "I'm escorting her. Is she acceptable as a pa-
tron now?"

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir, but you must admit . . ."

"That's why we're shopping."

The man walked quickly out of Sascha's vicinity with
several anxious backward glances.

"You weren't going to hex him, were you, Sascha?"
an amused voice beside him asked.

He turned to see Cass Cutler grinning up at him. "If
I could, I'd put a hurry one on Tirla," he said. "We
went through all twelve levels of this place like a dose
of salts, and now she's settling down for a second tour."

Cass laughed at his discomfort. "And they sent you
out on your own with your protegee?" She laughed
again. "That's unkind."

"It's supposed to be mutually instructive."

Tirla reappeared and latched onto Sascha's hand, re-
garding Cass very narrowly from her suddenly inscru-
table eyes.

"I remember you," Cass said. "You ricocheted off

me and my partner at Linear G. And you messed up
Flimflam's scam to a fare-thee-well. My congratula-
tions!"

"You're one of him," Tirla accused, jerking her head
toward Sascha.

Cass laughed again, a throaty, genuine laugh. Sascha
could feel Tirla's fingers relaxing. "Not quite, chip.
We're on the same side, but right now I'm assigned to
LEO, crowd control."

Tirla looked about her, slightly contemptuous. "Not
much of a crowd here today."

"I'm not on duty today," Cass replied, grinning
down at Tirla. "I see you're on a day off, too. What've
you found that appeals to you?"

Will you help me, Cciss? Please say yes! Sascha
pleaded. I've a hideous presentiment that that child in-
tends to case the entire mall again before she'll even
try something on.

"If you don't mind me saying it, Tirla, you'll be able
to walk further with a decent pair of shoes on your feet.
There're some good bargains to be had right now. What
strikes your fancy?"

With a sense of reprieve, Sascha followed Cass and
Tirla to the shoe department. An hour later, after two
harried human clerks had replaced the mechanical fitter,
Tirla's small, narrow, and very dainty feet ended up in
soft purple leather boots, in the only pair that would fit
her feet.

Totally unsuitable for a child, of course, Cass said,
but they do fit,

And she adores them! Sascha saw how Tirla's face
glowed as she strutted from mirror to mirror, regarding
her feet.

"Mr. Roznine," the head clerk said wearily as me
docket spun out of me teller machine, "your young
companion has a most delicate and unusual foot to fit.
May I recommend this concern? They do very fine cus-
tom work."

222           

223

Sascha read the man easily and caught the unspoken
message: "So we won't have to go through this again."
But he was just as grateful to take the card, which could
be inserted in Dorotea's mall machine for home shop-
ping.

He blessed Cass with every new purchase, for the
woman actually seemed to enjoy the looking, the try-
ing, and the endless discussions of fit, style, and color.

"The concept of having unlimited funds to spend is
foreign to the child, Sascha," Cass said at one point,
"but you must admit that she knows what suits her."

Tirla was modeling a one-piece outfit as different from
subsistence issue as diamonds from rhinestones. The
main color was a soft blue with purple accents in seam-
stitching, pocket trim, and fasteners. Once Tirla found
that outfit to her taste and Sascha's—it was always
Sascha to whom she turned for approval—it took the
combined efforts of both Sascha and Cass to get her to
buy additional clothing.

"Why do I need more? I've boots, and this material's
hard wearing. It'll do for weeks. Even if I had to catch
freights again," Tirla added, peering mischieviously up
at Sascha.

He had to chuckle at her impudence. "It's a fetching
outfit, Tirla, there's no question of it. But even Teacher
will get tired of seeing you in it."

Tirla gave him a long hard look. "Teacher doesn't
see me."

"No, but Dorotea and I do, so do Sirikit, Budworth,
Don, and Peter, and Rhyssa. You never see them wear-
ing the same clothes two days in a row."

"Oh, they have lots of clothes. Dorotea has closets
full." Tirla did not sound envious—if anything her tone
was slightly censorious, as if she felt it was improper
for people to have so many things to wear.

"A few changes are in order," Cass said. "I've got
quite a few myself," she added encouragingly while
Tirla merely stared back, her hands plunged into the

deep pockets and her shoulders hunched under the
smooth fabric.

"This isn't coming out of your floaters, Tirla,"
Sascha began, suddenly realizing what might be caus-
ing her hesitation. "Dorotea and Rhyssa want you to
be suitably dressed now that you're a Talent. You're
not a subbie anymore, you know." He pointed to her
wrist ID.

"Oh." There was look of surprised wonderment on
the girl's face as she regarded her bracelet with dawning
comprehension. "Is that why those salespersons were
so nice to me?"

"Quite likely," Cass said in a dry tone of voice.
"Everyone in malls like these recognizes the distinctive
pattern."

Tirla twirled hers on her fragile wrist. "They do?"
She settled the band outside the cuff of her new clothes.
"How much can I buy with just this?"

Sascha disguised a choke of dismay with a cough just
as Cass caught him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Let's find out, shall we, chip?" Cass asked cheer-
fully and held out her hand.

Tirla took it readily enough, but her other hand im-
mediately sought Sascha's, and then she was dragging
them after her toward a rack of brilliantly colored trou-
sers.

She was not as profligate as Sascha feared, but she
ended up with "something different to wear every day
of the week." Then Sascha made good his promise of
a treat, inviting Cass to join them in the Old-Fashioned
Parlor of Gastronomical Confections and Irresistible
Desserts.

Tirla managed to get through three immense, rich
concoctions that Sascha privately thought revolting.

Cass: Let her enjoy, Sascha. Ice cream is something
she's only heard about.

Sascha: What if she comes home sick? Dorotea will
skin me alive.

224      225

Cass: This child has an iron constitution if she's sur-
vived subbie slop until now. And look at how much
pleasure she's having.

Sascha, groaning: I'll be sick!

It was then that Tirla realized there were other girls
and boys enjoying the parlor. Her spoon on automatic,
she took full note of the other youngsters.

That blonde ought never to wear bright colors. She 'd
look better in pastel shades. Boy, what's he wearing
such tight pants for? He'll squeeze 'em dry. Now that    \
red outfit might look good on me. Maybe I can get    \
something like that next time Sascha wants to spend    |
money.                                               |

Sascha glanced surreptitiously at Cass, who rolled her
eyes.                                                  . i

Sascha: Stream of consciousness and loud and clear,    j
Does she realize she's broadcasting ?                    ^

Cass, busily spooning up the last of her treat: Highly    '
unlikely. That child's had to be on the qui vive all her
life. Frankly, Sascha, I take it as a high compliment
that she's relaxed enough in our presence to do some
unguarded thinking.

Sascha: Good point.

As nonchalantly as he could, Sascha observed Tirla,
listening to her pithy and acute remarks about physical
appearances, style, clothing, manners, and a range of
other subjects that flowed across her alert and fascinat-    ^
ing mind.                                              \

Then Cass, with apparent reluctance, rose and said
that she had to get back to the Center, as she had an
evening assignment. Tirla even looked disappointed that
their threesome had to break up.

' 'Look, chip, anytime you want to have a gawk round   ;

some of the other malls—" Cass started.

"There are other ones?" Tirla exclaimed, shooting
an accusing glare at Sascha.

"Thousands," Cass told her with an unrepentant grin.
"But you can't really do more than one at a time, or it

all gets jumbled up in your head as to what you saw
where and which price. Believe me, I know!"

Tirla saw the merit of that and, tucking her hand in
Sascha's, was content to return to their transport and
the Center.

By the time they reached Dorotea's, their purchases
had arrived by express package tube and were piled
neatly about the room.

"What a charming combination!" Dorotea exclaimed
on seeing Tirla's clothes. Did you buy the mall out,
Sascha?

Give her a little while and she probably will. Cass
made the mistake of informing her there are a thousand
more just like Grafton 's, and we may never be able to
pay her bills.

Dorotea laughed. "I'll expect a fashion show after
supper, Tirla."

"Show? Why? I can put on something new every day
this week. That'll show you," Tirla replied. "What's
for supper? It smells good!"

"After all you just finished eating?" Sascha de-
manded.

"That was the treat. Don't I get supper after a treat?"

"Of course you do," Dorotea assured her, glaring at
Sascha.

If you 'd seen the three huge, gooey, sickeningly sweet
things\she consumed only a half hour ago, you might
not be so quick to stuff her with supper, Sascha cau-
tioned.

"Wash your hands, Tirla, and I'll serve immediately.
Are you staying, Sascha?"

"No, thanks," he said, managing to sound polite.
Peter was right about her being telepathic. But she
doesn 't know she is.

Hmmm. You see, you did learn something from her
today. What did she learn from you ?

How to spend money, Sascha replied sourly, and left.

* * *

226      227

If the official spectators at the launch even noticed
the youngster seated to one side in the upper control
room, they would have supposed him to be a child on
a special tour, his youth according him a treat. The men
certainly noticed the woman who sat beside him, for
she had an arresting beauty and an unusual silver streak
in her dark hair. However, her attention never strayed
from the boy. Equally involved in him was the tall dark-
haired man in fatigues with a colonel's eagle on one
collar tab. So few spared the trio more than a passing
glance. The real action was taking place out by the mas-
sive towering gantry, where gale-force winds whipped
the steam from the shuttle's rocket end. All recent
launches had been pretty tricky, the bad weather caus-
ing havoc with all air transport but none more so than
the critical first minutes of a shuttle launch.

The countdown echoed through the shielded room—
at the count of eight, the spectators were jockeying for
position for an unimpeded view through the treated slit
windows, eager for ignition and takeoff. Fingers were
surreptitiously crossed, for this was the thirteenth suc-
cessive shuttle flight.

"We have ignition!" As often as that phrase was
uttered, it was always said with a ring of quiet triumph.

As the shuttle engines began their full-throated roar,
none of the spectators would be able to hear another noise,
that of power generators pulsing at ever-increasing speed:

a subtle whine that built and then leveled on" just as the
shuttle, one of the majestic new Rigel class, began its
first imperceptible upward thrust. The final link to the
launch tower fell away. Everyone held his or her breath.
Then, despite the howling wind and the lashing rain,
the shuttle crept upward from the reinforced concrete
without deviating a centimeter from the optimum take-
off trajectory. Lift became obvious with increasing ac-
celeration, and suddenly the bird was up and running,
disappearing, except for the radiance of its rockets, into
the lowering ceiling of dark gray swirling clouds.

Immediately all eyes turned to the newly installed
infrared monitors that continued to track the shuttle on
its unswerving path through the atmosphere and safely
above the turbulence, well on its way to Padrugoi Sta-
tion, where its payload was urgently needed.

"The pilot has the conn," Peter Reidinger said,
opening his eyes. He glanced first at Rhyssa and she
nodded, smiling reassurance as she removed her hand
from his. He liked her to be touching him in these mo-
ments, even if he could not feel it.

"You have the conn, Crosbie," the controller said,
letting out a small sigh of relief. "Good thrust, Pete.
You're working like a charm. Got the whole thing down
to a science."

"It is," Johnny Greene reminded him, grinning.

"You know what I mean, Colonel," the controller
said, flapping his hand.

"He's teasing you," Peter said, turning his attention
to the monitor. He did not really need it—he could fol-
low the ascent of the shuttle like a pulse in his vein, a
tingle of power running up and down his bones. He
could feel that.

"Very economical thrust, Peter," Johnny said, pe-
rusing the printout on the generator control panel.
"That's the third one in a row at that level gestalt. I
think we can now establish certain parameters to power
usage in bad-weather launches—even if I still can't tell
how you do it." He made a disgruntled noise in his
throat. The ex-etop pilot had been hoping that he could
learn Peter's gestalt link by following his mind during
a launch. He and Rhyssa had decided that the fact that
he had only latent kinetic Talent might be all to the
good—for a pure kinetic might be unable to adapt to
Peter's ways. But he had had no more luck than Sascha
at discerning the boy's method.

"Maybe you're trying too hard, JG," Peter sug-
gested. "I keep as open as I can ..."

"I know you do, lad. Wide open. I'm just too clumsy

228   

to get through the door. I think it's going to have to be
a trained kinetic."

"Second-stage ignition," the controller said, alerted
by his board. "On its way! You do good work, Pete.
Good work."

"C'mon, time for your swimming lesson, Pete,"
Johnny said. "Gotta keep you fit enough to launch these

birds."

"Can't I stay? To be sure it docks okay?" Peter
would not admit, even deep in his skull where Rhyssa
might see, that he did not have enough energy left im-
mediately after a launch to move from the couch. He
grasped at any excuse to gain the few necessary mo-
ments to reenergize himself.

"The bird's okay," the controller assured him.

"Look all you want," Johnny said, reseating him-
self. If he had guessed Peter's secret, he never let on.

The spectators below were beginning to file out of
the gallery, hunching into wet-weather gear, bracing
themselves for the stiff winds. With a wink, the con-
troller turned on the intercom.

"I tell you. Senator, it is a measure of the state of
the art in space technology that we're now able to launch
despite the weather."

"If I had a nickel for every hold I've had to wait
through, m'boy, I'd be able to buy drinks for the entire
base. Just how much did you say this new technology
cost us?"

The figure mentioned by the congressman was three
times as much as Peter's contract had actually cost. And
nearly one hundred percent more than the generator.

Peter grinned broadly, thoroughly enjoying the
eavesdropping. He had been appalled at how much a
big generator cost—though Colonel Greene assured him
that it was a pittance when compared to other items
purchased for Canaveral—and he could not believe the
contract figure, for his short-term services. Not to men-
tion the bonuses for every successful launch. He had
been even more delighted when Rhyssa suggested that
the Center increase the pension that was being sent to
his parents.

Talents were generally not contracted until they were
at least eighteen years old, but the circumstances and
his unusual ability had been construed as sufficient to
make an exception—a brief exception.

Vemon's advice to the Center had been that if the
technology cost, it was bound to be considered more
efficient than something in the medium range. The dif-
ference between fact and fiction went into the Center's
research fund.

At that, it had taken some finagling on Altenbach's
part to get the Canaveral staff to consider the "new
technology," even with the enthusiastic assistance of
General Halloway and Colonel Straub. Peter had not
been mentioned; the generators had, plus some very
odd "instrumentation." Peter, in fact, had been hidden
behind a screen with Rhyssa when the "new technol-
ogy" had had its first test. He had kinetically flown a
drone from Canaveral to Eglin Field despite gale-force
winds and a ceiling of 100 meters. He had landed it
right on the target painted on the runway—to show the
precision of the "new technology." He was then al-
lowed to launch a loaded drone into orbit, where it
could be retrieved by a Padrugoi-based craft. His pre-
cision again was the deciding factor: so many drones
had wandered off course that the drone program had
been drastically curtailed.

Two days later a proper shuttle launch was grudg-
ingly permitted. There was no foreseeable change in the
terrible weather patterns, and shipments had fallen
weeks behind delivery. That first morning, Peter had
been a trifle anxious, and the shuttle had ascended at
such an astonishing rate that the controllers had thought
that a misfire had occurred, and they had been about to
abort the mission. Peter, with Johnny telepathically as-
sisting him, had reduced the thrust and the mission had

230

continued. The pilot later was heard to mention that his
instrumentation had registered a g-force of 11 for the
first few moments—he had been scared shitless thinking
he would not even be able to activate the escape-pod

control on his armrest.

The "new technology" improved in finesse over the
ensuing launches, and NASA breathed a corporate sigh
of relief that it could complete all the programmed sup-
ply runs to Padrugoi.

Rhyssa and Johnny watched the expression on the
boy's rapt face as he followed the current shuttle's
progress. The controller handed them coffee as they
waited through Peter's absorption.

"Okay," the boy said finally, as the screen showed
the shuttle nearing its docking rendezvous and he had
recovered sufficiently. "The new technology is ready
for its swim.'' Though still a bit weak, he managed a
proper descent from his chair, raising his right hand in
a creditable wave to the controller as he maneuvered
the steps to the ground exit of the room.

It had taken four launches before the mission launch
controller was comfortable with "new technology" and
Peter's peculiar part in its schematics, but he had come
to like the youngster and had given up trying to figure
out how he did what he did—whatever it was.

"Get your slicker on, Pete," Johnny said.

Peter had discovered that he could kinetically keep
rain from soaking him, but he tried to resist the temp-
tation to show off unnecessarily. Dutifully he flipped
the slicker over him. Exiting the concrete bunker, they
all made a dash for their waiting aircar.

Two weeks after Rhyssa and Peter went to Florida,
Boris made one of his rare visits to the Center to apprise
Sascha of the fact that undercover agents believed more
children had been sold. The agents had noticed a lot of
floaters being,spent in Linears A, B, and C. So Cass
and Suz were sent on assignment to Linear E. As the

             231

two women frequented all the Jersey Linears, they were
known to the inhabitants. Cass's pregnancy made her
even less suspicious, and she pretended ill health to
account for Suz's company. So far they had nothing to
report, not even a ripple of expectation. Whenever con-
tact permitted, they stuck a locating strand in the hair
of each child they encountered.

Similar teams were stranding Linear children
throughout the Jerhattan area. Scan teams worked
around the clock, waiting for a strand to show up in an
unlikely area.

"You know, Bro," Boris said, "we've got nothing
but stopgap techniques. Planting a telempath won't stop
kids being abducted." Sascha was in Rhyssa's office,
attending to routine administration details as he took a
break from formulating new testing procedures. Boris
was standing at the window, looking out on the peace-
ful scene below.

"No, no, no, and no, Bro," Sascha said without
looking up from the monitor. He made a rapid motion
across the keyboard, then swiveled about to give his
brother a hard stare. "There is no way in which I'll
permit Tirla to be used as bait!"

"But she's a natural," Boris said. "She knows how
to decipher Linear rumors the way no other operative
available to us can."

"You^think I,"—Sascha jabbed his chest with his
fingers—"would risk her?"

"Candidly, I don't think Tirla would be at risk,"
Boris went on, beginning to pace. "We could put her
in with Cass and Suz, set her up with every telltale
known to technology. She knows Linears, she can speak
any lingo, she's clever as can stare, and—"

"She's twelve years old and you're not using her as
bait," Sascha roared, not bothering to dampen his out-
rage and fury.

Boris regarded him with surprise. "That kid was
never twelve! And what's the matter with using the one

232   

advantage we've found in dealing with Linear abduc-
tions? She's got a unique Talent, a natural camouflage,
and an ability for this sort of thing. Look how she man-
aged in Linear G."

"Linear G was a once-off. I'm not putting her at risk
like that again."

"She was never at risk. Except maybe from you!'\
Boris glared right back at his brother. "And this was
Cass's idea. I think it has potential. One thing sure,
Bro—unless we can get at the mastermind behind this
despicable traffic, we're going to be losing kids. Kids
who might well be Talented, too."

"You step up your search-and-seizes, Boris. Leave
Tirla out of your calculations. There are other ways,
ethical and technological ways, to solve LEO prob-
lems."

"Sascha, if I had the personnel to do it the hard way,
I would," Boris replied, his face reddening in an effort
to keep his temper in the face of his twin's intransi-
gence.

"Use some of the Linear G kids as bait then. They'd
love a chance to get out of the hostel!"

Boris gave his brother one long look. "You know,
that's not a bad idea. I'll check 'em out." With that he
strode out of the room.

CHAPTER 14

•?* •$• Despite the work, those last three weeks in Flor-
ida had been almost vacation time for Rhyssa, John
Greene, and Peter. Launching thirteen of the eighteen
supply shuttles occupied two or three hours of a day at
the most for Peter.

When Johnny Greene started to explain the mechan-
ics of lift, trajectory, orbiting, and other such matters
pertaining to the job at hand, he and Rhyssa discovered
that there were woeful gaps in Peter's education. He
had not even had bedside schooling during his months
in the hospital. So a telempathic tutor was immediately
hired.

Alan Eton quickly discovered that Peter had the usual
boyish disregard for grammar, spelling, and syntax,
though his vocabulary skills were, in technical areas,
beyond his age group. His mathematics were well into
first,-yea^ university, and his understanding of certain
aspects of physics was curiously advanced. With the
colonel as his role model, Peter was eager to progress
in those sciences. Taking advantage of the boy's ad-
miration, John Greene suggested that he had better im-
prove his computer and English skills, as well, even if
he was kinetically superior. While Peter understood
some chemical and biological concepts—particularly
those that had a bearing on his accident—he had, nat-
urally, had no laboratory experience. A course of study
was initiated and regular school hours kept, with Alan
guiding Peter deftly into independent study of whatever
233

             235

234   

the boy wanted to learn while filling in the more obvi-
ous lacks. A university degree, bachelor or advanced,
was not at issue for Peter Reidinger: his career was well
underway, but if he was to develop to his full potential,
it was essential for him to have an overall understanding
of many disciplines. Occasionally, as he struggled
through his lessons, he wondered how Tirla was doing
and what sort of training Sascha was giving her.

Physiotherapy was still a necessity, and without the
inhibiting body brace Peter had no trouble exercising
his limbs, which he did religiously, hoping to acquire
some muscle.

"There have been instances," the physiotherapist had
told Rhyssa and Johnny, "where even badly damaged
neural tissue has been stimulated. That's what we can
wish for Peter. To feel and to move normally."

"What's the probability?" Rhyssa asked.

The physiotherapist had shrugged ruefully. "Who
knows? It certainly does no harm for him to exercise
kinetically. Improves muscle tone and fluidity of move-
ment. I'll be honest, I wouldn't have guessed he was
walking kinetically when he entered the gym the first
time."

Swimming was Peter's favorite sport. Water sup-
ported his body, and with minimal effort he could give
the illusion of swimming. He could even do incredible
dives oif the board, hovering in the air as he made his
body twist and then entering the water cleanly. There
had not been enough sun in those weeks to produce a
tan, but surrogate facilities had given him an excellent
color. Rhyssa had benefited, as well.

"You needed this rest," Johnny told her as they
lounged on the sunbeds while keeping an eye on Peter,
who was splashing happily about in the pool, pretend-
ing he was a dolphin.

"You know," she said with a deep sigh, "I think I
did. It's been pretty hectic the last few months." She
sighed again. "But that's the rigors of being Center

director—and I wouldn't be anything else in spite of the
negatives."

"You ever going to marry, or have kids?" Johnny
asked at his most casual.

"Johnny Greene, what are you leading up to?" She
cocked an eyebrow, which warned him that, if he was
not straight with her, she would probably winkle the
information out of his mind.

Johnny gave her a rakish grin. "Nothing—except that
Dave Lehardt just arrived." His grin broadened as he
saw her reaction. "Ah! So! You're not entirely immune
to his charm, after all."

Rhyssa managed a laugh, though she could not hide
the sudden flush of pleasure at the news. "How do you
know? You can't 'hear' him if I can't."

"I saw him get out of the car. He's coming around
through the house." The gleam in Johnny's eyes was
intolerable to her.

"We're just working friends," she said, and heard a
mental ha-ha from Johnny as Dave Lehardt strode into
the pool room. Johnny chuckled again as Dave's glance
rested on her just that moment longer before he greeted
the others.

"Hi there, Skeleteam," Dave called to Peter, who
had an arm looped around the pool stair rail. "Need a
hand out?"

"I think you'd better, Pete," Rhyssa said. "Your
lips are blue, and your skin's wrinkled. Hi, Dave."

Johnny, on a tight band: You'd make a good team,
you know. His beauty and your intelligence!

Rhyssa projected an image of herself chasing Johnny
with an outsized hunk of wood with the words "blunt
instrument" carved on it.

Johnny: Dorotea thinks so, too.

Rhyssa: You guys let me do my own thinking.

Johnny: Dave will, because he can't hear you. And
that's about the only drawback. He lusts after you, you
know.'

236      237

"Really impressive launch today, Pete," Dave went
on, hauling the boy out of the pool by one arm and
deftly covering him with a huge towel.

"He gets better every time," Johnny said, latching
onto a spare lounger with his artificial foot and hauling
it closer to where he and Rhyssa were sitting.

Rhyssa: You watch yourself, John Greene. I've my
own minder, she recalled with amusement Peter's handy
treatment of the annoying Prince Phanibal, and I'll tell
him to dunk you if you misbehave.

Johnny sent her an image of wide-eyed innocence.
Me? Step out of line—especially if you threaten to short-
circuit my cybernetic limbs in a lousy pool? D 'you know
what salt water does to my spare parts? He imaged a
violent shudder that sent bits and pieces spinning off his
artificial arm and leg.

"Actually, the last three shoots have been within a
jog of the same power settings," Rhyssa said to the
new arrival.

Dave Lehardt periscoped his lean length to seat him-
self on a lounger and grinned at Rhyssa. Was she imag-
ining that his eyes were warmer when he looked at her?
Damn him for not having a Talent! Damn him for hav-
ing such a naturally dense mental shield! She had no
real clue—except in blue eyes she wanted to drown in-
to go on. No wonder the unTalented regularly bungled
relationships. And yet...

"NASA is delighted with the effectiveness of its new
guidance-and-tracking system," Dave was saying,
looking well pleased, "and they're quite happy to leave
it in the 'need to know' category. More queries from
Padrugoi, requesting details of this top-secret G and T
as a possible adjunct to their systems."

"And?" Johnny queried, flipping over on the sunbed,
eyes narrowed to slits and his body relaxing in the
warmth.

"General Halloway hems and haws with the best of
them about a' trial model, with a formidable test
schedule ahead of it, by no means a totally proven
system ..."

"I am too a proven system," Peter said, looking dis-
gruntled as he floated over, an eerie-looking maneuver
since his feet were invisible under the swathing of towel
that he was trying to keep out of the puddles around the
pool. His teeth chattered.

"Oh here," Rhyssa said, making room for him on
the sunbed. She would have fallen off if Dave had not
quickly prevented it with hands and knees. She felt
warm where he touched her, a warmth that was nothing
generated by a sunbed. Then she settled Peter beside
her, adjusting his limbs. "You're up to fifteen minutes'
sunning today, aren't you?"

"Tell you one thing," Dave went on, still supporting
Rhyssa's body. "I'm going to have to change the nick-
name Skeleteam. You don't look so much like one any-
more."

"All this good wholesome Florida sunshine," Peter
said, grinning at Dave. He had finally gotten over his
jealousy of the PR man: it was difficult to be jealous of
a guy he liked so much, who could think up neat treats
and found the best places to eat. Johnny often argued
to Rhyssa—when Dave was not around—that the man
had to have Talent but that it simply wasn't measurable.
Then he discussed things like traumatic breakthroughs
and psychological reluctances, and Rhyssa replied that
sometimes it was nice to know someone who could al-
ways surprise you.

"If you see any of that wholesome sunshine, let me
know, huh?" Dave remarked, referring to the fact that
the rain had lifted only briefly in the past three weeks.
"When are you guys going to develop a reliable
Weather Talent?"

"Look, we just got one minor miracle up and run-
ning," Rhyssa replied. "Give us at least three days!"

"God only rested one day," Dave said, deepening
his voice to a bass register and looking pious.

238           

239

"Three weeks, three months, three years, three de-
cades," Johnny replied in a sepulchral tone. "Can't
even figure ol' Petey boy out, and I've been busting my
buns for weeks now."

"Pete," Dave began, "how do you see what you do?
Might as well ask the source right out straight," he
added in a broad aside to Rhyssa.

Peter laughed and pretended to consider the question,
knotting his brows and rubbing his chin the way Johnny
sometimes did. "It's like I think that's what I want to
do—move the shuttle up—and I sort of lean into the
generators, revving them up, and then I sort of—he
shrugged his thin shoulders—"let go."

"Like a stone from a slingshot?" Dave asked.

"Yeah, sort of like that."

"You don't sound sure."

"I'm not. It needs doing. I do it."

Rhyssa, sensing Peter's distress about being unable
to explain adequately, put a warning hand on Dave's
knee. His hand immediately covered hers, keeping her
arm in a slightly awkward position. Over Peter's prone
body, Johnny grinned at her.

"There are many operations," Rhyssa went on
quickly, "that one accomplishes strictly on an invol-
untary basis. Like breathing. You don't consciously go
through the steps of drawing breath in and exhaling it—
it's an involuntary procedure. Or take reaching for a
glass. You don't consciously tell your hand to extend
the required distance, tell your fingers to encircle it and
your arm to lift the light weight. The task is accom-
plished without much conscious effort. Peter is working
on such a deeply involuntary basis that he cannot—yet—
analyze the requisite steps. Once Lance Baden is re-
leased from durance vile on the station, I think we'll
see progress in understanding what Skeleteam does as
easily as he breathes."

"It's not quite that easy," Peter said.

"Don't hurt Skeleteam's feelings," Johnny said in
mock affront. "He'll strike!"

"Not with his contract, he won't," Rhyssa said feel-
ingly.

"You know, Pete," Johnny began in a thoughtful
tone, "what you said about something needing to be
done and doing it. You really don't stop to think how?
You just do it?"

"As you yourself, if I may remind you, landed a
badly damaged shuttle on your twenty-first mission,"
Dave put in. "Experts still haven't figured out how you
did that!"

John Greene grinned at him. "Neither have I. Sorry,
Pete."

"You were using kinesis?" Peter asked.

"Nothing else would have gotten us down that day
with one wing crumpled and the tail assembly blown
off. Technically I had what they call a traumatic explo-
sion of Talent necessitated by an intense urge to sur-
vive."

"What hit you?" Peter asked then. He had always
wanted to ask, but it had never been quite the right
moment and he was not sure if the colonel liked to be
reminded of how he had lost an arm and a leg.

"Some damned-fool half-trained clowns, doing aer-
obatics through the flight path," Johnny told him, curs-
ing fluently and inventively on both audible and
telepathic levels. Peter's eyes rounded with awe at the
flavorful language. "Fortunately they didn't survive to
answer to me, or the law, for their antics."

"Oh!" was Peter's reaction to John's uncharacteris-
tic bitterness.

"You're not going to waste the pool, are you,
Dave?" Rhyssa asked, to change the subject, and in the
hope of regaining control of her hand before her aim
fell asleep.

"You're stuck with me for a few days at any rate,"
Dave replied. "Without benefit of the Skeleteam, the

240           

241

airport's socked in solid." He rose and, whistling a
jaunty tune, began to pick his way through the puddles
in the direction of the changing room.

Johnny heaved a sigh and resettled himself on the
sunbed, hands cushioning his head. The nu-skin sheath-
ing his artificial arm looked real enough except, Rhyssa
noticed, that it did not take a tan. Peter, however, was
becoming a rich brown that made him appear like any
other healthy, if scrawny, boy his age. He was also
falling asleep, considerably more tired by the morning's
activities than he would ever admit. Smiling tenderly
down at the boy, Rhyssa eased herself off the sunbed
and onto the lounger that Dave had just vacated. She
checked the timer: Peter had ten minutes to go. She
relaxed on the soft mattress.

“Je-sus Christ!"

Dave's sudden expletive roused her, and she watched
helplessly as, in midair, he flailed with arms and legs
from a slip in a puddle, his long body poised to come
down right across the comer of the tiled pool in what
would be a serious fall. The sunbed lights went off, and
the next instant his abrupt descent was halted and he
came to rest gently on the poolside, unharmed, un-
bruised, but considerably shaken.

"How the hell . . ."

"My God!" Johnny Greene exclaimed. "Did you do
that, Pete?" he asked. The very slightest of snores an-
swered him. "My God! I did it! I did it! I did it!" His
voice rose in a crescendo as he stared at Rhyssa in a
state of shocked delight and surprise.

Rhyssa began to shake her head, grinning so hard at
the breakthrough that she thought her face would split.

"That was all you," she assured him. "Once again
Johnny on the spot!"

The moment Dave Lehardt entered the kitchen that
evening as Rhyssa was clearing up the debris of their
celebratory meal, she knew "a moment" had come.

Over the last few months of their close association, she
had learned to pick up the subtle hints of his body lan-
guage and her own responses to him. She felt her heart-
beat begin to speed up, and she tried not to crash dishes
about or drop things. Worse, she could extract no help-
ful clues from this man's mind. Perhaps that was why
Dave appeared to be so much more romantic than any
of her Talented associations.

He came right up to her so that she had to look about,
to acknowledge his proximity.

"The hardest thing in dealing with you Talents is to
catch you when no one else is listening," he began.
His blue eyes held a very intense look. He took the
saucepan away from her and returned it to the soapy
water, then put both hands on her arms and turned her
slightly but decisively toward him. "Pete and Johnny
are so involved in a rehash of my pratfall, they couldn't
be paying attention to anything else." With a little pres-
sure of his hands, he pulled her against him.

Johnny: Don't you dare be coy!

Rhyssa: Get out of my head, Johnny Greene.

Peter: Ah, just when it's getting interesting. How'II I
ever learn how it's done!

Rhyssa: Break off! Both of you! If I feel so much as
a tendril of thought. . .

Johnny: I think she means it!

Peter: I know she does!

Her mind was filled with a deafening silence.

"They're not," Rhyssa assured him.

"I've been told and warned, obliquely and right to
my face, that I've no right to ask a woman of your
obvious Talent, and talents, to marry a man without an
ounce of the right stuff in him.''

Rhyssa felt a surge of anger flare deep inside. She
wondered who had been inhibiting this wonderful, car-
ing man—especially considering all he had done to aid
Talents. Then she willed him not to stop talking such

242   

marvelously romantic stuff and tilted her head up en-
couragingly. She shivered with anticipation.

"But I think such a decision is up to you and me,"
he went on. "And I'm so totally besotted with you that
I can't think straight when you're in the same room with
me, and I don't think of much else but you when we're
apart. Rbyssa Owen, would you even consider marry-
ing me?"

"What took you so many eons to ask?" she replied,
folding her arms about his neck and grinning up at him.

With a gladness that seemed to emanate from every
pore of him, he clasped her firmly in his arms and kissed
her with a great deal of entirely satisfactory expertise,
just as if he had read her mind.

CHAPTER 15

^^ Sascha!

He could not ignore Dorotea's call, but it was coming
at an awkward moment. He lifted his hand to signal to
Budworth and Sirikit for a slight break in their discus-
sion.

Dorotea's mental tone was colored by vexation. As
you showed her how to use her wristband to purchase
damned near anything anywhere, you may now teach
her thrift and budgeting. And some sense of order in
her own room! There's not an inch of space that isn 't
stacked ceiling-high with "bargains. "

Sascha: Where is she?

Dorotea, at the end of her patience: Trying on clothes
while viewing today's lessons!

"Look, Bud, run those ethnic groupings again,"
Sascha ordered. "We've at least got a statistical fore-
cast of how many psionic Talents each generation has
produced since Darrow and op Owen's time. Now let's
break it down into individual Talent manifestations:

precogs, finders, affinities, kinetics, telepaths, telem-
paths."

Budworth shrugged equably and began to formulate
the program.

"I still don't know how," Sirikit said in her soft,
lilting tones, "that's going to help us discover Talent
in the Linears."

"Where there's smoke, there's gotta be a fire or
tw6," Sascha commented cryptically as he exited. But
243

244

            245

his mind was already on one particular Talent who had
come so far from her early years in the Linears.

Since that fateful shopping trip three weeks before,
Tirla had discovered a new pastime that almost rivaled
her hunger for learning. At first, Dorotea had been
amused. "It's hunger of another sort: acquisition. It'll
pass."

Cass had accompanied her on two more expeditions,
showing her how to use the subway transport, and
thought it was fun to watch Tirla slip into the most
exclusive shops and boutiques. Then she had started
shopping on her own, and scoffed when Dorotea wor-
ried that child-stealers would snatch her.

"Snatch me? Not likely," Tirla replied scathingly.
"I can smell their sort coming on the streets. I'm safe
in the malls."

But the malls were not free from all peril, for she was
detained twice by overzealous officials and, to her
credit, had waited patiently until someone—usually
Sascha—arrived from the Center to verify her right to
wear the ID bracelet and make charges against the Cen-
ter's account.

She was more amused by the detentions than alarmed,
and determined to enjoy her new pastime. Certainly she
was not deterred from her expeditions, and since Sascha
backed Cass's opinion that Tirla was capable of han-
dling herself, Dorotea's apprehension waned. Invari-
ably, Tirla ended her afternoons at the Old-Fashioned
Parlor. When Tirla announced that she was going to
work her way right through the five pages of confec-
tionery selections, Dorotea had laughed.

"It might put a little weight on those bird bones of
hers, and she always eats her dinner," she said. "I wish
she would put on weight. What must those shop atten-
dants think when that child looks half-starved all the
time?"

Dorotea was standing in the living room when Sascha
arrived in answer to her summons, and she pointed

sternly toward Tirla's room. Sascha tapped on the door,
and Tirla's cheerful hum broke off.

"Who is it?" There was always that note of appre-
hension when the girl was caught unawares. Once she
could break into the telepathic mode that Sascha was
certain she possessed, she would rarely be caught off-
guard again.

"Sascha!"

"Just a minute."

For just a moment, Sascha thought he caught a stray
coy thought, and then the door opened, in stages, be-
cause Tirla had to rearrange things to get it wide enough
for him to enter. Sascha looked in and groaned.

"Tirla, what happened to the kid who had to be
coaxed into buying more than one outfit?" It was the
first thing that came into his head, and it was probably
not at all the way to handle the situation.

Dorotea, in disgust: Ham-handed twit!

Tirla blinked at Sascha. "But you told me I could
shop whenever I wanted to. Just look what I found to-
day!" And she held up a pair of stiletto-heeled sandals
with jeweled straps. "And they fit. They didn't cost
much, because the shopkeeper had had them around for
decades and practically gave them to me. Aren't they
lovely? D'you want to see them on? They make me
much taller."

. "I'm sure they do, Tirla, but to be candid, they're
not the sort of thing a girl your age should wear."

"They fit!" she repeated as if that were the most
important aspect.

"Tirla! Is there no place I can sit down in here? And
that's what has Dorotea so upset. You know how neat
she keeps everything in the house."

Dorotea: That's right. Blame me.

"While Talents may have what they need, and also
what they want, within reason,'" he went on, "that's
th^ operative phrase. This—" He gestured broadly,
hooking a hanger and its layers of clothing off the door.

246      247

The pile tumbled to enlarge a mass of colorful blouses
lying beside the door. "This is no longer reasonable!"

Tirla merely looked up at him, her face expression-
less, but he sensed so deep a hurt and disappointment
that he relented instantly. "I don't think I can send it
all back," she said. "I've tried everything on."

"Look, chip," he said, using Cass's affectionate
nickname for her, "sending it all back is not the an-
swer."

It's a start! Dorotea put in.

"Learning to buy wisely is. Some of this stuff—"
Sascha pointed to items of intimate apparel in lace and
gauze that were far too sophisticated for even a twenty-
year-old. "—can be packed up and stored ..."

Dorotea, acidly: Where?

"In the vaults." He began picking up other inappro-
priate garments. "And we'll get the clutter down to
manageable proportions." In doing so he exposed a
small hill of shoes, of all colors and in a variety of
styles that astonished him—and all of them small enough
to fit Tirla's dainty feet.

Dorotea: Cinderella complex?

Sascha: Pairs, every single one of them, he said
wryly.

Dorotea: Then how can they be pairs?

"Five pairs of shoes, no more, Tirla." He saw her
sulky expression. "Five pairs at one time. And ten dif-
ferent outfits in the closet. None of this . . ."He held
up an emerald green ball gown with exquisitely detailed
beadwork in silver and leaf green. It was exceedingly
stylish, and the color was perfect for Tirla—but not un-
til she reached twenty. Eighteen, at least. "I'll have
some trunks sent over so you can put everything away.
Then we're going to sit down and work out a budget."

"Budget? Like they do for cities and projects?" Sur-
prised, Tirla came out of her sulk.

"Yes. Th& Center has a budget, I have a budget,
Peter has a budget ..."

Dorotea: All God's chillun got budgets!

"Then I won't be able to go shopping again?"

Sascha was not impervious to her broken voice and
her sad expression. "Shop all you want. Look in every
damned mall on Manhattan, Long Island, and the Jer-
sey Shore. Just don't buy anything. Window shop to
your heart's content."

"Never buy anything again?"

La da da, da da da dah! Dorotea sang, mimicking a
nostalgic violin air.

All right, Sascha retorted. And how would you curb
a kid who's never had much in her life and suddenly
can have anything she wants?

More or less as you 're doing, Dorotea admitted. Just
don't waver at the sight of tears in her big black eyes!

Sascha caught an undertone in Dorotea's voice that
puzzled him. But he ignored it and returned his full
attention to Tirla. "No, chip, not never. Just not so
much so constantly, things you don't really need right
now, because you've got enough—of practically every-
thing, as far as I can see."

She sank to the edge of her barely visible bed. "But
it's not fun to window shop unless you've got someone
with you. Where's Cass? She loves to shop."

"Cass is out on assignment."

Tirla cocked her head up at him, no longer a disap-
pointed and confused twelve-year-old. "More kids
missing?"

"Not yet," he said mendaciously. "We want to keep
it that way."

"Is she in a Linear?" Excitement brightened her ex-
pression.

Sascha nodded.

Dorotea: For the love of little apples, don't tell her
where, or she'll track Cass down.

"Why don't you let me work undercover with her? I
could be her kid and—"

"No!"

248   

Tirla rocked back on the bed at the vehemence of his
response. She looked hurt and confused again and even
younger than her chronological age.

"Sorry, chip." Sascha ruffled her sleek and shining
hair in an effort to compensate for his tactlessness.
"Give yourself a little break. We didn't catch Yassim,
and if he spots you, he'd have you wasted so fast, none
of us could help you."

Tirla noticeably paled.

Dorotea: Well, she's still afraid of Yassim!

Tirla seemed so afraid that Sascha gathered her up in
his arms and rocked her. "Yassim can't get you here
in the Center, Tirla. You're safe here. I want to keep
you safe so you can grow up and use that rare Tal-
ent you have ... to earn enough money to pay for all
you've been buying." He tried to make a joke of it.
He felt her stiffen in his arms. "No, not your float-
ers!" And he had to laugh. The little witch. Her hoard
was precious to her, never to be broached. "Just think
how little you'd have left if you had spent your stash.
Think of that the next time you want to buy some-
thing. Pretend you're spending your money."

"I wouldn 't spend my money," she mumbled against
his chest.

With the slender little body curled trustfully in his
lap, Sascha permitted himself just a few moments to
caress her hair and savor the feel of her in his arms.
Why Tirla? Of all the women in the world, how could
this little waif, streetwise and precocious, have become
so entangled in his emotions and heart? She could not
possibly understand how much she meant to him. She
was far too young for that aspect of maturing to have
touched her. And yet... she responded to him as she
did to no one else. With a final little hug, he put her
from him as gently as he could. One day, eight or nine
years in the future . . .

Dorotea had no comment to make. To his surprise,
Tirla obediently began to fold up her possessions, neatly

            249

and carefully. Sascha watched for a few more moments
and then went to arrange for trunks.

Peter and Rhyssa returned in quiet triumph the day
that Cass Cutler reported to Boris that three Neesters
and two Hispanics in Linear E were suspiciously more
affluent than they had any right to be. Boris decided
that he would not darken the happy return with such
news and did not even inform Sascha of the event.

Dorotea and Tirla both exclaimed over how well Pe-
ter looked, tanned and healthy and moving with more
confidence, while Rhyssa listened, an oddly soft smile
on her face. Dave Lehardt had remained behind in Flor-
ida to finalize his PR campaign, setting the stage for
Colonel Johnny Greene to assume the role of Skele-
team.

In his turn, Peter took full notice of Tirla's new ele-
gance and was amazed that she had shopped the malls
herself.

"Well, Sascha took me the first time," she admitted.

Dorotea, privately to Rhyssa: And said "Open Ses-
ame," and in a week Tirla's room was as full as a
bazaar.

Sascha: I heard that. Knock it off!

Rhyssa: Did she pick that outfit herself?

Dorotea: She picked out everything herself and a lot
of things a twelve-year-old girl has no need of—yet.

Rhyssa: She's got good taste—in what she's wearing
now.

Dorotea: Good taste all round. Just a trifle sophisti-
cated.

Aware that Sascha was seething, Dorotea changed
the subject.

Peter and Tirla slipped out of the room.

"How come you're allowed to go to the mall all the
time?" Peter asked Tirla, envious of her freedom. He
was never allowed to go anywhere on his own.

Tirla shrugged. "Oh, they tried to tell me how dan-

250      251

gerous it was." She giggled. "As if I didn't know how
to take care of myself in any old Linear. Particularly
one as straight as the ones here in Jerhattan."

"And you go whenever you want?"

"Nearly every day." She cocked her head at him.
"You ever been to the Old-Fashioned Parlor of Gastro-
nomical Delights?"

"Me?" Peter thumped his hand against his chest,
then grimaced. He still didn't have the small-muscle
control needed to use just a thumb or a finger. He was
feeling aggrieved on several counts. "Oh, I heard about
me Parlor." He pretended indifference, but then his
pose faltered. "Is it really that good?"

"Good?" Tirla's enthusiasm bubbled out of her.
"It's spectacular. You wouldn't believe the concoc-
tions they serve. 'The most,' " she quoted from the
menu, " 'scrumptious, delectable monstrosities of
confections you'll ever experience.' " Sensing Peter's
longing, Tirla deliberately encouraged it. "Any kind
of flavor of ice cream, all homemade, every topping
known to man . . ."

"And you just go?"

"Sure. Why not? It's only four stops away on the
subway." She jerked her thumb at the murmur of adult
voices coming from the living room. "Who'd miss us
for half an hour, anyway?" When she saw the hesita-
tion on his face, she added almost challengingly,
"They're busy. We'd be back before they'd know we'd
gone!"

That decided Peter, though he knew perfectly well
that his physical circumstances were far different from
Tirla's. Nevertheless, she was younger than he was,
and if she was allowed, he was, too.

They left the house by the side door, Tirla skipping
beside Peter in delight at his company. It was going to
be such fan showing him just how well she knew her
way around.

* * *

Peter could sense how pleased Tirla was to be able
to take him someplace familiar to her but new to him.
So he just smiled as they took their seats on the subway
from the Center platform. Other Talents on the same
car grinned at the two, sending telepathic greetings and
congratulations to Peter, who had learned to assume a
modest demeanor in public, even among other Talents.

Tirla was describing in great detail her favorite gas-
tronomical delight—the one with four kinds of ice
cream, four kinds of toppings, four kinds of nuts, and
cherries, coconut, and multicolored sprinkles.

"My mother took me to a place like that," Peter
said, "oh, a long time ago now. For my tenth birthday.
My sister goes a lot; Mother says that's why she has
spots so often."

"Spots?"

"Pimples. Zits. Facial eruptions."

"Oh," Tirla replied in a tone that expressed unen-
lightenment. Peter imaged a pimpled face at her. "Oh!
That sort." Surreptitiously she ran her hand over her
face.

Peter laughed. "You may never get spots, Tirla,"
Peter said encouragingly. "They keep us on a healthy
diet anyhow. Not subbie food."

"What was Florida like?" Tirla asked.

Peter had learned a lot from watching Dave Lehardt
answer difficult questions tactfully. So he told her about
the flat land and the palm trees, the sand, the good
food, the pool, and the sunbeds, and she seemed quite
content at his implication that he and Rhyssa had been
taking a holiday.

She assumed leadership as soon as they reached the
right station and eagerly started running up the steps
ahead of him before she remembered his disability.
When she stopped, he was right beside her.

"Your vacation did you a lot of good, didn't it?" she
said, and plowed on upward. "See—there's the Parlor,
just inside the mall entrance," she added, pointing.

252   

Neither youngster noticed that their progress was be-
ing closely observed by two men, just descending from
an elegant private hopper parked on the mall's helipad.
The shorter man took a small black instrument from his
pocket and pointed it at them.

"How exceedingly careless. Neither of them has been
stranded! I want them taken! Especially that odious lit-
tle boy! I want no slipup, no excuses. You won't have
too much trouble with the boy, but his companion
mustn't be allowed to spread an alarm. Do it as fast as
you can assemble a crew. Have I made myself plain?"

"Yes, sir."

Peter was able to shout just once, his cry more indig-
nant than alarmed. Then an ominous silence descended
despite Rhyssa's attempts to reestablish communica-
tions. She wasted no more time on the silence but
broadcast on the widest band possible.

ALERT, ALL TALENTS, ALL LEO PERSONNEL!
Peter Reidinger may have been abducted. Presumably
in vicinity of Old-Fashioned Parlor. Tirla was with him.

TIRLA! Sascha's blast was nearly as loud as hers.

Complying! came Boris's calming bass tone. All units
in the area are to commence search procedures. Fax
photos of the children are being dispatched to all ve-
hicles. I'm proceeding immediately to question any pos-
sible witnesses. This is a Top Priority.

This is a G and H Priority! Sascha added with bitter
vehemence. Sirikit, what does Budworth have on the
strand scanner? There was a long and stunned pause.
Oh, my God. I never stranded Tirla. Rhyssa?

Peter neither, was Rhyssa's horrified reply. How
could we have been so stupid?

You weren't, Dorotea said in a bracing tone. Their
ID bracelets can be traced far more accurately than a
stranded kid.

The exchanges had taken bare seconds while Rhyssa,
Sascha, and Dorotea sped toward the Control Room,

             253

where the monitoring equipment would, they hoped, be
able to give them some indication of where the children
were.

Budworth was in front of the appropriate screen, his
face twisted by anger and distress. "Bracelets were cut
off. Scanner has 'em in a sewer drain in the mall hell-
lot."

"Oh, my God!" Sascha's exclamation came out in a
sob, then he shook himself. Carmen, get in here. Ber-
tha, Auer, you come, too. Dorotea, any chance that you
can reach Tirla?

If you can't, I'm not likely to. There was a quality of
ineffable sorrow in her response. She's keyed to you like
no one else.

"There's nothing, nothing there at all," Rhyssa mur-
mured, her voice breaking. "I've always been able to
hear Peter's mind."

"Not if he's been anesthetized, my dear," Dorotea
said. "That's the only time he couldn't hear or an-
swer." Then she spoke to Sirikit on a very tight band.
Phone Dave Lehardt and tell him to get here as fast as
he can.

Sirikit, her own eyes bleak, discreetly complied.

"C'mon, Bro, c'mon! How long does it take your
squads to get moving!" Sascha demanded, pacing anx-
iously.^

The Talents had' to wait another five agonizing min-
utes before Boris contacted them.

The kids sat by themselves. Tirla's well known here,
and she introduced her friend, Peter, to her usual wait-
ress. She saw them leave the place. She caught a
glimpse of them entering a small hopper with the Talent
Center emblem. There were four men, but she didn 't
see their faces. She didn't see anything odd, except that
the boy walked funny and then seemed to be assisted by
.one of the men. And no, she didn't notice the registra-
tion, I've an APB on small hoppers with Talent em-

254      255

blems in Jerkattan, but it'd be helpful if your scanners
have picked up their bracelets.

Sascha: The IDs were cut off. Left in the sewer out-
side the mall.

Boris: That would be the first thing. So, can you pick
something up yet on the strand scanners?

Rhyssa, heavily: Neither Peter nor Tirla was
stranded.

Boris, exploding: In the name of all that's holy, why
not? The two most important young Talents? You have
everyone running about like lunatics, stranding dumb
subbie kids and pampered hive children, and you don't
strand Peter and Tirla? The silence following his out-
burst was more eloquent than anything he could have
added.

Rhyssa began to weep, and Dorotea tried to comfort
her, tactilely and telepathically.

All right, then, Boris went on in a calmer tone. We
have to assume the abductors are following their latest
procedures. That's the only thing that would account
for total telepathic silence. The kids were gassed.
They're going to be stashed someplace and in those
neat little cocoons. Sorry, Rhyssa, but I'm too angry to
be diplomatic. Sascha, have you called Carmen in? My
finders are all on the case. Somehow, we 'II find 'en.
Those kids are smart. Once they wake up, they'll be
able to help us find them.

Suz and Cass further dampened the spirits of the Tal-
ents by reporting that in excess of thirty children in each
Residential had been sold, or just taken. Ranjit, work-
ing covertly in Residential W, also confirmed evidence
of more activity in the mall markets than could be dis-
creetly ignored. Such scope and audacity was more than
LEO or the Center had anticipated. All had happened
so smoothly and simultaneously that both the Center
and LEO had been caught unawares.

"My sympathies go out to Rhyssa and the other Tal-
ents. It's incredible that two valuable young people like

that could also be vulnerable to this despicable group,"
the city manager told Boris, who passed her message
on to Sascha and Rhyssa. "This has top priority, and
all the resources of the city are at your disposal. No
effort will be spared. Is there anything I, personally,
can do? Offer a reward? Trade immunity for informa-
tion?"

'' Get your department heads thinking,'' Boris told City
Commissioner Teresa Aiello, "where such a significant
number of children could be detained. I've got every
available person on transport surveillance. They can't have
been moved out of the Jerhattan area, not in a group or
singly. I put a hold on all rail freight and every container
is being examined. Any cargo of a suspicious size is being
opened. They've got to be somewhere nearby—for a
while."

"Everyone on this staff will start examining possi-
bilities—unused warehouses, old buildings, under-
ground stores," Teresa assured Boris grimly.

Boris Roznine did not have quite all his people on
transport duty—he' had a good third picking up as many
ladrones and sassins as his teams found in mall or fac-
tory areas. LEO might just luck out and dislodge a clue
from an apprehensive subbie.

"Peter is alive, isn't he?" Budworth asked, too con-
cerned to be tactful.

"He's^alive. It's not a dead silence," Rhyssa said,
wincing at her choice of adjective, her voice low with
tension. "But he's not conscious."

"Nothing yet. Carmen?" Sascha asked the finder,
whose hands were stroking the lock ofTirla's hair. She
could not meet his eyes as she shook her head slowly.

"Christ on a crutch! HowIcould we be so arrogant as
to believe we could protect them with an ID bracelet!"
Sascha demanded explosively, stalking around what free
floor space there was. "Why on Earth didn't we think
to strand them?" He pounded one fist into the other
hand. "We've wall-to-wall Talents," he said, gesturing

256   

almost scornfully at the various teams clustered about
monitors or swiftly feeding programs into the main-
frame. "Where could they have got to? That many bod-
ies arc too hard to hide. The kids have to be fed. They
can't have been whisked off to their—" Sascha could
not find the appropriate noun and grimaced. "Wher-
ever. Boris initiated transport surveillance within min-
utes. Dammit, the subways and cargo routes have been
wired since the incident in G."

Sascha, ease up, Dorotea told him, her warning a
very narrow quiet thought. Rhyssa's feeling guilty
enough as it is , . .

Sascha: And you think I feel none for not stranding
Tirla, for encouraging her to go to the bloody mail? To
that unmentionable bloody confectionery parlor?
Sascha's response was loaded with derision. She'd've
been bloody safer if I had let Boris use her for bait!

Dorotea: Stop castigating yourself, Sascha. Tirla's
been safely in and out of the mall and the parlor for
weeks now.

Rhyssa, brokenly: Peter's worked so hard. . . What
could have possessed him to take such a risk?

Dorotea: He is just a boy, for all his power. Don't
worry, we'll hear. The least whisper, and we'll hear
them. Dorotea's mind cast restlessly for a trace of Tir-
la's. After nearly five weeks of proximity with the girl,
she should be able to spot her consciousness.

MAY ALL YOUR ORIFICES BE CLOGGED WITH
CAMEL DUNG, YOUR BELLY ETERNALLY FULL OF
VOMIT! MAY YOUR TONGUE ROT AND YOUR
TEETH FALL OUT AND YOUR GUMS SWELL WITH
BOILS! MAY YOUR LIVER ROT AND YOUR BLAD-
DER DRY UP AND YOUR GLANDS SHRIVEL AND
PUTREFY!

"Good God!" Dorotea was jolted to her feet. "Did
you all hear that? It was loud enough!"

"Peter doesn't know that kind of language!" Rhyssa
said, with a slight grin.

             257

"Tirla would," Sascha replied, beaming from ear to
ear. "Pungent, isn't she? Damn, where's she got to? I
can't hear her anymore."

"Well, I can, and she's still in fine form," Dorotea
said. "Neither of you hear her now? She can certainly
broadcast when she's of a mind to." She held up her
hand, listening, every muscle taut. Dorotea here, Tirla.
Can you hear me? Dorotea's mental tone was tranquil
and reassuring.

Tirla: Dorotea? Where are you?

Dorotea: More to the point, where are you? "Can
you hear her now, Sascha, Rhyssa?" she asked. Two
brief headshakes confirmed Dorotea as the primary con-
tact. She felt the light, firm mental touches of Rhyssa
and Sascha, listening in.

Tirla, savagely: You tell me. I can't see a thing. I
can't feel a thing. I can smell, and the stench is worse
than the bottom level of a factory bilge. Couldn 't you
guys track me?

No, we couldn 't, Tirla. Your bracelets were discarded
right at the mall when you and Peter were taken. Is Peter
nearby? Sascha had motioned Carmen over, but Carmen
kept shaking her head at her continued inability to find
Tirla. Can you remember what happened? Dorotea went
on.

Tirla's^isgust was obvious. I can't remember any-
thing. Peter and I finished the new spectacular they just
added to the menu. He paid for it himself. Said it was
his treat this time 'cause he'd just had a vacation. We
left the Parlor and were walking toward the subway
when something covered my face, and I don't remember
a thing more. Awful stuff. Sweet icky smell. How come
I can talk to you all of a sudden?

Sometimes it's a case of need-to, Tirla, Dorotea said,
putting a smile of approval into her mental tone.

You needed me to? Tirla asked. Or I needed you to
hear me? Peter? Peter, answer me! Dorotea caught the

258

     259

conflicting emotions in Tirla's question, but such com-
petitiveness was not a bad sign.

You and Peter were not the only two taken today.
Cass and Suz reported that a number must have been
taken from E, as well. A very well-organized affair.
That's why anything you can tell us will help, Tirla.
Anything, no matter how trivial.

Peter's not answering me in here. Maybe he's just
not awake yet. My stomach's sour. I shouldn't've had
that spectacular. Peter? 'Peeeeter!

Dorotea spoke gently. Don't panic, Tirla. Peter will
wake up soon enough if he was gassed the same time
as you were. We 're very relieved to hear from you,

believe me.
Tirla, mildly surprised: I do believe you. You can't

lie in your mind, can you?

Not to me, you can't, Dorotea replied, gesturing im-
periously for Rhyssa and Sascha to stop trying to insin-
uate questions into her head. Tirla's voice was clear
but, after the first burst of psychic outrage, neither as
strong nor as loud. She could not risk losing the link.
Now, tell me what you can about your surroundings.

They stink!

We 've already established that. What of? Besides, I
assume, the unpleasant bodily discharges of frightened
children. What can you hear?

Tirla, disgusted: A lot of crying.

Even that tells me something, Tirla. Can you isolate
the individual crying enough to estimate how many chil-
dren are around you?

Dorotea could sense Tirla's concentration and did not

interrupt.

Tirla: I think there's a lot of kids. There's sure a lot
of crying and moaning, and someone's hiccuping. All
around me, all sides, above, but none below. Why'd
they blindfold us and tie us down like this? Most of
these kids wouldn 't even try to escape.

Dorotea:' Yassim lost all the G children, didn't he? I

think that, unfortunately, that caused him to change his
tactics. He's now employing a disorientation technique,
sensory deprivation, to reduce the children to compli-
ance when they are released. You're not afraid, are
you?

Tirla, candidly: I don't like it, but I'm not scared.
I'm mad. Her tone strengthened. I missed my math
class.

Dorotea broke into relieved laughter. An angry Tirla
would be far more useful than a frightened one. Sascha
managed a relieved chuckle, and the tention in Rhys-
sa's stance eased.

Dorotea: Stay mad, Tirla. Anger can be a valuable
asset. Now what I want you to do is try and calm the
children. Get them to tell you their names and, if pos-
sible, where they came from. E and R were not the only
Linears hit. We estimate that upward of a hundred chil-
dren were taken.

Including Peter and me?

A hundred and two. Look, Tirla, we're going to have
to rely heavily on you to help us find you, Peter, and
the others. Dorotea gave Rhyssa a raised eyebrow at
her smothered protest. "Candidly, that child is lot bet-
ter able to take care of herself."

Rely on me? How? I'm blind and strapped in like
cargo! Hey, you lot! Shut up! Quit your grizzling, stu-
, pid^Neesters. Tirla then dropped into languages that
Dorotea could not understand. They prefer crying for
their mommies! Mommies who sold 'em! Tirla said,
suddenly dropping into Basic again. Some half dozen
are from E, seven are from W, and two from C. How
they bleat! None of 'em's Peter.

Dorotea: Ask them their names.

Tirla could give ten names of the estimated fifteen
children in with her. These were instantly forwarded to
Boris.

"Where can Peter be?" Rhyssa murmured softly. At
some point while she had been concentrating on Doro-

260

             261

tea's conversations, Dave Lehardt had joined the anx-
ious group in the Control Room. He linked his fingers
in hers, and the physical contact was almost more re-
assuring than the aura of encouragement that emanated
from all the telepafhs about her.

"Ask her again about the various smells," Saseha
prompted Dorotea. "There may be something that'll
give us a clue to where.''

Well, there's a sort of metal stink, Tirla replied when
Dorotea relayed the question. And there's a moldy mil-
dewing rotten stink that's stronger. There's another
smell I can't identify. Oily. I'm stuffed into something—
feels like plastic foam. Even my fingers are separated
into slots. I'm bound at the wrists, ankles, waist, and
across my chest. If I was shorter, I'd be choking. Oh,
cut the caterwauling! No one's hurting you! She roared
out repetitions in other dialects, continuing to broadcast
mentally as she shouted at the other children.

"Her predicament is beginning to get to her," Dor-
otea said grimly. Tirla, I'm with you. Even if you can't
hear them, Rhyssa, Saseha, Boris, Sirikit, Budworth,
Dave—we 're all here. We 'II get you out of there, I

promise.

Tirla: Soon, please. If I have to listen to all this cry-
ing and moaning much longer, I'll space out. What
about that woman who wore my hair? Why don't you
ask her where I am?

Carmen is right here and reminds you that she needs
light to find you! Remember? That's why she couldn't
locate you in the Linear—you were in the dark.

Tirla, wryly: I'm a lot more in the dark now than I
was then. What if they don't turn any lights on? For the
first time, her voice was tinged more with fear than with

outrage.

Dorotea: It may be no consolation to you right now,
Tirla, but they 'II want you to be in good condition. They 'II
also have to feed you and keep you clean.

Tirla: Yeah? When? Next week sometime?

You were taken at approximately three. It's ten-thirty
now. You can't be left without food and water much lon-
ger.

Tirla: You're right. That's not much consolation. Dor-
otea, don't stop talking to me, will you ? I don't care what
you say. Just don't stop talking.

I'm totally at your command, Tirla. Dorotea projected
an image of a flourish and a curtsy. She was rewarded by
a little chuckle. Shall we start with the math lesson you
missed?

Tirla, surprised: In my head?

Dorotea: Write it on the board in my mind. I'll remem-
ber for you.

' 'And also increase her telepathic facility,'' Rhyssa said
with a genuine smile. "You are incorrigible, Dorotea."

' 'Also very good at what I do," the old woman replied
smugly.

Rhyssa? Rhyssa?

Rhyssa gasped with incredulity, stricken by the faint-
ness of Peter's call. Dave wrapped an arm about her
shoulders, supporting her as she held up her hand to stop
all noise in the room as the weak voice reached her mind.
Yes, Peter. I've been listening for you.

Peter: I can't see anything. They gassed me. I'm going
to be sick.

Rhyssa kept her mental tone calm and firm as she clung
to Dave's hands. Easy, Peter. Remember our drills. Re-
duce the nausea.

It's never been this hard before, Rhyssa. There was an
edge of despair in his voice. Rhyssa knew so well how he
hated anesthetics. He had reactions to most of the com-
mon ones. It was going to take time—which she did not
think they had—for him to shake off the residual disori-
entation and nausea in order to bring his kinesis into use.

Rhyssa: Focus your mind, Peter, just as you used to do
in the hospital. Focus your thoughts; ignore the extrane-
ous.

  .

262

Peter: There 're other kids in here with me. Some of 'em

are pretty scared.
Rhyssa: Call out for Tirla. She's somewhere—maybe

very nearby.
Dorotea, urgently: Tirla, Peter's awake. Call his name.

Neither heard the other.

"Christ! Pine team of Talents we are when our kids are
vulnerable!" Sascha remarked caustically.

Tirla, echoing Sascha's frustration: Why doesn't Peter
just glide out of this contraption, Dorotea? Tirla asked,
unconsciously echoing Sascha's frustration. He's the ki-
netic! When Dorotea explained Peter's problem with the
anesthesia, Tirla gave a bark of laughter. So it's up to me
again, I guess. Don't forget the answers to my equations,

will you, Dorotea?

Dorotea: Tirla, what are you planning to do?

Tirla: Get out of this coffin.

Dorotea: How?

Tirla: They made one mistake when they strapped me
in here. They strapped my fingers down, not up where I
couldn 't reach anything. I should be able to dig out enough

plastic to free my hands.

Dorotea felt the effort in Tirla's mind, effort and fringes
of pain. "Could she do that?" she asked Sascha.

' 'According to the Bro, the kids retrieved in Manhattan
had been wrapped in foamed plastic cocoons. She might
be able to scratch at it with her fingers.''

You have made contact with Tirla and Peter? Boris's

voice was excited.

Contact, Bro, but not release. Both kids are cocooned.
And Peter's having a bad reaction to whatever gas they
used. Sascha made another face, mimicking the aggrava-
tion his brother was mentally expressing. He'll need a
little time before he recovers completely.

Boris: Is there time? I've got the city manager, and all
her deputies on my back for action. Some of the other kids

were legal, too.'
Rhyssa was concentrating on strengthening her link with

             263

Peter, helping him to dissipate the residue of the anes-
thetic. Her face mirrored his desperation and sense of fail-
ure, and she leaned heavily against Dave.

There! The triumph in Tirla's voice was evident to
Dorotea, and she held up her band, repeating the girl's
words for the others. Camel-gutted tripe! Miserable
dung-eaters! Descendants of snake offal. Scu^farts!
Maggots!

Good heavens! How pungent. Tirla, how have you
hurt yourself? Dorotea demanded, sensing pain.

Tirla: Never you mind. I'm out of this cocoon. There
are nineteen other kids stuck in 'em here, some of 'em
still knocked out. Peter's not one of 'em. Tell Carmen
not to fracture her skull finding me. This place is black
as the bottom of an elevator pit. Ugh. I slipped in junk.
Ugh! I've reached one wall. Faugh. It's slimy and
gritty. Too smooth and cold for metal. Ah, an opening.
A window. Plastic-coated. I can't even scratch a sliver
off. Look, I'm going to try something, Tirla went on.
They always forget about ceilings. There's air coming
in here from someplace. She was silent for a long while,
though Dorotea was aware of strenuous physical activ-
ity. I am not hurting you. Just using you as a steplad-
der. And I won't let you go, crybaby. You 're no use to
me. Quit your grizzling. Another period of silence fol-
lowed, jind Dorotea reported more physical effort,
punctuated by inadvertent grunts of pain.

Tirla: Well, I was right. There is a ceiling hatch. And
I can see, a Uttle. Well, whaddya know? I'm in a shunt-
ing yard. There are rows and rows of train cars, old
ones. Can't have been moved in years. And someplace
down to my right there's light. Sort of around an edge,
like of a window or a door. Any idea where I could be?

From the moment Tirla mentioned a shunting yard,
the description was forwarded to everyone concerned.
. Tirla: I'm going along the tops of cars toward the
light, the girl reported. I can't hear anyone, and no one

264      265

would be stupid enough to walk around this place with-
out a light.
Tell us how many cars have children, Tirla, Dorotea

urged.

Tirla: Peter! Peter! Answer me! Peter! It's Tirla! An-
swer me! Wow! I nearly fell off the edge of the car.
Slippery surface, moist. Whole place is damp!

"Try for yards by the river, by the sea. Along the
Sound," Sascha said, prowling up and down the bank
of monitors, checking patterns.

Tirla! Peter cried exultantly. His voice echoed from
Tirla's mind to Dorotea and lifted the anxieties of every
Talent in the room. Rhyssa sank into a chair that Dave
pulled over for her. Then he handed her a stimulant
drink, gesturing her to toss it down quickly.

Tirla: So here's where they stashed you, huh? Now,
I'll just drop in beside you. There! The tape 'II sting
coming off—oh, I forgot. Sorry.

Peter: I won't feel it anyway—do your worst. Just
don't take all the skin off my wrists! Isn 't there any light
in this place?

Tirla: I guess not. There—you 're free. Only the tan
came off. Here! Don't go faint. Lie back. Stay easy.
Get your breath. Now look, you'd better rest some
more. Dorotea could hear the nervous concern in Tirla's
voice, a matter she did not impart to Rhyssa. I'm going
to look around this place, Peter, Tirla went on. You
get your kinetics working again, 'cause there's no way
I can haul you up by myself.

Peter: I'll be okay, Tirla. I'll be okay. Just—just come
back.

Tirla: Oho! Aircar! Big bugger. Expensive! No lights!
There was a long moment of silence. That was too
close.

"Ask her if she saw a number, a description, any-
thing!" Sascha prompted Dorotea.

Tirla: I'd say that it's a metallic blue jetter, twelve-
seater, no lights. But I got a glimpse—a three, a dash,

and R-I-G—I think. Could have been a B, but the I and
the G were clear enough.

When Dorotea repeated what Tirla had said, Sascha
exploded to his feet. "R-I-G! We couldn't be so lucky!"
He slapped his right palm against his forehead. "Bud-
worth, get through to Auer and Bertha and see if they
have any tickles about Pilmflam."

"Flimflam?" Rhyssa and Dorotea said together, both
reaching into Sascha's mind for confirmation, but he
was involved in a tight conversation with Boris and
would not let them in.

"Boris is doing a search on the registration," Sascha
said aloud, holding up one hand, his expression intent
and eager. "Dorotea, tell Tirla she's a star!"

Tirla, surprised: Was that enough for you? Oops.
There's another one coming in, from another direc-
tion. Also running dark. I'll see if I can get a better
reading.

Tirla, Dorotea replied hastily, don't risk discovery.
And Rhyssa says she 'd rather have you stay with Peter.

Tirla, blithely: Peter's okay. Working on it. I'm go-
ing to find out who the other dark-flier is!

Tirla! Dorotea was momentarily stunned by the in-
dependence. Tirla! She turned to Rhyssa, hands out-
stretched in appeal. "The little witch has cut me off!
Oh, just wait till I get my hands on that child! The
impudence of her.''

Rhyssa was also irritated. Peter, stop her!

Peter on his dignity: I don't need a minder, Rhyssa.
I really don't. Just enough time to catch my breath.
'Sides, no one could stop Tirla.

"Rather admirable of the child, I think," Sascha re-
plied. For a palpable moment he and Rhyssa locked
wills. Then he continued in a gentler tone. "I do real-
ize, Rhyssa, that Peter's inhibited by the gassing he
took. If Tirla can manage an ID on the second car, too,
we'll maybe catch more than just the well-deserving
Revered Ponsit Prosit."

266   

"Has Boris confirmed the owner of that jetcar?"
Rhyssa asked, only marginally appeased.

"Registered to Ponsit Prosit, a.k.a. Flimflam,"
Sascha said with a grin. "Complete with vanity plate—
VRPPI2403IRIG—at a Riverside address that is more
palatial than reverential. Boris is sending out surveil-
lance and standby teams. I'd like the Center to muster
Talent as of right now!'' Sascha waited long enough for
Rhyssa's assent and then pointed a finger at Budworth
to punch the Alert button. "We can move once we've
got a definite fix."

"Neither Auer or Bertha have anything for us," Sir-
ikit told them.

"That's odd," Rhyssa said with a frown. "There
should be something!"

"I find a precog silence reassuring," Sascha re-
marked, buckling on his utility belt and checking his
trank gun. "Flimflam is at least not going to trigger
panic in the immediate future, so we have a very good
chance of catching him inflagrante delicto. Dorotea, is
Tirla available again?"

Dorotea shook her head, her lips pursed in an ag-
grieved moue. "Wretched little snip of a thing!" she
said with a certain amount of reluctant admiration in
her tone.

' 'Got it!'' Carmen cried suddenly, jumping out of her
chair, rushing to the map terminal, and punching co-
ordinates that brought up the South Shore area. "Tula's
come through again. There simply can't be two such
similar situations. She's heading toward an old railway
switchhouse. I can just make it out. There's a crack of
light coming through a window that opens onto a plat-
form. There seem to be hundreds of cars of old rolling
stock rusting there. Here we are!" She pointed to the
marked area on the map. "Here're tracks. Acres of
them. And obsolete railcars waiting to be recycled."

The others all converged to look at the area magnified
on the screen.

            267

^ ' 'It couldn't be better, could it,'' Dorotea said slowly

as a place to hide terrified kids!" Tirla! Answer me'
We know where you are now.

When Tirla did not reply, Sascha gave Rhyssa a long
look and then. Dave Lehardt at their heels, the telepaths
left the Control Room, jogging to the stairs that would
take them to the aircars and teams waiting on the land-
ing roof.

            269

CHAPTER 16

^ ^ Tirla's night vision had adjusted to the gloom—
part mist and part lightlessness despite the angry red-
orange glow of Jerhattan that lit the rim of the horizon
on all sides. The upper levels of distant Linears, ma-
jestic in the night, punctuated the halo of the city with
their long silhouettes. From top stories, with aerials and
stacks, aircraft-warning signals blinked their light pat-
terns. She moved forward carefully along the curved
tops of the railcars. If she slipped, there would be noth-
ing for her to catch on to. The surface was gritty with
dirt and slippery in the moist air. She headed toward
that thin band of light and the dark bulk of the building

that framed it.

She had safely traversed five cars, two more with
children moaning and weeping inside them, when she
felt a pressure in her mind that she recognized as Dor-
otea trying to contact her.

Go 'way. I've got to concentrate.

She cursed softly as she slithered for a panicky mo-
ment between cars, then waited until her heart had
stopped thudding, and she was fairly sure that her
scrambling had not been heard. Her sharp ears had
caught the sound of muted voices from the building.
The line of cars continued past a long platform, and she
debated slipping down and getting close enough to the
building to overhear the conversations.

But conversations were useless tender; the registra-
tion number of an aircar was undeniable proof. She
268

crawled forward on her belly, conscious of every noise
she made, the diyness of her mouth, and the increas-
ingly painful stiffness of her fingers.

There was a sudden break in the murk and there,
parked beside the less distinct blue jetter, was an ex-
pensive sports jetcar, its hull a crisp white, its tail ID
equally visible. The two cars were balanced on the one
junction of rail that was free of rolling stock.

Tirla: Peter, I got the second one. The number is CD-
08-MAL, clear as day. And the other car is right be-
yond it. Peter?

Peter: I heard you, Tirla. I told them. You come back
here. They're mad at you for closing Dorotea out.
You 're going to have to apologize to her. Peter sounded
fierce.

Apologize? Why? Tirla was so surprised that she
slipped, banging down on the railcar. Now you 've done
it! She flattened herself on the far side of the car as
light flooded out of the building, illuminating the plat-
form and the slightly bulging side of the car on which
she lay.

"I tell you I heard something!" said the man silhou-
etted in the doorway. He peered around the doorframe,
and Tirla had a good view of the scene behind him: two
men» one of whom idly swung a short stick, clipping it
against his boot with an air of indolent diffidence.

'<Shut the door, you cretin!" The door abruptly
closed and then opened in a much thinner crack. "...
a good look around. Up, over, under, in. Mess up once
more, maggot—you can be eagle-spread, too."

The door closed a second time, but not before Tirla
recognized the angry voice. Her guts froze. She heard
the ladrone moving, his shoes crunching the grit on the
platform. She heard him haul back one of the warped
carriage doors, the plastic creaking as he looked in the
carriage. He moved on down the platform, cursing
softly under his breath as he dropped down to flash his
light beneath the car. Tirla could take no chances.

270           

271

Quickly she moved at a crouch and jumped to the next
car. She was just in time—the red pinpoint of a filtered
handlight shone briefly where she had just been. She
held her breath, hoping against hope that the searcher
would not notice her outline on the dusty top.

As he cautiously opened the door of the building, -she
watched. The stick swinger was nearest the door—she
got another good look at his haughty face, with its
beaked nose and thin-plucked brows. And she saw a
table piled with credits which two other men were
counting—floaters, by the size of them. One of the
counters looked vaguely familiar, but her attention was
caught by the face of the other man as he turned his
head; he had a cruel face, and a hungry one. He was
idly tapping his black boot with the stick; she caught
the gleam of gold around the handle. Only then did the
significance of the pile of floaters dawn on her.

Tirla: Dorotea! The payoff's being made! Floaters.
More than I've ever seen in my life!

Dorotea, her voice hard-edged: Tirla, don't you ever
dare cut me out again. Tirla was momentarily dis-
mayed. Wasn't she doing what they needed done? How
could such a sweet old lady come on so tough and hard?

Tirla: Well, if you crazy Talents don't move your
asses, you're going to mess everything up and I'll have
nothing more to do with you.       s

Peter! Help Peter now! Dorotea did not sound apol-
ogetic, but she did sound anxious.

Tirla knew very well that Peter—not to mention all
the other kids—needed help. As quickly as she could,
she moved back along the line of cars. If the payoff had
been made, some of the kids might be shifted soon. She
had to get Peter out and free as many of the others as
she could. If they all scattered and hid, it would take
all night to recapture them—if she could stop them from
crying long enough to help themselves.

Tirla slipped, and this time could not recover her bal-
ance, sliding down the dirt-encrusted side of the car and

landing painfully on stones and cinders that bruised and
cut her feet. Cursing her clumsiness and hoping that
she had gotten far enough away so that the noise of her
fall had not been heard, she made her way along the
ground, cursing the bastards who had removed the
beautiful purple boots that she had bought on her first
trip to the mall.

Crying had been reduced to whimpering in the first
two cars. Tirla winced. How much time did she have
to get Peter out if the payoff had been made? Could he
make use of that special Talent of his now?

Yes, I can, Peter said, appearing out of the darkness
between two cars. He touched her hand. And I know
exactly how. C'mon. He led her along the track until
she nearly stumbled over a big handle attached to one
side of the track. We're going to do a switcheroo. He
laughed softly out loud. Much faster than letting all
those kids loose. There's a hundred of them.

They heard a muffled thrumming and saw the white-
ness of the aircar lifting slowly from behind the build-
ing.

C'mon, Peter urged. I've got to get to that transformer
box or my idea won't work! I need the gestaltfor this. You
know how to uncouple cars? Suddenly the process was
driven into Tula's mind and she staggered a bit, stunned
by the vivid intrusion. Then go back and uncouple the last
car with kids in it. Stay there and warn me if anyone's
coming.

"You mean like, upstairs?" Tirla asked in a hoarse
whisper, pointing to the sky.

No, them! Peter pointed at the building.

"When are we getting some help?" Tirla demanded
in an acid-whisper, refusing to talk in her mind when
she was nose-to-nose with Peter. "My feet hurt!"

"Soon," Peter hissed and then gave her a shove to
help her on her way. "Try walking my way!"

She couldn't but wished she could. Her feet hurt and
her hands ached. She did not quite understand how he

  

272

could possibly do what she thought he was going to do.
Railcars that had not moved in years were going to make
the most awful racket. Peter was stupid! She hurried,
hoping that the sound of the aircar might cover some
of the noise the railcars were sure to make.

She identified the last car from the moaning inside it
and struggled with couplings encrusted with caked oil
and dirt. Peter, it's— Suddenly the stiff coupling re-
leased itself and she was knocked off balance, stagger-
ing back into the end of the car. Well, thanks! A wail
arose from within. Shut your faces, you stupid gits, she
ordered, forgetting that the other children could not hear
her. I'm doing my best to save your innards and your
virtue. She banged her fist once against the side of the
car and felt the pain worth it when the warning achieved
an instant drop in the mewling. That did much to soothe

her aggravations.

Nervously she glanced up to see the aircar's slow
upward progress. Running dark like that, the pilot had
to be careful not to get tangled in the wires that fes-
tooned the area around the building. If Peter could just
get moving ... He was! She heard the squeal, rattle,
and clanking as wheels long locked on rails reluctantly
began to turn. She swung up to sit on the tongue of the
coupling, watching the building for any sign that some-
one within had heard the metallic protest. But the build-
ing was two hundred meters or so away, and the aircar
was whooshing and thrumming.

She peered at the skyline, yearning to see some subtle
movement that hinted of the approach of help. Those
Talents were so slow. How soon was "soon"? Her car
moved all too jerkily with rattlings and clankings, but
it was making progress along the track. The dark build-
ing with the telltale band of light was slowly receding.
She felt the car clack across the junction, veering right,
and experienced partial relief. If that ladrone looked
outside and saw half the train missing . . .

She saw'the white blur of Peter's face as the car

             273

inched past the transformer box; there was no disguise
in the dark night for the audible hum emanating from
it. What was Peter doing?

She jumped down from the coupling, wincing as her
cut feet hit the stony, cindery ground. The cars contin-
ued to move obliquely away from danger, down an
empty track.

"You can't leave just empty track. They'll know . . ."
Tirla put an urgent hand on his arm and then could not
release it. She could feel him shaking from the effort he
had already made, shaking and more—and she was af-
fected by his shaking and whatever else it was that raced
through him.

"I'm trying," he said tensely. "A gestalt's hard with
all that anesthesia still slowing me down. Help me!"

"Gestalt?" Tirla stuttered over the unfamiliar word,
and then Peter put the explanation in her mind. Before
she could ask how she could possibly help with that,
she was. Her body seemed alive with the current racing
through her, like the time she had caught a jolt from an
exposed wire. Only this was not as painful as that shock
had been. But it was . . . what was it?

The metallic protest was startlingly loud on the still
air. The white jet had moved beyond visibility into the
swirling mist. Tirla felt both stronger and weaker,
plutctung at Peter with both hands, wanting to help him
make the gestalt and needing his support. Suddenly she
was aware of movement behind her as car after car be-
gan to slide past them onto the track— clickety click,
clickety click—far too loudly. Suddenly, with a re-
sounding clank, the new cars bounced against those near
the platform, and Tirla's heart clenched when she heard
the shouts of alarm as men piled out to investigate.

"Tell me! Did you let all those other kids loose?"
Flimflam asked, his nose inches from Tirla's face. She
wished he would bend just a little closer so she could

274      275

bite him. But he would probably poison her, the greasy,
coarse, evil scuz.

Unfortunately, before Tirla could help Peter to hide,
two of the faster ladrones had caught them. They had
been roughly hauled back to the building and into the
presence of a seething Flimflam, so enraged that flecks
of foam had gathered at the comers of his mouth.
Screaming with exasperation, Tirla had been shoved in
front of the raging man as Peter collapsed on the floor,

groaning.

"We didn't see no others," one of the ladrones said
anxiously. "There wasn't a sign of them, nor those
cocoons in the cars neither."

"Tell me where the children are!" Flimflam repeated
in one of the more common Neester dialects, squeezing
hard on her swollen fingers. "Did you let them loose?"

Despite herself, Tirla let out a howl of pain, trying
to pull her hand out of his grasp. It hurt so much that
she could not even think of a suitable malediction to
fling at him. He let her go but scooped a stick off the
table and began to slash it across her back.

"Hey, boss, the merch! Don't mark the merch!"

"Tell me where the children went!" he demanded in
the most common Asian language.

Tirla let tears run down her cheeks as she glanced
quickly around the room, as if seeking help. Then in
one of the most obscure languages she knew, she an-
swered him in a piteously appealing tone. "Don't beat
me. I don't understand you! Don't beat me again!"

"Of all the—" Flimflam roared, swiveling about to
the ladrones and hitters in the room. "What did she
say? One of you must understand her! Just what I need.
A dumb kid! Well?"

There were murmurs and shrugs as no one admitted
to understanding.

Dorotea, reassuringly: We're nearly there, Tirla. We
have the yard on the nightscope.

"Where—" Flimflam was making ludicrously broad,

pantomine gestures, so unlike his polished performance
as a RIG that Tirla nearly laughed even though he kept
poking her painfully with his stick to emphasize his
words. "Where—are—the others? Can no one talk to
her? Rouse the other one. We can't waste time. That
bloody His Highness will be sending the transports. We
must have the merchandise ready. Months of planning,
everything goes without a hitch, we've got the money—
where are the others?"

A ladrone poured water over Peter, who did not even
moan. Tirla watched him anxiously. He looked terribly
pale, crumpled up like that. He had been fine until they
had been recaptured. Perhaps the effort of moving those
heavy railcars . . . She gasped as the whip sliced her
again right over the previous welt. Tirla tried to back
away but hands clamped on her shoulders, holding her
fast. She kicked backward with her heels, jarring feet
already sore, but her captor had heavy boots on and she
only achieved more bruises.

"Let's really put some fear into her," Flimflam said,
gesturing, and she was flung facedown to the hard sur-
face of the table where she had recently seen piles of
floaters. Cruel hard hands grasped her by wrists and
ankles. Suddenly pain exploded across her already lac-
erated feet. She screamed and screamed again at the
second horrific stab of pain, then fainted for the first
time in her life.

So she missed seeing Flimflam violently propelled
backward to crash against the wall. She missed the ex-
plosive entrance of Sascha, Rhyssa, Dave Lehardt, and
the Talent teams. And she missed the other excitements
that would have given her immense satisfaction.

             277

CHAPTER 17

^••^ Commissioner," Ranjit said, "that's a diplo-
matic registration."

"I wouldn't care if it was God himself. Lieutenant,"
the LEO commissioner answered. "Law Enforcement
and Order means just that from bottom to top, and right
on down the line again. Or it's privilege, not law en-
forcement and order!" He measured the distance on the
huge display map, from the South Shore train yard to
the Riverside address. "Assign the best driver we've
got to shadow that CD. And I want that beehive—not
just the penthouse lift or the domestic floors but that
entire complex—secured. Whoever is in that car could
go to ground anywhere. Pack all entries with sensitives.
Tell them to home in on any strong emotion—we may
get a lot of wash on this. You know how hivers hate to
have their privacy broached." He turned to another
aide. "Barry, get me the city manager and tell her this
is a sensitive affair. I want her forewarned so she can
back us with the Corps. Feed the situation through Ju-
dicial and get me four—no, make it five—John Does
and a search warrant. And let's hope that Sascha's ef-
ficient."

He shrugged on his tunic top, resplendent with the

"bravery bars" and braid, then strapped on sidearms
and gestured for Ranjit and his other aides to follow
him to the rooftop garage. Jet- and aircars were spin-
ning off along usual routes, having been instructed to
move circumspecdy.

276

Sascha? Boris linked with his brother as his aircar
took off.

Nearly there, Bro. It still takes time to drive a car
from there to here. The other bird has not flown—holy
hell, what's happening? Back to you later.

Boris felt the abruptness of the mental break and
cursed under his breath as his aircar plowed on to his
destination. The pause lengthened, causing him some
anxiety. Surely Sascha was competent enough . . .
Should he have sent men with the Center teams? If the
child-dealers at the railyard should get a warning
through to his own quarry, the whole operation might
be jeopardized.

My God, Boris— Sascha's voice burst in on him like
a bellow—if you let that Shimaz slime ooze out of this,
Highness, Prince, manager, or whatever, I promise you
that the Talents will handle him ex officio!

The LEO commissioner had never before heard such
vindictiveness in his brother's voice.

Boris: What happened?

Sascha: The. Venerable Revered Ponsit Prosit used a
bastinado on Tirla's feet. And Peter's collapsed!

Boris: Flimflam didn't get a message off, did he? If
the man had, they might lose the most important crim-
inal.

Sascha, livid with rage: No, not when he had a little
,girl^o interrogate! Make it stick on that other bastard,
will you? Or, by all that's holy, I will. Myself with no
help from any other agency, dear LEO Bro.

Boris: LEO is on the move, Sascha. You hang onto
your temper. Have you got the other children? Have we
any proof of complicity ?

Sascha, sarcastically: I don't suppose Tirla's bloody
feet count for more than assault and GBH. But we also
took possession of a case full of many too many floaters,
ready for a night deposit, complete with an account
number I'll bet can be traced to the Venerable Revered.

Boris: That should be enough to convict Flimflam.

278

     279

But is there enough to catch this—what did you call

him?

Sascha: Shimaz, Prince Phanibal Shimaz, who seems
to be a whiz at more than Josephson junctions. Flim-
flam's spilling his guts: His Highness has rather an ex-
tensive operation—child labor in his rice paddies and
mines, child prostitution, and a child farm where the
healthiest are kept that way until someone can pay for

the organ they need.

Boris, growling: Get me something to link him to that
yard. Something that will stick!

They were well on the way when the comlink her-
alded a connection from Commissioner Aiello. She ap-
peared on the cabin screen dressed in formal attire.
Hovering beside her was her protocol officer, Jak, who,
for all his empathy, could at times be quite tiresome

about details.
"Do you have incontrovertible proof, Roznine?" she

asked.

"We have proof of a connection which is incompat-
ible with any diplomatic occupation," Boris replied,
setting his jaw.

"Who? Surely not the ambassador!" At that mo-
ment, Teresa Aiello was depressed with pessimism.

"We are not after his Excellency, so Jak can relax.
Members of his Corps, certainly, and an embassy ve-
hicle has been identified and traced from the abduction
site. There's no problem of proving involvement. Is the
DA there, too? Well, give the old dog a comforting
word in his shell-like ear. The Talents have cracked this
abduction ring." The last he admitted ruefully, for de-
spite protests to the contrary, he and his brother were
in constant competition.

The massive beehive was aptly nicknamed. Its bot-
tom levels along the block-square bulk, where other
buildings obscured views, housed maintenance, stor-
age, and worker accommodations. Where the hive rose
above its neighbors, there were great curved plasglas

panels that were part solar-heating, part prestigious dis-
play of wealth. Each pie-shaped apartment boasted lux-
uriant gardens and views from the outer wall, and where
the hive had an atrium core, rare plants and trees fes-
tooned the inner walls. Naturally the top apartments
were the most exclusive and expensive, with one whole
floor given over to private garden and garage facilities,
swimming pools, game courts, and whatever other ame-
nities the residents expected, to secure the ultimate of
comfort.

Is the surround complete yet, Ranjit? Boris asked on
his helmet corn unit.

Just now—completely ringed, sir. No one can get in
or out without being observed.

"Commissioner," Boris's pilot said, "here comes the
suspect vehicle now."

The sleek white jetcar swooped to settle and deposit
its passengers on the roof of the hive.

"Three men!"

"I can see that myself," Boris said. "Secure that
jetter the moment it's garaged. See what you can get
the pilot to say. Grab the log, and any garage records.
And now—" He could not keep the satisfaction out of
his voice. "Let's get the bastards."

The LEO pilot put them down on the hive roof, and
Boris Roznine and his squad made for the ramp down
to the entrance level of the penthouse. Seeing the for-
mal and formidable attire of the LEO commissioner and
his aide, the door attendant hurried to open it. His bow
was respectful and nervous.

"What are you doing, you naga? I'm not expecting
guests!'' exclaimed the man at the other end of the mag-
nificent white marbled reception hall. A servant was
just assisting the removal of his elegant blue suede long
coat while a second man was also shrugging, unas-
sisted, out of his own outerwear. "Exclude them im-
mediately."

"I think not, Prince Phanibal," Boris said, stepping

280    281

forward while sending Ranjit a quick thought about re-
inforcements.

The prince's companion moved with astonishing
speed out the nearest of the many doors leading from
the entry hall while the paralyzed doorman gaped.

"Is His Excellency at home?" Boris asked, some
glimmer of Jak's protocol lessons seeping through his
anger. The doorman fearfully nodded before the prince
ordered him not to respond.

"How dare you—whoever you are—enter a diplo-
matic residence without invitation?" Prince Phanibal
demanded, his expression haughty and totally confi-
dent. His gaze ignored the lieutenant by Boris's side
and the detachment standing just outside the door.

"Boris Roznine, commissioner for Law Enforcement
and Order in Jerhattan!" Boris turned to the awed and
shaking doorman. "Please beg His Excellency's indul-
gence and request an immediate interview on a matter
of grave urgency."

The attendant, ignoring the prince's countermands
and threats, opened a hidden door and disappeared. He
had no sooner gone than all the other doors of the en-
trance hall swung open and a number of large men filed
in with military precision. Three, black-robed and tur-
baned, with silver-mounted belts and daggers which
were exactly the legal length permitted display guards,
immediately flanked the prince.

Boris did not need to look over his shoulder to know
that the LEO officers just outside the doorway, carrying
the weaponry legal for them, outnumbered the embassy
guards and were quite ready to force an entry. He waited
a moment for the prince to absorb that fact.

"I believe that we now await His Excellency's ap-
pearance," he said with a grim and ungenial smile and,
in studied insult to a royal person, seated himself on
the nearest decorative bench.

"Do you not understand the repercussions this un-
warranted intrusion—" Prince Phanibal began imperi-
ously. "I am not only a royal prince of my house but
a manager of the Padrugoi. I am due back on the plat-
form on the next shuttle.''

"That is why I, as LEO commissioner, am here to
explain personally to the ambassador," Boris replied.
Is this the guy who's been giving Rhyssa so much
grief? Perhaps if we both try, we can probe his mind,
he sent to Sascha. It's not admissible evidence in court
since it's under duress, but it'll give us some clues.

There was a brief pause as the brothers tried to breach
the prince's mind. Then Boris pulled back. He's got a
dense mind shield. He's had careful conditioning, and
I'd love to know where. No, we can't break it, not with-
out breaking the law.

The slightest of smiles tugged at the comer of the
prince's mouth and his eyes narrowed, hiding smug
pleasure at deflecting the mental intrusion. He raised
his left hand briefly, his fingers closing as if on some
accustomed possession. Then he threw his fingers open
in vexation and raised the arm indolently across his
chest, the smile broadening.

"Perhaps you have mislaid your little stick," Boris
heard himself saying. Sascha was there! Saving time
and effort, brother? Boris asked.

The little stick which made raw meat of Tirla 's feet,
Sascha said savagely.

Prince Phanibal stiffened in surprise. "I—what?"

"The little switch that you are fond of carrying as an
affectation, for you don't own any—animals—I be-
lieve," the BorisISascha link continued. "The one with
the ivory handle and the rather unusual filigree design.''

"I do not have to account for my possessions to such
as you," Prince Phanibal replied as he angled himself
obliquely from Boris, tilting his chin arrogantly to dis-
play what many probably considered a handsome pro-
file.

At that point the ambassador, clad in a deep purple
velvet robe with exquisite gold designs, entered from

282

 

283

the central door. He cast one startled look at the prince
and his pose, another at the group by the door, then
signaled for the guards to withdraw. Boris Roznine rose
and walked forward to meet the Malaysian.

"Due to the gravity of this situation, Your Excel-
lency," he said, speaking on his own although he knew
that Sascha was listening avidly, "you will permit me
to dispense with formalities. This man"—he gestured
to the aloof prince—"and another have been involved
in activities incompatible with any function in your em-
bassy. I must ask you to instruct His Highness and his
companion to accompany me to the LEO headquar-
ters."

"With what could the Prince Phanibal be charged?"

the ambassador asked with great dignity.

"The charge is indeed grave. Your Excellency, for
there has been traffic in abducting minors and subjecting
them to illicit bondage for the purpose of slave labor,
unlawful intercourse, and organ removal."

"You have proof of such a heinous crime?" The am-
bassador drew himself more erect, but he did not appear

to be all that surprised.

"Yes, Your Excellency." Boris inclined his head with
a nod of regret. The ambassador was too fine an old man
to be saddled with such a scandal. “There are witnesses!"
the Boris/Sascha link continued, supporting Boris's reply.
"Talented witnesses."

The prince snorted his disbelief, his poise undis-
turbed. "Such a claim tries all patience. You will dis-
miss these deceivers. Uncle."

Sascha: This bugger's clever.
Boris: He hasn't turned a hair or admitted a thing.
Sascha: Does he think all Talents are adults?
Boris: Tirla is on the official Register, is she not?
Sascha: Didn 't you read the ID bracelet you got her
six weeks ago? And there are four of the ladrones, spill-
ing their guts to avoid being spaced, confirming what
we've got out of Flimflam for turning State's evidence—

his mind took very little pressure when he regained con-
sciousness. That was some scam they had going. Fur-
thermore, it was the dear prince who infiltrated LEO
programs and filched the strand formula. He had all
the special clearance passwords because he was work-
ing on Padrugoi and doing all that fine work with the
Josephson junctions. He browsed and took what he
needed. Got his island laboratory to perfect a variation
for Flimflam to use as a special effect in those REs he
put on. We have all the details needed to implicate the
prince and that secretary of his. Returned from the re-
ligious institutions and a period of meditation in the Far
East? He was planning the whole thing with Prince
Phanibal's backing. Sascha's snort of contempt was so
strong that Boris grunted.

The ambassador turned his head slightly over one
shoulder in Prince Phanibal's direction. "I will not dis-
miss them. Nephew. Talent cannot be forsworn." Then
he regarded Boris steadily for a moment and beckoned
for the prince to step forward. "You will go with
them."

"But I cannot be arrested like a common criminal!"

"Oh, indeed. Nephew, you are an uncommon crim-
inal, for diplomatic immunity does not shield peder-
asts," the old man said in a voice that was leached of
all emotion.

“You cannot permit such insult to our name," the
prince said, slapping his fists to his legs in his barely
contained frustration and anger. "My father will hear
of this. You will hear of this. You will be disgraced!
You will never return to your home. Your children and
your children's children are dog meat..."

Ignoring him, the Malaysian ambassador strode to the
nearest door and closed it firmly behind him. The guards
moved to cover each of the doorways, subtly removing
official protection from the prince.

Commissioner? Ranjit said politely. The pilot has
been arrested, and we have the jetter's logs and the

284      285

garage log. Also, Prince Shimca's companion was ap-
prehended, attempting to escape.

"If you will come with us . . ." Boris began for-
mally, gesturing toward the roof landing steps.

The prince suddenly erupted into action, his face
contorted in rage, flinging himself toward the opening
Boris had made. Ranjit, with great presence of mind,
neatly tripped the man as he passed.

At that, it took three officers to subdue the raving
man.

"So, despite appeals from his grieving father, and
protests from Ludmilla Barchenka that His Highness
Manager Phanibal Shimaz must be released until the
station is completed," Sascha told Tirla, sitting on the
edge of her bed in Dorotea's house, "that scuzball will
spend the rest of his life at hard labor on the moon."

"And Flimflam?" Tula's eyes flashed with an anger
and hatred that startled Sascha, even though he under-
stood it.

"Oh, turning State's evidence gave him a choice of
occupations," he said with a grin. "He elected to take
a job as a sanitation engineer on the Big Station. Not
exactly spaced out, but near enough."

"How many of the kids were illegals?" she asked
after relishing Flimflam's future for a long and satisfac-
tory moment. She and Peter had both been in court to
give their evidence but had not heard the sentencing.
She still was not comfortable walking very far on her
tender feet, and despite Peter's patient instruction in
kinetics, she had been unable to levitate as he did. Peter
was baffled, sure that she had some latent kinetic abil-
ity; he maintained that he had been unconscious when
Flimflam had been thrown kinetically across the room
just as the rescuers arrived.

"Eighty-seven children," Sascha replied brusquely.

"In the hos'tels, huh?" Tirla gave a long sigh.

"Just think what you and Peter saved them from,
Tirla. You had a taste of it."

"And there haven't been any more deals or abduc-
tions?"

Sascha shook his head.

The apathy that had settled over Tirla after the trial
worried everyone in the Center. Obediently she had
worked with the physiotherapist to regain movement in
her damaged feet—she had been more severely injured
than had first been apparent. She had dutifully tried to
improve her telepathic range, but Dorotea and Peter
were the only ones she could hear at any distance; even
Sascha she could hear only if he was within a hundred
meters. She did test to an astounding degree of empa-
thy, the source of her unusual linguistic feats.

She was assiduous in following her education pro-
gram, opting for a very wide variety of courses, some
of which Dorotea was certain she could not yet com-
prehend. Her reports proved that she was more preco-
cious than anticipated. She took no joy in the freedom
of the Center's -grounds and played with no other chil-
dren despite their repeated attempts to interest her. She
had even refused to go on shopping trips with either
Sascha or Cass. She tended to become more animated
in Peter's company, but she saw him only rarely, as he
and Rhyssa were deeply involved in his highly special-
ized training. She was virtually recovered from the ab-
duction, but her morale was extremely low, so Dorotea
had insisted that Sascha come for a visit.

“What does it take to strand a kid?'' Tirla asked him.

"Look, chip," he said, laying a gentle hand on her
knee and noting that she felt no less fragile to him,
though she had put on weight since she had first come
to the Center. "You can't save all the illegals. And for
the moment the danger is over."

"But not the appetites," Tirla said, brooding. "Like
that scuzzy prince." In the privacy of her room, her
face took on a malicious expression. "Is it difficult to

286      287

strand a kid? Cass and Suz said they were stranding
kids in Linear E. Have they improved the strand for a
long-term use?"

"I know you're biologically twelve years old, Tirla,
but you sound fifty." Sascha was exasperated.

She tilted her head up at him, regarding him through
slightly narrowed eyes, a little smile playing at her lips.
"In the Linears I am. You surely don't want another
scam like that RIG, do you? And like you said, even
illegal kids have rights! I know Cass has had her baby
and wouldn't want to go undercover so soon. But I'd
bet my last credit—"

"All of them are the Center's now, remember?" Sa-
scha teased, and caught a sly gleam in her eyes. So
Dorotea was right about her squirreling some floaters
away. Old habits died hard.

"And the Center also has to give me anything I
want—"

"Within reason."

"Well, I'll be reasonable. I'm good at languages-
anyone's— but I can't keep sharp if I'm here," she
said, gesturing out the window at the lawn. "And
Teacher says I don't know all the languages of the
world—yet. I'll do you a deal, Sascha Roznine." She
cocked her head at him in what he had come to call her
"haggling manner." "I'll strand illegals in every Jer-
hattan Linear. I'll strand 'em, but I won't report 'em."
She gave a mirthless grin. "If there're sweeps, and I
was blamed for 'em, I'd lose my—what do you call it-
credibility? I got ethics, too, you know. But I'd know
when trouble was brewing, and that I would report.
That'd help, wouldn't it? I'd be a better trouble-spotter
than any of those LEO plants of your brother's!" The
notion seemed to amuse her, and certainly she had
become more animated. "I always knew who was
LEO—even who was Talent."

While there was no question of her affection for Sa-
scha, she was never easy in Boris's presence, though
he had tried to be ingratiating. An ingrained distrust of
all LEOs was Sascha's diagnosis, not wishing Tirla to
be at odds with his twin.

"You really wouldn't consider staying here with
Dorotea and extending your Talents?"

Tirla wagged her head, grimacing. "It's not that I
don't like Dorotea. She's the best ever. It's just—I don't
feel comfortable in all of this." Her glance swept
around the well-appointed room. "I'm a Linear brat.
My Talent, as you call it," she said, wrinkling her nose
in self-deprecation, "works best in a Linear environ-
ment." Her eyes twinkled.

"You can't live all your life in a Linear," Dorotea
said, entering the room, her expression worried. She
radiated affection, reassurance, and support.

"Why not?" Tirla demanded, lifting her hands in a
quick gesture of exasperation.

"Indeed, why not?" Sascha echoed.

"Cass and Suz live on the high side of Linears when
they're undercover. I'd really like my own squat on,
say, Level 19, so I'd have a view and not so much
smog." Her grin was sheer impudence. "In case he
hasn't been listening in, ask your brother if I wouldn't
be more use to him living in a Linear."

Sascha laughed. Bro? Did you hear that?

Little bint! You 'II never know where you are with that
one, will you? It's demonstrable that she's superb as a
pulse-keeper. There are far more squabbles and argu-
ments in Linear G than while she was there. I could
use a Tirla in all the big Linears. If Rhyssa doesn't
mind ...

Dorotea: I mind!

Boris: Sorry, Dorotea, but Tirla's a Registered Tal-
ent and too damned vital to lay about until she's of age.
But there's nothing that says she has to live at the Cen-
ter while she's waiting for her eighteenth birthday to
come around. If she 'd be much happier in a Linear, she
could live in one. With Lessud and his family in Island
K? Go to school properly and still keep her ears and
eyes open for the general well-being of the community.
With the scam dried up in Jerhattan, Long Island is the
next logical pool to fish in for illegal kids. We could
we a reliable pulse-keeper like Tirla.

"Did you get any of that, Tirla?" Sascha asked her,
grinning. Sitting beside her, he could feel her concen-
trating on "listening," but her mind echoed nothing but
the desire to hear.

She shook her head and gave a sad little sigh, with a
look of apology to Dorotea, who had been trying so
hard to train her.

"The Bro wants to know if you'd prefer to live in a
Long Island Residential while you're waiting to grow
up," Sascha explained.

"A Residential in Long Island?" Tirla became ani-
mated at once, sitting up in her bed, her big dark eyes
glittering, a delicate tinge of color suffusing her cheeks,
and a hopeful smile on her lips. "That'd be living in
high style!"

EPILOGUE

Three months later.

Rhyssa?

The tone, apologetic but firm, roused Rhyssa from
one of those intense sleeps where it is difficult to move
the body even when the brain has become alert. She lay
heavy in the bed and managed to open one eye to see
the clock; then she heard the familiar sound of Dave
singing softly to himself in the bathroom. Once again
she had overslept. She really did not know what was
the matter with her these past few weeks—she simply
could not seem to get enough sleep.

Rhyssa! The tone was more urgent, and then recog-
nition came.

Yes, Madlyn? What's the matter?

I didn 't wake you, did I? I thought I had Earth times
down pat.

I overslept. What's the matter?

It's her! Disgust, frustration, anger, and exasperation
packed into that one pronoun forewarned Rhyssa. She's
at it again. Saying we Talents are not doing our job!
We have only pulled her out oIher midden and yet she
has the gall to blame us for anything that goes wrong
up here.

What is it this time? Rhyssa hauled herself up against
her pillows and reached for the coffee thermos—another
elegant notion of Mr. Lehardt's, and so civilized. She
started to pour herself a cup and then stopped. The smell
of it turned her stomach.

289

290   

There's one last very critical shipment due to come
up, Madlyn went on, only it hasn 't because Johnny says
he won't ship it yet.

Won't ship it! That blew the last of sleep-fog from
Rhyssa's mind. What was Colonel Greene up to now?
And naturally it's essentialIor her to complete the in-
stallation?

Vital! It's got the last of the internal mechanisms and
remotes. Very delicate stuff, I know, and not something
you want bounced about. And there's only a week more
before the completion date. Then we can all come down
to earth! There was heartfelt relief in Madlyn's tone.
So we want to know why it's being held up. Because
we are, too, you know.

I know. I'll sort it out, Madlyn. Indeed, I will.

Dave was whistling louder now that he knew she was
awake. He might not have been telepathic, but he dis-
played a keen sensitivity where she was concerned that
more than made up for it in ways she could never have
anticipated. She grinned to herself and then recalled the
task at hand. Eight-thirty was not too early to rouse
Colonel John Greene out of his Floridian sack.

Johnny boy, phone me! He was too far away to link
telepathically with her, but her call would reach him
easily enough. She looked at the phone, counting down.
It rang in exactly ten seconds.

"You wished parlance with me, Madame Lehardt?"

"I do indeed. Colonel Greene. What hanky-panky
are you pulling on poor dear Ludmilla?"

Johnny's chuckle was drenched in malice. "Only
what she deserves, petal. She conscripted us Talents to
be sure she finished on time, and finished on time she
will be. Not one moment earlier, not one moment later.
Why?"

"Oh, I see." Rhyssa chuckled. "And you have it
timed to the final hour?"

"Lance and I worked out the time it would take to
install those controls, and we've scheduled the kinetics

             291

needed. We know exactly how long it will take. Lance
must have forgotten to clue Madlyn. I'm sony she's
getting hassled, but she's well able for it. Soothe her
down, will you, Rhys? We're doing it our way!"

"Oh, I quite agree. Not an hour early and not an hour
late."

As she hung up, Dave came in the room, a towel
draped about his lean hips. "I did try to wake you,
Rhys," he said with a rueful expression. "You just
don't want to get up in the morning."

"I'm wanton enough to admit that I love being in
bed with you, Dave, but preferably awake, not sleeping
like the dead.'' She lifted her arms and began to stretch,
then stopped. "And what's wrong with the coffee? The
smell makes me nauseous."

Dave grinned as he sat down on the edge of the bed,
looking at her: His blue eyes crinkled. "Figured it out
yet?" he asked, glancing down at her abdomen.

"I thought—I mean, I haven't been ill," Rhyssa said,
with dawning awareness, "just sleepy! Oh, Dave, could
I really be pregnant?"

"Think about it a moment, O wise woman!" He got
up, shedding his towel as he began to dress. She loved
looking at him, no matter what he was doing, and the
intimacy of this daily act was something special for her.
"After all, I've been doing my best for several months
now!"

Awed by the possibility, Rhyssa did start thinking
about her body, placing her hands gently on her belly,
intuiting the biofeedback.

"Oh, Dave, I am pregnant. I am!"

"I think you're the last one to have copped on, then,"
he replied, grinning broadly. "Dorotea knows."

"And she said nothing?" Rhyssa sat bolt upright
again, startled and somewhat miffed that she had been
left in the dark—and by Dorotea!

"Well, there's some things it's more fun to find out
by yourself," he said, grinning as he stooped down to  
kiss her lovingly. "There's a sort of glow about you,
too. Everyone's noticed. They've been politely waiting
for an official announcement." He stroked her tangled
hair, running fingers down her silver streak.

She sighed, then blurted out, "Does Sascha know?"

Dave stopped in the act of pulling on his tunic and
ducked his head out of the folds to regard her with some
alarm. "Sascha? I know you're close but—"

"Well ..." Rhyssa paused. There was one of the
few drawbacks to Dave's lack of Talent. Sometimes she
had to explain with far more detail than a Talent would
require. "Well, Sascha's got to wait, that's all, and he
doesn't take waiting kindly."

"Wait?" Dave pulled the tunic down. "Wait for
what?"

"For Tirla to grow up, of course," she said, gath-
ering herself to rise from the bed. She felt oddly pro-
tective of the new life inside her, which was silly, since
it was obviously well settled in.

"Tirla?" Dave's eyes nearly popped in astonish-
ment. "He's gone on her? Dirty old man!"

"Not so old and certainly not dirty where Tirla is
concerned. Bolt out of the blue on him, all right enough.
He's never felt that way about any other female."
Rhyssa permitted herself a little knowing smile. “But
she's the one for him, and he knows it. He just has to
wait a few years."

"That wight's not even—"

"Tirla is twelve now, going on two hundred,"
Rhyssa replied with some asperity. Tirla was a very
interesting personality, and she and Sascha would deal
very well together. It was incredible, really, to have
found two such diverse Talents during her directorship:

one macro who would shift worlds and one whose skill
was a micro-Talent, eroding language barriers. "Nee-
sters ripen a lot faster than we Northern and Occidental
types. She'll be more than ready in four years to marry
Sascha."

"And that's decided?" Dave was skeptical.

Rhyssa smiled. "Sascha precogged it—to his intense
astonishment. Next time you see them together, notice
how she looks at him. Quite proprietary that young lady
is where Sascha is concerned. And she's better for him
than Madlyn would ever be."

"And they'll have Talented kids?"

"That's a very high probability." Rhyssa smiled
smugly.

Dave paused. In her presence he always allowed his
emotions to show. He cleared his throat and asked
briskly, "What about us? When will we know?"

To reassure the man she loved, Rhyssa smiled as she
nodded. "No problem there."

"You sound so sure."

She put her arms around his neck, letting her gravid
belly rest against him as she pulled his head down to
kiss him. "I am. He just told me so."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Between her frequent appearances in the United States and En-
gland as a lecturer and guest-of-honor at science-fiction conven-
tions, lives at Dragonhold, in the hills of County
Wicldow, Ireland, with assorted horses, cats, and a dog. Of her-
self, Ms. McCaffrey says: "I have green eyes, silver hair, and
freckles—the rest changes without notice."