THE WINGS OF PEGASUS
by
Anne McCaffrey

THE WINGS OF PEGASUS

Contents

TO RIDE PEGASUS PEGASUS IN FLIGHT

PEGASUS IN FLIGHT

This Book is respectfully dedicated to Betty Ballantine, a woman of
many talents.

CONTENTS

1 To Ride Pegasus
2 A Womanly Talent
3 Apple
4 A Bridle for Pegasus
PART ONE TO RIDE PEGASUS

The slick pavement, oily with rain and motor
lubricants that had dripped from the hundreds of ill-repaired vehicles
utilizing the major northsouth artery into Jerhattan, caused the
accident.  Henry Darrow had not been exceeding the speed limit when he
passed the old two seater.  But he had a date with destiny.  And kept
it on time.

Had there been no rain that day, or had the lane been closed as
scheduled for resurfacing, or had the old two seater maintained the
minimum speed in the left-hand lane, Henry Darrow would not have been
exasperated enough to pass, would not have skidded on the slick
paving, would not have crashed into the guard rail, would not have
fractured his skull so that a bone fragment pressed against the brain
pan; had the accident occurred even half a mile further up the arterial
road, Henry Darrow would not have been sent to the one hospital in the
area equipped with a special electroencephalograph.

As things came to pass, this was how his accident was to occur: exactly
how.  In fact, he had jotted down the exact time in his astral
notebook: 10:02:50 post meridian.  He had also reminded himself that
day not to take the arterial route back into Jerhattan but he had not
foreseen one slight delay at the gasoline station which caused him to
change his mind and take the fateful route, forgetful of his own
prognostication.

Of course, since it was a major turning for him as well as millions of
other people, he could never have avoided the accident.  Which is why
his subconscious-or so it is maintained-prevented him from remembering
his forecast at the critical moment.

Henry Darrow was therefore injured, seriously, with minor fractures in
the left leg as well as the depressed fragment of skull bone.  Had
Henry been fully conscious during surgery, he would have assured the
surgeons that, despite the severity of the wound, he would live.  They
would have been dubious.  Henry Darrow knew when he was going to
die-from myocardial infarction, some fifteen years, four months, and
nine days in the future.

He couldn't tell them since the cranial pressure affected his speech
center and he was mercifully unaware of his surroundings.  Brain
surgery can be a harrowing experience.

The operation was technically successful and Henry was assigned a bed
in the intensive care ward, cardiac and encephalographic monitors
keeping close track of his vital systems.  The Southside General
Hospital boasted the very latest technology, including one of the
ultra sensitive electroencephalographs, familiarly known as
"Gooseggs."

The Goosegg equipment was developed during the Apollo flights in the
70s, to monitor the effects of the mysterious "lights," which
periodically afflicted the astronauts, and to record any suspected
damage by cosmic radiation to the brain tissue.  The ultra sensitive
equipment was primarily used now in hospitals to detect brain damage to
newborn infants suffering oxygen starvation during birth, or, as in
Henry Darrow's case, brain injuries where similar oxygen deprivation,
bleeding, and pressure must be ascertained.

The intensive care nurse on duty when Darrow regained his sense after
surgery was, as Destiny preordained, Molly Mahony, a rather plain girl
who good-naturedly bore a lot of teasing from her colleagues for her
avowed dedication to nursing.  She was invariably assigned the
critical cases because she had a knack of pulling them through the
crises.

"Dr. Scherman, would you look at the printout on Mr. Darrow's
EEG?"

she said when the resident checked in at her station.

"The alphas are unusually strong for a man as critically injured as he,
aren't they?"

Scherman looked obediently at the graphs, nodded sagely and then gave
her a wink.  "He been conscious at all?  Giving you a time?"

Molly shook her head, very serious though she knew he was teasing
her.

Scherman always did.  "He's not regained consciousness, Dr.
Scherman.

I'm to notify Dr. Wahlman when he does.  But should I give him a ring
about these readings?"

"Ah, don't bother, Molly.  That one's lucky he can print anything out
on the Goosegg.  You'd've thought he'd've known better."

"Better?  About what?  He was an accident casualty, wasn't he?"

"Better about going out at all.  He's Henry Darrow, the astrologer.

Christ, it costs a fortune to consult him about your future."  Scherman
snorted.  "And he couldn't cast his own properly."

Scherman left after a cursory glance at the other i.c. patients.  Molly
Mahony looked with renewed interest at the brain injury.  She knew of
Henry Darrow, though she wouldn't have admitted it to many.  No more
than she would have admitted to anyone that she felt she had the gift
of healing.  Unlike her grandmother who'd had no medical background and
ran into problems with her "healing hands," Molly had professional
cachet and knew best how and when to apply her "whammy."

Having a unique talent, Molly was keenly interested in all the
paranormal manifestations.  In her lexicon, the astrologist merely used
the signs of the zodiac to focus a precognitive gift, one fortunately
more scientifically based than tealeaf reading or card-telling.  Just
as the nursing profession allowed her to focus her healing talent on a
scientific basis.  So she knew of Henry Darrow and now tiptoed, like an
awed sycophant, to the bedside and stared down at a face she hadn't
noticed before.

His face had character even in lax-jawed abnormal coma.  The eye sockets
were black and blue pits, and here and there a trace of blood had
escaped the emergency cleanup.  It was unfair of her to look at him in
such a condition.  She laid the back of her hand gently against his
cheek, not liking the color of his skin.  She flicked back the sheet,
took a fold of the pectoral skin, and gave it a brutal twist.  Well, at
least he had reactions.  She patted the sheet into place and stroked
his cheek again.

The cardiograph pulsed slow but regular, though there were traces in
the reading that spelled the beginnings of arteriosclerosis.  No more
than would be apparent in any reading of a forty-two-year-old heart which
had lived well and hard.

Now she placed strong, slender fingers on his temples, pressing
lightly, trying to "feel" where the real injury was.  Not that which
the surgeons had corrected when they removed the splinter and released
the pressure on the brain.  But the psychic injury, the essential blow
to the vitalities of the man, which had been shocked by the proximity
of death, by the exigency of the operation-that ultimate violation of
personal integrity.

So often in her reading of case histories, she'd seen the simple term
"heart failure," or the more complex medical annotation of heart
stoppage for a variety of physically inexplicable and unnecessary
reasons.  Shock, they would term it for lack of better explanation,
"the patient died of shock."  Fright, Molly called it.  When a patient
of hers retreated from reality in this sort of fright, Molly would draw
that violated integrity back again with her Talent.

The response to her healing touch on Henry Darrow's brow was different
and puzzling.  The cardiogram etched bolder, stronger peaks and the
Goosegg made frantic passes on all four recording bands.

Henry Darrow's eyelids flickered, opened, and a faint smile crossed his
lips.

"What the hell hit me?"  he asked.

"You hit you," Molly replied, "on the center post of your car when you
crashed into the guard rails, Mr.  Darrow.  Head ache?"

"Christ yes!"  He moaned and tried to reach upward.

"Don't.  You've suffered a severe concussion, head lacerations your
left leg is fractured .  . ."

There was mischief in the clear green eyes that met Molly's.  "You're
not supposed to tell me such things, are you?"

Molly smiled.  "You know anyhow.  And you really ought to pay more
attention to your own predictions, Mr.  Darrow."

The Goosegg chattered crazily and Molly whirled to see what was
happening.  But Henry Darrow was grabbing her arm, his eyes widening
with bewildered surprise and incredulity.

"You're a Gemini.  What's your name?  You're going to marry me."

Love at first sight is a rare enough incident, particularly in a
hospital setting, despite what the romances say.  But far rarer was the
scientific accident that proved a long suspected truth.  For what had
registered on the Goosegg's chart was indisputable proof that the
parapsychic talent exists.  Henry Darrow had a precognitive experience
when he looked at Molly Mahony as a person, not just the nurse in
attendance, and "knew" she would be his wife.

They did marry, as soon as his leg was out of the cast.  Marriage was
not the only thing Henry foresaw for Molly: he knew, too, her date of
death, a fact he never disclosed to her.  Talents, he learned very
shortly, had to discount such precogs in their own lives if they were
to operate efficiently for others.  Molly was treasured, loved and
cherished all the days of her life by her husband because he knew how
little of her time he would enjoy.

The significance of the Goosegg's remarkable activity did not
immediately impinge on Henry's awareness.  To Molly Mahony belongs all
the credit, therefore, for lifting the parapsychic function from the
realm of chicanery to science.

For starters, Molly was fascinated with the unusual strength and
pattern of Henry's EEG charts.  She couldn't dismiss, as Dr. Scherman
had, the variations.  In her favor was a natural inclination to place
Henry Darrow's mind into an exceptional category.  Added to that, she
knew Henry'd had the precognition of their marriage at the precise
moment the Goosegg went wild.  At the very first opportunity she tried
an empiric experiment.  She attached the electrodes to her own skull
the next time she had occasion to exert her own ability in the
intensive care ward.  A similar variation occurred in her reading; not
as intense as Henry's, but significant.  She took several more of
herself, and copied those portions of Henry's records which showed this
curious excitation.

She was rather surprised that Dr. Wahlman, Henry's surgeon, did not
cancel the Goosegg monitoring when Henry appeared to have recovered
from the worst of the concussion.  She wondered if Wahlman was as
interested in the EEG variation as she was.

Henry had two more precognitive incidents before she felt she could
approach Dr.  Wahlman with her private conclusions.

"For my own information, Dr. Wahlman, what is the significance of this
activity in an EEG?"

"Well, now," said Wahlman, taking the graphs diffidently and studying
them in a manner which told Molly that he hadn't a clue.  "To be frank,
Mahony, I don't know.  This particular sort of printout usually occurs
just prior to death.  And Darrow's very much alive."  The surgeon
looked towards Henry's closed door with some irritation.  Henry had
insisted on pursuing his avocation of charting horoscopes, had even
imported his computer, embarking on a cerebral activity which
apparently had no deleterious effects on his rapid recovery but did not
strike Wahlman as exactly the sort of occupation suitable to a man
recovering from a near-fatal head injury.

"And these?"  Molly showed him her own graphs.

"Whose are these?  A terminal reading?  No, couldn't be.  The alpha's
too intense.  What are you up to, Mahony?"

"I'm not certain, doctor, but I do know that when Mr.  Darrow is !

hardest at work, that's when this sort of variation occurs."

"Jasus help us, the damned Goosegg's queer for astrology?"

Molly smiled and apologized for bothering the surgeon with anomalies.

"Mahony, if you weren't the best postoperative nurse we have, I'd tell
you to bug off.  But if you have any idea, any unreasonable idea, why
that kind of reading occurs, would you please let me in on the
secret?"

She let Henry in first.

"The moment you woke up after your accident and asked was I Gemini and
then said I was going to marry you, was that a precog?"

"Fact, my lovefact!"

"No, Henry, stop that now.  Later.  Answer me.  Was your precognitive
faculty at work?"

"Violently."  The modified bandage on his head gave him a slightly
rakish look but he stopped caressing her, responding to her serious
mood.

"And, for instance, when Mrs. Rellahan was here, you told me that you
had an intense prevision .  . ."

"Hmmmm."  Henry's mouth tightened slightly with dislike.

"This is what the Goosegg printed out.  See, here the rapid needle,
strong strokes, the length of the pattern .  . . And, in these .  .

."

"That's not my pattern, too, is it?  Quite a difference."

"No, that's my brain waves.  And this is what happens when I'm
healing.

" Henry looked slowly up at Molly, an incredulous joy brightening his
eyes, a light suffusing his face that rewarded Molly for her efforts
and intuition.

"Molly, my own heart's darling, do you know what we have here?"

The world in general remained skeptical.  Fortunately Henry Darrow
cared very little for the world's thoughts but he was able to produce
proof to a powerful, wealthy few that the parapsychic faculty existed
in certain individuals and could be manifested at will.

A whole new line of research was instigated by those private persons
and concerns which had long hoped for scientific recognition of the
paranormal abilities.

"I've always had a presentiment of Destiny, of being on the threshold
of some vast important breakthrough," Henry told Molly during the early
hectic days shortly before they formed the first Parapsychic Center.

"Most megalomaniacs do, too, and your psychotic paranoids like Nero,
Napoleon, Hitler and Kyudu.  That's why I had that team of
psychiatrists examine my mental health with fine Freudian tongs.

Nonetheless it's a prejudicial admission.  D'you know, I've been afraid
to forecast my own future too far in advance now?  Some details are
unwise for any man to know .  . ."  He looked with unfocused eyes at
the blank wall in front of them for a moment before he smiled
reassuringly at her.  "I've been a dilettante up till now and my
critics can say either that I gained my wits in that accident, or lost
the few I had, but that event was the threshold of my .  . . of our
destiny."

"Damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead," Molly replied, gesturing
theatrically.

"And torpedoes there will be," Henry agreed grimly.

"I thought you said you didn't see far in advance .  . ."

"For myself, I meant.  Not for what we must do."  He was silent again
for a moment.  "God, it's going to be fun."

Molly looked at the amusement in his eyes, the anticipatory gleam of
malice.  "For whom?"  she asked.

His eyes sparkled as he turned his gaze back to her.

"For us," he said, hugging her affectionately, "for all of us," and he
meant the newly recruited Talents.  "We may perceive the outcome, but
half the fun, most of the fun in life, is getting there.  And I've got
just enough time."

As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to argue with his surgeons
(and because Molly assured Wahlman that Henry couldn't get around her
vigilance), he was allowed to go back to work full time.  Not, as
previously, in his capacity as a dilettante astrologer, but as the
manager, organizer, fundraiser, and recruiter par excellence for the
Parapsychic Center.

"MaryMolly luv, it's going to be accomplished in steps, this
establishment of the Talented in the scheme of things.  Not society,
mind you, for we're the original nonconformists," and he tapped his
forehead just below the pink flesh of the newly healed head wound.

"And Society will never permit us to integrate.  That's okay!"  He
consigned Society to insignificance with a flick of his fingers.  "The
Talented form their own society and that's as it should be: birds of a
feather.  No, not birds.  Winged horses!  Ha!

Yes, indeed.  Pegasus .  . . the poetic winged horse of flights of
fancy.  A bloody good symbol for us.  You'd see a lot from the back of
a winged horse .  . ."

"Yes, an airplane has blind spots.  Where would you put a saddle?"

Molly had her practical side.

He laughed and hugged her.  Henry's frequent demonstrations of
affection were a source of great delight to Molly, whose own strength
was in tactile contacts.

"Don't know.  Lord, how would you bridle a winged horse?"

"With the heart?"

"Indubitably!"  The notion pleased him.  "Yes, with the heart and the
head because Pegasus is too strong a steed to control or subdue by any
ordinary method."

"You couldn't break our sort of Pegasus anyhow," Molly said firmly.

"Wouldn't want to even when he flies so high .  . ."  She burrowed into
Henry's arms, suddenly frightened by the analogy.

"Yes, luv.  When you ride the winged horse, you can't dismount.

Anymore than you can suppress the Talent you've been given.  We'll find
our bridle, I think, with time and training and more practice at
riding.

"That Goosegg was the really important break.  Now we can prove
parapsychic powers exist and who has them.  We can discredit the
charlatans and clowns who've given the rest of us a bad name.  The real
Talents will be registered with the Center, and we'll have graphs to
prove they've had valid Incidents.  The Center will supply them with
the specialized jobs that utilize their Talents.  From just a sampling
of validly Talented people we've already attracted, I can think of
hundreds of top jobs."

"Even Titter Beyley and Charity McGillicuddy?"  Molly Mahony asked.

Darrow's eyes danced with mischief because Titter drank continuously
and Charity pursued an old profession diligently.

"Takes a thief to catch a thief and Titter's been stealing for years to
support his habit.  Remember that Charity's heart of gold beats in a
true telepath's breast."

"Size 42C."

"Molly!"

"Go on with our future, Henry."

"I want Watson Claire as our PR man because I know damned well he's a
receiving telepath: he must be to handle clients the way he does.  He's
got a positive genius for presenting the campaign a client'll buy.

Claire's the sort of person we've got to enlist, for his sake as well
as ours.  Ours, because we've got the biggest goddamn public relations
program on our hands, and the public can make or break us.  His sake,
because he's not happy pushing products he despises."  Molly nodded
sympathetically.

"We get an intensive information program going and that will help
recruiting.  Then we've got to start rescue operations for those hidden
Talents and especially those poor misfits in institutions because they
heard voices .  . . which they did .  . . or they imagined impossible
things, which they didn't.  Or their empathy with the world around them
was too great to be endured and they abandoned reality.  And we've got
to figure out the best way to train these Talents once we've got them
verified.

"Then we've got to get exactly the right place to live in."

"To live?  But this apartment is .  . ."

"Okay for us, for the time being.  But not for the rest of us.  No, now
don't worry, Molly luv.  I know where we're going."

Molly regarded him steadily for a second.  "But you don't know exactly
how we'll get there, is that it?"

Henry laughed, nodding.

"That's the challenge, luv."

"And then what's on the agenda?  I'd better know the worst."

Henry chuckled to give himself time to evade.  "Then comes one of the
harder jobs .  . ."

Molly's eyes grew round.  "You've outlined a lifetime's work and then
tell me one of the harder jobs .  . ."

"Will be to establish professional immunity for the Talents so we don't
get sued out of our eyeball sockets because we said something would
happen which didn't because we said it would.  Oh, we'll get it sooner
or later, but I'd rather sooner than later when you consider the
money that'll be tied up in suits.  But that won't be my headache.""It
won't be?"

"I can't live forever, luv."

She clung to him and he gave her only a quick embrace.

"I'll live long enough, MaryMolly luv, and so will you."  He put her
away from him then, for he had to keep his desire in check with the
pressures of his destiny.

"Now, gentlemen, the subject all wired up to the electroencephalograph,
familiarly known as the Goosegg, is a telekinetic Talent.  That means,
gentlemen, that he can move objects without any other agency than his
mind.  Ralph, would you be good enough to demonstrate?"

Ralph, who used to be known as Rat Wilson, was not the most
prepossessing of individuals, being skinny to the point of emaciation,
with a rodentlike face and a mouth that remained slightly open due to
untended tonsils and adenoids; but his rather large grey eyes were
dancing with mischief and interest.  That he had perfected his art in
the variety of correctional institutions which had attempted to remold
him to society's requirements was irrelevant now.

He sat under the electrode net of the Goosegg at one end of a large
hall, a camcorder throwing a picture of the printout on the big screen
above him.  Forty-seven scientists and businessmen were seated around
the room, in the center of which sat a table with a variety of objects:
a hammer, nails and a plank of wood; a coffee tray with an urn, cups,
cream and sugar; a guitar; and a training set of waldoes, limp and
grotesque without hands to fill the gloves.

Henry Darrow walked to the other end of the room, as far from both
Ralph and the table as possible.

There was a significant silence in the room, with the audience casting
glances from table to Ralph to Henry.  Suddenly a cup rattled, rose,
was joined to a saucer and aligned itself under the spout of the urn
which was tapped almost simultaneously to pour coffee into the cup.

Belatedly, a spoon clattered into the saucer.

"Who takes it black?"  asked Ralph as cup and saucer veered to the
nearest watcher.

"I do," said one cool businessman, lifting his hand.

"Hang on to it then, mac," replied Ralph.  "Got it?"

"Hey!"  The man closed his fingers around the lip of the saucer but
when Ralph released it, he was unprepared and the black coffee sloshed
over the saucer rim onto his hand.

There was a slight wave of amusement, shattered by the crash of a
hammer driving a nail into a block of wood.

"I'll make the next one white.  Who's for it?"

A second cup was delivered to its receiver as the hammer drove the nail
smartly into the wood.  At the same time, the waldoes jerked alive and
began to assemble the objects in the tray.  The guitar twanged with a
bawdy ballad.

With cups sailing around the room, the crack of the hammer to the tempo
of the song, the industry of the waldoes leaving everyone gaping, Henry
returned to the stage, taking a pointer and starting the sales pitch.

"As you will notice, if you can take your eyes from the flying saucers,
Ralph's use of his Talent results in the hard variations of the alpha
waves, here and here.  The beta fluctuation is rapid, deep.  Note the
difference at the beginning of the graph before Ralph started.  Notice
the increase as he stepped up the output of the parapsychic faculty.

Has anyone any doubts about the authenticity of this demonstration?

Will you accept this printout as valid, and that the graph represents
Ralph's paranormal ability?"

"Stop him!"

Henry signalled to Ralph and coffee cups crashed to the floor.  The
hammer bounced and fell to the table and the waldoes went limp to a
discordant twang on the guitar.

"For chrissake," and the man on whom a cup of coffee had fallen sprang
to his feet, wiping at soaked pants and dancing from the hot bath.

Instantly the cup righted itself and incredibly refilled with the
just-emptied coffee.

"Sorry about that, mac, but someone said stop!"

The abrupt surcease of the parapsychic was recorded on the graph, as
was the minor activity of mopping up the spill.

"Hey, my pants are dry!"

"Are there any other questions?"  asked Henry, winking surreptitiously
to the grinning Ralph.

"Yes," and a heavy set man towards the rear of the room stood slowly
to his feet.  "Coffee vending machines handle this sort of service, an
idiot can drive a nail; granted a waldo is used for delicate sterile
operations, any rock musician plays electric guitar ... not all at
once, admittedly, but how would someone like Ralph be employed?  And
incidentally, I know his background."

"You might say," Henry said with a smile, "that Ralph is a real product
of his background of reform school and correctional institution.

That's how he acquired his Talent.  Society wasn't ready for Ralph or
his Talent.  We are.

"We've demonstrated here that Ralph can do a variety of things
simultaneously; tasks requiring multiple action such as assembling
coffee implements and teleporting them to the proper destination, as
well as exercises requiring a certain strength and/or precision.

"However, Ralph has a limited range.  We've duplicated today's fun and
games over a distance of half a mile, but not further with any
precision or strength.  Ralph is not a superman.  That's the first
point I wish to impress on you.  He has a Talent but it's a finite one,
suitable for certain, rather limited use.  He would be a profitable
investment for someone like yourself, Mr. Gregory, for precision
assembly under vacuum, sterile or radiation conditions.

"I don't say that Ralph is a totally reformed character at all," and
Henry grinned at Ralph, "but he is now able to purchase legally the
things he used to heist.  He is subject, and he knows it, to the mental
examination of a strong telepath.  He also thoroughly enjoys his
present occupation."

"You bet, mac."  And the scathing look Ralph bent on the audience left
no doubts that the little man delighted in disconcerting the men of
distinction, rank and position.

"If you can't cure'em, recruit'em," Henry added.

"Are you implying, Mr. Darrow, that half the population of jails and
mental institutions are peopled by your misunderstood parapsychics?"

"Not at all.  I admit we're testing many so-called misfits to see if
thwarted or yes, misunderstood, paranormal Talents are not partly
responsible for their maladjustment.  But that does not mean they are
all graduates of institutions.

"Talent, gentlemen, can include something as simple as being a born
mechanic.  We've all known or heard of the guy who just listens to the
sound of an engine and knows what's wrong with it.  Or the plumber who
can dowse the exact location of a break in water pipes.  Or the
pyromaniac who "knows" when and where a fire will break out and has so
often been accused of starting it; the woman whose hands ease a fever
or soothe a pain, the worker who knows instinctively what the boss
needs, the person who can always find what's been mislaid or lost.

These are everyday, but valid, evidences of the parapsychic Talent.

These are the people we want to include in our Centersnot just the more
dramatic mindreaders and clairvoyants.  The Talented are rarely
supermen and women, just people who operate on a different
wavelength.

Employ them in the proper capacity and utilize their Talents to your
advantage."

"Besides money, what do you want from us, Darrow?"

"Doctor Abbey, isn't it?  From you and your colleagues all over the
world, I want the public admission that Talent has left the tearoom and
entered the laboratory.  We have scientific evidence that the
parapsychic faculty exists and can be used, at will, with predictable
result.  Science, gentlemen, by definition, is any skill that reflects
a precise application of principles.  The principle in Ralph's case is
moving objects without artificial aid."

"I might buy the teleportation, Darrow," replied Doctor Abbey, slightly
contemptuous, "but go back to the tearoom a minute.  Give me an example
of the science behind precognition."

"I knew you'd ask that, Doctor Abbey.  And I predict that you will
receive a favorable answer to your latest inquiry into the problem"
Henry raised his hand to suppress Abbey's exclamation, "I'm discreet
enough, Doctor Abbeyinto the problem you're investigating with Doctors
Schwarz, Vosogin and Clasmire.  That, Doctor Abbey, is predictable,
scientific and accurate enoughsince your correspondence with the three
men is a closely guarded secret-to be convincing.  Right?

From the stunned expression on Dr. Abbey's face as he sank into his
chair, Darrow knew he was right and Abbey was convinced.

"Now," Henry asked the audience in general, "all of you have had
problems which I believe some of our Talents can solve.  What am I
offered?"

"Why, after fourteen years and nine rent increaseswhich I didn't
protest by the way-will you not renew my lease?"

"Mister Darrow, I've been told that your lease is not renewable and
that's what I've been told to tell you."

"How come the "Mister Darrow," Frank?  Now look, I've paid my rent
right on the button for fourteen years.  I've had no more than
legitimate redecorating, why am I not able to renew my lease?"  Henry
knew the problem, had foreseen this situation, but he was human enough
to like to see people squirm.  Particularly, if it might let in a
little wisdom and understanding of Talent.

Frank Hummel looked very uncomfortable.

"C'mon, Frank.  You know.  Don't try to kid me you don't."

Frank looked up with a miserable expression in his eyes.  "And that's
it, Hank.  That's just it.  You do know.  You know too god damned much
and the other tenants are scared."

Henry threw back his head and roared with laughter.  "No one's
conscience is clear?  My God, Frank, do they really think I know or
care, for that matter, about their petty intrigues and affairs?"  Then
he saw he'd offended Frank and wished he were a telepath, not a
precog.

"Frank, I 'see' no more than I did when I used astrology to focus my
Talent.  No one was afraid of me when I was just a stargazer."

Frank did squirm at Henry's choice of phrase because that's how the man
thought of Henry.

"I can't read minds," Henry went on, "and come to that, Frank, I don't
really know what's going on under my nose.  My Talent is not for
individuals: it's for mass futures.  Oh, yes, important individuals who
will affect the lives of millions.  But not if Mrs. Walters in 4C is
going to have a baby ... not unless I have cast her individual
horoscope ... and she's too scared of her husband to come to me for
that."  Henry sighed for even that piece of common sense insight was
now being misconstrued by the apprehensive real estate agent.  "Look,
everyone in the building knows Walters's opinion of me, and how scared
she is of him.  That takes no Talent at all, Frank.  And it takes no
Talent either to know that Walters is probably one of the prime
instigators in getting me evicted."

"You're not being evicted, Mr.  Darrow."

"Oh no?"

"No!  It's just that your lease is not being renewed."

"How much of an extension can I have to find new quarters?  You know
how tight the housing situation is in Jerhattan."

Frank looked everywhere but at Henry.

"Frank ... Frank?  Frank, look at me," and reluctantly, hesitantly, the
man obeyed.  "Frank, you've known me for fourteen years.  Why,
suddenly, are you afraid of me?"  Henry knew the answer but he wanted
Frank to admit it.  One man, one Frank Hummel, wouldn't change the
struggle of the Talented for acceptance but it might change one other
mind now, three next week.  Every ally was valuable.  And to have
allies one had to admit to enemies.

"It's just that ... that ... hell, you're not a stargazer anymore,
Mister Darrow.  You're for real."  The apprehension in Frank Hummel's
face was equally real.

"Frank, thank you.  This isn't easy for you and I will make it less
easy but I want you to remember fourteen years of a very pleasant
relationship.  I knew you'd be here today.  I knew it four months ago
when Molly and I had that series of graffiti painted on the door and
the so-called burglary attempts.  I've a lease on new quarters.  We're
moving tomorrow."

Frank already had too much to think about.  "You mean, you knew?

Already?  But I just got the orders yesterday and you told me that you
didn't see individual ... and you're" "I'm not lying about what I can
see, Frank, but I'd certainly better see what affects myself, or a fine
stargazer I'd be.  Right?"

Hummel was slowly backing out of the apartment, less and less
convinced.  Once again Henry wished he were a telepathor at least
empathicand could know what was running through Frank's mind and
counter it.

"Do me one favor, Frank," Henry said.  "On the 18th of next month, in
the fourth race at Belmont, bet every credit you've been saving on a
horse named Mibimi.  Only don't place your bet until the last minute
before the race.  Will you do that for me?  And then when Mibimi wins,
remember Talent is useful."

Frank had retreated to the elevator and Henry wondered if the confused
man had taken in his tip.  He didn't often give them but for a friend
you can do a favor ... if it'll cement his friendship.

Henry shrugged as he closed the door.  The scene just played in his
living room had been repeated over an dover, with acknowledged Talents
as reluctant dramatis personae.

Just another of those paradoxes which assailed them from all sides now
that Talent was respectable.  By removing the onus of haphazard
performance, by having Talents registered with the Center, they could
contract for premium wages.  But suddenly the Talents were also
elevated into the genus "pariah," found themselves untouchables,
unwelcome and feared, all through misunderstandings.

Watson Claire was mounting a massive softsell public information
program, abetted by his contacts in the media profession who were
delighted at something newsworthy.  Judiciously applied blackmail kept
the worst newsmongers at bay.  But it would take time, Claire said
(and Henry understood), for the program to seep down to the level where
it was most required ... in the housing developments which were now
ousting anyone suspected of possessing Talent.

Well, the immense warehouse Henry had leased in the dock area would
suffice until he'd figured out how to appeal to George Henner.  That
financial wizard had an accounting to make and Henry was vastly amused
by recent findings.  It was going to be fun watching Henner's
reactions.

He picked up the comunit to call the warehouse: the shielding had been
in place a week ago so there had been just the finishing of the living
quarters.  Maybe he should have used telekinetics to move his
furnishings?  No, that would be a bad scene, however personally
satisfying it might be.  Some things even Talents had better do the
usual way.

"My name is Henry Darrow, Commissioner Mailer.  This is my wife, Molly;
Barbara Holland is our finder, and Jerry comes along to lug the
Goosegg.  I believe this is your list of most wanteds?"

"Just what is this?"  The Commissioner for Law Enforcement and Order
had risen in indignation from his paperfree desk.  "My appointment was
with James Marshall, not you, Darrow."

"I know.  Jim got it for us because you've refused to see ..."

"A bunch of tea-room crackpots!"

"Well, we're here and you're going to listen ..."

"Not if I have any say ..."  The Commissioner was fumbling with his
desk set and swore when the telltale lights did not wink on at his
touch.

"It won't work, Commissioner Mailer," Henry told him.  "I forgot to
mention that Jerry's telekinetic and keeps closing the switches as soon
as you press.  Sorry.  You're incommunicado until you listen.  And
watch.  Barbara, if you would, please?  Here's the list .  Just sit
here.  Ready, Molly?"

The Commissioner's raging did him no good since his office was
soundproofed.  He continued to fumble futilely with his comunit, unable
to believe that it wouldn't function because some nondescript young man
stared at it.  He didn't notice that Molly was quietly placing the
electrode net on Barbara's head.  The girl adjusted it into the scalped
spots in her hair and nodded to Henry.

"I gather these are in order of preference?"  Henry asked the
Commissioner.  Henry perched on the desk, unperturbed by the
Commissioner's belligerence and profanity.

"Preference?  What'n'hell are you talking about, Darrow?  Get your
circus out of here.  This is a law enforcement and order ..."

"Neither of which you are able to maintain with the current
restrictions on your men," said Henry, interrupting with such a
forceful tone that the Commissioner's sputtering died and he stared at
Darrow in amazement.  Few people had addressed the LEO man in that tone
of voice.  "That's why I'm here, to render assistance you can't get
from any other agency.  Now sit down, shut up, and listen.  Who do you
want us to find for you first?"

"Find?"

"Find!"

The two men locked eyes and there was a quality in Henry's that wrought
a sudden change in the Commissioner.

"All right," Mailer said in a tight hard voice, "find me the man they
call Joe Blow."

"The Joy Pill man?"

"That's him."

Henry flicked out the second IBM card and handed it to Barbara
Holland.

"Enough for you, Babs?"

The girl studied the sketch drawn by police artists from verbal
descriptions of victims of the elusive Joe Blow.  She read the
notations on his most frequented locations, his general modus
operandi.

Then she looked up at Henry with a grin.

"This isn't a really fair test, Henry," she said.

"Ha!"  exclaimed the Commissioner, an unholy delight in his eyes.

"No," said Barbara, "because I've encountered him so it's easy to track
him down."  She closed her eyes, clasping the card between her hands.

The needles on the Goosegg began to whip across the graph paper.  Her
smile widened and she opened her eyes.  "He's on the corner of 4th
Avenue New East and 197th Street.  He's wearing a long blue duty mac,
with waterproofed shoulders, and a long blond wig.  No moustaches
today.  He's carrying nothing illegal but he has a great deal of money
on him and some folded papers."

The Commissioner was fumbling with his comunit.  "For God's sake
release it or whatever.  I've got to get ..."

"Why?"  asked Barbara.  "You want him with dust or acid or the Brown
Joy, don't you?"

"I want him in any way."

"Can you charge him?"

"I've only got to get him ..."

Suddenly the comunit came alive on every previously pressed band, but
the Commissioner got it sorted out and had a squad vehicle dispatched
to the coordinates, to apprehend a man answering Barbara's
description.

Then he turned back, smiling sourly at the four people.  "We'll see
what we'll see.  If such a man is there, we'll have him in three
minutes.  My people are quick and efficient."

"So are mine," said Henry and looked expectantly at Barbara, who
nodded.

"What's that all about?"  demanded the Commissioner.

"I'm keeping track of him," Barbara replied, and suddenly the third
band began to show activity.

"That is the Goosegg at work, Commissioner Mailer," said Henry.

"Are you reading my mind?"  Mailer looked alarmed and angrier.

"Not at all," Henry replied.  "I'm not a telepath.  I'm a tea leaf
reader on a grandiose scale ..."

The Commissioner pursed his lips to hear his own description of Henry
Darrow thrown back at him.

"All right, then, tell me now if my men'll succeed?"

"Barbara can tell you better than I. I don't deal generally with
individuals.  My specialty is mass movement.  But Barbara can find Joe
Blow for you now and any time you want to check on his whereabouts
..."

"They have him," Barbara said, and held out her hand for another
card.

The Commissioner stared at her suspiciously.

"Oh, let's let his men tell him, Babs."

She shrugged and settled back in her chair.  Then brightened and smiled
sweetly at Mailer.  "You left your pipe in your ski jacket,
Commissioner, the blue one which you don't usually wear.  If you call
home right now, you'll find your wife there.  And remind her the coat
is under your red dressing robe in the first closet."

Mailer regarded her with narrowed eyes.  "I thought you said you
weren't a mind reader."

"I never said that," Barbara replied, then pointed to Henry.  "He
did.

And I can only get impressions of lost articles.  You did lose the pipe
and were just now thinking where had you put it.  And the only reason I
know about your wife is because you say you can never find her when you
need her."  Barbara kept her face very straight but Henry knew her to
be possessed of a sense of devilment, very much in evidence under that
air of innocent helpfulness.

This "finding" was making far more impression on the Commissioner than
her location of Joe Blow.

The comunit buzzed.

"They picked up a man, answering that description.  What do they do
with him?  He's demanding rights."

Mailer was unprepared for only one moment.  "Search him.  There's been
a local robbery and a man answering his description was seen nearby.

You're supposed to find a wad of credits and papers.  Invoke citizen
search prerogative."

"He's carrying roughly 8000 credits, sir," said Barbara.

"The heist was 8000."

There was a second long tense silence.

"He's got it, sir."

"Book him!"

The fleeting expressions on Mailer's face now told of intense mental
conflict.  He was a man to whom a miracle had been offered and he was
too scared to accept it.

"Barbara is parapsychic, Commissioner.  We brought Goosegg to  prove
to you on a scientific basis as reliable as ballistics, without a tea
leaf in sight, that her mind generates a specific type of electrical
impulse when she uses her parapsychic Talent.  She can't read your mind
except when you, or anyone, are worrying about something lost, strayed
or stolen ..."

"Stolen" The Commissioner pounced on the word.

"If you mean that hijacked shipment of crowd gas, Commissioner," said
Barbara, "it's in a warehouse, with a southside feel.  It's very dark
inside, which hampers me: I can't see in shadows.  I can make out some
white airfreight containers, they've a plastic feel, rather than wood
or steel.  There's a geometric design in dark paint in the lower left
hand side."  She frowned and the Goosegg chattered rapidly for a moment
and then toned down to a mild, normal swing.  "I'm sorry.  There simply
isn't enough light there."

The Commissioner snorted but her information had obviously given him
something to work on.  "South side ... air freight ... white ..."  His
fist slapped down an end key.  "Jack ... what air freight companies use
white containers with geometric designs in lower left hand ... Oh,
they do.  Now, what air freight companies use southside depots ...
Oh.

Hmmm.  Well, check your contacts like right now."  He turned a cold
dispassionate look on Barbara.  "You can't be more specific?"

Barbara gave Henry a quick glance before answering.  "I've already
narrowed the search to a small section of the city with as many
specifics as I can see.  There can't be that many warehouses for air
freight!  I've done more than you've been able to, Mr.  Mailer."

"Now, just a minute, young lady ..."

"You've had more than a minute, Commissioner, and my time is
valuable."

Barbara was on her feet, the electrode net in her hand.  "We're wasting
time with this one, Henry.  And I don't like him.  Miserable vibes from
him, just miserable!"

She left the room.  Molly quietly began to pack up the Goosegg while
the Commissioner stared first at the open door and then at Henry.

"She operates more efficiently with an occasional word or two of
thanks, Mailer.  Most people do."  Henry gathered Molly into the curve
of his arm, motioned courteously to Jerry to take the Goosegg and
wishing Mailer a pleasant goodday, left.

"Hey, just a minute ..."

Henry turned at the door.  "As Babs said, Mailer, you've had more than
a minute and our time is valuable."

"Does Charity have to be sedated again, Gus?"  Henry asked the Center's
physician.  "We've got her a temporary contract to find out the
troublemaker in the Arrow Shirt Company."

Gus ducked his head, his face twisted into a grimace, wanting to say no
and having to say yes.  He leaned against the now flagged door to
Charity McGillicuddy's two roomed accommodation on the living floor of
the Center's warehouse building.

"Even with the shielding we've got, Hank, it's not enough privacy for
the empaths and telepaths.  Not enough physical distance.  No way to
get out and away from ourselves, if you get what I mean.  We're sort of
all crammed into this warren despite the conveniences and amenities.

You might say, it's too much of a good thing ... to close a buddybuddy
act.  Like an overdose of euphorics.  Everyone's high here on sheer
good fellowship.  And it's much too much for Charity."

Henry looked towards the corridor window with the projection of
sunlight on the grass, a huge spreading beech tree, russet against an
autumnally blue sky.  Though it was so realistic that the leaves moved
gently and the angle of sunlight altered slowly, Henry knew it to be
only a projection and his mind would not accept the fantasy that
deluded millions of warren dwellers.

"Talent requires certain realities not obtainable in this age," Gus
went on.  "And one of the most important is physical freedom and elbow
room."  He snorted, aware of the impossibility of fulfilling that
requirement in Jerhattan's overcrowded boundaries.

"We've been offered that old game preserve in ..."

"Too god damned far to commute and most of us gotta."  Molnar was head
neurologist at the Midtown Hospital Center although he spent more time
as the Center's physician.

"Okay," Henry said, "I'll do what I can."

"Henry?"  Gus eyed his friend suspiciously.  "What are you up to
now?"

"Me?  Nothing."  Then Henry Darrow assumed a crouched stance and rubbed
his hands together, chuckling evilly.  "But Destiny ... haha HA!  I
know when we twain shall meet.  Soon!"

Gus rolled his eyes heavenward to deal with Henry Darrow in this
whimsical mood.

"Oh, don't worry, Gus," Henry said in a normal voice.  "I usually call
'em, you know."

Gus nodded sourly.

"Content yourself," Henry continued, "with the enticing thoughts of
dissecting my brain when I die, and trying to figure out just how I do
it."

"Ha!"

"You can't subpoena Barbara Holland, not on those grounds, Commissioner
Mailer," Henry Darrow said.  "But you can hire her services from the
Center ..."

"What Center?"  demanded Mailer, looking scornfully around the
minuscule space that served as Henry's office.

"The Center we'll shortly acquire with the wages you'll be paying
Talents like Barbara, and Titter Beyley and Gil Gracie and ..."

"Titter Beyley?"  The Commissioner hovered on the verge of apoplexy.

"Yes, Titter.  He drank to stop finding things.  Alcohol affects the
parapsychic faculty, sometimes it inhibits, as in Titter's case,
sometimes it sharpens."

"Now, just a minute, Darrow ..."

"My minutes are valuable, Mailer.  I only have so many.  You want
things and people found: Barbara has that faculty and so does Titter
Beyley.  Actually Titter's much better for inanimate objects than
Barbara.  He doesn't like people.  And the day you find out he's been
drunk on duty, hen complain."

"And you mean to stand there, young man, and tell me that I'm going to
get shot at Saturday?  Again!"  Governor Lawson tipped his chair back
and roared with laughter: an exercise he broke off abruptly to glare
with an intensity akin to hatred at Darrow and the wraith-like Steve
Hawkins.  "So what else is new?"

"The predictive Incident says that a .38 slug will penetrate the right
ventricle."  Steve's voice shook slightly.  Henry wondered if he'd made
a mistake in bringing Steve, who was very new to his gifts and the
Center's staff.  "The man will approach from the left ..."

"What does it matter where he comes from?"  The Governor said, sharply,
hostilely.  "Oh, I don't disbelieve you, Darrow.  Or you, Hawkins.

I've heard too much about you people to be skeptical anymore.  But, if
I don't appear ..."

"You have to appear," Henry replied.  "We ran the alternates through a
probability computation and find that your appearance at that Forum
Meeting must take place to sway a currently uncommitted 8% of the
popular vote to your party.  Without that 8%, you fail to receive the
critical majority and if you fail, the Laborites can obtain the
plurality they need to effect a countermeasure that would have
disastrous consequences on the economy."

Governor Lawson began a chuckle, his belly shaking first before the
amusement was shunted up the rotund abdomen to the chest and finally
became audible in the head cavity.  Finally Lawson's lips parted to
emit a rich, juicy laugh.

"So, that's the way it'll be, huh?"

"Yes, if your eloquence doesn't falter with foreknowledge."

"Huh?  How's that?"

"You have been given a prescience of the immediate future.  Such
knowledge could, in itself, alter the circumstances of the future.  We
do not always have either the personnel or the foresight to modify the
future.  In your case, we make an exception.  A Labor ite Majority is
not a good thing for the Talented."

Governor Lawson nodded in appreciation of that expediency.

"Your man will intercept the bullet?"

Henry nodded.

"And the nut will be put away?  That's better than leaving him free for
another shot.  Good!  How many political figures does your group
protect?"

"Those who need it.  And we'd appreciate a kindly word for the Center
when Steve diverts that bullet."

Lawson nodded agreement.  "Those who need protection?  Or those whom
you need, Darrow?  No, don't answer that one.  Answer this ... will I
win this election?"

Henry smiled slowly.  "You know the answer to that one, Governor, but
the fun lies in making certain you've played the game right."

"How far do you guys play fun and games?"

"Just far enough!"

"Now, Mr.  Rambley, what seems to be your problem?"

"Not my problem, Mr. Darrow.  Yours!"  The Internal Revenue Department
man smiled a thin smug smile and began to pull IBM cards from his neat
fake-pig case.

"Really?"

"We have here WT forms from the Department of Law Enforcement and
Order, from Johns Hopkins, Bethel General, Midtown from Dupont, Merck
Pharmaceuticals ... need I go on?"

"Just as you please."

"These salary chits represent the earnings of Barbara Holland, Titter
Beyley, Charity McGillicuddy, Gil Gracie, Frank Negelsco Augustus
Molnar ..."  Again the IRD representative regarded Henry Darrow with a
cute expression on his fleshless face.  "I could continue ..."

"Just as you please.  I give every government official the courtesy due
his office."  Henry inclined his head toward Mr. Rambley who for the
first time since he'd minced into Henry's tiny lair, looked
nonplussed.

"After all, some of my best people are employed by the government."

With an irritated sigh, Rambley closed the stack of cards and tapped
them in an admonitory fashion on the desk.

"Come now, Mr. Darrow.  These people," and he brandished the cards,
"earn tremendous salaries and yet there is no record of a single tax
deduction, no returns ..."

"They donate their salaries in toto to the Parapsychic Center.  They
lease their services contractually to the various employers.  The
Parapsychic Center files a corporate form to cover them.  Under
Corporation Law ..."

"No one in their right minds would ..."  Rambley bounced on the end of
his chair with indignation and disbelief.

"I never said any of the parapsychic Talents were in a right mind.  In
fact," Henry went on with gentle amusement, "there is every reason to
believe that the core of the parapsychic is, if anywhere, in the left
hand part of the brain."

"Mr. Darrow," Mr. Rambley was on his feet.  "You did say that you
gave government officials the courtesy due their office?"

"Yes, didn't I?  Consequently, you're wasting time, your government's
and mine, Mr. Rambley.  The individuals represented by those neatly
slotted cards do donate their total income to the Parapsychic Center.

Our accountant will be glad to show you the approp riate records and
contractual agreements ..."

"But ... but I know that that Titter Beyley creature is driving a four
passenger 350 horsepower vehicle!"  Such an incongruity shocked Mr.
Rambley.

"Yes, Titter's always wanted to drive a big one.  The car belongs to
the Center.  You can check the registration papers."

"And that ... that Charity McGillicuddy has a blue ranch mink coat."

"Indeed she has.  She requisitioned it from Stores about four months
ago."

"She requisitioned ... from Stores?"

"She has a position to maintain now and her appearance is of great
concern to the LEO office.  Think how embarrassing it would be for
someone employed by the LEO Commission to be arrested for wearing
stolen furs.  Of course, Charity says that now she can buy 'em instead
of 'lifting' 'em, half the fun's gone.  But it gives her a great moral
boost to wear blue ranch mink in the LEO Block.  We try to keep our
workers happy."

Rambley had stared at Henry Darrow through this ingenuous explanation
but his indignation rose with every gently spoken word.

"This won't be the last you'll hear from me, Mr. Darrow.  You do not
mock the Internal Revenue Department, Mr. Darrow."  He slammed the
file cards into his case, hands trembling with outraged dignity.

"You'll hear from us."

"That's fine by me.  Just call ahead for an appointment.  Only consider
the fact that Senators Maxwell, Abrahams, Montello and Gratz approved
our corporate structure."

Rambley's eyes widened.

"And the presidential advisor, Mr. Killiney, acted as our financial
assistant.  Don't you have his card in that file?"

Rambley exited, reduced to mutterings.

"Do you often trick your way into a private home, Mr.  Darrow?"

"When I've been unable to secure an appointment any other way, yes, Mr.
Henner."  Henry smiled pleasantly, trying not to glance with obvious
envy at the spaciousness of the magnificently furnished living room.

Such accommodation was almost archaic.

George Henner appeared more amused than irritated by Henry Darrows
impertinence as he leaned back in his Italian brocade armchair.

"If it's money for your palm-reading, table-tilting crystal-gazing
tricks, forget it."

"On the contrary, sir.  I've affirmation that I can ask you to join our
happy band."  Henry smiled at the surprise in Henner's yellowed eyes.

"Join you?"  Henner burst out laughing.  His head went back showing a
veritable gold field of fillings in his upper teeth.  "By God, Darrow,
you've made my day!  If you can't lick 'em, recruit 'em?"

"Actually," Henry went on smoothly, seating himself and crossing his
legs, counterfeiting an ease he didn't feel.  He noted the flicker of
irritation in Henner's face but the financier had a reputation of
letting a man have enough rope to hang himself.  "Actually, Mr.
Henner, your abilities in the financial world are as solidly derived
from the parapsychic as my own.  Incidentally, you're the crystal ball
reader ... although I see you've got a modern computer for stock market
printout instead of the old glass case."

Henner gave an amused grunt but said nothing, his silence a subtle prod
to keep Henry talking.

"You're known," Henry continued obediently, because that was the way
the interview ought to proceed, "to have a genius, a second .sight into
what stocks are going to rise, which will fall, what bond ;issues will
pay the keenest longterm profit.  And I can prove that you're
parapsychic."

Henner cocked his head slightly to one side, his amusement deepening,
as he tacitly encouraged Henry to produce his proof.  Darrow spread the
graph out on the table.  "I know you've followed the newsmedia coverage
on us, so you're familiar with this sort of graph.  What you may not
immediately appreciate is the fact that this is your graph."

Henner became immobile with attention.

"When you had your last routine physical a month ago, your physician
employed a Goosegg.  He didn't realize that it wasn't his own office
model so he's blameless.  You did, however, experience what we call an
Incident and it is recorded on this graph, here and here.  I believe
the Incident was in connection with the Allied Metals and Mining merger
in which you managed quite a 'killing."

" "You don't read thought from an EEG graph, Darrow."

"Hardly.  But you placed a phone call directly you were through your
physical to your office and within the next few hours the merger was
announced ... but not before you had acquired a tidy pile of Allied
stock.  Are my facts correct?"

Henner nodded slowly, his eyes, narrowed to intense slits, watching
Henry Darrow's face.

"That's proof," Henry said, rustling the graph paper, "that you're
parapsychic, Mr.  Henner."

The silence which ensued, designed to make Darrow exceedingly
uncomfortable, did not.  For a long space, Henry returned George
Henner's stare, then folded his arms and gazed around the beautiful
room.  Finally he turned back to Henner and smiled.

"Blackmail?"  asked Henner.

Darrow shook his head.

"No.  You'd be far too clever for that.  No, I'd hazard the guess that
you want to borrow my Talent, as you call it, to make your fortunes?

That would still be essentially blackmail, wouldn't it, Darrow?"

Henry pursed his lips a little, expressing dubiety.

"Well, then what is it you want from me?  It's something."

"Actually, it's the twelve acre tract of land on the Palisades."

Once again Henry wished he were a telepath to read the emotions swiftly
passing through George Henner's mind.  He had startled the financier,
he had touched the most vulnerable point of the shrewd man's life: his
intense love, and need for, the beautiful estate of Beechwoods.  It
had been in Henner's family for a hundred and forty years, was a
showplace which few saw.  And Henner's need of Beechwoods was as great
and for the same reasons as Henry Darrow's."

"How could you know?"  demanded Henner in a hoarse whisper.

"That the State intends to confiscate all privately held lands within a
hundred mile radius of the Jerhattan city limits?  I know because it is
as important to me as it is to you to know these things."  Henner was
on his feet, pacing to release the energy of his anger.  In a barely
audible monotone he inventively assigned destinations to the State en
masse, the needs of the unhoused, unwashed multitudes in general and
those particular officials who had failed to keep Henner's ancestral
home inviolate.

"If, however, the property is already owned by a religious, medical,
educational or charitable institution which will accommodate a
sufficient number of our everexpanding population, they cannot
confiscate your property even under the terms of Section 91, Paragraph
12 of the Housing Act of 1998."

"This is 1997, man.  That Act isn't passed yet.  I can still defeat
it."

"No.  It will be passed."

Henner tried to stare that knowledge out of Henry's mind.

"And you know the inevitability, Mr. Henner.  None of your contacts
can hold out any hope of defeating that measure, nor of defending your
Beechwoods?"

"And it's your table-tilting tealeaf readers who'll infest my home?"

"Your physical condition is poor, Mr. Henner, and your nerves damned
near the breaking point.  The solitude and privacy of this house and
its grounds are vital to your life.  It would be to any parapsychic
mind forced to tune in on the emotional chaos that haunts the very air
we breathe.  You know you've been living on borrowed time for the past
year.  You know what alternative dwelling accommodations will do to
you."

"Do you happen to know," asked Henner casually for he'd got control of
himself again, "the exact date of my death?"

"As I know the exact time of mine, Mr. Henner.  You will die of a
'heart attack, the aorta will be closed by a globule of the
arteriosclerotic matter coating your veins, at nine-twenty-one PM,
exactly one year, nine months and fourteen days from now."

A gleam of challenge livened the deadly intent of Henner's gaze.  "And
if I don't?"

"If you don't, then revoke the grant of Beechwoods to the Center.  In
the meantime, you'll have secured your last days in the ancestral home,
which is your prime concern at the moment."

"I could have a heart transplant ..."  Henner was clearly enjoying
this.

"Not with a diseased liver and the condition of your arteries."

"And that's your prophecy, Darrow?"

"A medical certainty," Henry said.  "I've toyed with the notion of a
transplant myself since my death will also occur from myocardial
infarction on a certain May twelfth, at ten-fifty-two PM.  But by May
twelfth of that year, I intend to have accomplished the major part of
what needs to be done to establish a viable, selfsufficient Parapsychic
Center in North America ..."

"On the Beechwoods estate?"

"On the Beechwoods estate.  By May twelfth, I shall be grateful for the
peace and tranquillity of my grave."Henner's eyes flicked from
Darrow's to some inner middle distance, the harsh cynical lines of the
financier's face softened.

"'Ease after war, death after life does greatly please'?"  The words
were softly spoken but there was no quarter in the hard look Henner
then turned on Henry Darrow.

"In your scheming where does this house end up?"

"As an integral part of the Center."

Henner's expression was ironic.  "And my money?  I've no next of
kin."

Darrow laughed.  "You keep harping on your money, Mr. Henner.  We
don't need your money.  Check our books on that.  But only the Center
can offer one of its own members what his money hasn't been able to
secure for him."

For a long time Henner gazed out the French windows that gave on the
flagged terrace, toward the sweep of magnificent lawn and the superb
beech trees.  When Henner finally turned back to Henry, his hand was
extended.  The two men shook three times in the and ient custom of
binding a bargain.

"Answer me one thing, Darrow!  Did you foresee winning?"

"I knew that we would eventually secure Beechwoods, Mr. Henner," he
said, permitting regret to tinge his voice.  "But I wanted your
cooperation."

"Cooperation?  You goddamn well know I had no choice!"

"Didn't you?"

George Henner had wandered into the Graph room just as the first of the
three Incidents was recorded.  He had the habit of appearing in the
various departments, taking what he called a perverse interest in the
eventual eviction of the Center from Beech woods.  In point of fact,
Henner had admitted to Molly Darrow that the Center had given him
something to live for.  He'd been feeling much better since Henry'd
conned him out of Beechwoods.  Despite his professed intention of
harassing Henry, George Henner's passing suggestions were usually
solid advice.  And despite his crotchety and often irascible manner,
the Talents became fond of him.

"Got a strong Incident," Ben Avedon, the duty officer, told Henry on
the intercom just as George Henner wandered into the Graph room.

"Patsy Tucker."

In moments, Henry and Molly arrived in time for Patsy's phone call of
such details as she'd "seen."

"I'm on the water again," she said, breathless in an attempt to
verbalize before details escaped her.  "And there're boats.  Four.

Sun's at a late afternoon angle, on my left so I must be looking
north.

There's land beyond the boats, pines, a bluff.  And oil on the water.

I can see it all rainbowy.  The oil scares me.  It's going to ignite,
and then the water's covered with flames and the boats are eaten up and
... oh, it's going to be wicked, Ben.  Can you locate?  Have I given
you enough?  I can't remember anymore and the flames cover any
details."

"It is a sooner?"

"Awful soon.  Today.  I'm sure of it.  But it's morning, and I saw late
afternoon ... is there time enough?"

"Sure.  Plenty of time.  I'm feeding the computer with the data right
now.  Old didactic will pin the place down, Pat.  But have you a notion
about the size of the boats involved?"

"Oh, yes, of course.  How stupid of me.  I forget you haven't seen.

One's small, a pleasure craft ... a power boat ... no sails.  That's
the one that goes on fire.  Two long low boats ... I guess they'd be
tankers.  And a higher boat ... I mean, one higher above the water
...

And they're all much too close together.  That's the problem because
they'll all catch fire."

"A pleasure boat, two tankers and a freighter in the late afternoon.

That's fine, Pat.  And the pines and bluff and being close together
indicate a channel of some description.  Now ... think hard again,
Pat.

Did you see any markings on the boats, funnel markings, ensigns,
names?"

After a silence Pat mournfully admitted "seeing" nothing because the
fire and smoke occluded.

"Get one of the pyros on it," Henry told Ben.  "Patsy, Henry here.

That's a good job, lass.  Now take it easy.  We'll buzz you back with
confirmation.  Grand work, Pat."  Henry disconnected her line, shaking
his head, knowing how worried the girl would be until she heard they'd
prevented the collision.  If only there'd been markings to speed up
identification, and then if the participants could be dissuaded from
arriving on the previewed scene.... He moved deliberately to the
computer panel and began tapping out queries.  "Undoubtedly a seaway.

Could be Sheepshead Bay area, East River ... no, not there.  Or one of
the canals ..."

"St.  Lawrence, with tankers and freighters ..."  suggested Ben.

"Or the Great Lakes ..."  said Molly.

Before there'd been a printout on possible locations or what traffic
was already in the St. Lawrence Seaway, a second graph began to
chatter.

"Right on time," said Ben.  "Here's Terry, our local friendly reliable
pyro."

"How come you don't know, Hank?"  George Henner asked, settling himself
on a stool in the corner.

"Not enough people involved, George, and too close a range for me.

That's Patsy's specialty-cliffhangers.  Besides, don't you agree that
the good executive makes all the longrange decisions and leaves the
picayune nitty-gritty details to keep his staff occupied?"

George grinned but he said nothing more, listening as intently as the
others to Terry Cle's verbalization of his "sight."  The broad outline
correlated with Patsy's although he "saw" the event from a different
perspective.  He had sufficient detail on one tanker and the small
craft to result in exact Ids for both from Ship Registration.  And
there was a tanker of the Iricoil Line proceeding down the Seaway enroute for Toronto, ETA 7:48 PM at that port.  The small craft, the
Aitch Bee, was registered to an A. F rascati, and was at that moment
moored in a small boat basin on the American side of the Seaway.

Probability figures the cost of the collision and fire at several
millions and a thirty-six hour tie-up of Seaway traffic, plus delayed
cargoes which would complicate schedules and routines for ninety-two
companies, involving work-loss of some eighteen thousand people.

"Okay, Ben, get out the usual warning format.  See if Iricoil will
listen to us."

"And if Iricoil doesn't want to believe?"

"We get after this Frascati.  In fact, he'd be easier to bully than
Iricoil but we've got to warn them, too."

Iricoil was suspicious and uncooperative and, in phrases just short of
insult, refused to consider diverting the tanker.  Its supplies were
urgently required in Toronto by late evening.  Frascati was not at his
home nor in his business office.  Urgent messages were left for the
man to contact the Center before taking out his pleasure craft.  Henry
was dialing the Seaway Authority Control when George cut the
connection.

"I've got an idea, Hank," George said.  "I've watched this routine so
often and seen you insulted, ignored, and calumniated.  No one trusts
the altruist anymore, whether he's Talented or not.  You've warned
Iricoil, tried to do them a favor.  They aren't buying. Well, like the
puppy who leaves too many messages, let's rub their nose in it."

"You mean, let the accident occur?"

"More or less.  Considering what's involved in terms of credit and
workloss, and considering that I have shares in four of the companies
to be affected by the snarlup, will you play it my way, this once?"

Henry began to relax.  "What have you in mind, George?"

"You did leave timed messages at Iricoil and for Frascati, didn't
you?"

Ben Avedon tapped the computer panel.  "All timesealed, George."

"Fine.  Now, issue a fax warning to Seaway Authority.  Then give me a
few comlines to work from and Molly to help me.  Irenee was telling me
about their new oilpollutant at Dupont.  This would be good PR for
him.

Always like to oblige friends.  Which reminds me , you get on to Jim
Lawson ... our revered Governor owes you a favor or two for that bullet
Steve stopped.  And ask him for a few more VTOLs and a couple of
frogmen."

"Why?"

"You don't know?"

Henry grinned.  "Would you believe an educated guess?"

Henner chuckled.  "My, my, how the mighty have fallen!  Guessing!"

"Run the show your way, George."

"Yes, let a pro show you how, Henry Darrow.  You're too damned soft.

You talk too much.  Action speaks louder than a hundred of your
Talented words."

At exactly 16:32 hours of a bright spring afternoon, an Iricoil tanker
proceeding down the St. Lawrence Seaway fouled its propellor on a
tangle of steel cables, origin unknown.  The tanker drifted athwart the
current as a United Line freighter entered the narrow channel from the
opposite direction.  A second tanker, also United Line, making speed
enough to reach Toronto port by dark, cruised into the danger zone,
although it was apparent that the Iricoil boat was in distress.  Both
United Line ships continued, evidently hoping to pass the injured
vessel, one on the port, the other on the starboard.  Likely they
would have succeeded but the Aitch Bee, also impatient to reach port,
came bucketing down the searoute.  It swung rather close to the
distressed vessel.  As Frascati ever after maintained, he wanted to see
if he could be of any assistance in getting a message ashore: a
ridiculous alibi since the tanker was well equipped by radio and
shipshore telephone.  Frascati's propellor became fouled on the same
villain cable.  The freighter began to pass the disabled pair and her
wash slammed the small craft into the Iricoil tanker.  The United Line
tanker was broadside of the Iricoil when her bow swung out.  Tanker #2
swung to starboard to avoid a collision and her stern banged into
Iricoil, splitting a seam in the aft oil hold just as the small craft
was ground between the two bigger hulls.  Its galley fires caught old
grease and spread in the cabin as the yacht's gasoline tank was
breached.  Oil pouring from the Iricoil vessel would shortly ignite
from that flame.

At this point the hovering rescue copters intervened as newsmedia
cameras recorded the event from every angle.  Foam quickly doused the
yacht fire, the oil-pollution material gobbled up the spilled petroleum
and kinetics held back additional oil loss by pressure until the
teleports could get the conveniently handy plates into position.  Other
kinetics and the frogmen worked loose the  steel cable and it was
hoisted out of the way.  "Captain" Frascati and the two crew members
(his sons) of the damaged yacht were lifted up and another team of
kinetics kept the little ship floating until the belatedly arriving
coast guard cutter could tow it into port.

The Seaway was not blocked since all four vessels were cleared out of
the narrow channel before others made the passage.  There was no loss
of life and no longterm pollution of the water.  The Parapsychic teams
were volubly and embarrassingly thanked for preventing a major
disaster, and by cocktail time everyone was pleased by the denouement,
especially Patsy Tucker and Terry Cle.

The congratulatory euphoria lasted twelve hours, at which point the
Seaway Authority began to realize that matters had come to neardisaster
in an unprecedented way.

"What was the meaning of sending us only a fax to announce a major
disaster?"  the Seaway Commissioner demanded in such stentorian tones
that George Henner need not have listened in on the second comunit in
Henry's office.

"You were informed by fax as usual," Henry replied in a mild tone of
voice.

"By fax!  When countless millions of credits were at stake?  And
blockage of the most important waterway in North America?  And do you
realize that we have only just balanced the sea-life ecology in that
strip of waterway?  That oil ..."

"You were informed ..."

"Well, I'm informing you that you're in for a suit of criminal
negligence ..."

"Negligence of what, Commissioner?  You were informed nine hours and
thirty-eight minutes prior to the accident by this exofficio group,
which is not a government sponsored or accredited agency.  We act for
and in the public interest.  But we are understaffed and overworked.

You could have queried this office for more particulars, although all
we had were included in that fax.  Your Authority could have held back
any one of the four vessels involved, thus preventing the ..."

"Are you accusing the Seaway Authority of negligence?"

Henry held the receiver away from his ear, shook his head, and replied
in his mildest manner, "Forewarned is forearmed, sir."  He caught
George Henner giving the high sign of approval.

"You'll hear from us, Darrow.  You people can't get away with
irresponsible behavior like this."

The connection was rudely and noisily broken.

"Did you figure a lawsuit in your calculations, George?"  asked
Henry.

Henner rubbed his hands together in glee.  "If they sue, we'd win."

Henry couldn't exactly share in Henner's gleeful anticipation.  The
precog knew of the multitude of lawsuits which would be served on
Talents in the next decades and the sheer cost of inspired defense made
him shudder.  The money would be available but it was credit that
could be used to better advantage in training and identifying Talent,
not defending against misunderstanding and greed.  By late afternoon,
Henry's premonitions of immediate disaster were borne out by additional
suits of negligence which arrived from United Line, Iricoil Tankers
and A. Frascati.

"Let me handle this," George Henner told Henry and his hastily convened
executive staff.  "I don't need any crystal ball or anerodic graph
needle to tell me how to manage this sort of crap."

Before he had Henry's voiced approval, he was on the wires to the major
media networks, chatting familiarly with presidents and
commissioners.

By the time the films of the Parapsychic Center's assistance had been
widely aired, with a few choice comments on how the Center operated to
forestall major disasters, the threatened legal action against the
Talents was withdrawn.  Suits were entered against the Seaway for
criminal negligence.  Then the Center, on George Henner's advice ("Make
'em pay for it, when they don't listen to you."), sent bills for the
rescue operations to Frascati, United Line and Iricoil Tankers.

"And from now on, Henry," George said, "don't ever follow up your faxed
warnings with personal phone calls.  Don't be the supplicant, damn
it.

Be the prelate!"

Henry watched with inner amusement as George Henner paced up and down
the floor, his eyes flashing, even his stride firm and aggressive so
that Henry could see traces of the strengths which had amassed George
Henner his considerable fortune and which had overwhelmed less
determined adversaries in the business world.

"There's no point in you bruising your larynx with persuasion.  You've
proved your worth over an dover again and this Seaway bollix ought to
make a validated Parapsychic warning worth the paper it's printed on,
even at the dreadful price of paper these days ."

"A sound argument, George, and I appreciate your help ..."

George stopped midstride, glaring at Henry through narrowed lids.

"Yes, I am helping you, aren't I?  Shouldn't do that, should I?"

"My friendly enemy," replied Henry with a laugh.

"Ha!  Tell me that when my executors snatch the rug of Beechwoods from
under your telepathetic feet ..."

"And we need you, George," Henry raised his voice to overwhelm Henner's
snide remarks.  "If I can convince a skeptic like you, I'm well away to
swaying John Q Public to my side.  He's more variable than you, and he
will be the hardest to win over."

John Q Public, however, quixotically decided the Seaway Authority had
been foolish to ignore the Parapsychic warning.  Criticism was heaped
on the Seaway from every quarter.  Later the Authority was somewhat
exonerated of primary guilt since the Court felt that good judgment on
the part of any one of the other three skippers would have prevented
the accident and no costs were awarded the claimants.  The official
records cited and credited the Parapsychic Center with averting a major
calamity, and loss of life and property.  All Transport Authorities
were severely enjoined to heed any warnings from the Center which
involved public transport.

For the next few weeks all precogs of traffic problems, possible fire,
storm or spring floods throughout the world were instantly acted
upon.

The Center was besieged with anxious calls about whether Mr. S could
undertake that long distance flight, or Mrs. J could safely make her
annual pilgrimage from Florida to Wisconsin, and if there had been any
precog about the transfer of cyanide cylinders to the authorized
Atlantic Trench dump.  Thousands of hopeful people applied for the
simple tests which would indic ate if they possessed some useful
Talent.

"It's an ill wind that blows no good," Henry remarked to Molly after
another hectic day answering urgent calls and dealing with anxious
queries.

"I suppose so," she said, sinking wearily into the armchair of their
private suite in the main house.  "But I wish we had more Gooseggs or a
surer way of spotting the live ones."

"Any today?"  Henry fixed Molly a stiff drink.

"Yes," and she brightened as if she'd temporarily forgotten the
event.

"One very strong receiving telepath out of forty-five aspirants."  She
accepted the drink, turning the glass in her hand as if the amber
liquid held some other answer.  "Henry, they come in so hopeful ...

and some of them leave so angry and disappointed.  As if we ought to be
able to find what doesn't exist ..."

"Not your fault, love.  Everyone wants to be, in some way, unique, and
can't realize that being unique is a responsibility as well as a
privilege.  You can't cure that.  How strong's the telepath?"

Molly brightened.  "I think he's very strong, but he's been blocking
thoughts, the way they all do.  Out of fear.  He may need a lot of
training."

"No, not too much," Henry said easily, pulling his chair close to Molly
and clasping her free hand.  "Young fellow, isn't he?  Welsh
extraction, Welsh name.  Right?"

"I just sent the report in ..."  Molly began, startled, and stopped
midsentence, arrested by Henry's knowing look.  "Not another one,
Henry?"

"They do seem to appear right on schedule," Henry grinned at her but
there was a shadow in his eyes.  "Right on schedule.  One day I'll be
wrong."

"Don't, Henry."  She clasped his hand tightly, reassuringly, knowing
the strain of his unfortunate infallibility, knowing that some of the
events he foresaw he'd rather not have seen.  "And, he is, as you
predicted, Welsh," she went on in a light voice, "by name, Daffyd op
Owen.  Very likeable chap.  He's important?"

Henry nodded.  "He won't need more than some basic pointers and a few
quiet weeks here to wash the 'noise' out of his mind and learn to
project as well as receive."

"Well, that's one on the plus side of the ledger."  She rotated her
shoulders to ease the day's strains but Henry's disclosure about young
op Owen made her feel much better about her labors.

"When is he moving in?"

"Don't you know?"  she asked in a bantering fashion.

"What I know I wish I didn't.  What I'd give anything to know, I have
to wait and see."

She smiled at him lovingly.  "You mean, if we retain Beechwoods?"  When
he nodded, she chided him gently.  "How often have you been wrong in
the merest detail?"

"It's not how often I'm right, Molly luv, it's will I be wrong this
time, this once?  This important, crucial, critical once?  Such a
terrible gift, luv.  Terrible when your knowledge means the loss of a
friend ..."

"Henry, your recognition, the very challenge of the Center," and her
arm gesture encompassed all of Beechwoods, "have kept George Henner
alive ... and kicking."  She peered into Henry's face, reassuring him
by touch, word and look.  "He's determined to do you out of
Beechwoods, if only by a minute.  That determination alone has
strengthened his hold on life.  I've seen his medical reports, Henry, I
know."  She leaned back in her chair.  "You've done him quite a favor
and he knows it.  I shouldn't be surprised if he hasn't left the
Center Beechwoods anyway."

"He hasn't.  He showed me the will."

Molly opened her mouth to say something then thought better of it.

"All right," Henry went on, catching her look of mischief, "so he could
write a second one in secret ... No, we've a wager on and ..."

"I know what you mean, hoping to win the wager loses a friend."

"I can see horizons wider than mortality but I cannot always see the
sparrow fall."

"So young op Owen will be your successor?"  George Henner was in a very
testy mood that morning.

"Yes, but of course, not for some time yet ..."

"You've got it all foreseen, have you?"

"Certainly the basic problems ..."

"Ha!  I thought you'd already solved the basic problems ..."

"By no means, my friend," and Henry's laugh was mirthless.  "I've had
the easy part.  No, really.  The establishment of the Center and others
in time in strategic parts of the globe ... is only the first bit:
scarcely the worst.

"Once we'd elevated parapsychic Talents to a demonstrable, scientific
basis, it was only a question of some decent organizational effort to
make us selfsufficient and independent.  We did dodge the governmental
attempt to take control because we operate more efficiently as a
private agency and because you could imagine the tax payers' shrieks
about funding tealeaf readers.  Funding was no real problem once we
could prove Talent.  Training, now ... that is a long term program.

We've got to develop more efficien techniques in recognizing and
training Talent and that takes Talented personnel.  Getting industry
and the government to accept our workers was child's play with what we
can offer."  Then Henry sighed.  "The suspicions of the general public
can't be totally allayed but with the help of a discreet PR program,
people can become accustomed to the Talented.

"No, George, some of our biggest problems are yet to be solved.  The
knottiest one is establishing legal protection for Talent.  Without
that, all we've carefully built could be wiped away in legal fees,
damages and law suits ... particularly against the pre cogs.  Oh, I see
that we'll get professional immunity sooner or later.  I'm greedy.  I
want it sooner.  And that's why a telepath like Dai op Owen is required
as Director.  He's more sensitive to the immediate situation.  By God,
the times I've wished I were a telepath ..."

George snorted.

"It's easier for a man who can delve into thoughts, not the future.

That's assured."

"Ha!"  Light flittered from George Henner's sunken eyes.  "Not yet.

You've three days, four hours and five minutes to go."

"No," Henry replied gently, "no, old friend, you've three days, four
hours and five minutes to go.  And I shall miss you."

"Ha to that as well!  See any new signs of decay?"  George jerked his
head this way and that.

Henry shook his head slowly.  "I will miss you, you old bastard."

"Will you?  Will you when I defy your prediction and you and your
Talents are thrown out into the mass noise again?"

Henry summoned a laugh.  "Then why haven't you died long ago?"

George glared at him.  "I intend to make you sweat, Henry Darrow.

Sweat.  Bleed.  Die a little."

"And you wonder I want a telepath as a Director?"  He gripped George
firmly by the shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake.  "Play the
enemy if it pleases you: if the choler makes the blood continue to run
in your veins.  You're more our friend than enemy .  And I know it."

"Ha!  You are nervous.  You're worried that you're wrong.  That this
time you're wrong!  I'll prove you wrong if it's the last thing I
do."

Henry cocked his head at George, grinning ironically.  "You may at
that, you old bastard.  I've never claimed infallibility, George.  And
you've heard me state time and again that foreknowledge of the future
can alter it ..."

"Cop out!  Rationalization!"  Henner shook with triumph.  "You're
admitting defeat!  Ha!"

"Have I made your day, George?  Fair enough!  I've got to go placate
that tax man again.  See you later."

'Don't waste your time with him.  He's stupid.  No way they can tax the
Talents with the structure I helped you build.  And don't miss the
party!  The Death Party!"

"Christ, Hank," Gus Molnar complained to Darrow, "he's had me checking
him over on the hour all day!  And then that gaggle of 'impartial
physician witnesses' check on me."  Molnar ran his hand nervously
through his long fair hair, his eyes restless with anxi ety and
irritation.  "And suddenly he won't let Molly out of his sight.  Said
her healing hands would turn the trick.  Give him the minute he
needs.

Goddamn old bastard!"

"Cool it, Gus.  It's what he needed to keep him alive."  Henry chuckled
and straightened his tunic jacket, poked at his softly tied scarf.

Gus made a disgusted noise in his throat.  "You're so damned sure?"

"Not at all.  Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?  With the future of the Center at stake on one man's
heart beat?"

"I've seen that we do get the property.  I regret that it has to be
validated by the death of an old and valued friend.  I could almost
wish that he does live past the appointed minute ..."

"Minute ..."  Molnar corrected him.  "Bastard's got a huge alarm clock
rigged, to the Greenwichmeantime minute!"

"C'mon, Gus.  Let's go to the wake and cheer the corpse on!"

"My God, Darrow, how do you do it?"

The Death Party was assembling, reluctantly, in the vaultroofed lounge
of the Beechwoods mansion.  George had invited a select few to be "in
at the death."

Indeed, as he said himself, he had outlasted most of his contemporaries
and those represented today were more enemies than friends.

George quipped that business enemies had a reputation of being in at
the death.  He was dressed in his Vietnam campaign battle dress,
remarking that he'd cheated Him then as a twenty-year-old, so it behooved
him to keep the appointment now suitably attired.  Most of those
present were Talents or connected with the Center.  Young Daffyd op
Owen was present.  So were LEO Commissioner Mailer, trying hard not to
look uncomfortable, Governor Lawson, several Senators, representatives
from four charitable organizations (probably benefiting under the will,
Henry decided when he saw the guest list), and the four physicians
who'd been cho sen at random from the AMA directory by George and flown
into Jerhattan for the event.  That was George's way of solving any
medical question.  With a touch of ghoulish humor, George had
decreednot that he didn't trust the Talents implicitly, but one had to
protect oneself-that the autopsy would be performed on his corpse
immediately after death had been assumed.

The party consequently generated little joviality despite the abundance
of liquor and exotic foods on the sideboard.  George ate sparingly,
drank slowly.  Anything he consumed these days, he complained, tasted
sour or flat or insipid and caused heartburn.

Conversations were conducted in sepulchral tones and languished
easily.

The occasional laugh was quickly suppressed.  Only Henry Darrow
contrived to look at ease though Molly knew, by the way he rubbed his
thumb and index finger together constantly, that he was in a highly
nervous condition.  She didn't dare touch him since she was not a whit
less distraught herself, and would only double Henry's tension.  The
person who was suffering most was young Daffyd op Owen.  She had become
very fond of the sensitive young man and wished that he didn't have to
be present.  He'd not had time to learn to shield himself, certainly
not in such an emotionally loaded situation as this.  Daffyd was
visibly sweating, yet gamely trying to simulate proper party behavior
as he chatted with another young Talent, a precog named Mara
Channing.

As the appointed time drew nearer, any semblance of normality dwindled:
efforts to keep party talk going faltered.  Everyone had one eye on the
clock and the other on George Henner.

"You're supposed to be happy," George Henner complained when the
current silence remained unbroken for sixty-four seconds.  "My death
means you're all safely ensconced here."  His scowl was ambiguous.

Then he pointed a finger at Henry.  "So tell me, Hank, if you lose the
wager, where will you go?  I ..."  and he laughed hollowly, "or my
executors expect you to vacate the premises ... immediately."

"And we will.  I've assembled every telekinetic we've got ... and a
flock of physical muscle men.  We can clear the premises in an hour,
I'm told.  You will grant us that much time?"

Henner grunted, then brightly asked where the new Center would be
located.

"I've a site upstate seventy miles: woods, a small lake, very
pastoral.

The disadvantage being the distance to commute.  You know what copter
traffic is like over the City and the Talents are contracted to be at
work on time ... no matter what."

Henner's chair had been wired to monitor his life-systems, and the
results were broadcast on a screen visible anywhere in the room.

George glanced up at it incuriously.

"All systems still go?"  he asked, swinging around to the nearest
medical man who, startled, nodded.  "Three minutes and counting,
Henry?"

"George, may I remind you that this excitement is bad for you?"  Henry
said.

"Excitement bad for me?  Goddamn you, Darrow, it's kept me alive months
past the estimate those jokers gave me.  You've kept me alive, damn
your eyes."

"Damn 'em?"  Henry laughed.  "That was the point, George, and you've
admitted it before impartial witnesses, too."

Henner pursed his thin, bloodless lips, glaring at various people in
the room, unsatisfied with his present victim's reactions and unable to
vent his feelings on anyone better suited than Henry.  His restless,
probing glance fell briefly on Molly.

"Having to leave here will put your program back, won't it?"

Henry shrugged.  "For this decade, perhaps yes.  The new location will
be too far for prospective Talents in the subbie class to come for the
test.  We can have mobile units ... once we have the personnel.

Trouble is the units have to be especially constructed ... ""Yes,
yes, you've told me all that."  George flounced around in his chair,
seeking a new or comfortable position as well as another victim.  But
he returned to Henry.  "You'll be sorry you've kept me alive.  In
exactly two minutes and four seconds ..."

"No, George, I won't ever be sorry for your life.  Only sorry for your
death."

"I can believe that!"

"Indeed you can!"  cried Molly, unable to bear George's taunting
acrimony.

"Molly ..."  George's voice entreated her and she instinctively stepped
toward him, her hands outstretched to give the comfort which had often
eased him.  But he leaned away, suddenly suspicious even of her.  Her
hands flew to her mouth as the rebuff wounded her.  But his reaction
broke Henry's tight control.

"Damn it, George, she only wants to help."

"Help me?  Live?  Or die?"

Molly began to cry, turning towards the wall.  But Henry took her in
his arms, for once the comforter.

"Molly didn't deserve that from you, George.  The wager was with me!"

"He didn't mean it that way, Henry," said young op Owen, the words
bursting from his lips, as if he'd been holding back for some time the
desire to speak out.

Henner nodded, his face flushed with what Dai op Owen afterwards said
was remorse.  But the monitors began flashing warning signals.

"Hell, Molly," George began in a choked voice, "I don't distrust you.

" Then the death alarm went off.  "Ha!  The appointed minute ... And
I'm alive!  You're wrong, Henry Darrow.  You and all your tealeaf,
table-tipping crystal-gazing ..."

At precisely 9:00:30, George Henner's heart gave a massive contraction
and stopped.  Cameras on the dead man recorded that his hand raised
slightly, towards Henry and Molly before the dead body collapsed.

Accustomed as they were to the death processes, the physicians in
attendance were held motionless by the dramatic circumstances.  Gus
Molnar reacted first, hand moving towards the adrenalin syringe.

"No!"  cried Dai op Owen, stepping forward, his hand outstretched.  "He
wants to die.  He doesn't want to win the wager."

"My God," cried one of the physicians, pointing to the screen.

"Look at the Goosegg.  It's gone wild.  The mind's still alive ...

No.  Consciousness has gone.  But God, look at the graph."

"Let him go.  He wants to go," Daffyd op Owen was saying.

Molnar looked first towards Henry whose face was expressionless, then
at the other physicians staring at the monitor readings.

"That means the brain's dead, doesn't it?"  asked LEO Commissioner
Mailer, pointing to the Goosegg graph now scribing straight lifeless
lines.

Two of the medical men nodded.

"Then he's dead," said Mailer, glancing towards the Governor who nodded
accord.  "I'd say you won the bet, Darrow."

"The wager said 'minute', I trust, not second?"  asked one of the
Senators.

"He shouldn't've excited himself like that," a doctor muttered.  "This
party was a mistake.  Of course we weren't consulted on that.  But it
set up circumstances which would obviously result in overstimulation,
certain death for a man in Henner's condition."

"Or, there's the voodoo element in this," another physician said
without rancor.  "Tell a victim often enough that he'll be dead at such
and such a time and the subconscious takes over and kills the man."

"Not in this instance," said Gus Molnar, loudly and belligerently.

"And there's ample medical substantiation, including your own remarks,"
he added, pointing at the voodoo adherent, "that the stimulation
provided by the original bet kept George Henner alive long past his
own medical men's estimate.  The bet did not cause his death, it caused
his life."

No one ventured to refute that statement.

"I believe," spoke up one of the attorneys present, "that the autopsy
was to be performed immediately?"

As if on cue, two men appeared from the hallway, wheeling a
stretcher.

Silently they approached, their passage unimpeded as guests stepped
aside hastily.  The body was laid on the stretcher in silence.  But, as
the men took their positions to leave, Molly broke from Henry's
embrace.  With gentle fingers, she closed the dead man's eyes.  The
tears streamed down her face as she kissed George on the forehead.  The
stretcher glided out of the room.  No one spoke until the last sound of
footsteps in the hall was gone.

"Mr. Darrow," said the attorney, his voice sounding abnormally loud
after the requiem silence, "I was enjoined by Mr. Henner to make a few
announcements at this time usually reserved until several days hence.

I was to tell you that this was one wager he didn't wish to win and
hoped he wouldn't: no matter what indication he gave to the contrary.

He said that you were sportsman enough, Mr. Darrow, to appreciate the
fact that he had to try to win."  The attorney turned to the physician
who had brought up the voodoo insinuation.  "He also ordered me to
counteract any attempt to bring charges resulting from a
misinterpretation of today's sad occasion.  He empowered me to say that
he had implicit trust in the integrity of all members of the
Parapsychic Center.  We," and he gestured towards his colleagues, "are
to be the executors of Mr. Henner's estate, the bulk of which,
excluding a few behests and excluding these grounds now the irrevocable
property of the North American Center for Parapsychic Talents, is to go
into a Trust Fund, providing legal assistance to anyone registered with
the Center who may be imprisoned or charged with damages or lawsuits
following the professional use of their Talent, until such time as
specific laws are promulgated to give the Talents professional
immunity."  The lawyer gave Henry a wry grin.  "He said, and I quote,
'If you ride a winged horse, you'd better have a wide net when you
fall.  And that takes money!"

"He also said that after he was dead," and the lawyer faltered,
embarrassed by the inadvertent rhyme, "he said the party was to begin.
That this was to be considered a joyous occasion ..."

"He was glad," Daffyd op Owen said, and his rather homely face lit with
happiness.  "That was so astonishing.  His mind, the thoughts were
happy, so happy at the moment of death.  He was happy.  I tell you.  I
know he was glad!"

"Thank God!"  was Henry Darrow's fervent prayer.  He raised his
untouched drink.  "A toast, ladies and gentlemen."  Glasses obediently
were lifted.  "To those who ride the winged horse!"

One after another the glasses followed Henry's into the fireplace of
Beechwoods to preserve the tribute to George Henner's memory.

PART TWO A WOMANLY TALENT

"If you were one whit less honorable, Daffyd op Owen," exclaimed Joel
Andres heatedly, "you and your whole Center could go ... go fly a
kinetic kite."

The passionate senator was one of those restlessly energetic men who
gave the appearance of continuous motion even in rare moments of
stasis.  Joel Andres was rigid now-with aggravation.  The object of his
frustration, Daffyd op Owen, Director of the East American
Parapsychological Research and Training Center, was his antithesis,
physically and emotionally.  Both men, however, had the same
indefinable strength and purposefulness, qualities which set them apart
from lesser men.

"I can't win support for my Bill," Andres continued, trying another
tack and pacing the thick piled green carpeting of op Owen's office, "if
you consistently play into Mansfield Zeusman's hands with this
irrational compulsion to tell everything you know.  If only on the
grounds that what you 'know' is not generally acceptable as reliable
'knowledge."

"And don't tell me that familiarity breeds contempt, Dave.  The
untalented are never going to be contemptuous of the psychic abilities,
they're going to continue being scared stiff.  It's human nature to
fear and distrustwhat is different.  Surely," and Andres flung his arms
wide, "you've studied enough behavioral psychology to understand that
basic fact."

"My Talent permits me to look below the surface rationalizations and
uncover the ..."

"But you cannot read the minds of every single one of the men who must
vote on this Bill, Dave.  Nor can you alter their thinking.  Not with
your thinking and your ethics!"  Joel was almost derisive  as he
pointed a nicotined finger accusingly at his friend.  "And don't give
me that wheeze about lawmakers being intelligent, thoughtful men!"

Op Owen smiled tolerantly at his friend, unaffected by the younger
man's histrionics.  "Not even when Senator Zeusman steals a march on us
with that so apt quotation from Pope?"

Andres made a startled noise of exasperation, then caught the look in
the other's eyes and laughed.

"Yeah, he sure caught me flat-footed there."  He deepened his voice
somewhat to mimic the affected bass of Mansfield Zeusman:

"'Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish or a sparrow
fall ..."

"What a rallying cry that is!  Why didn't I think of it first?  Mind
you," and Andres was deadly serious again, "that quote is pure genius
... for the opposition.  Spikes our pitch in a dozen places.  The irony
is that it would be just as powerful for us if we'd only thought of it
first.  Dave, won't you reconsider," Joel asked, leaning across the
table to the telepath, "eliminating the precogs from the Bill?  That's
what's hanging it up now in Committee.  I'm sure I could get it put on
..."

"The precogs need the legal protection most of all," op Owen replied
with unusual vehemence, a momentary flash of alarm crossing his face.

"I know, I know," and Andres tossed a hand ceilingward in
resignatiOn.

"But that's the facet of the parapsychic that scaresand
fascinates people most."

"And that is exactly why I insist we be as candid as possible on all
phases of the extrasensory perception Talents.  Then people will become
as used to them as to 'finders,' 'ports' and 'paths."  Henry Darrow was
so right about that."

Joel Andres whirled back to the desk, gripping the edges fiercely.

"The prophet Darrow notwithstanding, you don't tell suspicious
frightened people everything.  They automatically assume you're holding
something back because they would.  No one dares to be so honest
anymore.  Therefore they are sure that what you're withholding is far
worse than what you've readily admitted."  He caught the adamant gleam
in Daffyd's eye and unexpectedly capitulated.  "All right.  All
right.

But I insist that we continue to emphasize what the other Talents are
already able to do ... in their narrow specialized ways.  Once people
can stomach the idea that there are limits on individual psionic
Talents, that all Talents are not mind readers cum weight throwers cum
fire dowsers cum cry stalball-seers, all rolled up into one frightening
package, they'll start treating them as you want Talents treated: as
professional specialists, trained in one area of a varied profession
and entitled to professional immunity in that area if they are lice
nsed and registered with the Centers.  Don't," and the hand went up
again as Daffyd tried to interrupt, "tell them you're experimenting to
find out how to broaden every Talented mind.  Don't ask for the whole
piece of bread with jam on it, Dave!  You won't get it, but you will
get protection for your people in the practice of their speciality,
even your precogs.  I'll bear down heavily on the scientific
corroboration of authentic foresights," and Andres began to pace a
tight rectangle in front of op Owen's desk, his dark head down, his
gestures incisive, "the use of computers to correlate details and
estimate reliability of data, the fact that sometimes three and four
precogs come up with the same incident, seen from different angles.

And most importantlythat the Center never issues an official warning
unless the computer agrees that sufficient data coincides between
Incident and reality ..."

"Please emphasize that we admit to human fallibility and use computers
to limit human error."

Joel frowned at op Owen's droll interjection.  "Then I'll show how the
foresight prevented or averted the worst of the Incidents.  That
Monterey Quake is a heaven sent example.  No heroes perished, even if a
few sparrows did fall from gas discharges."

"I thought it was the meddling with the sparrow's fall that perturbs
Senator Zeusman," Daffyd remarked wryly.  "For want of that seed, the
grain won't sprout ..."

"Hmmm, yes, it does!  'What will be, will be,' " and Andres mimicked
Zeusman's voice again.

"Since he initiated Pope," said op Owen, "I'd reply 'Whatever is, is
right."" "You want me to turn Papist now, huh?"  Joel grinned
wickedly.

Daffyd chuckled as he continued, "Pope also advises, 'Be candid where
we can but vindicate the ways of God to man!'" The gently delivered
quote had an instant effect on the senator, comparable to touching a
match to a onesecond fuse.  Midway to  explosion, Andres snapped his
mouth shut, sighed extravagantly and rolled his slightly yellowed eyes
heavenwards.

"You are the most difficult man to help, Daffyd op Owen!"

"That's only because I'm aware how carefully we must move in the
promulgation of this Bill, Joel.  I don't want it backfiring at the
wrong time, when some of the basic research now in progress becomes
demonstrable.  The Talents can't be hamstrung by obsolete statutes
imperfectly realized on a scrabbling compromise basis."

"Dave, you want to run before you can walk?"

"No, but trouble has been foreseen."

"Darrow again, huh?  Or are you hoist on your own petard?"  Joel
waggled a finger triumphantly.  "Trouble stemming from current
nonprotection.  Go cast up a precog after the Bill is passed."

"Ahha" and Daffyd mimicked Joel now, "but we don't see the Bill
passing!"

That rendered Andres speechless.

"And we are hoist on our own petard," the telepath continued with a
hint of sorrowful resignation in his voice, "because all our preventive
methods are affecting the future, unfortunately, much as Senator
Zeusman presented the syndrome in his Sparrow's Fall peroration.  That
was such a masterful speech," op Owen said with rueful envy.  "Valid,
too, for as surely as the Center issues a warning, allowing people a
chance to avert or prevent tragedy, they have already prejudiced the
events from happening as they were foreseen.  That's the paradox.  Yet
how, bow can an ethical man stand aside and let a hero perish, or even
a sparrow fall, when he knows that he can prevent unnecessary or
premature loss."

"The Monterey Quake could not have been prevented," Joel reminded him,
then blinked in amazement.  "You're not holding out on me, are you?

You haven't found a kinetic strong enough to hold the earth's surface
together?"

Dave's laughter was a spontaneous outburst of delight at his friend's
discomposure.

"No, no.  At least ... not yet," he said just to watch the outraged
expression on Andres's mobile face.

There were few people with whom Daffyd op Owen could relax or indulge
in his flights of humor and hyperbole.  "Seriously, Joel, the Monterey
Quake is a spectacular Incident and a prime example of the concerted
use of Talent, minimizing the loss of life or property.  We have never
had so many precogs stimulated in their separate affinities.  And it's
the most concrete example of why precogs need legal protection.  Do you
realize that the Western Center was deluged with damage suits for the
tsunami that followed?

" "That was predictable."

"But we issued no warnings.  And it's against such irrational attitudes
that precogs need legal protection more than any other Talent.  Theirs
is stimulated by mental perceptions as erratic as a smell in the
morning air, a glance at a photo, the sound of a name.  In a sense,
precog is tremendously unreliable because it cannot be used as
consciously as telepathy, teleportation and telekinesis.  And to
protect the Talent as well as the Center, we insist on computer
corroboration when details are coherently specific.  We never issue a
public warning until the computer admits reliability ... and we get
damned because we have 'heard' and not spoken.  Of course, a number of
our precogs have become absorbed into business where peculiar
affinities place them.  For instance ," and Daffyd held up a tapefile,
"this young man, who's applying for progeny approval, is a
fireconscious.  But he's one reason this city has such low
fireinsurance rates: his Talent prevents thema blessing indirectly
passed on to every resident ..."

"Hmmm, but scarcely spectacular enough to register with the average
egocentric Joe Citizen," said Andres sourly.  He was restless with
Daffyd's earnest review of facts he knew well.  "However, every little
bit helps, Dave, and the public moves a lot faster pro bona
pocketbook."

"True, exactly true, and they get rather nasty when we try to save them
money and will not understand that a legitimate forewarning
automatically alters the future, even to the point of preventing the
foreseen Incident which will have cost old publican money, or time, or
effort he then feels was unnecessary."

"And there we are, right back at square one," said Joel in flat
disgust.  "That is what Mansfield calls 'meddling' and what makes him
fight this Bill with every ounce of his outraged moralistic,
neoreligious, mockethical fibre.  Remember, he's backed by the
transport lobbies, and every time one of your precogs hits that jolly
little brotherhood, causing delays, hurried inspections, the whole
jazzyou got a number one headache.  Because, when the predictions don't
happen as predicted, Transport swears your meddling is superstitious
interference, uncalled for, unnecessary and nothing would have happened
anyway."

Daffyd sighed wearily.  "How many times have we found bombs?  Fuel
leaks?  Averted hijacks?  Metal fatigue ... mechanical
justifications?"

"Doesn't signify, Dave, not if it touches the pocketbook of the
Transport Companies.  Remember, every precog implies fault: human or
mechanical, since the Companies will not recognize Providence as a
force.  And human or mechanical, the public loses faith in the Company
thus stigmatized.  When Company profits are hit, Company gets mad, sues
the precog for defamation of character, interference, etcetera."

"Then we are to allow the traveling public to fry in their own juice or
be spread across the fields because a precog has seen a crash but
doesn't want to offend a Company?  For want of a screw the nail was
lost!"  op Owen's usually soothing voice was rough with asperity.

"Damn it, Joel, we have to preserve impartiality, and warn anyone or
anything that is touched by the precognitive Talent, or we do usurp the
position of the Almighty by withholding that evidence.  I don't care if
the transportation companies then decide to disregard the
warningthat's their problem.  But I want my people protected when, in
good faith and based on computer-accepted detail, they issue that
warning.  We have no ax to grind, commercially, thanks to the Darrow
endowment and member supp ort, but we must continue to be impartial."

"I hope your altruism is not going to be your downfall," said Joel, his
manner unusually grave.

"There's been no warning that it will," Daffyd replied.A hint of
irritation in his voice.

"You're too honest to be up against us crook politicians," Joel said,
grinning, then glanced at his watch.  "Wup.  Gotta go."

"You push yourself too hard, Joel.  You don't look well."

"A bit liverish, that's all, and no snooping."

"Not without permission and you know it."

"Hah!  Among friends, I don't trust telepaths.  Say, how's the
recruiting program?"  Joel asked as he swooped up his travel cape and
case.

"We get hopefuls every week," the director replied as he escorted the
senator to the elevator.  "Sometimes we even catch a few young ones,
before they learn to suppress a perfectly normal ability."

"That's another phrase you should delete around Zeusman," Joel said.

"He will not buy your premise that every mind has psionic Talent.  "
"But, Joel, that is scientifically valid.  We know that those who
possess Talent have strong, healthy twenty-first chromosome pairs.  It
is certainly admissible evidence that when the twenty-first is blurred
or damaged to any degree, brain function is inhibited. And, with the
Downs's Syndrome, you have mental retardation."

"Don't beleaguer me," Joel said with widened eyes of innocence, "I
believe!"  He laid a hand on his heart.  "I couldn't doubtnot after
that 'finder' located my brother in the mine shaft before he bled to
death.  If we could only subject Mansfield Zeusman to such an
experience, he wouldn't be so skeptical.  Can't one of your pet Talents
do something about that?  I thought they always keep an eye on
controversial men to prevent assassination and stuff."

Op Owen gave a snort.  "Would Senator Zeusman honor a precog foreseeing
his own demise?"

"Hmmm.  Probably not.  Say, you're not funded on the Government
Research Program, are you?"

"No, thank God.  The Henner Bequest was reserved for that.  Why?"

"Hmmm.  Just that Zeusman is extending this argument against the Bill
to all 'specious'-as he terms itforms of research, government funded.

And spring is appropriations time, you know."

"Fortunately, we've never had that kind of pressure."

"Talented of you," Joel said with a grin.

Behind him the elevator door slid open and a young woman, obviously in
a hurry, ran out, right into the muscular frame of the young Senator.

She blurted out an apology, flushing with embarrassment as Andres
reached out to steady her.  Then her eyes opened wider as she saw op
Owen and one hand flew to her mouth.  "I'm awfully sorry, sir."

Just as Daffyd recognized Ruth Horvath, he also identified the combined
emotions of shame at her precipitous arrival into a distinguished
champion of the Talented, regret for her impulsiveness in coming to the
Tower at this hour, and the underlying hope and apprehension that had
compelled her to come.  Instinctively, Daffyd touched her with soothing
reassurances: but Joel Andres's amiable and admiring glance was the
tonic the pretty woman needed.

"No harm done, I assure you, Miss ... ?"

"Mrs. Horvath ... Senator Andres," Daffyd said and watched Joel's
expression change from delighted interest to flattering chagrin.

"I do apologize, Senator," Ruth repeated, her cheeks blushstained
again.

"And I apologize for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and
..."  an extravagant sigh "... too late."  He bowed deeply to Ruth,
reluctantly stepping aside to let her pass.

Instead she fumbled with the elevator button.

"I'm on my lunch break," she said with a slammer.  "I've got to get
back."

The panel slid open and Andres stepped in beside her, one finger
jamming the "hold" button.

"Me, too," he said, grinning down at her.

"Your file is on my desk right now, Ruth," Daffyd said, suddenly
comprehending the reason for her visit and her hesitancy in mentioning
the subject in Andres's presence.  "I'll call you tomorrow."

Her face lit up, her eyes became eager and, as she glanced away, Daffyd
thought he saw the shine of tears.

"Take care of yourself, Joel.  You're working too hard."

"A pleasure, I assure you."  Joel's laugh was cut off by the closing
door.

Daffyd op Owen stood looking at the indicator panel for a few moments
before he turned slowly back to his isolated tower office.  He had much
to think about.  Not that he would deflect one centimeter from his
course of action.  Only his firm beliefs sustained him for it didn't
require precog, only intelligent extrapolationwhich some uninformed
people insisted was the essence of precog to determine the difficulties
still faced by the Talented all over the world.  The Bill was so vital
a forward step, raising the Talents from the onerous category of
"mental chiropractors," (Senator Zeusman's phrase, though chiropractic
treatment had long been an accredited branch of medicine), to a
creditable position among professional abilities.  Mansfield Zeusman
had already stalled the Bill in Committee for months, was capable of
stalling it through the summer, and keeping it off the agenda next
year.  The senator was hoping to find some discrediting Incident that
would forever banish hope of legal protection for the Talented.

The sheer genius of that Pope quotation was a measure of their
opponent's worth, op Owen mused as he turned to the mass of
administrated files awaiting him.  The pity of it was that the quote
would have been much more applicable to the Talent side of the argument.  Come to think of it, much of Pope's "Essay on Man" was to the
point.

Other pertinent lines came easily out of mental storage.  Not much that
Daffyd op Owen had once seen could elude his recall ... a blessing as
well as a handicap.

With too much knowledge for the Skeptic side, With too much weakness
for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest: In
doubt to deem himself a God or Beast: In doubt his mind or body to
prefer Born but to die and reas'ning but to err ...

"Enough!"  and op Owen roused from introspection to direction.  He
flipped open the nearest tape case and slapped it into the playback.

It seemed somehow meet that it was the Horvaths' progeny application.

Were op Owen a superstitious man he could have accou nted it a good
omen: a favorable auspice for the work he and his fellow directors
around the world were inaugurating.  Breed like to like, strengthen
strong genetic Talent traits and develop, not the super race of
omniscient, omnipotent superpeople Zeusman basically feared, but people
trained and conditioned from childhood to use their Talents for the
benefit of man.  And, by such service, force the World to recognize the
treasure that can be unlocked in the unused, untapped portion of the
human brain.

A flaming, shattering precog caught Lajos Horvath at the moment when
REM sleep was over and his unconscious mind was rousing from that phase
of rest.

His groan of anguish awakened his wife instantly.  With the reflex of
training, Ruth flipped the recorder and pulled the retractable
electrode Goosegg net to his head, expertly clamping the metal discs on
the circles of his scalp that had been permanently depilated.

Blinking her eyes to see the reading in the dawndim room, Ruth watched
the definite pattern of an Incident emerge.  Center was already picking
it up for authentication.  The Incident lasted a scant eleven seconds
before the brain waves settled back to a calm reading.  She lay back,
going through the discipline that would relax her and prevent her from
imposing her hasteurgency reaction on Lajos.  As soon as he roused, she
must be composed enough to question him for a verbal report.

She achieved the proper repose quickly, suppressing the thrill of
satisfaction at her success.  She was no longer as troubled by flashes
of envy that Lajos possessed a valid Talent while hers was so nebulous
as to elude identification.  Now it was enough for her to know that, by
the exercise of the deep empathy which existed between them, by her
womanliness, she made his development more certain.  Lajos needed her
as a buffer, a source of solace from the sharp edges of Talent.  Even
the strongest personality could succumb to the Cassandra complex that
destroyed the sanity of the unwary precog.  Why was it, Ruth mused in a
quiet inner voice, that tragedy has such a vicious way of reaching out
of the mists of the future: like a falling man, blindly grabbing at
anyt hing to restore balance and avert his fall?

Again the needle rushed across the graph, a slight whoosh barely
audible in the quiet room.  Ruth glanced over to make sure the Incident
was being beamed to the Center and noticed the smile on her husband's
face.  A smile?  A happy premonition?  She forced her self to relax,
unaccountably assailed by a raving curiosity.  Lajos so rarely had
happy foresights, and fleetingly she regretted that he was a precog.

Lajos stirred restlessly.  He was waking now.  She turned on the voice
recorder and leaned towards him.

"What is it?  What do you see?"  she asked in the soft persuasive voice
the Center had taught her to use at these times.  Her ability to
stimulate his verbal accounts was highly praised, for it was sometimes
difficult for the precog to articulate the semireal into sufficient
detail for preventive or supportive action.

"Flames!"  Lajos groaned.  "Must it always be flames?"  He sat bolt
upright in bed then, his brown eyes wide as he stared straight ahead at
the retinal image of his premonitory vision.  The electrodes were
jerked from his skull, retracting with a metallic clink into the
case.

"The ship's burning, exploding.  Throwing flaming debris across the
harbor into the suburbs.  Damp it!  Deflect!  Shield those
passengers.

Watch out!  The propellant will spray.  It's exploding.  Contain it!"

"Markings on the liner?"  a gentle but insistent voice whispered from
the intercom.

Lajos shook his head, blinking furiously in an attempt to hold the
fading sight.  "It's awash with flame.  I think I see an eight, a four,
a threeor is it another eight?  It's a Reynarder.  It must be.  They're
the only ones who use that class."

"Which class?"  the inexorable whisper wanted to know.

Suddenly Lajos sagged, panting with shock, cold sweat breaking out on
his forehead.  He lay back exhausted.

"It's gone," he moaned.  "It's gone."

"You had a second one," Ruth said.  "What was that about?"

Lajos's brows drew together in a half frown as he brushed his straight
black hair out of his face.  He kept it overlong to hide the depilated
circles where the electrodes fit.  His lips curved in a halfsided
smile.  "Something good?"  he asked hopefully.

Ruth suppressed her sigh.  Lajos rarely detailed the felicitous ones.

"Incident validated, a strong reading, Lajos," the intercom voice
said.

"Report in as soon as you're able."

"They'll check it out, won't they?"  Lajos asked needlessly.

"Action already initiated."

Lajos lay so still that Ruth knew it was not passive quiescence but
rigid strain.  Another thorn in the Talented's side was the harsh
realization that their warnings were often disregarded and they were
forced to see their predictions come horribly true.  Ruth wiped the
sweat from Lajos's forehead and began to massage his neck and
shoulders.  After a moment he grinned weakly up at her.

"What a way to start the day, huh?"

"At least you ended on a happy note.  Maybe that means they'll
prevent?"

"If they can correlate enough data, in enough time," he said
gloomily.

"And Reynarder bothers to listen!"  He flopped onto his stomach,
pounding the mattress with impotent fists.

Ruth transferred her attention to his muscular back.  She loved the
line of him, the broad double plateau of his shoulder blades with the
small mounds of hard muscle, the graceful curve that swept down to the
narrow waist, the hollow of his spine, the Greci an beauty of his
buttocks.  She quickly suppressed a flare of desire.  This was not the
time to intrude sex on his personal anguish.  And she knew that her
intense sexual hunger for him stemmed from a yearning for the child of
his seed.  A daughter, tall and fair, with Lajos's dimples in her
cheek.  A son, strongbacked and arrogant, with thick black straight
hair.

This hunger for his child was so primal, it paralyzed the
sophistication overlaid by education and social reflexes.  Nowadays a
woman was expected to assume more than the ancient duties required of
her.  Nowadays, and Ruth smiled to herself, the sophists cal led those
womanly talents, Maintenance, Repair and Replacement, instead of
housekeeping, cooking, nursing and having babies, but the titles didn't
alter the duties nor curb the resurgent desires.  And, when you got
down to it, men still explored new ground, even if it were alien lands,
and defended their homes and families.  You could call Lajos's precog a
kind of an earlywarning defense system.  Well, then, she'd added the
chore of being CerebralRecording Secretary to Maintenance and Repair
but they'd better let her Replace soon or....

She concentrated on more soothing thoughts, using her latent empathy to
ease his remorse.  When he began to take deep long breaths, she knew he
was conquering the aftermath of the Incident, dispelling its
destructive despondency.  He had done everything he could.  He could
not change the course of every fated life.  Some events had to come to
their dire conclusions, for out of present tragedy so often rose future
triumph; the result of sorrowful recriminations was often the catalyst
of progress.  A specious rati onale in the Silverlined Cloud Approach
but true enough to save the sanity of the Talented.

It was a bitter thing, Ruth understood, to be Talented: bitter and
wonderful.  But it was worse to have evidence of Talent and never know
what it was.  Nonsense, she told herself sternly, discarding these
reflections, you can't be what you can't be.

"Ahh, you've got the right spot," Lajos said gratefully and she doubled
her efforts across the heavy shoulder muscles.

And yet, when she anticipated his desires and needs, sometimes the
words from his mouth, she wondered just how she had tapped that need;
just what might awaken the occluded Talent within her.

The Center believed that psionic abilities were latent human
characteristics: their absence due to malfunction of the necessary
brain synapses or, even more basically, underdevelopment due to a
protein lack in the gene.  When chromosomes in the twenty-first pair
were damaged or blurred, no Talent was detected.  There was no
aberration in Ruth's chromosomes, and although she tested as Talented,
her ability was unidentifiable.  She had never been able to stimulate
an Incident involving any of the known abilities.

She'd met Lajos during the testing: they'd been approached by the
Eastern American Center after finishing their secondary schooling and
had qualified for the sixmonths' training designed to stimulate latent
Talent.  Their genetic history had been taped back to the fourth
generation.  They had endured hours of cerebral recording on the
Goosegg under a variety of stimuli.  Ruth was finally labeled
"indeterminate"; Lajos showed strong precog tendencies.

Ruth still secretly hoped that her Talent would develop.  She'd been
assured that this was a possibility: they cited her high empathy
rating, her ability to anticipate attitudes and actions of those
nearest and dearest to her.  True, she might be no more than a
receptive telempath, one unable to broadcast but receptive.  Ruth
therefore alternated between hope and despair: being a practical
creature, she dwelt mostly on the pessimistic side of the pendulum,
refusing to believe anything but the most conclusive evidence.  This
attitude was reinforced during Lajos's worst Incidents, when she wanted
no part of the cruel gift.

Lajos Horvath was one of several thousand Talented people, licensed and
registered with the Center; devoted to its precepts and ideals,
contributing all of his salary to it.  The Center was not
paternalistic, nor did it require any recompense.  But the Talen ted
preferred to live together, if possible, on or near the Center's
grounds at Beechwoods, among their peers: reassured and reinforced.  As
the Center "policed" its own members, it also protected them.

Ruth had no specific objections to their situation: she had willingly
taken the course orienting untalented partners to their gifted
spouses.

She would have undergone a far more arduous requirement, so deep was
her love of Lajos.  But lately, obedience to E.A.C. had begun to gall
Ruth and it was not due to any fault of the Center's.  She recognized
that.

The muted buzz of the intercom roused both of them.  Lajos propped
himself up on his elbows, his profile towards her so that she observed
the thin bitter line of his mouth and knew that he was steeling
himself.

"Lajos," it was Daffyd op Owen, "you were correct.  A class 7 Reynarder
had a propellant leak at Buffalo jetport."

Something in the director's slow deep voice told them that Lajoss
information had not averted.

"And?"  Lajos's question was a firm demand for the truth.

"We had to compute the variable details with the possible airports near
water, flights landing or departing on the Reynarder line.  We got only
one other personal precog involving the Incident but your data
aloneparticularly the registrywas sufficient.  The loss would have been
catastrophic without your warning.  Teleports on the Rescue Squad
deflected most of the flaming wreckage into the Lake before it could
land in the suburbs.  Kinetics managed to shield the passenger deck
until the propellant could be foamed.  The passengers and crew
suffered massive heat prostration but all will live.  Ruth, does he
need a tranquilizer?"

"No!"  the negative exploded from Lajos's lips.

"Good lad!"  op Owen's voice was warm with approval.  "We've
authenticated the Incident.  It averted a major tragedy: one more pound
of evidence on our side of the scales for the Bill.  And the passengers
and jetport personnel know who gave the warning."

Lajos went limp with relief as the Director signed off with expressions
of gratitude.  Lajos halfturned his face and Ruth didn't know for a
moment whether to comfort him or not.  She waited.  Finally he gave a
long shuddering sigh and relaxed, one hand slipping over the side of
the bed, fingers limp, the veins in his forearm bulging, blue under his
unusually fair skin.

"Then what I sawdidn't happen, Ruth.  The jet didn't turn into a
flaming hull, exploding all over the suburbs.  So what did I see?

Which didn't happen because I saw it?  Because my seeing it was
sufficient to alter the future?"  He shook his head, his beard stubble
rasping against the tightly drawn bedsheet, but his voice was no longer
hoarse with recrimination; it was calm: his philosophy was asserting
itself.

Ruth felt the muscles in her shoulders unknot and only then realized
how tense she had become, waiting for his reaction.

"'A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenious paradox,'" she chanted
lightly, stroking his back with her fingertips.  "My darling pirate,"
and she kissed his cheek.

Lajos bounced out of bed and stretched, his sleeppants falling off his
narrow hips.  He grabbed them back up, not out of modesty but to keep
from tripping over them on the way to the bathroom.

"Maybe the good precog you had ... it followed a bare sixty seconds
after the first, you know," Ruth remarked later as she served his
breakfast, "was the realization that you had averted."

Lajos considered that, then shook his head.  "No.  The two were
definitely nonrelated."

"Why is it," Ruth asked with mock shrewishness, "that you can detail
the horrors but not the happies?"

He didn't know and began to eat heartily, his appetite indicative of
restored equilibrium.

"Got to run, honey.  Be a busy day.  And that's no precog.  It's a sure
thing."  He grinned then kissed her soundly.  "Annual review of
contracts, and Zeusman notwithstanding, the Firm handles the
government's insurances in this city."

Ruth would have to hurry as well.  She disliked being late although her
job was not essential.  She fitted filaments to fractional feeders, an
intricate, delicate operation which required deft hands even with
waldoaids, and a certain tenacious patience with micromovements.  Her
employers never objected to her occasional delays as they employed
teleports and telekinetics for the transportation of delicate equipment
and to assemble by remote control the "hot" components of
instrumentation to be used in the Jupiter probes.  Ruth did not need
to work, for Lajos was highly paid, but she preferred to keep busy
until their request for progeny was approved.  She wanted so to be a
fulltime mother.

There was unlikely to be a problem in receiving approval-eventually-but
anyone was liable to pick up a dose of accidental radiation that could
blur or damage chromosomes.  They knew their genetic patterns were
sound and they had completed the three years' probation to establish
the compatibility and stability of their marriage.  For the last six
months they had undergone continual egg and sperm cell check for
possible aberrations.  It was time-consuming, but who wanted a
handicapped child?  It had taken years to weed out the psychedelic
damages that had resulted in the freaks of the late Seventies and early
Eighties.  There were still occasional mutants as a result of the heavy
Solar Winds in the first decade of the twenty-first century.  It was
only common sense to check every variable.

But Ruth found it hard to be patient.  She asked for very little of
what her heritage had once seemed to offer.  She didn't mind being an
unidentifiable Talent, she had adjusted to it.  She didn't really mind
the often worrisome role of a passive observer to the mental  asked in
a small voice, aware even as the words popped out that she sounded
resentful.  Oh, I don't mean it that way.  It's just that when you
predetermine, it takes away all the mystery that's left to
motherhood."

"Ruthie," and Lajos's tender teasing voice thrilled her.  "You're a
real recessive.  O.K., we'll just let nature take its course."

"Can't we eat first?"

Lajos threw back his head and laughed boyishly at her deliberate
coquetry.  He hugged her until he heard her ribs crack and her dinner
sizzling.

It was a magical night.  Ruth responded to lovemaking with an ardor
that astounded her husband: a surrender that left him breathless and
not a little awed: as if, sloughing off the onus of contraceptive
interference, she could allow herself to be touched to the depths of
her being.

If the quality of their loving had anything to do with the final
product, their child ought to be a perfect human, Lajos thought as they
finally fell asleep in each other's arms.  There was no guarantee that
conception occurred that night.  In fact, Lajos hoped that it hadn't
if Ruth would react like this until she did conceive.

Shortly, however, it was apparent that conception had occurred.  Ruth
developed a luminous beauty that touched everything around her with
harmony.  Jerry Frames, the Center's resident physician, with a healing
talent, privately told op Owen that the foetus was female and that
Ruth was healthy enough to experience no problems.

The girl weighed seven pounds and three ounces at birth and was
immediately christened the Little Princess by the nursery staff in the
Center's hospital.  Her parents called her Dorotea and were utterly
besotted with her miniature perfection, her pink-and-gold beauty.  They
were oblivious to the curious stares and whispered comments of the
staff.  It was Ruth, preternaturally sensitive to anything regarding
her daughter, who began to notice the surreptitious glances, the
cluster of people constantly near her daughter's crib.

"You're hiding something from me," she told Jerry Frames accusingly.

"There's something wrong with Dorotea."

"There's not a thing wrong with her, Ruth," Jerry replied sharply and
thrust the baby's chart at her.  "You've enough pediatrics to read the
medical notations.  Go ahead."

Ruth scanned the sheets quickly, then reread word and graph, checking
the laboratory reports of body function, the cerebral and cardiac
readings, even the nourishment intake and eliminations.  There was
definitely nothing abnormal about Dorotea.  Even her chromosome
mapping was XX/healthy/normal.  Reassured, Ruth passed the clipboard
back, and smiling confidently, continued to nurse her child.

Frames later said that he'd had a moment of pure panic because he
couldn't remember how much genetic training Ruth had had or might
remember.  Op Owen assured him that his instinctive impulse had been
the only possible course under the circumstances.

"It's exceedingly fortunate though, Jerry," the director said, his eyes
active with speculation, "that they are already under the Center's
protection.  That child must have every safeguard we can provide.  I
want equipment installed in her nursery, tuned to her pattern day and
night.  If what we suspect is correct, it may manifest itself in her
first six months.  Can you imagine the strides we can make in
formulating an early childhood program with such a superb example?"

"A pure case of doing what comes naturally."

"Nothing must interfere with the child's development."

"I still don't see why we've kept it from the parents.  Are you
stepping down from your 'knowall, tellall' pedestal after all?"

Op Owen returned the physician's sardonic look.

"I'm not a precog, but I felt a strong reluctance to inform Lajos."

"Why?  He'd be walking nine feet tall to think he produced such a
Talented child."

"Haven't we changed sides, Jerry?"

"It's one thing to withhold information from the unwashed public, but
another to clam up on one of the gang."

"We don't know positively that Dorotea Horvath is ..."

"Come off it, Dave.  Cecily King is a strong TP and she heard that
child protest birth.  Oh, I know that some of 'em can cry out in the
womb but this was no physical cry or it would have been audible to the
rest of the delivery room personnel.  Is your stumbling block Ruth
Horvath?"

Op Owen nodded slowly.

"Well, that makes a little more sense, although I'd say she'd welcome
her daughter's Talent.  A kind of vindication that she's never been
identified.  Unless you call the transmission of strong genetic traits
a Talent."

Op Owen shook his head, his lips pursed in thought.  "She has wanted a
child desperately.  As a mother wants a child: not as a Talented person
wants evidence of succession."  He spoke slowly, the words dragged out
of his mouth as if he were sorting the thoughts.  "Lajos says that
although Ruth is a great help and very understanding, sometimes his
Incidents bother her more than she admits.  Let's just let things take
their course.  We'll keep an eye on them."

"What they don't know won't hurt them, huh?"  Frames sighed.  "Wish
you'd let that attitude spill over into other areas, Dave."

Op Owen regarded the doctor intently.  "I can conceivably bend a little
privately, for the benefit of those under my care, but I cannot as
easily rationalize the broader issue which I cannot oversee or
control."

"All right, Dave, but I feel, and Joel Andres feels, that private
reactions are a strong basis for predicting public ones.  You're
reluctant to tell Ruth Horvath, a girl conditioned and trained to
accept Talent, that her child shows exceedingly strong telep athic
Talent.  You willingly want to broadcast information that even
frightens me, and I'm Talented, to a public that is in no way
conditioned to accept a fragment of that knowledge.  The two attitudes
cannot be reconciled."

"The ethical position of the Talented must never be questioned."

"Dave," and there was entreaty in Jerry Frame's voice and manner, "yo
are unable to be unethical.  The withholding of prejudicial knowledge
is not unethical, it's plain good of' common sense.  Which you are
sensibly applying to Ruth Horvath's case.  How many times I have
considered telling a patient he's bought it and how few times have I
actually come clean.  Very few people can stand the whole, complete,
unvarnished truth."

"I hang between, in doubt to act or rest," op Owen said, resigned as
well as frustrated.

"What's that?"

"I apologize, Jerry.  Your point is well taken.  I've erredon the side
of the angels, I hope but this attitude of mine towards Ruth Horvath is
a curious vacillation from my tendency to be forthright.  Yet I know
that there is a reason to be slightly devious."

"Then you'll ease back on this allopenandaboveboard routine?"

"Yes, I'll ease back as you put it."

"Still," and Jerry frowned slightly, "it isn't as if they won't find
out soon enough."  He meant the Horvaths.

"They need time to get used to the idea."  Op Owen was thinking about
humanity.

"Where on earth did she get those blue eyes?"  Lajos asked as he sat
entranced by his threemonthold daughter's at tempts to capture her
toes.  She flopped over, gurgling cheerfully to herself.

"Heavens, it's possible," Ruth replied, beaming fatuously as she caught
her daughter's eye.  "I may be greyeyed, and you brown, but we both
have ancestors with blue eyesfour generations back."

"I always said you were recessive, hon."

"Humph.  I don't mind in the least, not if it produces a blueeyed
blonde daughter with dimples.  And I've got her, haven't I, love?

You're all mine."

"Except for the twenty-three chromosomes from me."

Dorotea twisted her head backwards over her shoulder and burbled
moistly at her mother.

"Love at first bite," Lajos said in a mutter of mock surliness.

"There's a conspiracy of females against this poor lone male."

Dorotea impartially gurgled at him, her eyes bright and wide and
happy.

"You never had it so good," said Ruth.

And Lajos privately admitted the truth of that.  Ruth was so enthralled
with her daughter, their apartment had a noticeable atmosphere of
benevolence.  He was more relaxed than ever, and despite an increase in
Incidents, extending beyond his usual affinity, he suffered less from
the depressions and exhaustions that were the inevitable postlude.

The day Dorotea's Talent blossomed, Daffyd op Owen was reviewing the
records obtained overtly and covertly from the Horvath apartment.  He'd
had Lester Welch, his electronic chief, rig a buried web in Ruth's
mattress, in case the baby instinctively contacted her mother first.

However, Lester had pointed out the slight variation in Ruth's
readings.  It was more as if the needle had snagged itself on an
imperfection in the graph paper.  There was no such variation on the
baby's recordings.  Welch had been about to discredit the occurrences
until he checked them against Lajos's and discovered that the minute
variations in Ruth's chart always occurred exactly at the onset of
Lajos' Incidents.

"She might well be a latent 'receiver,' " op Owen said to Welch, "only
now beginning to develop from continued proximity to her husband and
the advent of the child.  I can't present another explanation."

"That'd be nice, Dave.  Ruth's a good little person: cheerful,
intelligent and crazy for her husband and child.  Just the sort of
well-balanced, understanding parent to have for a ..."

Lester was abruptly staring at op Owen's retreating back.  The man had
leaped to his feet and raced down the hall to the recording room.

Lester Welch was not Talented, although his electronic engineering was
often sheer inventive genius, but op Owen didn't react like that
without good cause.  When Welch reached the doorway, he saw that
Charlie Moorfield, the day engineer, was hunched over the console,
unconscious, but op Owen's attention was for a graph.

"Take a close look at Dorotea's graph," op Owen said, grinning fit to
pop his jaw, and then he passed his associate on his way out.

Common sense told op Owen that, despite the urgency of the summons,
there could be no danger threatening the baby.  Yet he could not
disregard that call.  What could have happened, he wondered as he ran
down the front steps.  Suddenly he noticed that there seemed to be a
mass exodus from all parts of the building.  And everyone was headed in
the same direction.  As abruptly as the call had been issued, it
ceased.  People slowed down, stopped, looked around, grinning
foolishly.

"What was that?"

"Who called?"

"Wot hoppened?"

"It's all right," op Owen found himself reassuring them.  "A new
technique improperly shielded," he said to the telepaths.  And grinned
at his own dissembling as he continued towards the Horvaths'
apartment.

There was a crowd in the hall before their apartment.  Op Owen
politely pushed his way through the disturbed residents.  Dorotea her
baby face still tear streaked, was held high in her mother's arms,
cooing and chortling at the smiling faces around her.  Op Owen's
arrival signaled the crowd's discreet dispersal and shortly, he was
alone with the mortified mother.

"I'm so embarrassed, sir," Ruth said, jiggling her baby as she walked
nervously up and down her living room.  "I fell asleep with the tape
recorder blaring away.  And I just ... didn't hear Dorotea wake up
...

I've never done such a thing before and we've never permitted her to
cry long..."

"No one is remotely suggesting that you mistreat Dorotea."  Op Owen
smiled as the baby flirted delightfully with him.  "In fact a little
honest frustration is very useful.  It certainly placed her Talent."

"Ooooooooh," and Ruth collapsed on the sofa, staring wideeyed at Daffyd
op Owen as she absorbed the implication, which she had been too
preoccupied with calming Dorotea to see.

"She broadcast a very loud signal.  I shouldn't be at all surprised if
every Talent in the city heard her."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Lajos charged through
the door.

"What happened to her?  How did she get hurt?  My head is splitting!"

Lajos snatched Dorotea from her mother's lap to examine her
firsthand.

She began to whimper, catching his anxiety.

"Only her feelings were hurt," Ruth replied, suddenly very calm.  Op
Owen noticed that with approval: she was dampening her own distress to
soothe the others.  "I'd fallen asleep with the tape recorder blasting
away and just didn't hear her when she woke up hungry and all damp."

She took her daughter back, rocking her until the baby began to beam
again.  "She was hurt because she felt she was being ignored, isn't
that right, sweetie?"

"Well, good god!"  Lajos sank onto the couch, mopping his forehead.  "I
never heard anything like it before.  Sir," and he turned to op Owen,
"look, this can't ... I mean, can this sort of thing happen every time
my daughter's upset?"

"Oh, I'm sure she's likely to protest many assumed indignities,
Lajos.

Babies have to suffer some frustrations to grow.  We'll just move you
all to a shielded apartment and dampen down that lovely loud young
voice."

"You're not surprised about Dorotea at all," Ruth said, regarding op
Owen with round, suspicious eyes.  "So that's why everyone was so
excited about her in the nursery."

"Well, yes," the Director agreed slowly.  "She was heard by the TP
nurse at birth."

"But I thought psionic Talents don't usually show up until adolescence
..."

"Conscious Talent," op Owen said, correcting her.

Ruth looked down at the drooling baby in her arms.  A strained look
crossed her pretty face.  "But I want Dorotea to have a normal, happy
childhood!"

"And she won't because she's Talented?  Is that it, my dear?"  Op Owen
knew, sadly, that his instinct about not telling Ruth at once had been
all too wellfounded.  "Except for this ability, which might as well be
drawing freehand, she is a normal, healthy child, totally unaware that
she is in any way remarkable ..."

"But I know you'll want to test her, and all that, with stimuli ..."

Ruth's distress was so acute that she couldn't go on.

"Ruth!"  Lajos bent to comfort her, surprised by her reaction.  She
clutched her daughter tightly to her.

"My dear Ruth!"  op Owen said gently, "testing and stimuli are for
people who come to us after they have subverted and suppressed their
Talents.  We know what Dorotea is already, a very strong telepath.  And
we've been 'testing' her, as you call it, already.

As for stimuli, I assure you," and there was nothing forced in op
Owen's chuckle, "she's applying the only stimuli ... to us."

Lajos laughed, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he
remembered his frantic homeward flight.  Beneath his arm, he could feel
Ruth relaxing.  A slight smile touched her lips.

"Dorotea will have an unusual opportunity, my dear.  One denied you and
Lajos, and myself, and so many other potential Talents.  She has the
chance to grow up in her Talent, learning to use it as naturally as she
learns to walk and talk.  We will all help her to understand it ... as
much as we do ourselves," he added with a wry smile.  "To be candid,
Ruth, we are in much the same position as your daughter.  We are all
learning to act in a publicly acceptable fashion with this new facet of
human evolution.  Psionic Talents are in their infancy, too, you
know.

"You might even extend the analogy a little to include the Andres Bill,
which we hope will afford all Talents professional status and legal
protection.  We, in effect, must prove to the public, our parentbody,
if you wish, that we are not 'bad,' 'naughty' or 'capricious'
children.  Dorotea has already contributed something to that end," and
op Owen caught himself before he explained his own revelation.

"Dorotea needs love and reassurance, discipline and understanding.

She'll pick that up from you, Ruth, with your warmth and sweetness.  I
want her, possibly more than you do, to have a normal, happy childhood
so that she will be a normal, happy adult."

He rose, smiling at the baby's infectious gaiety.

"See, she knows how pleased we are with her right now, the little
rascal."

Op Owen left, assuring them new quarters within the week.  Ruth was so
quiet and thoughtful that Lajos remained home the rest of the day.  He
found the revelation of Dorotea's Talent as much a shock as Ruth
apparently did.  However, by morning, he was consumed with a paternal
pride and, in the succeeding days, discovered an overweening tendency
to maunder on about his daughter's prowess.  By the time they moved to
the larger, shielded apartment, he was accustomed to the notion and,
since Dorotea made no more frantic summonses, succeeded in ignoring
it.  Until he noticed the gradual change in Ruth.  At first, it was no
more than a sudden frown, quickly erased, or a nervous look towards the
baby's room if she slept longer than usual.  Then he caught Ruth
looking at her child with that wary expression he had once privately
called the freak Look," which untalented people occasionally directed
at him when they discovered his affiliation with the Center.

"You've got to stop that, honey," he blurted out.  "You've got to keep
thinking ... strongly ... that Dorotea is just like other kids.  Or
you'll prejudice her.  Which is the one thing we have to avoid."  Ruth
vehemently denied the accusation but she turned so white around the
lips that Lajos gathered her quickly into his arms.

"Ah, sweetie, she hasn't changed just because we've found out she's
Talented.  But she is perceptive and she can sense your feelings
towards her.  You start suppressing that 'freakfeeling' right now.  You
think positively that she's our beautiful baby girl, sweet and loving,
kind and thoughtful.  She'll have that opinion of herself and it won't
matter that she's a strong TP as well.  She'll merely consider that
part of the whole bit.  It's when she senses criticism  and restraint
and hypocrisy that we'll be in trouble.  I had to get used to it, too,
Ruthie.  Say," and he tilted her chin up and grinned down at her
reassuringly, "why don't we get a little help from op Owen?  Talk this
over with him.  He can put a block on if you need one."

The very suggestion that she couldn't love and understand her own child
made Ruth indignant.  She'd had years of parent training.  She
understood every phase of early childhood development.  She adored
Dorotea and she certainly wouldn't do a thing that might jeopardize her
daughter's happiness.  They both felt better after such a candid
discussion and the problem was shelved.

"Sir, I thought you ought to see the Horvath charts," Lester Welch told
op Owen.  "A variation keeps appearing in Ruth Horvath's.  See?"  And
Welch unrolled the paper, pointing here and there to the almost
imperceptible alteration in Ruth's normal pattern.  "See, here and
here, it's a couple of microseconds longer and broader.  It begins to
broaden minutely until it hits this frame which has remained
constant.

Now, compare her time-sequence to Lajos's ... and remember we're picking
up her pattern anywhere in the new apartment just as we pick up his
from the office."

Op Owen saw the correlation immediately.

"He's finished no precog in six weeks?"

Welch contented himself with a nod as op Owen studied the graphs.

"If I didn't think it was impossible, I'd say Ruth was suppressing
him.

But how?"

"Don't you mean why?"

"That, too, of course, but 'how' is the bigger question."

"If you mean the type of pattern, Dave, I can't give you that.  There
isn't enough to identify it as a known variation."

"That wasn't exactly what I meant, although I would like a
magnification of this to study.  Can you put on a more sensitive gauge,
or a faster needle, to lengthen the stroke?"

"Hmmm."  Welch considered the suggestion.  "I'll rig up something, I
guess."

Op Owen chuckled.  "One of the comforting things about you, Les, is
your unfailing rise to the challenge.  I don't believe you know what
failure is."

Welch regarded his superior with some surprise.  "Failure is an
inability to consider what is not presently known.  Like Ruth Horvath's
variation?"  Then he added, "Or Senator Zeusman's strategy?"

Op Owen dismissed that with a wave of his hand and continued to scan
the Horvaths' readings.  "Dorotea's first Incident rocked him, didn't
it?"

"Yes, it shows up in his sleep pattern as unusual restlessness the
first nights, but see, he's calming down by the third."

"It's from that date that his precogs begin to dwindle."

"By God, you're right.  I thought he'd be too stable for a deviation
like that."

"Yes, he's been too consistent a precog.  I think I'll call him in and
drop a few leading questions to see what reaction I get."  Op Owen
initiated the call then and there.

"There's nothing wrong with Dorotea, is there, sir?"  Lajos asked as
soon as he entered the office.

"Good heavens, no," Daffyd op Owen said, gesturing Lajos to a chair.

"It's about my drop in Incidents, then, isn't it?"

Op Owen eyed his young colleague for a moment, savoring the peripheral
emotions the man was generating.  It took no Talent to recognize the
defensive nervousness in Lajos's attitude.

"Not exactly.  There are always periods of rest for precogs, caused by
any number of valid reasons, including the absence of fires.  However,
your graphs show an onset of Incidents, broken off just as they
begin."

"Once or twice in the office, I've felt as if something was preventing
me ..."

"Preventing you ... ?"  Op Owen prompted Lajos gently as he had broken
off, startled by his own phrasing.

"Yes, sir," Lajos went on slowly, "it's as if something's preventing me
from previewing.  Sort of like ... glancing into a strange room and
having the door slammed in your face."

"Aptly put.  Could you suggest why ... or perhaps what ... is
preventing you?"

"You think it's a psychological suppression, don't you?"

"That's my first thought."

Indignation and disbelief were Lajos's instant reactions.

"Why would I want to suppress suddenly?"

"Something you yourself don't want to see.  Precog is not the easiest
of Talents, Lajos," op Owen replied.  "Often the precog imposes his own
block, as a relief from the psychological pressures."

"If you think there's a chance that I'm developing the Cassandra
complex ..."  Lajos was heatedly provoked now.

"No, that follows an entirely different pattern."

"Dorotea's preventing me?"

"If this occurred only in your home environment, we'd have to seriously
consider the possibility.  But it's improbable for a variety of
reasons: the prime one being that her room is shielded to protect her
from overtones of your precogs as much as to protect us from her
blatant calls."

"Ruth?"  Lajos's hushed question had the power of a shout.  "She is
Talented after all.  But why suppress me?  She loves me.  I know she
does.  She's always helped with Incidents.  It made her feel a part
..."  Lajos stared at op Owen.  Then shook his head, violently
disagreeing with the natural conclusion.  "No!  I don't see why
suppressing me would ... do her any good."

"Has something else upset her?  The suppression starts not long after
Dorotea's first Incident."

Lajos covered his eyes, groaning deeply.  He collected himself almost
immediately and, looking up at op Owen, recounted Ruth's curious
uncertainty about Dorotea.

"Yes, I see now what has possibly happened.  She's made you her
whipping boy."

"Now wait a minute, sir.  Ruth's not petty or vindictive."

"I'm not for a moment implying that she is, Lajos.  Let us both try to
see her conflicts.  She's had to make so many adjustments.  She had
such hopes when she entered the training program.  remember her
cheerfulness and vivacity so well.  It was difficult to have to
disillusion her.  You two married and she has exhibited skill in
assisting you.  But even the most generous soul experiences twinges of
envy.  She looked forward to maternity as an outlet for her natural
inclination and the assuagement of her failures.

Suddenly she finds herself with the extraordinary daughter who makes
even the Director of the Center jump at her whim."  Lajos weakly
returned op Owen's smile.  "I thought at the time she was very much
distressed at the thought of relinquishing any of Dorotea's care to
our impersonal toils.  I don't believe we entirely relieved her fear
that the Center will usurp her role in her daughter's upbringing.  Can
you see why she may be indirectly punishing you for circumstances that
threaten her happiness?"

"Yes, I can."  Lajos's admission was dejected.

"Now, it's not as bad as that," op Owen said firmly.  "In fact, stop
feeling guilty and look at the very positive sideRuth actually has been
able to suppress your strong Talent."

"And that's positive?"

"Yes.  The underlying problem is Ruth's lack of Talent.  We now can
prove conclusively that she has one.  She has demonstrated it
superbly.

Severe frustration often breaks down blocks.  And she's had that."

"Of course."  Lajos's face began to light up.  "Whoa.  You said she
doesn't know she's doing it?"

"I've proof for her.  And the further proof will be the renewal of your
precogs.  I'll have a talk with her and straighten this out today."

He made the call as Lajos left.  There was more to the problem of Ruth
Horvath than touched the little family.  If you don't tell all you
know, how much is enough?  op Owen wondered.

"All right, I'm forced to believe you," Ruth said, her defensiveness
waning under op Owen's gentle redirection, because she also could not
deny the evidence of the graphs: of that remarkable, infinitesimal
variation that had to be an Incident.

Daffyd op Owen felt himself begin to relax with her admission.  He had
known it would be a stormy confrontation: one reason why he had not
delayed it.  Ruth had been appalled by the knowledge that she had
subconsciously blocked Lajos.  She finally admitted that Dorotea
scared her: that she had lost all joy in her daughter and was terrified
of predisposing the child towards her.

"Yes, I have to believe you," she repeated, not bothering to stifle
resentment, "but it's a pretty poor excuse of a Talent," she added
bitterly, "if all I can do is block my husband's, and not even know I'm
doing that."

"On the contrary," op Owen replied with a laugh, "it's exactly the one
you need the most ... applied properly."

Ruth glared at him, waiting pointedly for an explanation.

"You've a strong moral code, Ruth.  You would not permit yourself to
act against your daughter, though her Talent frightened you.  But you
will have to waive that most laudable principle.  Until Dorotea has
developed sufficient discretion to handle her mental gift, you are
going to have to block it."

Ruth blinked in surprise and then her eyes brightened, her mouth formed
an "O" of astonishment as she began to understand.

"Of course.  Of course, I understand."  Tears of relief welled in her
eyes.  "Oh, of course."

Op Owen smiled at her.  "Yes, Dorotea cannot be permitted to dip into
any mind she chooses.  You must restrict her by your ability to
block.

You won't need much pressure to dissuade her from broadcasting or
eavesdropping."

"But won't Dorotea resent it?  I mean, she'll feel me doing it, won't
she?"

"All children require limits.  Want them.  As long as those limits are
consistent and reasonable, a child as aware as Dorotea of her parents'
approval and affection won't resist.  In any event, by the time she
could, or would, we shall have been able to instill discretion and
your moral code.  Right now, Ruth, you have all that's required to keep
Dorotea from becoming a nuisance and a brat."

Ruth instantly reacted with indignation to his calculated insult and
then laughed as she recognized the bait.  She left his office
considerably reassured, once again at harmony with her situation.

Op Owen envied her that carefree assurance.  He still didn't know what
to call what she'd done.  Yes, she had suppressed Lajos's precog over
the last six weeks, but in the four months prior to that Lajos's
abilities had increased in strength and efficiency and, except for
duration and width, by a similar application of psionic effort on
Ruth's part.  What did her Talent actually affect?  And would it, as he
had so blithely assured her, be able to "block" Dorotea?

Well, if she thinks she can, she will.  At least she is no longer
afraid of her precocious child, he thought.  He swung his chair round,
gazing out at the peaceful view of the grounds of Beechwoods, seeing
the city beyond with its spires, towers and living blocks.

Was I right in my analogy that Talent is in its infancy, and the public
is the parent?  With the duty to block the undisciplined child?  The
Talents are more disciplined that the average citizen we often have to
search out and rebuke, protect and cherish.  It would be catastrophic
for the parent to fear the child.  How much of the whole truth would
reassure, as it had Ruth?

Those who truly understand psionic powers need no explanation.  Those
who need explanation will never understand.

Two mornings later, while reviewing contracts covering institutions
holding government research grants, Lajos experienced one of his
strongest Incidents.  So powerful was the flame-fear that it was all he
could do to pull the Goosegg recording web to his skull and depress
the key that would relay the reading back to the Center.

"Flames!"  he said, gasping; his mind reeled with the panoramic intense
preview.

"Where?"  he was prompted.

"A sheet, in front of a huge window, overlooking ... the grounds.

Rhododendrons.  Red ones.  The clock in the church tower ... nearly
twelve.  Too much heat!  The converter is flawed.  It'll blow.  There
are so many people watching.  They don't belong there."  Laj os was
abstractedly curious at the sound of indignation in his voice.  "They
caused the fire.  Meddling.  I know him!"  Lajos struggled to get a
clear picture of that face.

"You don't like him.  Who is he?"

"Ahhh ... the flames.  Obscuring everything."  Lajos fell back in his
chair, shaken and sweating.

"Can you make it to the Center?  I'll send transport," the duty officer
said.

By the time Lajos reached the computer room in the Center, the system
was already chuckling away at the details, locating which laboratories
had scheduled visitors in the a.m.: laboratories using heat
converters.

The church clock tower suggested a college so that data was added as
well as the planting of red rhododendrons.

Op Owen greeted Lajos with a grin of approval.  "That was the most
intense pattern you've ever projected.  Have you any idea why that
premonition should affect you so?"

"None, sir," Lajos replied, taking the seat op Owen indicated.  He was
still shaken.

"The man you knew: he was someone you obviously dislike.  Do you have
the impression that you've met him personally?"

"No.  I recognized his face, that's all.  Then the flames leaped
up."

"We don't have much time," and op Owen's eyes glanced towards the wall
clock, registering quarter to eleven.  "Your precog came at 10:12.

Unfortunately this appears to be appropriation time and every lab in
the country is having its share of visitations.  I want to play back
your answer, Lajos.  I was struck by two things and if you can pinpoint
them also, we'll have the 'where' at least."

"Anything."  Lajos could see the vivid overprint of the flames in his
mind and tried to see beyond their obscuring curtain.  "And one day,
figure out why I have a pyro affinity."

"Keeps insurance rates low, Horvath," Welch said drily as he rewound
the tape.  "Don't knock small favors."

Lajos listened as objectively as he could, appalled at the odd wooden
quality of his voice, the fear when he mentioned the flames.

"I've got it, sir," he said.  "The converter, the lab, the church
tower.  Knowing that the people didn't belong there.  Wherever it is,
is familiar to me."

"Charlie," Welch spoke over his shoulder to the programmer, "add
Horvath's place and travel card."

Almost immediately a printout appeared.

"Sir, it's North East University.  Checks out, clock in church tower,
visible from research laboratory which uses a heat converter."

"Any visitors scheduled today?"

"No report on that yet, sir, but they do have a government funded
research project in neoprotein and subcellular engineering."

"Check the university direct," Welch said after a nod from op Owen.

"Only limit it to a request about visitors," op Owen added.  "There was
something else I want to check first."

"Excuse me, sir," Charles broke in as op Owen lifted his desk phone.

"Several parties are expected during the course of the day.  Dr. Rizor
wishes to speak to you."

"When your office puts in a guarded call, Daffyd op Owen, I'm
curious.

Come clean."

"Henry, we are not alarmists ..."

"Precisely.  So ... ?"

"We've had a valid Incident that appears placed at North East.  Several
of the details have not coincided, however.  We are fallible you
know."

Rizor's snort was derogatory.  "What's the rest of the precog?"

"It centers around the heat converter in the lab building opposite the
church tower."

"And?  God, it's like pulling nails from you, Dave."

"The heat converter may be faulty.  The precog was that it will blow
due to a sudden hot lab fire, just before noon, while visitors are on
the premises."

"I'd hate for something to happen there now, Dave.  We're on the verge
of a breakthrough in the neoproteins.  Running tests that are awfully
good.  But no visitors are expected there."

"Then a variable has already altered the precog."

"That's too glib a dismissal, Dave.  Why would a lab fire stimulate
your precog?  I didn't think they usually worked out of their own
area."

"Our precog recognized one of the visitors."

Welch signaled urgently to op Owen.

"Look, Dave," Rizor was saying, "I'm taking no chances.  I'll have that
converter checked and the building cleared.  That'll alter
circumstances, too.  Besides I don't want visitors in that building
until we complete the program.  A breakthrough will warrant government
funding all next year.  I appreciate your calling, Dave.  Let me know
when I can help again."

Welch was practically apoplectic before op Owen hung up.

"Washington sent in an urgent personal precog for Mansfield Zeusman!"

"That's who I saw," Lajos cried, jumping to his feet.

"Get Senator Zeusman's office on the phone, Charlie, and don't indicate
the origin," op Owen said.

"Dave," and Les Welch had a peculiar expression on his long face, "he's
the last person to warn.  One, he won't believe you.  Two, he's our
principal antagonist.  Let that damned hero perish."

"Les, you have a dry sense of misplaced humor."

"I'm practical as all hell, too," Welch added.

"Can you tell me if Senator Zeusman is expected in the office this
morning?"  Charlie's voice carried clearly in the tense silence.  "Oh,
I see.  Can you tell me where he plans to be in the morning  hours?

But surely, he left an itinerary?  Thank you."  Charlie's voice was
wooden and his face expressionless.  "He is not in the office.  The
assistant is a very rude, uncouth bumptious twit."

"If he's not in the office," op Owen said, "he's college hoppinghim and
that Research Appropriations Committee of his.  He's the sly kind is
Zeusman, loves to arrive unannounced."

"He could be on his way to North East then," Lajos said.

Op Owen told Charlie to get Rizor back on the line.

"Sir," Charlie reported, concerned, "Dr.  Rizor has left his office.

Is there a message?"

Op Owen picked up an extension phone.  "Miss Galt?  Daffyd op Owen
here.  We have reason to believe that Senator Mansfield Zeusman will
pay an unscheduled visit to your campus before noon.  Will you please
inform Dr. Rizor immediately?  Good.  Thank you.  I can be reached at
the Center on a priority call basis.  Yes, the situation could be
considered critical."

Lajos felt himself unwind a trifle but his apprehension did not
completely abate.  He smiled weakly at op Owen.

"Paradox time."

"How so, lad?"

"Dr. Rizor believes.  He is already altering the circumstances I
foresaw.  We may have undone ourselves!"

Op Owen's eyes flashed.  "At the risk of Zeusman's life, and that of
how many others you saw in the precog?"

"No, sir, I didn't mean it that way," Lajos replied, stung by op Owen's
scorn.  "I mean, that fire can't happen now because Rizor will prevent
Zeusman from entering the lab."

"I'd still prefer to see that sparrow fall!"  Welch's mutter was
clearly audible.

Op Owen swung his chair in idle halfarcs but his eyes remained on his
dissident engineer.

"I am not in the least tempted, gentlemen," he said in his usual easy
voice.  "We are not God.  Nor are we trying to replace God.  The
psionic arts are preventive, not miraculous.  We are fallible, and
because of that fallibility we have to be scrupulously impartial, and
try to help any man our senses touch, whoever he may be, whenever we
can.  Lajos is right.  We have already ..."

"Sir," Charlie's interruption was apologetic but determined, "two more
danger precogs involving Mansfield Zeusman.  One from Delta and one in
Quebec.  Neither could get through to Zeusman and are applying to
us."

Op Owen looked as if he might be swearing silently.  He glanced up at
the clock, its hands inexorably halfway past eleven.

"We haven't altered the future enough," Lajos said with a groan.

"Charlie, alert all rescue teams in the North East area," op Owen said,
his words crisp but calm.  "I'll try for Rizor.  Les, get Lajos a
sedative.  Henry, f;m glad I could reach you ..."

"Don't worry about a thing," Dr. Rizor replied cheerily.  "I've a crew
checking the converter and the building is completely off limits.

What's this Miss Galt says about Zeusman paying us an unexpected
visit?"

"Evidence points in that direction, and we've new precogs of danger for
him."

"Look, we're all set here, Dave," Rizor told him in an easy drawl.  "No
one can pass the gate without checking through my office and ... Oh,
no!  No!"

The connection went dead.  Op Owen looked around at the others.

"That's known as locking the barn when the horse is gone," said Welch
in a flat voice.  "Lay you two to one and no previewing, Rizor just
discovered that Zeusman uses a helijet for these jaunts of his."

"Charlie, get me through to one of the mobile rescue team trucks."

"Sir, they're converging on the campus.  Only they've been delayed at
the gate," Charlie said in a quiet sad voice after a moment of urgent
crosswire phoning.

Welch scratched his head, smoothing his hair back over his ears, trying
not to stare at op Owen's expressionless face.  Lajos wondered how the
Director could sit so calmly, but suddenly, not the tranquilizer but an
inner natural composure settled Lajos's tensions.

"Sir," he said to op Owen, "I think it came out all right."

Everyone glanced up at the clock which now ticked over to high noon.

The secondhand moved forward again, and again, the sweep-second duly
circumscribing its segments of time.  The phone's buzz startled
everyone.  Op Owen depressed Receive and Broadcast.

"I want to speak to the Director of this socalled Center," a bass voice
demanded authoritatively.

"Op Owen speaking, Senator Zeusman."

"Well, didn't expect to get you."

"You asked to speak to the Director; I am he."  Op Owen hadn't switched
on his visual.

The composed answer appeared to confound the Senator briefly.  He had
not activated the screen at his end either.

"You've outsmarted yourself, Owen, with this morning's exhibition of
crystalballing.  I thought you'd have better sense than to set one up
and try to fool me into believing in your psionic arts bunk."  The
senator's voice was rich with ridicule and selfsatis faction.  "Heat
converter's blowing, indeed!  They're constructed not to blow.  Safest,
most economical way of heating large institutional buildings.  A
scientific way, I might add."

"I tell you, Senator," Rizor interrupted, "there is a flaw in the
bleedoff of that converter.  My engineers reported it."

"Get off the extension, Rizor.  I'll settle your hash later.  Applying
for funds to run a research program which you arbitrarily interrupt at
a vital stage on the sayso of crackpots and witch doctors?  Your
university is unfit to handle any further public monies over which I
have any control."  Zeusman was almost snarling.

"I won't get off the extension, Zeusman.  This is my college, in what
is reputedly still a free country, and I don't regret in any way having
listened to Dr. op Owen.  There was a flaw which would have exploded
under conditions foreseen ..."

"Don't defend Owen, Rizor," Zeusman said.  "His meddling costs his
defenders too damned much.  How's Joel Andres feeling these days,
Owen?

How's his amyloidosis progressing?  Just remember when you predict his
death that the research your scheme interrupted here might have saved
his life."

There was a loud clack as Zeusman broke the connection.

"Dave?"  Rizor sounded defeated.

"I'm still here," op Owen replied.  "What's this about Joel Andres?"

"You've had nothing?  I thought you always kept a check on important
men ... like Zeusman."  The name was grated out.

"Nothing's been reported on Joel.  Precog is highly unpredictable, as
you've just witnessed."

"That damned converter was faulty," Rizor was angry now and defiant.

"It would have blown in the next overload.  You saved Zeusmanand you've
also saved other people."

"And Joel?  Is it true about his liver?"

"So I understand," Rizor said in a heavy voice, "And our research was
for a neoprotein to replace the faulty endogenous protein and restore a
normal metabolism.  Don't worry.  The experiments can be
reinitiated."

"With Zeusman withholding funds?"

"There are other sources of funds and I intend to use your so-called
'meddling' to advantage.  Damn it, the converter would have blown!"

Rizor was muttering as he ended the call.

Lajos was utterly spent when he returned to his apartment.  Ruth took
one look at his face and fixed him a stiff drink.  He took it down, and
with a weary smile flopped onto the bed.

"Dorotea asleep?"  he asked hopefully.  He was too disturbed not to
generate emotional imbalance and too tired to suppress it.

"Fast asleep.  Good for a couple of hours, honey," Ruth replied, her
strong fingers already at work on his tense muscles.  She did not
question his depression and weariness.  Slowly she felt him relax as
her massage and the stiff drink combined to bring surce ase.

He woke in time for dinner and seemed in control again, laughing at
Dorotea's antics, playing with her on the floor until her bedtime.

Only when the baby was safely asleep in her shielded room did he tell
Ruth all that had happened.

"Oh, no, not Mr. Andres," she said when he finished.  Lajos didn't
notice her quick flush as she recalled her one personal encounter with
the magnetic Senator Andres.  He'd been ... so kind to her and she'd
been so embarrassed.

"How could I guess that he'd be involved?  It was the flames.  And how
could I know that Zeusman would be saved at Andres's expense?"

"Why, you couldn't, darling," Ruth cried, alarmed at his
self-castigation.  "You couldn't!  You mustn't blame yourself.  You
saved lots of lives today!  Lots!"

Lajos groaned, miserable.  "But why, Ruthie... why does it have to
ricochet off Andres?  If Rizor hadn't ordered the converter off, the
experiment would have been concluded.  All they had to do was keep
visitors out."

"No, that's not quite true," Ruth told him in stern contradiction.

"You said yourself that the heatconverter proved to be flawed.  That
flaw would not have been discovered without your precog.  It would have
exploded during the next lab fire.  Who knows who might have been
killed then?"

"But Andres is the one who needed the neoprotein!"

"They'll come up with a neoprotein somewhere else, then," Ruth said,
very positively to distract Lajos.  "They've made so many strides in
organ replacement ..."

"Except livers!  That neoprotein was supposed to correct some kind of
abnormal protein growth ... faulty endogenous protein metabolism ...

that's what's killing Senator Andres ... stuff is cramming into his
liver and spleen, enlarging them and there's no known way to clear the
amyloids.  And when the liver doesn't work, that's it, honey.  Ticket
out!"

Ruth went on stroking Lajos' forehead gently, knowing that he must find
his own way out of this.  He burrowed his face into her neck,
entreating the comfort that she never denied him.  Later her mind
returned to the terrible paradox, the tragic linkage of circumstance
and the sorrow of the well intentioned Good Samaritan.

God gives man stewardship of his gifts and the free will to use or deny
them.  Why must it be, that a man acting in good faith, finds himself
reviled?

As sleep finally claimed her in the early morning hours, she wondered
if she ought now to use her Talent to prevent Lajos from precogs like
this.  No, she drowsily realized, she had no right to take negative
action.  One must always think positively.  One is one's brother's
keeper, not his warder!

"I rather expected a call from you, Dave," Joel Andres said, his grin
on the vidscreen slightly waving from atmospheric disturbance.  "And
that's no precog.  No indeed," he rattled on, without permitting op
Owen to speak.  "The good senator from that great midwestern state
called especially to warn me that I'm the next sparrow to fall because
my pet witch doctor read the wrong crystal ball.  Hey, that rhymes.

Now, I don't believe that for a moment Dave, on account of I don't
think that that stupid mockprotein goop would have been jelled or
curdled or what have you, in time to save my misspent life anyhow."

The words were lightly said but there was an edge to Andres's voice
that ruined the jovial effect.

"How long, Joel?"

"Probably long enough to get that Bill out of Committee, Dave, and I'll
count the time well spent.  Zeusman can't put down the mass of evidence
in favor of psionics, the tremendous saving of loss of life already
effected by validated precogs.  By the way, Welch told me that the
precog came in at 10:12.  Do you know the time when Zeusman gave his
pilot orders to fly to North East?"

" 10: 12?"

"Right, man.  And that's in the record!  Right in his flight log and a
friend of mine impounded it because the pilot isn't so contemptuous of
the circumstances as Zeusman.  That pilot was scared silly by the
coincidence.  And don't think I'm not going to ram that down Zeusman's
doublechins."

"He'll never admit our warning saved his life, Joel," Daffyd said.

"Hell, he doesn't have to admit it.  The facts prove it.  But I must
say, Dave, you made one mistake."  Joel's chuckle was rich.

"Had I known what I know now, I do believe that this once, I'd've sat
back and twiddled my thumbs."

"Ha!  I don't believe that for a minute ... no, maybe you would have,"
and the lawmaker's voice rippled with amusement.  "If this has buckled
your altruistic armor, it's worth it.  Worth dying for, because there's
nothing trickier to tie down than an honest man gone bad!  Now let me
go to work."

"Joel, let me know ..."

"Hang loose, man.  Don't rob me of my cool.  Not now!"

The senator signed off but Daffyd op Owen sat staring moodily at the
wall opposite his desk, unable for the first time in his life to divert
his train of thought.  His mind writhed in recrimination as bitter as
an ancient inquisitional penance.

"Dave?"  Welch's brisk voice broke through his introspection.  "There's
an anomaly on ... Oh, I'll come back later...."

"No, Lester, come in."

Welch gave his friend a speculative look but he unrolled the graphs
without comment.

"Ruth Horvath!"  Op Owen was surprised, almost irritated that she
should be the subject of the intrusion.

"Couple of things.  Here ... on the baby's chart ... Incident after
Incident ... compare it with Ruth's.  No pattern.  Not even an inky
hiccup.  I thought you said she could block that baby."

Curious now, op Owen scanned the charts.  "What's this?"  he asked,
pointing to a sustained emphatic variation.

"That's the anomaly.  Happened last night.  It's a spontaneous
variation.  All her others have been triggered, usually by Lajos.  And,
if you'll look at the peaks and valleys in last night's records, you'll
see that the pattern is kinetic."

"That's too tight for a true kinetic touch."

"Well, it's not TP, it's not 'finding' and what'n'hell would she be
trying to do, fast asleep?  'Finding' is a conscious application,
anyway.  No, this is a kinetic pattern."

"For what reason?  Against what?"

"Who knows?  The point is, while she has stopped suppressing her
husband, she hasn't started blocking her daughter.  And that's going to
be serious.  I mean, we don't need a teething telepath broadcasting
discomfort."

"Teething?"

"I forget you're not a parent," Welch said with tolerant condescension,
"to small babies, that is."

Op Owen was engrossed in the patterns and it was obvious that Ruth was
not responding and seemed unable to use a conscious block.  And that
was too bad.  He frowned at the unusual kinetic display of the previous
night.

"She's got it.  She used it."

"Not consciously."

"I hate to resort to therapeutic interference.  It might jeopardize her
ever using it consciously."

"It's therapy for Ruth, or that baby'll tyrannize both parents.  And
that's bad.  A kid that strong has got to have limits, right now,
before she can develop precocious resistance."

Op Owen examined the charts one last time, shaking his head as he
noticed the telepathic patterns on Dorotea's chart, saw the impingement
on the mother's and no block.

"These could be legitimate calls ..."

'Don't evade, Dave.  I know you hate interfering with Talent; that it
should be spontaneous.  Admit Ruth Horvath is one of those who cannot
use Talent consciously.  Meddle a little!"

Op Owen rose, his face drawn.  "I'll drop over to see them today.

Let's hope she responds well to hypnosis."

"She does.  I looked up her training record."

Two days later Welch came back in triumph, trailing two sheets of
graphing tissue like victory streamers.

"You did it, Boss.  Look, pass blocked, time and again, with a minimum
of effort on Ruth's part.  But damn it, she's not a pure kinetic.  What
could she be moving with such an infinitesimal touch?  How does she
apply the block?"

"Unconsciously," op Owen replied with a sly grin.  "However, it may be
because that touch is so delicate, she can't do it consciously.  I
didn't look very deeply.  But so many kinds of Talent are fairly
heavyhanded, violent.  Like using awls in place of micron eedles."  He
winced a little, remembering how his mental touch had uncovered Ruth's
pitiful lack of selfconfidence in her Talent.  All her Incidents
occurred without her awareness, deep in the subconscious levels of her
mind into which Daffyd saw no need to trespass.  She was a nice womanly
person: her surface thoughts revolving around her husband, her
daughter: all her anxieties were needless guilts over minor details.

It was, therefore, relatively easy to block her notions that she would
inadvertently harm Dorotea, or try to suppress Lajos.  It was easy to
erase conscious knowledge of her Talent, replacing it with a feeling of
accomplishment and wellbeing: the posthypnotic command to respond to
Dorotea's telepathic demands and channel them firmly into speech
centers.  He also displaced her reluctance to have other Talented
children because she felt inadequate.  Ruth must have great resources
of self-assurance.  He planted them.

Now op Owen turned to Welch.  "Ask Jerry Frames how soon Ruth Horvath
can bear another child.  I'd like her first two fairly close together
before she gets cold feet."

"Cold feet he calls it!"  was Welch's parting crack.

"I 'm sorry, Daffyd," the Washington precog said, "I've stared at Joel
Andres's picture for hours.  I've read his House speeches, I've read
his memoirs.  I've sat in his outer office until the Senate police
asked to have a word with me.  Then he came in, and recognized me, of
course.  And gave me a scarf to hold."  Mara Helm paused.  "As a
memento, he said.  But I don't see it."

"You've had no stimulation about him at all?"

"Nothing dire."

"What do you mean, nothing dire?"

"That's what I mean and all I mean, Dai.  Nothing conclusive, in that
his life concludes.  And, as you know, my accuracy is unfortunately
high."

"I don't understand this, Mara."

"No more do I when I hear the gossip around town."

"Which is?"

"That Senator Andres is spending his last moments helping a minority
group that not only has predicted his imminent demise but destroyed his
one chance of a cure."  Her voice held no inflection as she uttered
these quick sentences, but her dislike of imparting the gossip was
obvious to her listener.  Mara cleared her throat suddenly.  "I do have
a precog though," she added, mildly amused.

"A good one, if I recognize that tone of voice.  I could stand some
pleasant tidings."

"I'll be seeing you shortly," and she laughed mischievously.  "In the
flesh, I mean.  Here!"

"In Washington?"  Daffyd op Owen was startled.  He rarely left the
Center and, at this moment, he had no desire under heaven to set foot
in Washington.

Two weeks later, Daffyd op Owen, in a swivet of anxiety which no
perception could dispel, disembarked from the helijet on the Senate
landing pad.  Mara Helm and Joel Andres were waiting for him.  Daffyd
had no eyes for anyone but the senator who strode forward, grinning
broadly, eagerly grasping the telepath's hand, forgetting in the excess
of his welcome that Daffyd avoided casual physical contacts.

However, op Owen wanted more than anything to touchsense his friend.

And was reassured by the vigorous sensation he felt equally strong
through mind and body.  He might disbelieve the evidence of his eyes as
he stared at Andres's clear pupils, the healthy tanned skin with no
trace of the yellow, indicative of liver disorder.  Op Owen could not
deny the feeling of health and energy that coursed to him in that
hearty handclasp.

"What happened?"  he asked hoarsely.

"Who knows?"  Joel replied.  "The medics called it a spontaneous
remission.  Said my body had started manufacturing the right enzymes
again.  Something to do with a shift in the RNA messenger proteins or
some rot like that.  Anyhow, no more amyloids in the perivascular
spacesif that makes any sense to youthe old liver and spleen are back
to normal size and I can feel that.  So, friend, I no longer need that
neoprotein research that Zeusman scrapped."Mara Helm remained aside,
smiling benevolently at the two men, until they finally remembered her
presence.

"Dai, see?"  and she laid a finger fleetingly on his sleeve.  "You're
here as predicted!"

"Did you bring the graphs and records I asked for?"  Joel inquired.

"Here they are," and Daffyd handed the neat package over.

"Good," and the senator's expression was maliciously gleeful.  "We're
going to hoist Senator Mansfield Zeusman today on his petard.

However," and black anger surged across Andres's face, "I beg your
indulgence, Daffyd.  Certainwhat would you call them, Maras ecurity
measures?"

Mara's lips twitched but there was an answering indignant sparkle in
her eyes.

"A shielded cage?"  Daffyd asked.

"Yeah," and the sound was more of a growl than an affirmative.  "Don't
think I didn't protest that insulting ..."

"In fact," Mara said, "he ranted and screamed at the top of his
voice.

All Washington heard.  I elected to keep you company in the giltwired
goldfish bowl," and she gave op Owen a flirtatious wink.

"You'll have an advantage over me," Andres said.  "You can switch off
the sound of Zeusman's voice."

"Who?  Me?"  Daffyd asked and the three entered the Senate Building
laughing.

Op Owen was not surprised at Mansfield Zeusman's insulting treatment.

He expected little else.  Although the senator had initiated the
investigation of all the Centers, he had never personally entered
one.

Obviously Zeusman was among those who believed that any telepath could
read every mind: he would be unlikely to believe that telepaths
performed their services much as a surgeon does an exploratory
operation in the hope of uncovering a patient's malignant disease.

Zeusman also decried the psychiatric sciences, so his attitude was at
least consistently narrowminded.

"One more thing," Andres said as he held open the door into the
shielded room, "you're here at the Committee's request, not Zeusman's,
or mine.  They may want to question you.  Please, Dave, don't tell all
you know?"

"I'll be a verbal miser, I promise."

"That'll be our saving," Andres replied.  He obviously distrusted op
Owen's sudden meek compliance.

"Doesn't Joel look wonderful?"  whispered Mara as they seated
themselves.

"Yes," Daffyd replied and then shut his lips.  Even that interchange,
broadcast into the chamber beyond, drew every eye to them.  Op Owen
crossed his legs, clasped his hands and composed himself outwardly.

Zeusman was not as large a man as op Owen thought he'd be.  Nor was he
a small man in stature which might have explained the aggressive,
suspicious personality.  He resembled a professor more than a senator,
except for the elaborate gesticulations which were decidedly
oratorical.  And he was expatiating at length now with many gestures,
pointedly ignoring Andres who took his place at the conference table.

The other five members of the Committee nodded towards Andres as if
they welcomed his arrival.  Their smiles faded as they turned back to
the speaker.  It was apparent to Daffyd that Zeusman's audience was
heartily bored with him and had heard the same arguments frequently.

"These Experts claim ..."  and Zeusman paused to permit his listeners
to absorb the vitriol he injected into that label, "that even the
advertisement of that precognitive word changes events.  Now that's a
cowardly evasion of the consequences of their pernicious meddling."

"We've been through that argument from stem to stern before,
Mansfield," the lanky bald man with a hawk nose said.  Op Owen
identified him as Lambert Gould McNabb, the senior Senator from New
England.  "You called this extraordinary session because you claim you
have real evidence prejudicial to this Bill."

Zeusman glared at McNabb, McNabb calmly tamped down his pipe, relit it,
pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, blowing against the
pressure to relieve his eardrums, sniffed once or twice, put the pipe
back in his mouth and turned an expectant face towards Zeusman.

"Well, Mansfield, either hang 'em or cut 'em down."

"I have your attention, Senator McNabb?"

"At the moment."

"My contention has always been that protection for these meddlers is
against common sense, ethics, and all the laws of man and God.  They
usurp the position of the Almighty by deciding who's to live and who's
to die."

"To the point, Mansfield," McNabb said.

"Senator McNabb, will you desist from interrupting me?"

"Senator Zeusman, I willif you will desist from jawing."

Zeusman looked around for support from the other five members of the
Committee and found none.

"On the 14th of June, I left my offices in this building for the
purpose of visiting several of the universities requesting the renewal
of Research Funds.  As you know, it is my custom to arrive
unannounced.

Therefore, it was not until we were airborne that I gave my pilot his
directions."

"What time was that?"  asked Andres quickly.

"The time is irrelevant."

"No, it isn't.  I repeat, at what time did you give your pilot his
flight directions?"

"I fail to see what bearing ..."

"I have a transcript of the pilot's log, from the files of the Senate
Airwing," Andres said and passed the copy over to McNabb.

"Tentwelve, Daylight Saving Time, the record says," McNabb said in a
drawl, his eyes twinkling as he casually flipped the record across the
table to the others.

Zeusman watched, frowning bleakly.

"I have here," Joel went on before Zeusman could grab the floor,
"authenticated graph readings of four precognitive Incidents: one from
Eastern American Center, the Washington Bureau, Delta Center and
Quebec.  The period, allowing for time zones, in which these precogs
occurred is between 10:12 and 10:16.  Excuse the interruption, Zeusman,
but I'm trying to keep things chronological."

Zeusman awarded Andres a vicious smile and then a keener look.  Op Owen
wondered if Zeusman was only now aware of Andres's improved health.

"Ahem.  When my helijet landed at North East University, I and my party
were physically restrained by Dr. Henry Rior, the Research Dean and
members of his staff, from conducting our investigation of their
project on the specious grounds that a precog had been issued,
predicting a flaming death for me and my party, due to a faulty heat
converter which was supposed to explode.  Well, gentlemen I fathomed
this little trap immediately."

"Whoa, whoa Mansfield," Robert Teague said, tapping the material now in
front of him.  "The precog reports I have here ... by God, I'm getting
so I don't need an expert to translate them for me anymore ... indicate
that's exactly what was to have happened.

At ... ah, shortly before noon.  When did you arrive at North East?"

"Quarter to twelve."

"Then you'd've been in the building around twelve.  I'd say you owed
these precogs your life."

"My life?  Don't be ridiculous!"

"I'm not.  You are," Teague replied with considerable exasperation.

"I'm no fool, Bob.  I know when I'm being had, in spite of all the
forged records going.  The whole business was rigged.  Heat converters
don't blow."

"Right, so how could one be rigged to blow at precisely twelve noon at
North East when no one, including yourself, knew when or where you were
going that morning until 10:12?"

"A flaw was discovered when the heat converter was dismantled: air
bubble in the steel tank," Joel Andres said, passing another affidavit
to Teague.  "The main chamber has been replaced.  It could have blown,
through that air bubble flaw, under just such circumstances of
overload as predicted."

"But it didn't!"  Zeusman said in a roar.

"No, because it had been turned off to prevent such an occurrence."

"Exactly.  The whole thing was a hoax.  Tentwelve, twelve noon,
whatever.  And, " Zeusman rattled the words out so loud and so fast
that no one could interrupt him, "in turning off that socalled faulty
converter, the experiment then in progress, paid for by government
funds, was ruined just before what was certain to be a successful
conclusion of a highly delicate, valuable project.  I've papers of my
own to present"he dramatically flung stapled sheets to the
table"depositions from the various qualified, highly trained, highly
reputable scientists in charge of the neoprotein research.  And here is
where these ... these meddling godlets overreach themselves.  That
neoprotein research, so rudely interrupted on the brink of success
would have produced, by scientific methodsaccurate, repeatable, provena
substance that would prevent certain alltoocommon and terribly painful
deaths due to liver failure.  Prevent an agonizing death facing a
certain member of this august Committee.  And, if these precogs are so
omniscient, so benign, so altruistic, so wise, whyI ask you, why, did
they not foresee the effects of their own meddling on their avowed
champion?"

Op Owen's altruism and benignity hit an alltime low and he found
himself obsessed with an intense desire to turn kinetic and clog
Zeusman's windpipe permanently.

"Ah ha," crowed Joel Andres, leaping to his feet, "why should they
foresee my demise, my dear colleague?  Due to liver failure?  How
interesting!  Of course, you have a paper to prove it, Senator, such as
my death certificate?"

"Easy, Joel," said McNabb, squinting at Andres keenly, "Anyone can see
you're healthy as a hog, though I must admit you had been looking a bit
jaundiced.  You look great now, though."

"But I had a report that he was dying of liver failure," Zeusman
said.

"Got that authenticated?"  Teague asked sarcastically.

"Easy, Bob.  We know Mansfield's been doing the job he was elected to
do, protect his constituents and this country.  That used to be as easy
to do," McNabb paused to drag on his pipe, "as finding decent
substitute tobacco.  But Mansfield proved that was bad for most of
us."

"We're discussing experts, not tobacco," Zeusman reminded him.

"No, we're discussing progress, on a level some of us find as hard to
take as giving up tobacco.  However, it was proved that tobacco was
unhealthy.  These people have proved that their Centers protect health
and property, and they go about it scientifically .  Everything I've
heard today," and McNabb jerked his pipe stem at Zeusman as the latter
started to interrupt, "proves conclusively to me that you've been
putting the wrong eggs in the right basket.  That precog was for your
health and wellbeing, Mansfield, which these people are pledged to
protect: you didn't have to take the warning ... " "I was forced ..."

"Lots of us were forced to stop smoking, too," McNabb said, grinning.

"This artificial stuff still doesn't taste right but I know it's better
for me.

"Most important of all, Mansfield, and it seems to have completely
escaped your logical, scientific, onetrack mind, is the very fact that
these people warned you!  Whether they knew the consequences to Joel
Andres or not if they also stopped the experiment, they had to warn you
and your party!  So stop your maundering on about their ethics and
meddling.  I'd've let you burn!"

Zeusman sank down into a chair, blinking at McNabb's craggy face.  Then
the New England senator rose, a slight smile on his lips.

"Gentlemen, we've hassled this Bill back and forth for close to two
years.  We've satisfied ourselves the provisions protecting the
parapsychic professions, as outlined in Articles IV and V, do not
threaten the safety of the citizens of this country, do not jeopardize
personal liberty, etcetera and all that, and, hell, let's place it on
the agenda and start protecting these poor idealistic bastards from
...

from them as don't wish to be protected."

McNabb's grin was pure malice but he didn't glance in Zeusman's
direction nor was the midwesterner aware of anything but this
unexpected defeat.

Op Owen reached the Center after full dark of the late spring
evening.

The pleasant sense of victory still enveloped him in contentment.  He
found himself, however, turning toward the apartments rather than his
own quarters.  The news that the Andres Bill had left Committee and
would be presented to the Senate next session had already been relayed
to the Center.  He heard echoes of the celebrating which appeared to be
going on all over the grounds.

A little premature, he thought to himself, for the Bill must pass
Senate and Congress.  There would be sharp debate but they predicted it
would pass.  The President was already in favor of protection for the
Talented since he benefited from their guardianshi p.

Op Owen entered the building where the Horvaths lived.  He hesitated at
the elevator, then made for the steps, pleased to arrive without
breathlessness at their apartment door.

He had a split second of concern that he might be interrupting the
young couple but it was quickly dispelled when Lajos, still dressed,
flung the door wide.

"Mr. op Owen!"  The precog's face was a study in incredulous
amazement.  "Good evening, sir!"

"I'm sorry.  Were you expecting someone?"

"No, no one.  Exactly.  Please, come in.  It's just ... well,
everyone's been apartment hopping since the news came .

"The Director is immune to jubilation?"

Lajos was spared the necessity of answering because Ruth entered from
the kitchen, her face lighting up as she rushed forward to greet their
guest.  Op Owen was relieved at her obvious welcome: she could have
developed a subconscious antipathy for him after their recent
session.

"I don't think anyone expected you back tonight, sir," Lajos was
saying, pressing a drink on op Owen.

"We're all so proud of you, sir," Ruth added shyly.

"I did nothing," op Owen replied.  "I sat in a shielded room and
listened.  It was Lajos's precog ..."

"There were three other reports, sir," Lajos said, "but is it really
confirmed that Senator Andres has had a remission of that liver
ailment?"

"Yes, absolutely, demonstrably true.  I know we've all felt burdened
with a certain ... regret, on that aspect of the North East Incident.

It is the inevitable concomitant of the precognitive gift."

"And Dr.  Rizor's grant will be restored?"

Op Owen was taken by surprise.  "I'm embarrassed to say I didn't think
to inquire."  He felt himself coloring.

"We can't think of everything, can we?"  Ruth asked, her lips twitching
with a mischievous smile.

Op Owen burst out laughing and, after a startled pause, Lajos joined
him.

"I'll bet it will be restored," Ruth went on, "and that's no precog:
just plain justice."

"How's Dorotea?"  op Owen asked.

"She's asleep," and there was nothing but pride and pleasure in Ruth's
face as she glanced towards the closed nursery door.  "It's fascinating
to listen to her figuring out how to get out from under the table."

Lajos echoed her pleasure.  Op Owen rose, suddenly conscious of the
rippling undercurrent between the two young people.  His presence
constituted a crowd.

"I wanted you to know about Joel Andres, Lajos."

"Thank you sir, I do appreciate it."

"It was good of you to tell us.  You must be so tired," Ruth said,
linking arms with her husband and standing very close to him.

"Save your maternal instincts for your children, Ruth," he said kindly
and left.

Once again in the soft night air, op Owen felt extremely pleased with
life.  Obeying an impulse, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed
that the lights in the Horvath apartment were already out.  He had
interrupted them after all.  Sometimes, shield as he could, the
stronger emotions, sex being one of them, seeped through.

He took his time walking back through the grounds, permitting himself
the rare luxury of savoring the happy aura that permeated the Center.

He stored up the fragrance of the joyful night, the exuberance that
penetrated the dark, the hopefulness that softened the chill of the
breeze, against those desperate hours that are the commoner lot of
man.

These times of harmony, concert, attunement came all too seldom for the
Talented.  They were rare, glorious, treasured.

Habit made him stop in at the huge control room.  Surprise prompted him
to enterfor Lester Welch, a dressing robe thrown over his nightclothes
and a drink in one hand, was bending over the remote graph panels.  His
attitude, as well as that of the duty officer, was of intense
concentration.

"Never seen anything like that before in a coital graph," Welch was
muttering under his breath.

"Turned graphic voyeur, Lester?"  Daffyd asked with tolerant
amusement.

"Voyeur, hell.  Take a look at these graphs.  Ruth Horvath's doing it
again.  And at a time like this' Why?"

Welch was scarcely a prurient man.  Stifling his own dislike of such an
unwarranted invasion of privacy, op Owen glanced at the two graphs,
needles reacting wildly in response to the sexual stimuli mutually
enjoyed.  Lajos's graph showed the normal agitated pattern: Ruth's
matched his except for the frenetic action of the needle, trying
valiantly to record the cerebrally excited and conflicting signals its
sensitive transistors picked up.  The needle gouged deep into the
fragile paper, flinging its tip back and forth.  Yet the pattern of
deviation emerged throughout the final high-a tight, intense, obviously
kinetic pattern.

Abruptly the frantic activity ceased, the lines wandered slowly back to
normalfatigue patterns.

"That was most incredible.  The most prodigious performance I have ever
witnessed."

Op Owen shot Welch a stern glance, only to realize that the man meant
the electronic record.  He was momentarily embarrassed at his own
thoughts.

"What does she do?"  Welch continued speaking and the technician
glanced up quickly, startled and flushing.  "The kinetic energy is
expended for what reason?  Not that she'd be able to tell us anyhow."

"For what reason?"  op Owen asked quietly, answering the safest
question.  "For the exercise of a very womanly talent."  He waited,
then sighed at their obtuseness.  "What is the fundamental purpose of
intercourse between members of the opposite sex?"

"Huh?"  It was Welch's turn to be shocked.

"The propagation of their species," op Owen answered his own inquiry.

"You mean ... you can't mean ..."  Welch sank, stunned, into a chair as
he began to comprehend.

"It hadn't occurred to me before now," op Owen went on
conversationally, "that it is rather odd that a brown eyed, blackhaired
father and a greyeyed, brownhaired mother could produce a blue-eyed
blonde.  Not impossible.  Just quite improbable.  Now Lajos is precog,
and we have to grant that Ruth is kinetic.  So how do these genes
produce a strong, strong telepath?"

"What did she do?"  Welch asked softly.  His eyes knew the answer but
he had to hear op Owen voice it.

"She rearranged the protein components of the chromosome pairs which
serve as gene locks and took the blueeyed genes and the blondehaired
ones out of cell storage.  And what ever else she wanted to create
Dorotea.  That would be my educated guess.  Just the way she unlocked
the RNA messengers for ..."  Op Owen hesitated: no, not even Lester
Welch needed to know that bit of Ruth's tinkering"whatever it is she
has in mind for this child."  Welch had not apparently noticed his
hesitation.  "It'll be interesting to see the end product."

Welch was speechless and the technician pretended great industry at
another panel.  Op Owen smiled gently.

"This is classified, gentlemen.  I'll want those records removed as
soon as you can break into the drums," he told the technician, who
managed to respond coherently.

"I'm glad of that," Welch said with open relief.  "I'm glad that you're
not blabbing all this to the world.  Are you going to tell Lajos?"

"No," Daffyd replied with deliberation.  "He obviously intends to
cooperate.  And they'll be happier parents without that knowledge."

Welch snorted, himself again.

"You sound like you're getting common sense, Dave.  Thank God for
that."  He frowned as the drum wound the last of that Incident ut of
sight.  "She can actually unlock the genes!"  He whistled softly.

"'One science only will one genius fit.

So vast is art, so narrow human wit!'" "How's that again, Dave?"

"A snitch of Popery!"  op Owen remarked as he left.

PART THREE APPLE

The theft was the lead morning 'cast and ruined Daffyd op Owen's
appetite.  As he listened to the description of the priceless sable
coat, the sapphire necklace, the couture model gown and the jewelstrap
slippers, he felt as if he were congealing to his chair as his
breakfast cooled and hardened on the plate.  He waited, numbed, for the
commentator to make the obvious conclusion: a conclusion which would
destroy all that the East American Parapsychic Center had achieved so
slowly, so delicately.  For the only way in which such valuable items
could have been removed from a store dummy in a scanned, warded, very
public display window in the five minute period between the fixed TV
frames was by kinetic energy.

"The police have several leads and expect to have a solution by
evening.  Commissioner Frank Gillings is taking charge of the
investigation .

"'I keep my contractual obligations to the City,' Gillings is reported
to have told the press early this morning as he personally supervised
the examination of the display window at Coles, Michaels and Charny
Department Store.  'I have reduced street and consensual crimes and
contained riot activity.  Jerhattan is a safe place for the law
abiding.  Unsafe for the lawbreakers."" The backshot of Gillings's
stern face was sufficient to break op Owen's stasis.  He rose and
strode toward the comunit just as it beeped.

"Daffyd, you heard that 'cast?"  The long, unusually grim face of
Lester Welch appeared on the screen.  "Goddamnit, they promised no
premature announcement.  Mediamen!"  His expression boded ill for the
first unwary reporter to approach him.  Over Les's shoulde r, op Owen
could see the equally savage face of Charlie Moorfield, duty officer of
the control room of the Center.

"How long have you known about the theft?"  Op Owen couldn't quite keep
the reprimand from his voice.  Les had a devoted habit of trying to
spare his superior, particularly these days when he knew op Owen had
been spreading himself very thin in the intensive public educational
campaign.

"Ted Lewis snuck in a cautious advice as soon as Headquarters scanned
the disappearance.  He also can't 'find' a thing.  And, Dave, there
wasn't a wrinkle or a peak between 7:03 and 7:08 on any graph that
shouldn't be there, with every single Talent accounted for!  " "That's
right, Boss," Charlie added.  "Not a single Incident to account for the
kinetic 'lift' needed for the heist."

"Gillings is on his way here," said Les, screwing his face up with
indignation.

"Why?"  Daffyd op Owen exploded.  "Didn't Ted clear us?"

"Christ, yes, but Gillings has been at Cole's and his initial
investigation proves conclusively to him that one of our people is a
larcenist.  One of our women, to be precise, with a secret yen for
sable, silk and sapphires."

Daffyd forced himself to nullify the boiling anger he felt.  He could
not afford to cloud reason with emotion.  Not with so much at stake.

Not with the Bill which would provide legal protection for Talents only
two weeks away from passing.

"You'll never believe me, will you, Dave," Les said, "that the Talented
will always be suspect?"

"Gillings has never caviled at the use of Talents, Lester."

"He'd be a god damned fool if he did."  Lester's eyes sparkled
angrily.

He jabbed at his chest.  "We've kept street and consensual crime low.

Talent did his job for him.  And now he's out to nail us.  With
publicity like this, we'll never get that Bill through.

Christ, what luck!  Two bloody weeks away from protection."

"If there's no Incident on the graphs, Les, even Gillings must admit to
our innocence."

Welch rolled his eyes heavenwards.  "How can you be so naive, Dave?  No
matter what our remotes prove, that heist was done by a Talent."

"Not one of ours."  Daffyd op Owen could be didactic, too.

"Great.  Prove it to Gillings.  He's on his way here now and he's out
to get us.  We've all but ruined his spotless record of enforcement and
protection.  That hits his credit, monetary and personal."  Lester
paused for a quick breath.  "I told you that public education program
would cause more trouble than it's worth.  Let me cancel the
morning'cast."

"No."  Daffyd closed his eyes wearily.  He didn't need to resume that
battle with Les now.  In spite of this disastrous development, he was
convinced of the necessity for the campaign.  The general public must
learn that they had nothing to fear from those gif ted with a
parapsychic Talent.  The series of public information programs, so
carefully planned, served several vital purposes: to show how the many
facets of Talent served the community's best interests; to identify
those peculiar traits that indicated the possession of a Talent; and
most important, to gain public support for the Bill in the Senate which
would give Talents professional immunity in the exercise of their
various duties.

"I haven't a vestige of Talent, Dave," Les went on urgently, "but I
don't need it to guess some dissident in the common mass of have-nots
listened to every word of those 'casts and put what you should never
have aired to good use ... for him.  And don't comfort me with how
many happy clods have obediently tripped up to the Clinic to have their
minor Talents identified.  One renegade apple's all you need to sour
the barrel!"

"Switch the 'cast to the standard recruiting tape.  To pull the whole
series would be worse.  I'm coming right over."

Daffyd op Owen looked down at the blank screen for a long moment,
gathering strength.  It was no precog that this would be a very
difficult day.  Strange, he mused, that no precog had foreseen this.

No.  That very omission indicated a wild Talent, acting on the spur of
impulse.  What was it Les had said?  "The common mass of havenots?"

Even with the basic dignities of food, shelter, clothing and education
guaranteed, the appetite of the havenot was continually whetted by the
abundance that was not his.  In this case, hers.  Daffyd op Owen
groaned.  If only such a Talent had been moved to come to the Center
where she could be trained and used.  Where had their so carefully
worded programming slipped up?  She could have had the furs, the
jewels, the dresses on overt purchase ... and enjoyed them openly.

The Center was well enough endowed to satisfy any material yearning of
its members.  Surely Gillings would admit that.

Op Owen took a deep breath and exhaled regret and supposition.  He
must keep his mind clear, his sensitivities honed for any nuance that
would point a direction toward success.

As he left his shielded quarters at the back of the Center's extensive
grounds, he was instantly aware of tension in the atmosphere.  Most
Talented persons preferred to live in the Center, in the specially
shielded buildings that reduced the 'noise' of constant psychic
agitation.  The Center preferred to have them here, as much to protect
as to help their members.  Talent was a double-edged sword; it could
incise evil but it neatly separated its wielder from his fellow man.

That was why these broadcasts were so vital.  To prove to the general
public that the psychically gifted were by no means supermen.  Research
had indicated there were more people with the ability than would admit
it.  There were, however, definite limitations to most Talents.

The Parapsychic had been raised, in Daffyd's lifetime, to the level of
a science with the development of the Goosegg, ultrasensitive
electroencephalographs which could record, and identify the type of
"Talent" by the minute electrical impulses generated in the cortex by
the application of psychic powers.  Daffyd op Owen sometimes thought
the word "power" was the villain in perpetuating the public
misconceptions.  Power means "possession of control" but such synonyms
as "domination," "sway," "command" leapt readily to the average mind
and distorted the actual definition.

Daffyd op Owen was roused from his thoughts by the heavy beat of a
copter.  He turned onto the path leading directly to the main
administration building and had a clear view of the Commissioner's
marked copter landing on the flight roof, to the left of the control
tower with its forest of antennal decorations.

Immediately he perceived a reaction of surprise, indignation and
anxiety.  Surely every Talent who'd heard the news on the morning 'cast
and realized its significance could not be surprised by Gillings's
arrival.  Op Owen quickened his pace.

"Orley's loose!"  The thought was as loud as a shout.

People paused, turned unerringly towards the long low building of the
Clinic where applicants were tested for sensitivity and trained to
understand and use what Talent they possessed: and where the Center
conducted its basic research in psionics.

A tall, heavy figure flung itself from the Clinic's broad entrance,
charged down the lawn, in a direct line to the tower.  The man leaped
the ornamental garden, plunged through the hedges, swung over the hood
of a parked lawntruck, straightarmed the overhanging branches of
trees, and brushed aside several men who tried to stop him.

"Project reassurance!  Project reassurance!"  the bullhorn from the
tower advised.  "Project happiness!"

"Get those cops in my office!"  Daffyd projected on his own as he began
to run towards the building.  He hoped that Charlie Moorfield or Lester
had already done so.  Orley didn't look as if anything short of a
tranquilizer bullet would stop him.  Who had been dimwitted enough to
let the telempath out of his shielded room at a time like this?  The
moron was the most sensitive barometer to emotion Daffyd had ever
encountered as he was physically dangerous if aroused.  By the speed of
that berserkercharge, he had so aked up enough fear/anxiety/anger to
dismember the objects he was homing in on.

The only sounds now in the grounds were those of op Owen's shoes
hitting the permaplast of the walk and the thudthud of Orley's progress
on the thick lawn.  One advantage of being Talented is efficient
communication and total comprehension of terse orders.

But the wave of serenity/reassurance was not penetrating Orley's blind
fury: the openness dissipated its effect.

Three men walked purposefully out of the administration building and
down the broad apron of steps.  Each carried slimbarreled hand
weapons.

The man on the left raised and aimed his at the audiblypanting, fast
approaching moron.  The shot took Orley in the right arm but did not
cause him to falter.  Instantly the second man aimed and fired.  Orley
lost stride for two paces as the shot penetrated his thigh but
incredibly he recovered.  The third manop Owen recognized Charlie
Moorfieldwaited calmly as Orley rapidl y closed the intervening
distance.  In a few more steps Orley would crash into him.  Charlie was
swinging out of the way, his gun slightly raised for a chest shot, when
the moron staggered and, with a horrible groan, fell to his knees.  He
tried to rise, one clenched fist straining towards the building.

Instantly Charlie moved to prevent Orley from gouging his face on the
coarsetextured permaplast.

"He took two doublestrength doses, Dave," Moorfield exclaimed with some
awe as he cradled the moron's head in his arms.

"He would.  How'n'hell did he get such an exposure?"

Charlie made a grimace.  "Sally was feeding him on the terrace.  She
hadn't heard the news 'cast.  Said she was concentrating on keeping him
clean and didn't 'read' his growing restlessness as more than response
to her until he burst wide open."

"Too much to hope that our unexpected guests didn't see this?"

Charlie gave a sour grin.  "They caused it, Boss.  Stood there on the
roof, giving Les a hard time, broadcasting basic hate and distrust.

You should've seen the dial on the psychic atmosphere gauge.  No wonder
Orley responded."  Charlie's face softened as he glanced down at the
unconscious man.  "Poor damned soul.  Where is that medteam?  I
'called' them when he got outside."

Daffyd glanced up at the broad third floor windows that marked his
office.  Six men stared back.  He put an instant damper on his thoughts
and emotions, and mounted the steps.

The visitors were still at the window, watching the medteam as they
lifted the huge limp body onto the stretcher.

"Orley acts as a human barometer, gentlemen, reacting instantly to the
emotional aura around him," Les was saying in his driest, downeast
tone.  To op Owen's wide open mind, he emanated a raging anger that
almost masked the aura projected by the visitors.  "He has an
intelligence factor of less than 50 on the New Scale which makes him
uneducable.  He is, however, invaluable in helping identify the
dominating emotion of seriously disturbed mental and hallucinogenic
patients which could overcome a rational telepath."

Police Commissioner Frank Gillings was the prime source of the fury
which had set Harold Orley off.  Op Owen felt sorry for Orley, having
to bear such anger, and sorrier for himself and his optimistic hopes.

He was momentarily at a loss to explain such a violent reaction from
Gillings, even granting the validity of Lester Welch's assumption that
Gillings was losing face, financial and personal, on account of this
affair.

He tried a "push" at Gillings's mind to discover the covert reasons and
found the man had a tight natural shield, not uncommon for a person in
high position, privy to sensitive facts.  The burly Commissioner gave
every outward appearance of being completely at ease, as if this were
no more than a routine visit, and not one hint of his surface thoughts
leaked.  Deepset eyes, barely visible under heavy brows, above fleshy
cheeks in a swarthy face that missed nothing, flicked from Daffyd to
Lester and back.

Op Owen nodded to Ted Lewis, the top police "finder" who had
accompanied the official group.  He stood a little to one side of the
others.  Of all the visitors, his mind was wide open.  Foremost was the
thought that he hoped Daffyd would read him, so that he could pass the
warning that Gillings considered Orley's exhibition another indication
that Talents could not control or discipline their own members.

"Good morning, Commissioner.  I regret such circumstances bring you on
your first visit to the Center.  This morning's newscast had made us
all extremely anxious to clear our profession."

Gillings's perfunctory smile did not acknowledge the tacit explanation
of Orley's behavior.

"I'll come to the point, then, Owen.  We have conclusively ascertained
that there was no break in store security measures when the theft
occurred.  The 'lectric wards and spyscanner were not tampered with nor
was there any evidence of breaking or entering.  There is only one
method in which sable, necklace, dress and shoes could have been taken
from that window in the five minutes between TV scans.

"We regret exceedingly that the evidence points to a person with
psychic talents.  We must insist that the larcenist be surrendered to
us immediately and the merchandise returned to Mr. Grey, the
representative from Cole's."  He indicated the portly man in a
conservative but expensive grey fitted.

Op Owen nodded and looked expectantly towards Ted Lewis.

"Lewis can't 'find' a trace anywhere so it's obvious the items are
being shielded."  A suggestion of impatience crept into Gillings's bass
voice.  "These grounds are shielded."

"The stolen goods are not here, Commissioner.  If they were, they would
have been found by a member the instant the broadcast was heard."

Gillings's eyes snapped and his lips thinned with obstinancy.

"I've told you I can read on these grounds, Commissioner," Ted Lewis
said with understandable indignation.  "The stolen ..."

A wave of the Commissioner's hand cut off the rest of Lewis's
statement.  Op Owen fought anger at the insult.

"You're a damned fool, Gillings," said Welch, not bothering to control
his, "if you think we'd shelter a larcenist at this time."

"Ah yes, that Bill pending Senate approval," Gillings said with an
unpleasant smile.

Daffyd found it hard to nullify resentment at the smug satisfaction and
new antagonism which Gillings was generating.

"Yes, that Bill, Commissioner," op Owen repeated, "which will protect
any Talent registered with a parapsychic center."  Op Owen did not miss
the sparkle of Gillings's deepset eyes at the deliberate emphasis.  "If
you'll step this way, gentlemen, to our remo tegraph control system, I
believe that we can prove, to your absolute satisfaction, that no
registered Talent is responsible.  You haven't been here before,
Commissioner, so you are not familiar with our method of recording
incidents in which psychic powers are used.

"Power, by the way, means 'possession of control', personal as well as
psychic, which is what this Center teaches each and every member.  Here
we are.  Charles Moorfield is the duty officer and was in charge at the
time of the robbery.  If you will observe the graphs, you'll notice
that that periodbetween 7:03 and 7:08 was the time given by the
'casthas not yet wound out of sight on the storage drums."

Gillings was not looking at the graphs.  He was staring at Charlie.

"Next time, aim at the chest first, mister."

"Sorry I stopped him at all ... mister," replied Charlie, with such
deliberate malice that Gillings colored and stepped towards him.

Op Owen quickly intervened.  "You dislike, distrust and hate us,
Commissioner," he said, keeping his own voice neutral with effort.

"You and your staff have prejudged us guilty, though you are at this
moment surrounded by incontrovertible evidence of our collective
innocence.  You arrived here, emanating disruptive emotionsno, I'm not
reading your minds, gentlemen."  Daffyd had all Gillings's attention
with that phrase.  "That isn't necessary.  You're triggering responses
in the most controlled of us-not to mention that poor witless telempath
we had to tranquilize.  And, unless you put a lid on your unwarranted
hatred and fears, I will have no compunction about pumping you all full
of tranks, too!"

"That's coming on mighty strong for a man in your position, Owen,"
Gillings said in a tight hard voice, his body visibly tense now.

"You're the one that's coming on strong, Gillings.  Look at that .

dial behind you."

Gillings did not want to turn, particularly not at op Owen's command,
but there is a quality of righteous anger that compels obedience.

"That registersas Harold Orley doesthe psychic intensity of the
atmosphere.  The mind gives off electrical impulses, Gillings, surely
you have to admit that.  Law enforcement agencies used that premise for
lie detection.  Our instrumentation makes those early registers as
archaic as space ships make oxcarts.  We have ultradelicate equipment
which can measure the minutest electrical impulses of varying
frequencies and duration.  And this PA dial registers a dangerous high
right now.  Surely your eyes must accept scientific evidence.

"Those rows of panels there record the psychic activity of each and
every member registered with this Center.  See, most of them register
agitation right now.  These red divisions indicate a sixty-minute time
span.  Each of those drums exposes the graph as of the time of that
theft.  Notice the difference.  Not one graph shows the kinetic
activity required of a 'lifter' to achieve such a theft.  But every one
shows a reaction to your presence.

"There is no way in which a registered Talent can avoid these graphs.

Charlie, were any kinetics out of touch at the time of the theft?"

Charlie, his eyes locked on Gillings, shook his head slowly.

"There never has been so much as a civil misdemeanor by any of our
people.  No breach of confidence, nor integrity.  No crime could be
shielded from fellow Talents.

"And can you rationally believe that we would jeopardize years and
years of struggle to become accepted as reliable citizens of
indisputable integrity for the sake of a fur coat and a string of
baubles?  When there are funds available to any Talent who might want
to own such fripperies?"  Op Owen's scorn made the Cole man wince.

"Now get out of here, Gillings.  Discipline your emotions and revise
your snap conclusion.  Then call through normal channels and request
our cooperation.  Because, believe me, we are far more determined ...

and better equipped ... to discover the real criminal than you could
ever be, no matter what your personal stake in assigning guilt might
conceivably be."

Op Owen watched for a reaction to that remark but Gillings, his lips
thin and white with anger, did not betray himself.  He gestured jerkily
towards the one man in police blues.

"Do not serve that warrant now, Gillings!"  op Owen said in a very soft
voice.  He watched the frantic activity of the needle on the PA dial.

"Go.  Now.  Call.  Because if you cannot contain your feelings,
Commissioner, you had better maintain your distance."

It was then that Gillings became aware of the palpable presence of
those assembled in the corridor.  A wide aisle had been left free, an
aisle that led only to the open elevator.  No one spoke or moved or
coughed.  The force exerted was not audible nor physical.  It was,
however, undeniably unanimous.  It prevailed in forty four seconds.

"My firm will wish to know what steps are being taken," the Cole's man
said in a squeaky voice as he began to walk, with erratic but ever
quickening steps, towards the elevator.

Gillings's three subordinates were not so independent, but there was no
doubt of their relief as Gillings turned and walked with precise,
unhurried strides to the waiting car.

No one moved until the thwapping rumble of the copter was no longer
audible.  Then they turned for assignments from their director.

City Manager Julian Pennstrak, with a metropolis of some four million
to supervise, had a habit of checking up personally on any disruption
to the smooth operation of his city.  He arrived as the last of the
organized search parties left the Center.

"I'd give my left kidney and a million credits to have enough Talent to
judge a man accurately, Dave," he said as he crossed the room.  He knew
better than to shake hands unless a Talented offered but it was obvious
to Daffyd, who like Pennstrak, that the man wanted somehow to convey
his personal distress over this incident.  He stood for a moment by the
chair, his handsome face without a trace of his famous genial smile.

"I'd've sworn Frank Gillings was proTalent," he said, combing his
fingers through his thick, wavy black hair, another indication of his
anxiety.  "He certainly has used your people to their fullest
capabilities since he became LEO Commissioner."

Lester Welch snorted, looking up from the map he was annotating with
search patterns.  "A man'll use any tool that works ... until it
scratches him, that is."

"But you could prove that no registered Talent was responsible for that
theft."

" 'A man convinced against his will, is of his own opinion still,' "
Lester chanted.

"Les!"  Op Owen didn't need sour cynicism from any quarter, even one
dedicated to Talent.  "No registered Talent was responsible."

Pennstrak brightened.  "You did persuade Gillings that it's the work of
an undiscovered Talent?"

Welch made a rude noise.  "He'll be persuaded when we produce both
missing person and missing merchandise.  Nothing else is going to
satisfy either Gillings or Cole's."

"True," Pennstrak agreed, frowning thoughtfully.  "Nor the vacillating
members of my own Council.  Oh, I know, it's a flash reaction but the
timing is so god damned lousy, Dave.  Your campaign bore down heavy on
the integrity and good citizenship of the Talented."

"It's a deliberate smear job ..."  Welch began gloomily.

"I thought of that," Pennstrak interrupted him, "and had my own expert
go over the scanner films.  You know the high security risk setup:
rotating exposures on the stationary TV eyes.  One frame the model was
clothed; next, exposed in all its plastic glory.

It was a 'lift' all right.  No possibility of tampering with that
film."  Pennstrak leaned forward to Dave, though there was scarcely any
need to guard his statements in this company.  "Furthermore, Pat came
along.  She 'read' everyone at the store, and Gillings's squad.  Not
Gillings, though.  She said he has a natural shield.  The others were
all clean ... at least of conspiracy."  Pennstrak's snide grin faded
quickly.  "I made her go rest.  That's why there's no one with me."

Op Owen accepted the information quietly.  He had halfhoped ... it was
an uncharacteristic speculation for him.  However, it did save time and
Talent to have had both store and police checked.

It had become general practice to have a strong telepathic receiver in
the entourage of any prominent or controversial public  figure.  That
Talent was rarely identified publicly.  He or she usually performed
some obvious service so that their constant presence was easily
explicable.  Pat Tawfik was overtly Pennstrak's chief speech writer.

"I have, however," Pennstrak continued, "used my official prerogative
to supervise the hunt.  There're enough sympathetic people on the
public media channels to play down the Talent angleat my requestbut you
know what this kind of adverse publicity is going to do to you, this
Center and the Talented in general.  One renegade can discredit a
hundred honest injuns.  So, what can I do to help?"

"I wish I knew.  We've got every available perceptive out on the
off chance that thisahrenegade happens to be broadcasting joy and
elation over her heist."

"Her?"

"The consensus is that while a man might lift furs and jewels possibly
the dress, only a woman would take the shoes, too.  Top finders are
coming in from other Centers ..."

"A 'find' is reported, Boss," said Charlie over the intercom.  "Block
(' As Pennstrak and op Owen reached the map, Welch announced with a
groan.  "Gawd, that's a multilayer apartment zone."

"A havenot," added op Owen.

"Gil Gracie made the find, Boss," Charlie continued.  "And the fur is
not all he's found but he's got a problem."

"You just bet he has," Les said under his breath as he grimaced down at
the map coordinates.

"Charlie, send every finder and perceptive to Block Q If they can come
up with a fix ..."

"Boss, we got a fix, but there's one helluva lot of similarities."

"What's the problem?"  asked Pennstrak.

"We'll simply have to take our time and eliminate, Charlie.  Send
anyone who can help."  Then op Owen turned to Pennstrak.  "In reporting
a 'find,' the perceptive is aware of certain particular spatial
relationships between the object sought and its immediate
surroundings.

It isn't as if he has seen the object as a camera sees it.  For
example, have you ever entered a room, turned down a street, or looked
up quickly and had the feeling that you had seen just (and Daffyd made
a bracket of his hands) that portion of the scene before, with exactly
the same lighting, exactly the same components?  But only that portion
of the scene, so that the rest was an indistinguishable blur?"

Pennstrak nodded.

"'Finding' is like that.  Sometimes the Talent sees it in lucid detail,
sometimes it's obscured or, as in this case, there are literally
hundreds of possibilities ... apartments with the same light exposure,
same scene out the window, the same floor plan and furnishings.  Quite
possible in this instance since these are furnished, standard
subsistence dwellings.  Nothing to help us single out, say Apartment
44E, Building 18, Buhler Street."

"There happens to be a Building 18 on Buhler Street, Boss," Les Welch
said slowly, "and there are 48 levels, 10 units per floor."

Pennstrak regarded op Owen with awe.

"Nonsense, this office is thoroughly shielded and I'm not a precog!"

"Before you guys took the guesswork out of it, there were such things
as hunches," Pennstrak suggested.

For op Owen's peace of mind and Lester's pose of misogyny, it was
neither Building 18 nor Buhler Street nor Apartment 44.  It was
Apartment 1E, deep in the center of Q Block.  No one had entered nor
left it-by normal means-since Gil Gracie and two other finders had made
a precise fix.  Gil handed op Owen the master key obtained from the
dithering super.

"My Gawd," Pennstrak said in a voice muted with shocked surprise, as
they swung open the door.  "Like an oriental bazaar."

"Indiscriminate pilfering on a wholesale basis."  Op Owen corrected
him, glancing around at the rich brilliant velvet drapes framing the
dingy window to the wildly clashing pillows thrown on the elegant
Empire love seat.  A marble topped table was a jumble of pretty vases,
silver boxes and goblets.  Priceless china held decaying remains of
food.  Underneath the table were jaggedly opened, empty cans bearing
the label of an extremely expensive caterer.  Two empty champagne
bottles pointed green, blind eyes in their direction.  A portable color
'caster was piled with discarded clothing; a blacklace sheer body
stocking draped in an obscene posture across the inactive screen.  "A
magpie's nest rather," he sighed, "and I'd hazard that Maggie is very
young and has been poor all her life until ..."  He met Pennstrak's
sympathetic gaze.  "Until our educational program gave her the hints
she needed to unlock her special Talent."

"Gillings is going to have to work with you on this, Dave," Pennstrak
said reluctantly as he reached for the intercom at his belt.  "But
first he's going to have to apologize."

Op Owen shook his head vigorously.  "I want his cooperation, Julian,
grudged or willing.  When he really believes in Talent, then he will
apologize voluntarily ... and obliquely."

To op Owen's consternation, Gillings arrived noisily in the cowlike lab
copter, sirens going, lights flashing.

"Don't bother now," op Owen said to Pennstrak for he could see the City
Manager forming a furious reprimand.  "She might have been warned by
the finders' activity anyhow."

"Well, she's certainly been warned off now."  Pennstrak stalked off, to
confer with one of his aides just as Gillings strode into the corridor
with his technicians.

According op Owen and Gracie the merest nod, Gillings began issuing
crisp orders.  He knew his business, op Owen thought, and he evidently
trusted the technicians for he didn't bother to crowd into the tiny
apartment to oversee them.

"As soon as your men have prints and a physical profile, Commissioner,
we'd like to run the data through our computer.  There's the chance
that the girl did take advantage of the open Talent test the Center has
been advertising."

"You mean you don't know who it is yet?"

"I could 'find' the coat only because I knew what it looked like," Gil
Gracie said, bristling at Gillings's manner.

"Then where is it?"  and Gillings gestured preemptorily to the
sableless apartment.

"These are the shoes, Commissioner," said one of his team, presenting
the fragile strap and jeweled footwear, now neatly sealed in clear
plastic.  "Traces of dirt, dust, fleck of nail enamel and from the
'scope imprint, I'd say they were too big for her."

Gillings stared at the shoes disinterestedly.  "No sign of the
dress?"

"Still looking."

"Odd that you people can't locate a girl with bare feet in a sable coat
and a bright blue silk gown?"

"No odder than it is for your hundreds of patrolmen throughout the
city, Commissioner, to overlook a girl so bizarrely dressed," said op
Owen with firm good humor.  "When you 'saw' the coat, Gil, where was
it?"

"Thrown across the love seat, one arm hanging down to the floor.  I
distinguished the edge of the sill and the tree outside, the first
folds of the curtain and the wall heating unit.  I called in, you sent
over enough finders so that we were able to eliminate the
similarities.

It took us nearly an hour ..."

"Were you keeping an 'eye' on the coat all the time?"  Gillings
demanded in a voice so devoid of expression that his contempt was all
the more obvious.

Gil flushed, bit his lip and only partially inhibited by op Owen's
subtle warning, snapped back, "Try keeping your physical eye on an
object for an hour!"

"Get some rest, Gil," op Owen said gently.  He waited until the finder
had turned the corner.  "If you are as determined to find this criminal
as you say you are, Commissioner Gillings, then do not destroy the
efficiency of my staff by such gratuitous criticism.  In less than
four hours, on the basis of photographs of the stolen objects, we
located this apartment ..."

"But not the criminal, who is still in possession of a sable coat which
you found once but have now unaccountably lost."

"That's enough, Gillings," said Pennstrak who had rejoined them.

"Thanks to your arrival, the girl must know she's being sought and is
shielding."

Pennstrak gestured toward the dingy windows of the flat, through which
the vanes of the big copter were visible.  A group of children,
abandoning the known objects of the development play-yard, had gathered
at a respectful, but curiosity-satisfying distance.

"Considering the variety of her accomplishments," op Owen said, not
above using Pennstrak's irritation with his Commissioner to advantage,
"I'm sure she knew of the search before the Commissioner's arrival,
Julian.  Have any of these items been reported, Commissioner?"

"That console was.  Two days ago.  It was on 'find,' too."

"She has been growing steadily bolder, then," op Owen went on,
depressed by Gillings's attitude.  And depressed that such a Talent had
emerged twisted, perverted, selfish.  Why?  Why?  "If your department
ever gets the chronology of the various thefts, we'd appreciate the
copy."

"Why?"  Gillings turned to stare at op Owen, surprised and irritated.

"Talent takes time to developin ordinary persons.  It does not, like
the ancient goddess Athena, spring fullgrown from the forehead.  This
girl could not, for instance, have lifted that portable set the first
time she used her Talent.  The more data we have on ... the lecture is
illtimed."

Gillings's unspoken "you said it" did reach op Owen whose turn it was
to stare in surprise.

"Well, your 'finders' are not novices," the Commissioner said aloud.

"If they traced the coat once, why not again?"

"Every perceptive we have is searching," op Owen said.  "But, if she
was able to leave this apartment after Gil found the coat, taking it
with her, because it obviously is not here, she also is capable of
shielding herself and that coat.  And, until she slips that guard, I
doubt we'll find it or her."

The report on the laboratory findings was exhaustive.  There was a full
set of prints, foot and finger.  None matched those on file in the city
records, or Federal or Immigration.  She had not been tested at the
Center.  Long coarse black hair had been found.

Analysis of skin flakes suggested an olive complexion.

Thermophotography placed her last appearance in the room at
approximately the time the four 'finders' fixed on her apartment, thus
substantiating op Owen's guess.  The thermal prints also revealed that
she was of slender build, approximately 5'4", weighing 105 pounds.

Stains on a paring knife proved her to possess blood type O. No one
else had occupied the apartment within the eight day range of the
thermography used.

From such records, the police extrapolator made a rough sketch of
"Maggie O" which she was called for want of a better name.  The sketch
was taken around the neighborhood with no success.  People living in
Block Q_didn't bother people who didn't bother them.

It was Daffyd op Owen who remembered the children crowding the police
copter.  From them he elicited the information that she was new in the
building.  (The records indicated that the apartment should be vacant.)
She was always singing, dancing to the wall ' caster, and changing her
clothes.  Occasionally she'd play with them and bring out rich food to
eat, promising they could have such good things if they'd think hard
about them.  While the children talked, Daffyd "saw" Maggie's face
reflected in their minds.

The police extrapolator had been far short of the reality.  She was not
much older than the children she had played with.  She had not been
pretty by ordinary standards but she had been so "different" that her
image had registered sharply.  The narrow face, the brilliant eyes,
slightly slanted above sharp cheekbones, the thin, small mouth and the
pointed chin were unusual even in an area of ethnic variety.

This likeness and a physical description were circulated quickly to be
used at all exits to the city and all transportation facilities.  It
was likely she'd try to slip out during the dayend exodus.

The south and west airstrips had been under a perceptive surveillance
since the search had been inaugurated.  Now every facility was
guarded.

Gil Gracie "found" the coat again.

"She must have it in a suitcase," he reported on the policeprovided
handunit from his position in the main railroad concourse.  "It's
folded and surrounded by dark.  It's moving up and down.  But there're
so many people.  So many suitcases.  I'll circulate.  May be the
find'll fix itself."

Gillings gave orders to his teams on the master unit which had been set
up in the Center's control room to coordinate the operations.

"You better test Gil for precog," Charlie muttered to op Owen after
they'd contacted all the sensitivities.  "He asked for the station."

"You should've told me sooner, Charlie.  I'd've teamed him with a
sensitive."

"Look at that," Charlie exclaimed, pointing to a wildly moving needle
on one of the remotes.

Les was beside it even as the audio for the Incident went on.

"Not that track!  Oh!  Watch out!  Baggage.  On the handcart!  Watch
out.  Move, man.  Move!  To the right.  The right!  Ahhhh."  The
woman's voice choked off in an agonized cry.

Daffyd pushed Charlie out of the way, to get to the speaker.

"Gil, this is op Owen.  Do not pursue.  Do not pursue that girl!  She's
aware of you.  Gil, come in.  Answer me, Gil.... Charlie, keep trying
to raise him.  Gillings, contact your men in the station.  Make them
stop Gil Gracie."

"Stop him?  Why?"

"The precog.  The baggage on the handcart," shouted Daffyd,  signaling
frantically to Lester to explain in detail.  He raced for the emergency
stairs, up the two flights, and slammed out onto the roof.  Gasping
physically for breath, he clung to the high retaining wall and
projected his mind to Gil's.

He knew the man so well, had trained Gil when an employee brought in
the kid who had a knack for locating things.  Op Owen could see him
ducking and dodging through the trainward crowds, touching suitcases,
ignoring irate or astonished carriers; every nerve , every ounce of him
receptive to the "feel" of a dense, dark sable fur.  And so
single-minded that Daffyd could not "reach" him.

But op Owen knew the instant the loaded baggage cart swerved and
crushed the blindly intent Talent against an Ibeam.  He bowed his head,
too fully cognizant that a double tragedy had occurred.  Gil was lost
... and so now was the girl.

There was no peace from his thoughts even when he returned to the
shielded control room.  Lester and Charlie pretended to be very busy.

Gillings was.  He directed the search of the railway station arguing
with the stationmaster that the trains were to be held and that was
that.  The drone of his voice began to penetrate op Owen's remorse.

"All right, then, if the Talents have cleared it and there's no female
of the same height and weight, release that train.  Someone tried the
johns, didn't they?  No, Sam, you can detain anyone remotely
suspicious.  That girl is clever, strong, and dangerous.

There's no telling what else she could do.  But she damn well can't
change her height, weight and blood type!"

"Daffyd.  Daffyd."  Lester had to touch him to get his attention.  He
motion op Owen towards Charlie who was holding out the handunit.

"It's Cole's, sir."

Daffyd listened to the effusively grateful store manager.  He made the
proper responses but it wasn't until he had relinquished the handunit
to Charlie that the man's excited monologue made sense.

"The coat, the dress and the necklace have reappeared on the store
dummy," op Owen said.  He cleared his throat and repeated it loud
enough to be heard.

"Returned?"  Gillings echoed.  "Just like that?  Why, the little
bitch!

Sam, check the ladies rooms in that station.  Wait, isn't there a
discount dress store in that station?  Have them check for missing
apparel.  I want an itemized list of what's gone, and an exact
duplicate from their stock shown to the sensitives.  We've got her
scared and running now."

"Scared and running now."  Gillings's smug assessment rang ominously in
Daffyd's mind.  He had a sudden flash.  Superimposed over a projection
of Maggie's thin face was the image of the lifeless store dummy,
elegantly reclad in the purloined blue gown and dark fur.  "Here, take
them back.  I don't want them anymore.  I didn't mean to kill him.  I
didn't mean to.  See, I gave back what you wanted.  Now leave me
alone!"

Daffyd shook his head.  Wishful thinking.  Just as futile as the girl's
belated gesture of penance.  Too much too soon.  Too little too late.

"We don't want her scared," he said out loud.  "She was scared when she
toppled that baggage cart."

"She killed a man when she toppled that baggage cart, op Owen!"

Gillings was all but shouting.

"And if we're not very careful, she'll kill others."

"If you think I'm going to velvet glove a homicidal maniac ..."

A shrill tone issuing from the remote unit forced Gillings to answer.

He was about to reprimand the caller but the message got stunned
attention.

"We can forget the paternal bit, Owen.  She knocked down every one of
your people and mine at the Oriole Street entrance.  Your men are
unconscious.  Mine and about twenty or more innocent commuters are
afflicted with blinding headaches.  Got any practical ideas, Owen, on
catching this monster you created?"

"Oriole?  Was she heading east or west?"  He had to stop that line of
talk.

"Does it matter?"

"If we're to catch her it does.  And we must catch her.  She's
operating at a psychic high.  There's no telling what she's capable of
now.  Such Talent has only been a theoretic possibility ..."

Gillings lost all control of himself.  The fear and hatred burst out in
such a wave that Charlie Moorfield, caught unawares, erupted out of his
chair towards Gillings in an instinctive defense reaction.

"Gillings!"

"Charlie!"  Les and Daffyd shouted together, each grabbing the wild
combatants.  But Charlie, his face white with shock at his own
reaction, had himself in hand.  Sinking weakly back into his chair, he
gasped out an apology.

"You mean, you want to have more monsters like her and him?"  Gillings
demanded.  Between his voice and the violent emotions Daffyd's head
rang with pain and confusion.

"Don't be a fool," Lester said, grabbing the Commissioner by the arm.

"You can't spew emotions like that around a telepath and not get a
reaction.  Look at Daffyd!  Look at Charlie!  Christ man, you're as bad
as the scared, mixed-up kid ..."  and then Les dropped Gillings's arm
and stared at him in amazement.  "Christ, you're a telepath
yourself!"

"Quiet, everybody," Daffyd said with such urgency he had their instant
attention.  "I've the solution.  And there's no time to waste.

Charlie, I want Harold Orley airbound in the Clinic's copter heading
south to the Central Station in nothing flat.  We'll correct course enroute.  Gillings, I want two of the strongest, most stable patrolmen on
your roster.  I want them armed with fast acting, doublestrength trank
guns and airborne to rendezvous near Central Station."

"Harold?"  Les echoed in blank astonishment.  Then relief colored his
face as he understood Daffyd's intentions.  "Of course.  Nothing can
stop Harold.  And no one can read him coming."

"Nothing.  And no one," op Owen agreed, bleakly.

Gillings turned from issuing his orders to see an ambulance copter
heading west across the sky.

"We're following?"

Daffyd nodded and gestured for Gillings to precede him to the roof.  He
didn't look back but he knew what Les and Charlie did not say.

She had been seen running east on Oriole.  And she was easy to
follow.

She left people doubled up with nausea and crying with head pains.

That is, until she crossed Boulevard.

"We'll head south, south east on an intercept," Gillings told his pilot
and had him relay the correction to the ambulance.  "She's heading to
the sea?"  he asked rhetorically as he rummaged for the correct airmap
of the city.  "Here.  We can set down at Seaman's Park.  She can't
have made it that far ... unless she can fly suddenly."  Gillings
looked up at op Owen.

"She probably could teleport herself," Daffyd answered, watching the
Commissioner's eyes narrow in adverse reaction to the admission.  "But
she hasn't thought of it yet.  As long as she can be kept running, too
scared to think ..."  That necessity plagued Daf fyd op Owen.  They
were going to have to run her out of her mind.

Gillings ordered all police hovercraft to close in on the area where
she was last seen, blocks of residences and small businesses of all
types.

By the time the three copters had made their rendezvous at the small
Park, there were no more visible signs of Maggie O's retreat.

As Gillings made to leave the copter, Daffyd op Owen stopped him.

"If you're not completely under control, Gillings, Harold will be after
you."

Gillings looked at the director for a long moment, his jaw set
stubbornly.  Then, slowly, he settled into the seat and handed op Owen
a remote comunit.

"Thanks, Gillings," he said, and left the copter.  He signaled to the
ambulance to release Harold Orley and then strode across the grass to
the waiting officers.

The two biggest men were as burly as he could wish.  Being trained law
enforcers, they ought to be able to handle Orley.  Op Owen "pushed"
gently against their minds and was satisfied with his findings.  They
possessed the natural shielding of the untemperamental which made them
less susceptible to emotional storms.  Neither Webster nor Heis were
stupid, however, and had been briefed on developments.

"Orley has no useful intelligence.  He is a human barometer, measuring
the intensity and type of emotions which surround him and reacting
instinctively.  He does not broadcast.  He only receives.  Therefore he
cannot be harmed or identified by ... by Maggie O.

He is the only Talent she cannot 'hear' approaching."

"But, if he reaches her, he'd ..."  Webster began, measuring Harold
with the discerning eye of a boxing enthusiast.  Then he shrugged and
turned politely to op Owen.

"You've the double strength tranks?  Good.  I hope you'll be able to
use them in time.  But it is imperative that she be apprehended before
she does more harm.  She has already killed one man...."

"We understand, sir," Heis said when op Owen did not continue.

"If you can, shoot her.  Once she stops broadcasting, he'll soon return
to a manageable state."  But, Daffyd amended to himself, remembering
Harold sprawled on the ground in front of the building, not soon
enough.  "She was last seen on the east side of the Boulevard, about
eight blocks from here.  She'd be tired, looking for someplace to hide
and rest.  But she is also probably radiating sufficient emotion for
Harold to pick up.  He'll react by he ading in a straight line for the
source.  Keep him from trying to plow through solid walls.  Keep your
voices calm when you speak to him.  Use simple commands.  I see you've
got handunits.  I'll be airborne; the copter's shielded but I'll help
when I can."

Flanking Harold, Webster and Heis moved west along Oriole at a brisk,
even walk: the two officers in step, Harold's head bobbing above
theirs, out of stepa cruel irony.

Daffyd op Owen turned back to the copter.  He nodded to Gillings as he
seated himself.  He tried not to think at all.

As the copters lifted from the Park and drifted slowly west amid other
air traffic, op Owen looked sadly down at the people on the streets.

At kids playing on the sidewalks.  At a flow of men and women with
briefcases or shopping bags, hurrying home.  At snu bnosed city cars
and squatty trucks angling into parking slots.  At the bloated
crosscity helibuses jerking and settling to disgorge their passengers
at the street islands.

"He's twitching," reported Heis in a dispassionate voice.

Daffyd flicked on the handset.  "That's normal.  He's beginning to
register."

"He's moving faster now.  Keeps wanting to go straight through the
buildings."  Reading Heis's undertone, op Owen knew that the men hadn't
believed his caution about Orley plowing through solids.  "He's letting
us guide him, but he keeps pushing us to the right.  You take his
other arm, Web.  Yeah, that's better."

Gillings had moved to the visual equipment along one side of the
copter.  He focused deftly in on the trio, magnified it and threw the
image on the pilot's screen, too.  The copter adjusted direction.

"Easy, Orley.  No, don't try to stop him, Web.  Stop the traffic!"

Orley's line of march crossed the busier wide northsouth street.

Webster ran out to control the vehicles.  People turned curiously.

Stopped and stared after the trio.

"Don't," op Owen said as he saw Gillings move a hand towards the
bullhorn.  "There's nothing wrong with her hearing."

Orley began to move faster now that he had reached the farther side.

He wanted to go right through intervening buildings.

"Guide him left to the sidewalk, Heis," op Owen said.  "I think he's
still amenable.  He isn't running yet."

"He's breathing hard, Mr. Owen," Heis sounded dubious.  "And his face
is changing."

Op Owen nodded to himself, all too familiar with the startling
phenomenon of watching the blankness of Orley's face take on the
classic mask of whatever emotions he was receiving.  It would be a
particularly unnerving transition under these conditions.

"What does he show?"

"I'd say ... hatred," Heis's voice dropped on the last word.  Then he
added in his usual tone, "He's smiling, too, and it isn't nice."

They had eased Orley to the sidewalk heading west.  He kept pushing
Webster to the right and his pace increased until it was close to a
run.  Webster and Heis began to gesture people out of their way but it
would soon be obvious to the neighborhood that some thing was amiss.

Would it be better to land more police to reassure people and keep
their emanations down?  Or would they broadcast too much suppressed
excitement at police interference?  She'd catch that.  Should he warn
Heis and Webster to keep their thoughts on Harold Orley?  Or would
that be like warning them against all thoughts of the camel's left
knee?

Orley broke into a run.  Webster and Heis were hard put to keep him to
the sidewalk.

"What's in the next block?"  op Owen asked Gillings.

The Commissioner consulted the map, holding it just above the scanner
so he could keep one eye on the trio below.

"Residences and an area parking facility for interstate trucking."

Gillings turned to op Owen now, his heavy eyebrows raised in
question.

"No, she's still there because Orley is homing in on her projection."

"Look at his face!  My God!"  Heis exclaimed over the handunit.  On the
screen, his figure had stopped.  He was pointing at Orley.  But
Webster's face was clearly visible to the surveillers and what he saw
unnerved him.

Orley broke from his guides.  He was running, slowly at first but
gathering speed steadily, mindlessly brushing aside anything that stood
in his way.  Heis and Webster went after him but both men were shaking
their heads as if something were bothering them.

Orley tried to plunge through a brick store wall.  He bounced off it,
saw the unimpeded view of his objective and charged forward.  Webster
had darted ahead of him, blowing his whistle to stop the oncoming
traffic.  Heis alternately yelled into the handunit and at startled
bystanders.  Now some of them were afflicted and were grabbing their
heads.

"Put us on the roof," op Owen told the pilot.  "Gillings, get men to
cover every entrance and exit to that parking lot.  Get the copters to
hover by the open levels.  The men'll be spared some of the lash."

It wouldn't do much good, op Owen realized, even as he felt the first
shock of the girl's awareness of imminent danger.

"Close your mind," he yelled at the pilot and Gillings.  "Don't
think."

"My head, my head."  It was Heis groaning.

"Concentrate on Orley," op Owen said, his hands going to his temples in
reaction to the knotting pressure.  Heis's figure on the scanner
staggered after Orley who had now entered the parking facility.

Op Owen caught the mental pressure and dispersed it, projecting back
reassurance/help/protection/compassion.  He could forgive her Gil
Gracie's death.  So would any Talent.  If she would instantly
surrender, somehow the Center would protect her from the legal aspects
of her act.  Only surrender now.

Someone screamed.  Another man echoed that piercing cry.  The copter
bucked and jolted them.  The pilot was groaning and gasping.  Gillings
plunged forward, grabbing the controls.

Op Owen, fighting an incredible battle, was blind to physical
realities.  If he could just occupy all the attention of that
overcharged mind ... hold it long enough ... pain/fear/black/
red/moiledorange/purples ... breathing ... shock.  Utter
disbelief/fear/ loss of confidence.  Frantic physical effort.

Concrete scraped op Owen's cheek.  His fingers bled as he clawed at a
locked steel exit door on the roof.  He could not enter.  He had to
reach her FIRST!

Somehow his feet found the stairs as he propelled himself down the fire
escape, deliberately numbing his mind to the intensive pounding
received.  A pounding that became audible.

Then he saw her, fingers clawing for leverage on the stairpost, foot
poised for the step from the landing.  A toothin adolescent figure,
frozen for a second with indecision and shock; strands of black hair
like vicious scars across a thin face, distorted and ugly from the
tremendous physical and mental efforts of the frantic will.  Her huge
eyes, black with insane fury and terror, bloodshot with despair and the
salty sweat of her desperate striving for escape, looked into his.

She knew him for what he was; and her hatred crackled in his mind.

Those wordsafter Gil Gracie's deathhad been hers, not his distressed
imagining.  She had know him then as her real antagonist.  Only now was
he forced to recognize her for what she was, all she wa sand
regrettably, all she would not be.

He fought the inexorable decision of that splitsecond confrontation,
wanting more than anything else in his life that it did not have to be
so.

She was the wiser!  She whirled!

She was suddenly beyond the heavy fire door without opening it.  Harold
Orley, charging up the stairs behind her, had no such Talent.  He
crashed with sickening force into the metal door.  Daffyd had no
alternative.  She had teleported.  He steadied the telempath,
depressed the lock bar and threw the door wide.

Orley was after the slender figure fleeing across the dimly lit,
lowceiling concrete floor.  She was heading towards the down ramp
now.

"Stop, stop," op Owen heard his voice begging her.

Heis came staggering from the stairway.

"Shoot him.  For Christ's sake, shoot Orley, Heis," op Owen yelled.

Heis couldn't seem to coordinate.  Op Owen tried to push aside his
fumbling hands and grab the trank gun himself.  His's trained reflexes
made him cling all the tighter to his weapon.  Just then, op Owen heard
the girl's despairing shriek.

Two men had appeared at the top of the ramp.  They both fired, the dull
reports of trank pistols accentuated by her choked gasp.

"Not her.  Shoot Orley.  Shoot the man," op Owen cried but it was too
late.

Even as the girl crumpled to the floor, Orley grabbed her.  Grabbed and
tore and beat at the source of the emotions which so disturbed him.

Beat and tore and stamped her physically as she had assaulted him
mentally.

Orley's body jerked as tranks hit him from all sides, but it took  far
too long for them to override the adrenal reactions of the overcharged
telempath.

There was pain and pity as well as horror in Gillings's eyes when he
came running onto the level.  The police stood at a distance from the
blood spattered bodies.

"Gawd, couldn't someone have stopped him from getting her?"  the copter
pilot murmured, turning away from the shapeless bloodied thing
halfcovered by Orley's unconscious body.

"The door would have stopped Orley but he," and Heis grimly pointed at
op Owen, "opened it for him."

"She teleported through the door," op Owen said weakly.  He had to lean
against the wall.  He was beginning to shudder uncontrollably from
reaction.  "She had to be stopped.  Now.  Here.  Before she realized
what she'd done.  What she could do."  His knees buckled .  "She
teleported through the door!"

Unexpectedly it was Gillings who came to his aid, a Gillings whose mind
was no longer shielded but broadcasting compassion and awe, and
understanding.

"So did you."

The phrase barely registered in op Owen's mind when he passed out.

"That's all that remains of the late Solange Boshe," Gillings said,
tossing the file reel to the desk.  "As much of her life as we've been
able to piece together.  Gypsies don't stay long anywhere."

"There're some left?"  Lester Welch asked, frowning at the three-inch
condensation of fifteen years of a human life.

"Oh there are, I assure you," Gillings replied, his tone souring
slightly for the first time since he had entered the office.  "The tape
also has a lengthy interview with Bill Jones, the cousin the social
worker located after Solange had recovered from the bronchial
pneumonia.  He had no idea," Gillings hastily assured them, "that there
was any reason other than a routine check on the whereabouts of a
runaway county ward.  He had a hunch," and Gillings grimaced, "that the
family had gone on to Toronto.  They had. He also thought that they
had probably given the girl up for dead when she collapsed on the
street.  The Toronto report substantiates that.  So I don't imagine it
will surprise you, op Owen, that her tribe, according to Jones, are the
only ones still making a living at fortune-telling, palm-reading,
tealeaves and that bit."

"Now, just a minute, Gillings," Lester began, bristling.  He subsided
when he saw that his boss and the Police Commissioner were grinning at
each other.

"So ... just as you suspected, op Owen, she was a freak Talent.  We
know from the ward nurses that she watched your propaganda broadcasts
during her hospitalization.  We can assume that she was aware of the
search either when Gil Gracie 'found' the coat, or when the definite
fix was made.  It's not hard to guess her motivation in making the
heist in the first place, nor her instinctive desire to hide."

Gillings gave his head an abrupt violent jerk and stood up.  He started
to hold out his hand, remembered and raised it in a farewell
gesture.

"You are continuing those broadcasts, aren't you?"

Lester Welch glared so balefully at the Commissioner that op Owen had
to chuckle.

"With certain deletions, yes."

"Good.  Talent must be identified and trained.  Trained young and well
if they are to use their Talent properly."  Gillings stared op Owen in
the eye.  "The Boshe girl was bad, op Owen, bad clear through.  Listen
to what Jones said about her and you won't regret Tuesday too much.

Sometimes the young are inflexible, too."

"I agree, Commissioner," Daffyd said, escorting the man to the door as
calmly as if he hadn't heard what Gillings was thinking so clearly.

"And we appreciate your help in the cover yarns that explained
Tuesday's odd occurrences."

"A case of mutual understanding," Gillings said, his eyes glinting.

"Oh, no need to see me out.  I can open this door."

That door was no sooner firmly shut behind him than Lester Welch turned
on his superior.

"And just who was scratching whose back then?"  he demanded.  "Don't
you dare come over innocent, either, Daffyd op Owen.  Two days ago that
man was your enemy, bristling with enough hate and distrust to
antagonize me."

"Remember what you said about Gillings Tuesday?"

"There's been an awful lot of idle comment around here lately."

"Frank Gillings is telepathic."  Then he added as Lester was choking on
the news: "And he doesn't want to be.  So he's suppressed it.

Naturally he'd be antagonistic."

"Hah!"

"He's not too old, but he's not flexible enough to adapt to Talent,
having denied it so long."

"I'll buy that.  But what was that parting shot'I can open this
door'?"

Lester mimicked the Commissioner's deep voice.

"I'm too old to learn new tricks, too, Les.  I teleported through the
roof door of that parking facility.  He saw me do it.  And she saw the
memory of it in my mind.  If she'd lived, she'd've picked my mind
clean.  And-I didn't want her to die."

Op Owen turned abruptly to the window, trying to let the tranquillity
of the scene restore his equilibrium.  It diduntil he saw Harold Orley
plodding along the path with his guide.  Instantly a white, wideeyed,
hairstreaked face was superimposed over the view.

The intercom beeped and he depressed the key for his sanity's sake.

"We've got a live one, Boss," and Sally Iselin's gay voice restored
him.  "A strong precog with kinetic possibilities.  And guess what?"

Sally's excitement made her voice breathless.  "He said the cop on his
beat told him to come in.  He doesn't want any more trouble with the
cops so he ..."

"Would his name be Bill Jones?"

"However did you know?"

"And that's no precog, Sally," op Owen said with a ghost of a laugh,
aware he was beginning to look forward again.  "A sure thing's no
precog, is it Les?"

PART FOUR A BRIDLE FOR PEGASUS

Julian Pennstrak, Jerhattan City Manager, Daffyd op Owen, Director of
the East American Parapsychic Center, and Frank Gillings, Commissioner
of Law Enforcement and Order, had gathered in the latter's office: an
appropriate setting as the four sides of the tower office were tough
plexiglass so the occupants had a full panoramic view of the city they
managed or fore saw and protected.

"The Maggie O affair was not without some reward," Daffyd op Owen
reminded the other two.  "Her ... relation ... in whatever degree of
cousinship Bill Jones stood ... is proving to be a sound precog."

Gillings grunted and rubbed the side of his fleshy nose, registering
skepticism.

"Half a city semiparalyzed with blinding headaches, two dead, and a lot
of public lying and you say there was some reward!"

"You do tend to adopt a negative attitude, don't you, Frank?"  the City
Manager remarked, half amused.  He was watching op Owen from the corner
of his eye.  He knew that the Director of the Parapsychic Center had
been deeply shaken by the deaths of Gil Gracie and Solange Boshe,
a.k.a. Maggie O. And the curious sparring between Gillings and op Owen
dated from that incident: the one grudging admiration and the other
exhibiting wistful regret.  Well, Pennstrak possessed a certain empathy
himself which told him not to delve too deeply into the denouement of
that incident.  Suffice it to say, the truth about Maggie's sudden rise
and demise had been successfully obscured from public notice and, if
Daffyd were satisfied that some profit existed on the black side of the
ledger, the City Manager would be content.  "Nonetheless," Julian
Pennstrak continued, "the Professional Immunity Law is now, as of
yesterday, programmed into Federal Books and State Law Machinery.

What's your problem now, Frank?"

"It's this: if renegades like Solange Boshe can exist, how do we smell
'em out before they cause trouble?  Now," and he held up his hand as
Daffyd op Owen opened his mouth to speak, "I know you've got a
subliminal TRID program going, Dave, but just how successful is it in
routing out the oddballs?"

Op Owen winced at Gillings's phraseology.

"Unfortunately only time will tell.  We do have Bill Jones, Maggie O's
cousin, and he'll be a first rate precog.  Sally Iselin at the Testing
Clinic has upwards of fifty applicants a day."  He sighed.  "Most are
wishful thinkers, I'm afraid, but occasionally a live one does come
in.

You can't make people get Talent-tested."

"What we need," the LEO Commissioner said in a deadly voice, "is
enforced testing."

"Of nine million people?"  asked Pennstrak, good-humoredly aghast.

Gillings grunted.  "The mavericks cost us more' Pennstrak agreed to
that.

"Better still, early testing would be a tremendous help," Daffyd op
Owen said.  "Our sensitives in the maternity wards do catch the
occasional strong one at birth.  But we lack adequate facilities and
more important, the personnel.  It takes a special kind of Talent, in
itself, to spot embryo Talents.  Sally Iselin is acutely sensitive in
this area and I thank Providence for her presence in the Clinic.  She's
never been wrong in her assessments.  But she's the only one Eastern
has and she's overworked as it is."

Daffyd smiled and decided against what he'd been about to confide.  The
dour face of Lester Welch leered at him: For Christ's sake, Dave, don't
tell everybody everything you know.  They don't always want to hear
it.

For instance, Daffyd doubted that Frank Gillings would take kindly to
the notion that Sally Iselin's chief assistant at the moment was the
twoyearold Dorotea Horvath, the extraordinarily Talented daughter of
two of his people.  Dorotea came every morning and afternoon to the
Clinic, to "play" in the room full of applicants.  She'd instinctively
approach anyone with the least vestige of Talent so that Sally could
give the deeper testing.  The others could be dismissed after the
routine examinations, none the wiser for the preselection.  Dorotea was
bus sfully unaware of what she could do she simply did it.

"Talent is sometimes latent," Daffyd told Gillings, "as it was in
Solange Boshe, springing into maturity under pressure.  But different
minds react to different stimuli and the powerful Talent, such as
Solange's, to another set entirely.  Talent can also be consciously or
subconsciously suppressed since any Talent singles one out for the
unwelcome attentions of the less gifted.  We do try to alleviate that
envy with our public information broadcasts on what Talent does to
relieve ..."

Gillings cut him off with a brusque wave of his hand.  As much, Daffyd
op Owen thought wryly, because Gillings was a latent who had no wish to
be trained or reminded of this defection.

"Sorry for the lecture," op Owen said with an apologetic grin, "but you
must realize that we are limited in what we can do even with all the
Talent at our disposal.  Nor can we foresee the stray maturing of
Talent.  Your LEO operatives, Frank, have all the information we've
collated on how to spot the latent or unconscious Talent.  What more
can we do?"

"Get your Senator friend to write a rider on that Immunity Law," said
Gillings in a growl, "that it's illegal to be Talented and conceal
it."

Daffyd returned Gillings's half guilty glare with a wideeyed look of
surprise.  Gillings's perception was not dull: he knew what was behind
op Owen's grin and he scowled fiercely at him.

"I'll suggest it to Joel Andres when next we meet," op Owen said
politely.  "It's a point well taken."

"How in hell could you implement such a statute under the conditions
you've just cited, Daffyd?"  demanded Pennstrak with understandable
disgust.  "No facilities, not enough Talent.  Besides, latents wouldn't
know and therefore wouldn't register, and a Talent who knew of his
ability could claim he didn't."

"Well, it'd be a help to me," Gillings said, still in a growling
mood.

Yet he glanced at op Owen with less choler.  Obviously the telepath
hadn't mentioned Gillings's latent abilities to the City Manager.  The
man knew when to keep his mouth shut.  "I could shut up suspects and
keep them from running amok like that gypsy girl."

Op Owen's smile faded.

"You can't suppress or contain Talent, Frank.  That'd put exactly  the
sort of pressure on them we'd want at all costs to avoid.  There's so
much we don't know about the parapsychic, so much."

"Like what for instance?"  asked the LEO Commissioner, steeling himself
for unwelcome information.

Op Owen spread his hands wide.  "I can't tell you.  I'm not a
precog."

To which he added a devout and silent "Amen!"

Gillings unloosed another grunt.  "Now, on that score, have your
Talents come up with anything on this ethnic employment allocation
nonsense?  You guys are, I sincerely trust, panethnic?"

"Demonstrably."  Gillings gave him a long look as if he suspected op
Owen of facetiousness.  Julian Pennstrak cleared his throat hastily.

"That's one less headache at any rate," the LEO man went on "but your
precogs haven't had any Incidents beyond this nebulous warning?"  He
tapped the Incident readings which had been sent to his office the
previous day.

Daffyd shook his head.  "The precognitive faculty is the most erratic
but generally speaking, the larger the number of people involved, the
greater the possibility of detailed Incidents.  Or, conversely, the
severer the change to a prominent person or a linked or emotional
association, the more likelihood of a definitive Incident.

"The old tealeaf and card readers attempted to tell the future,
anyone's future: and while I suppose they could generalize for the
average soul well enough, the best of them were only accurate when
predicting the future of lives which affected a large section of
general mankind.  Some precogs operate only on a direct confrontation
with a personality, which is why we keep key personnel folders with
those sensitives.  But you can't actually provoke a precog.

"In the instance of Maggie O: she was a fluke to begin with, an
isolated case, unintegrated in any group or with any affiliation that
would cause one of our precogs to 'read' for her.  That is, until
circumstances put her in a position to cross Gil Gracie's lifeline Then
we had a reading on him, but only because the precog was tuned to
Gil.

"There are, as I keep saying ad nauseam I know, a lot of parapsychic
manifestations about which we know nothing.  Every time I believe I
understand one combination or facet, exceptions to that comprehension
appear to confound me.

"Henry Darrow said that having any Talent is like riding a winged
horse, you get a magnificent view but you can't always dismount when
you want to."

Gillings had waited patiently through op Owen's peroration; now he
rattled the urgently tagged tapes on his desk.  Pennstrak regarded the
Director with new insight.

"I'd always thought that Pegasus was the symbol of poetry ... flights
of verbal fantasy.  But I must say, I like your notion, Dave.  A winged
horse is an appropriate mount for you people.  Not that I'd have the
courage to hop on its back."

"If you two would deign to consider the mundane problems of the
earthbound," Gillings said in an acid tone of voice, "just how in hell
are we going to find jobs for all these eager mudgrubbers?"

On a morning some two months later when Daffyd op Owen reached his
office, there was a message on his desk to call Sally Iselin as soon as
he had a moment.  To a semanticallysensitive personality, the phrasing
was provocative, added to the fact that Sally I selin was in charge of
recruit-testing.  Daffyd punched her call numbers as soon as he read the
note, disregarding other red and white flagged tapes and messages.  If
only one psi-latent was uncovered in a month of public information
broadcasts, the program would be worth its cost.

"Daffyd here, Sally.  You rang me?"

"Oh, Daffyd!"  She sounded surprised and a tinge embarrassed.  "I'm not
really certain if I should bother you ..."

'My greatgrandmother used to say, 'If it's doubtful, it's dirty."

" "I'm not talking about a shirt, Daffyd," and Sally's usual levity was
missing.  "I'm talking about people."

"Which people?"  It was like pulling screws from wood: intriguingly
unSallyish.

"Well, Daffyd, I'd hate to prejudice you.  But ... well, would you take
me out tonight?  There's a place I want you to feel.  I can't figure
out what it is myself and I know something happened."

"Curiouser and curiouser.  You've hooked me ..."

"Oh, damn.  I don't want to hook you.  I've gone and done what I
shouldn't ta oughta."

Daffyd laughed.  "Sally, all you've done is arouse my very
considerable, insatiable curiosity."

"All right, elephant's child.  Pick me up at nine; you'll need the
copter and money."  Her voice darkened with baleful implications of
wild spending and debauchery, but there was a rippling undercurrent of
laughter which told Daffyd that Sally was herself again.

"With as many bundles as Lester will allow me.  At nine!"

He depressed the comset button just as the door opened to admit Lester
Welch.

"What's on Iselin's alleged mind?"

"I can't 'path over a phone," Daffyd replied, deliberately
misinterpreting Lester.

The man swore and glared sourly at his boss.  "All right, so you won't
talk either.  Maybe I've no Talent but I don't need it to know
something's got Sally excited.  She's so careful to sound calm."

Daffyd shrugged his shoulders and reached for the intapes.  "Soon as I
know, you will.  Anything else bothering you this fine morning?  And
Sally says I need bundles tonight."

Lester eyed him in surprise for a moment and then snorted.  He pointed
to the financecoded blue tape among the urgent flags Daffyd was
fingering.

"Some local yokel from East Waterless Ford upstate wants to tax the
Center's residential accommodations, same as any other apartment
block.

Claims the revenue on such 'high income residents' would reduce the
state's deficit by 9%."

Daffyd whistled appreciatively.  "He's probably right but for the fact
that this is a registered restricted commune and those high-income
residents turn every credit of their salaries over to the Center."

"Listen, Dave, he's building a pretty good case."

Op Owen sighed.  There was always something or someone or some
committee picking away at the Center, trying to disrupt, destroy or
discredit it despite all the careful publicity.

"They did the same thing in New Jersey, you know, when the Princeton
University Complex put up those academician villages to counteract the
high price of real estate and taxes," Lester reminded him sourly.

"I'll listen, I'll listen.  Now, go away, Les."  Daffyd inserted
Welch's tape in the console.

Lester growled something under his breath as he left.  And Daffyd op
Owen listened.  He didn't like what he heard but the State Senator had
certainly done some of his homework.  Revenues from the Center's
residential buildings would indeed be a tidy pile in the State's
chronically anemic Treasury.  Only the Center was in Jerhattan proper
by a mile and a half, and therefore its revenues were the City's, if
anyone's.

"Get me Julian Pennstrak, please," Daffyd asked his secretary.

The City Manager might be of some assistance here.  Certainly he'd be
interested in what this upstate character, Aaron Greenfield (am I
always to be "fielded," Daffyd wondered wryly, remembering his battle
with the US Senator Mansfield Zeusman) is proposing .  If Julian didn't
already know.  Not much slipped past Pennstrak's affable eagleeye.

Pennstrak wasn't available but his secretary tactfully put Daffyd
through to Pat Tawfik, Pennstrak's speech writer who was, in actual
fact, his Talent guard.

"Yes, Dave, Julian's been keeping an eye on Greenfield's proposal," Pat
told him.  "In fact, Julian had him in here for a long cozy chat when
we first got wind of the scheme.  Greenfield's like Zeusman: suspicious
and scared of us supermen."

"Julian told him that the residential buildings are communal ... ?"

"Yes and Julian showed him the figures the Center files every year,
plus the auditors' reports.  Cut no ice!  In fact, if anything," and
Pat grimaced, "it only confirmed Greenfield's notion that the Center is
a rich source of additional income."

"The Center is also in Jerhattan proper."

"Julian made that point but Greenfield's one of those allocation goons:
all for one and one for all ... all monies being in one kitty his.

He's State Budget Chairman, you see."

Daffyd nodded.

"I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily, Daffyd," Pat went on
apologetically.

Daffyd suppressed a tart rejoinder and sighed instead.

"Pat, it's easier to pull a weed if it's small."

"A weed?  That's a good one.  Greenfield's a weed all right."  Pat
sounded unusually acerbic.  "I'll tell Julian you called and that
you're worried."

"No.  I'm not worried, Pat.  Not yet."

"I would be if I were you," she said, all gloom.

"Is there a precog?"

"No specific ones.  But frankly, Dave, I'm far more worried about the
city's climate than anything old Aaron Leftfield perpetrates.  And so
is Julian.  He's streetwalking today."  She gave a reassuring wave of
her hand.  "Oh, I sent one of the LEO sensitives with him.  I can't
move so fast these days."  She glanced down at her gravid abdomen.

"You've seen my report?"

"You sent one in?"  Daffyd began riffling through the tapes.

"It should be on your desk.  It'd better be on your desk."

Daffyd found the purplebacked City Admin tape and waved it at her.

"It is.  Lester Welch had first crack at me."

"And he didn't mention our tape?"  She made an exasperated noise.

"Look, Dave, listen to it now because, believe me, it's more important
than Greenfield even if Lester doesn't think so."

"Is that a precog, Pat?"

"You tell me it's my condition," she said, suddenly angry, "the way
Julian does or a vitamin deficiency like my OB and I'll resign."  The
anger as suddenly drained from her face.  "God, don't I just wish I
could!"

"Pat, d'you want a few weeks relief?"

Daffyd op Owen caught the shifting emotions on her face: sullen
resentment giving way to hope, instantly replaced by resignation.

"Don't, Dave."

"I wouldn't and you know it.  I can send out a mayday ..."

"And overwork some other poor Talent?"  Pat's chin lifted.  "I'll be
all right, Dave.  Honest!  It's just that ... well, hell, listen to the
report.  And remember, it's a panethnic problem this year."

"This year?"  Another loaded phrase.  Daffyd op Owen inserted the City
Admin tape and his concern over the Greenfield proposal faded to
insignificance as he recognized the more imminent danger of a disturbed
City.  He began to wonder who else had thought to save their dear
Director trouble by not reporting the grim facts he now heard.  Because
if the Correlation Staff had slipped up on reading precogs, he'd
downgrade the lot.

Brief, violent interethnic quarrels over contract employment during the
winter had been mediated but, within the City's ethnic sectors, the
truce had been uneasy: each segment certain that another had received
what plums existed.  (Most of the spot employment during the winter
had been makework, paid for by funds pared from other pressing needs to
give the proud their sop.) Most of the agitation could be traced to a
young PanSlavic leader, Vsevolod Roznine.  The report noted that
Roznine was more feared than popular with his constituents and,
although several attempts had been made to cool or placate the
agitator, he had neatly avoided the traps.  The report closed with the
note that Roznine might have latent Talent.  However, the only mental
contact made had been so distasteful to the Talent that he had broken
it off before he could implant any suggestion to go to the Center for
testing.

"The man's public mind is a sewer," was the final comment.

Daffyd op Owen made a steeple of his fingers and, twirling his swivel
chair, gazed out his window to the orderly grounds below.  He felt
unaccountably depressed yet he could be justifiably proud of what
Talent in general and Eastern American Center in parti cular had been
able to accomplish in the past decades.  Op Owen could appreciate, and
it was no precog, how much more had to be done on numerous levels:
public, private, civic, clinical, military, spatial, and most
important, inner.  No matter what the dominant Talent, precog,
telepath, teleport, kinetic, empathic, the Talented were still very
human people, above and beyond their special gifts which so often
complicated adjustment therapy.

They had professional immunity at long last, for all registered
Talents.  Another giant step forward.  They had had acceptance on a
commercial level for many years where Talent could steadily show profit
to management.  Since the first bodyTalents had been able to point out
assassins in crowds (even before precogs were accepted and acted on by
key personnel), they'd been accepted by intelligent people.  But the
suspicious were the majority and they still had to be convinced that
the Talented were not dangerously different.

He'd ruminated on this many times and it wasn't solving the other
pressing problems before him.  A city torn by the very ethnic strife
that had once been hailed as a bonding compromise to the late twentieth
century's lack of basic lifestyle values: summer was acoming and,
despite advances in weather controls, a hot dry spell which could cut
the power available for city airconditioning would only produce
riotbreeding conditions.

So far, no major precogs of disasters had been recorded and for such a
large unit as Jerhattan, a trouble precog was statistically more
probable than one dealing with a small number of people or a single
citizen.  Scant reassurance, however.

And thank god, Talent was panethnic, thought Daffyd.  He  didn't have
to worry about that ugly head rising against the Center.

He did tape an AllTalent alert on the city's climate.  The great minds
would now have a single thought.  Perhaps they'd also have an answer.

When he picked Sally Iselin up at nine at the Clinic door, she gave him
a quick appraising look.  Then her anxiouspuppy expression changed to a
radiant smile.

"I knew it.  I knew it."  And she all but wardanced a circle as she
inspected his costume.

"What?"  he asked, turning to keep her face in view.

"You dressed just right.  How'd you know?  I'm sure I didn't clue
you.

Are you positive you're not a precog, too, Daffyd?"

"I'd rather not be."

Her vivacity faded instantly.  She put a hand out, aborting the
sympathetic gesture before she actually made a contact.  He touched her
fingers lightly in reassurance.

"Not to worry.  I just had a tedious day.  Felt like wearing glad
threads."

Sally's eyes crinkled and her mouth tilted up as she cocked her head to
one side.  "You are indeed joyous," she said saucily as her glance took
in his royal blue blacktrimmed coverall.

"Look who's talking," and Daffyd grinned down at Sally in lime green
and black swing tunic and matching high boots.  Sally's puppy charm was
a tonic and he wondered, as he often did in her company, why he didn't
make more opportunities to enjoy it.

As he put a helping hand under her elbow to assist her up to the
passenger side of the twospot copter, she gave him a startled sideways
glance.  He caught the echo of mental astonishment before she started
to chatter about the day's hopeful applicants.

"They come, Daffyd, swearing oaths that they'd had this or that
perception.  Dorotea doesn't tap a one.  We go through the routine but
even with maximum perceptol, they come over dead dumb and stone
blind."

Sally was a compulsive talker but Daffyd became aware that her present
garrulity was a shield.  He wondered what Sally would need to
obscure.

Propriety prohibited his making a quick probe but undoubtedly there'd
be clues later on.  Sally was entirely too open to be devious for very
long.

She directed him to Sector K, northwest of the Center, where the worn
hills struggled up from old swamplands: not a salubrious area despite
reclamation and renovation efforts.  There were still ruins of early
twentiethcentury factories and it was by one such structure, a
sprawling halfglass and brick affair, that Sally directed him to
land.

"The place seems popular enough," Daffyd said as he had to circle
several times to find a site for the copter.

Sally winced, eyeing the ranks of citycrawlers and the presence of both
private and public transport copters.  "Doesn't take long, does it, for
the masses to latch onto a new thrill!"

"Oh?  This is new?"  He'd caught the worry tone of her thoughts.

"Crowd bad for the project?"

"I don't know."  She was more than worried.  "I just don't know.  It's
just that ..."  She broke off, firmly pressing her lips together.

They stood in a short queue for billets, paying a credit apiece to get
in.

"Milking the golden cow," Sally said with uncharacteristic bitterness
as they passed the billets in at massive sliding doors which separated
the outer hall from the vast factory space beyond.

"Guarding it, too," Daffyd said, noting the strongarm types in meshed
dutyalls.

"That might make more sense than you'd guess," Sally said in a very
dark voice.  Her mind was practically shouting "trouble."

"Will we need assistance?"  he asked her, estimating how many empathic
Talents might be needed to control a crowd this size.

Sally didn't answer.  She was looking around the enormous open area
which was filling rapidly.  It didn't require Talent to appreciate the
aura of excited anticipation that emanated from the audience.  The hall
was by no means full yet; half the tables were still empty, but most
of the couches of the inner circles were occupied.  Daffyd had never
seen such an assortment of styles, ages and conditions of
furnishings.

"They must have been scouring the Sector," Sally said.  Then she
indicated a table on the outer rim: a table, Daffyd noticed, which was
convenient to one of the luminescent exit doors.

They were barely seated, Daffyd on Queen Anne, Sally on Swedish
tubular, before a waiter inquired their pleasure.

"What's available?"  Sally asked, simulating bored indifference.

Daffyd was surprised that she felt the need to dissemble.

"You name it," replied the concessionaire, impatient.  His tables were
filling up.

Sally "told" Daffyd that this, too, was an innovation.

"Try something simple, schatzie," Daffyd said, managing the verbal
slurs of their assumed roles.  "The Medboard warned you and I'm not
copting you to the drainbrain again this month."

Sally affected petulance, then with dutiful resignation, asked for a
mild caffeine.  Daffyd, in character, asked for an esoteric blend.

"Nor am I copting you!"

"Make it two milds and bring the pot."

As the conman left, Daffyd leaned towards Sally.  "Is this area
disaffected?"

She wrinkled her nose.  "We get a lot of hopefuls from this Sector."

Sound had come on, more frequency drone than actual note.  The dim
lights on the girders were beginning to fade completely, and ground
spots lit up, adding their eerie moiety to the ambience.  Sally looked
toward the halfcircle of stage which had remained semilit.  The aura
of expectation, of voracious emotional appetite increased
perceptibly.

Sally shivered and folded her arms across her breasts but Daffyd sensed
that the created atmosphere irritated more than distressed her.

She shifted in her chair nervously when the waiter appeared with cups
and the pot.  He served them disdainfullyhe didn't make as much
commission from the milder brewsand hurried off, grimacing thanks for
the carefully generous gratuity.

The auditorium was almost full now and the conversational murmur
impinged on Daffyd's senses as the snarl of the unfed.  Yes the climate
of the city was very uncertain indeed.  He could feel the tension
building rapidly now, with so many feeding it.  He noticed the muscle
boys spreading through the tables and couches, and he worried harder.

The psychology of a crowd was theoretically understood but there was
always that gap between theory and reality that dangerous gap which
could be bridged by the most insign ificant eventwhen crowd exploded
into Riot.  Daffyd and Sally were far too familiar with the "tone" of
Riot to be very comfortable in a pregnant situation.

In fact, Daffyd was leaning across the table to warn Sally that they
might have to leave when the lighting of the stage area altered and a
girl stepped into the center.  She wore a white caftantype unadorned
robe and carried an oldfashioned twelvestring guitar.  It had no
umbilical amplifier which surprised Daffyd as much as the girl's regal
poise and simple appearance.

A camouflaged hand deposited a threelegged stool and the girl took her
place on it without a backward glance.

Daffyd frowned at the darkness above the stage, wondering where the
sound amplification was hidden.  She couldn't possibly hope to reach
and hold this crowd without electronic boosting of some kind.

Then Daffyd saw the relieved and pleased smile on Sally's face.

The girl settled herself, tossed back her mane of tawny hair and,
without taking any notice of the audience, began to play softly.  There
was no need for mechanical amplification of that delicate sound.  For
the first note fell into a voracious silence, the most effective
conductor.

Noand Daffyd sat up straightevery nerve in his body aware of a subtle,
incredible pulse that picked up the gentle melody and expanded
ittelepathically!

And this, too, was what Sally had hoped he'd feel, what she'd brought
him here to confirm.  He saw the happy triumph in her eyes.  The girl's
voice, a warm lyric soprano, intensified the pulse, "sounded" off the
echo as she fed the multitude with a tender ethnic admonition to love
one another.  And ... everyone did.

Daffyd listened and "listened," stunned physically and emotionally by
the unusual experience: unusual even for a man whose life had been
dedicated to the concept of unusual mental powers.  On an intellectual
plane, he was incredulous.  He couldn't deduce how she was effecting
the total rapport, this augmented pulse.  It was not mechanical, of
that he was certain.  Why this sensation of "echo"?

The girl would have to be a broadcasting empath: an intelligent empath,
unlike poor Harold Orley who hadn't any intellect at all.  This young
woman was consciously choosing and directing the emotion she broadcast
... Wait!  That was it ... she was consciously directing the emotions
... at whom?  Not the individual minds of the listeners: they were
responding but they could not account for the "generation" of emotion
that enveloped everyone.  There had to be sensitive minds to generate
emotion like that and these people were parapsychically dead.  Yet she
was manipulating them in some way, using some method that was
nonelectrical and nonsonic.

The girl continued with a more complicated tune from some early
nineteenth century religious minority which had settled in the eastern
United States.  And the "message" of the song was a soothing statement
of acceptance.  She was deliberately taking the audience out of the
technocratic trap, transferring them to less complex days, lulling them
into a mood of even greater receptivity.  Nor was Daffyd immune to the
charged atmosphere ... except for that part of his brain which could
not perceive how she was effecting this deft, mass control.

The singer finished that song and plucked the strings idly chording
into a different key.  The third song, while no more intense than the
first two, was a rollicking happy ballad, a spirit-lifter, a work
doer.

She was preparing her audience, Daffyd realized, deftly and
carefully.

He began to relax, or rather, the intellect which had been alerted,
responded to the beguiling charm of her performance.

Daffyd was suddenly frightened.  A deep pang, covered in a flash,
overladen with worry that was lyricinspired.  Only it wasn't.  Sally
had felt the pang, too, glancing nervously around her.  The rest of the
audience didn't seem to catch alarm: they were in the young singer's
complete thrall, caught up in the illusion of unpressured times and
ways.

The fear was the singer's and it was not part of her song, Daffyd
concluded, because he could detect no other influence, no newcomer in
the hall, no change of lighting or aura.  Sally was concentrating on
the girl, too.

Why would she be frightened?  She had the audience in the palm of her
hand.  She could turn them in any direction she chose to: she could .

Her song ended and, in a fluid movement, she rose, propped her guitar
against the stool and casually disappeared into the shadowy rear of the
stage.

Sally turned anxious eyes to Daffyd, and they shared the same
knowledge.  She's the one who's frightened.  She's leaving.

And that's the most dangerous thing she could do, Daffyd "told"
Sally.

No one in the audience moved and Daffyd didn't dare.  The lighting
altered subtly, brighter now, and people began to shake off the deep
entrancement, reaching for cigarettes or drinks, starting soft
conversation.

"They don't know she's not coming back.  When they do ..."

Daffyd signalled to Sally.  It was imperative they leave: they couldn't
risk the psychic distortion of a riot and, once this crowd discovered
that the singer wasn't returning, their contentment would turn to sour
savage resentment.  Caution governed Daffyd.

They couldn't just leave.  But they had to ...

He reached across the table casually and deftly tipped the caffeine pot
over.

"Of all the stupid jerks," Sally cried, irritably, getting to her feet
and holding her flared skirt from her.

Daffyd rose, too, with many apologies.  They received mildly irritated
glances from nearby couples whose pleasant mood was disrupted.  As
Daffyd and Sally moved toward the main door, Sally kept up a running
diatribe as to her escort's awkwardnesses and failings.  They reached
the sliding doors.  The aura generated by the singer was fainter in the
lobby and the close knot of men by the box office window interrupted
their discussion to stare suspiciously at Daffyd and Sally.

"I can't sit around in this damp dress," Sally said in a nasal whine.

"It'll stain and you know it's only this week's issue."

"Honlove, it'll dry in a few moments.  It was only ..."

"You would be clumsy and right now ..."

"Let's just stand outside a bit.  It's warmer.  You'll dry off and we
won't miss any of the singing."

"If you make me miss any of Amalda's songs, I'll never, never forgive
you ..."

With such drivel they got out the main entrance.  But not before Daffyd
experienced a wash of such frightful lewd thoughts that he hastily
closed off all awareness.

"Sally, how many minorities did you notice represented there?"

"Too many, in view of your memorandum this morning.  Daffyd, I'm
scared.  And it's not Amalda's fear this time!"

"I'm calling Frank Gillings."

Sally pulled from him.  "I'll find the girl.  She's got to have
protection ..."

"Can you find her?"

' I'm not sure.  But I've got to try.  Once that crowd realizes she's
left ..."  Sally turned to the right, toward the rear of the factory,
slipping past the little city crawlers until she was out of Daffyd's
sight.  He made for his copter and opened the emerg ency channel to the
Center.

Charlie Moorfield was on duty and he instantly patched Daffyd through
to the office of Law Enforcement and Order as he was rousing the
Center's riot control people.  If they could get enough telepaths to
the site in time, they might dampen the incipient riot before LEO
needed to resort to the unpopular expedient of gas control.

"Tell Frank Gillings that Roznine is here, too," Daffyd told the
officer on the line.

"Roznine?  What'n hell would he be doing listening to a singer?"  the
man asked.

"If you'd heard the effect this singer has on people, you'd understand
." The officer swore, at a loss for other words.  Daffyd wished that
swearing were as therapeutic for him.

"Keep the band open, Charlie ..."

"Dave, you can't stay there ..."  Charlie's voice reached Daffyd's ears
even several yards from the copter.  Daffyd wished he'd be quiet.  He
had to concentrate on "listening" for the girl.  He could sense Sally's
direction but he was used to Sally's mind, he could have "found" her at
a far greater distance.  But the singer was unknown: alarmingly
unknown, Daffyd realized, because he ought to be able to "find" her.

He'd been in her presence, in "touch" with her for over half an hour,
long enough for him to ident ify most minds and contact them again
within a mile radius.  She couldn't have got very far away in such a
short time.

The beat of heavy duty copters was audible now: coming in without
lights and sirens.  Daffyd looked east, willing the Center's fast
transports to get here before the riot control squads.  It was
generally impossible to get enough telepaths during the day to quell an
imminent riot unless there'd been a precog of trouble But, of an
evening, there was the entire Center's telepathic population ... Now,
if ... I He heard the beginning of a subdued murmur from the
building.

The customers were getting restless.  He hoped they hadn't yet realized
that the singer wasn't taking a short break.

Someone opened a section of the big main doors, stood framed in the
rectangle of light for a moment, peering out.  Daffyd identified the
stocky figure as Roznine's.  Suddenly the figure of the ethnic leader
froze.  He stepped out, into the night, head up.  The man's curses
floated toward Daffyd as he slammed back into the building.  Daffyd
hurried in search of Sally, wondering what Roznine would do now he knew
a LEO squad was on the way.  Only ... and Daffyd faltered midstride how
could Roznine know, if he did, that the big copters were LEO.  Cargo
firms used the same type.  Yet op Owen knew with unarguable certainty
that Roznine had properly identified the aircraft.

Daffyd came round the corner of the old factory just as the personnel
hatch in the huge rear door opened.  He counted five of the muscle
boys, each taking off in a different direction.  Then a sixth man,
Roznine, whose harsh urgent voice ordered them to find those effing
copouts or they'd be subsistence livers for the rest of their breathing
days.

"Copouts."  Plural, thought Daffyd.  Who beside Amalda?  No time now
for speculation.  Daffyd sent a quick warning to Sally to leave off the
search and get back to the copter.  She was there when he returned,
easily eluding the searching muscle men who were as noisy mentally as
they were physically.

"That audience is losing patience fast," Sally said, staring at the
ominous black bulk of the building.  She was hugging herself against
shivers of fear.

Daffyd looked eastward, saw the running lights of the slim Center
transports.

"Not long now."

But too far away.  Disappointment and whetted appetite rocketed to
explosive heights.  All along their side of the factory, exits burst
open as part of the audience swarmed out, in futile search of the
singer.  Inside the furnishings were being thrown about and broken,
people were slugging and slugged, trampled and hurt as uncertain
tempers erupted.

Daffyd wasted no time.  He halfthrew Sally into the copter, jammed in
the rocketlift, warning Sally to hang on.  The head LEO copter blared
its summons before he could turn on his distinctive identity lights.

As it was, he only just got out of stun range.

Once clear of the busy altitudes, Daffyd hovered, calling an "abort" to
the Center transports.  The situation had gone beyond their
capabilities.  He'd only completed one circle before he saw that the
LEO copters were laying gas.  It was all they could do with such a mob
starting to rampage.  Sally was weeping softly as he veered eastwards
toward the Center.

"I wasn't honestly certain, Daffyd," Sally said, curled in a small
contrite ball on the suspended couch in his quarters.  She kept
examining her glass as if the amber liqueur were fascinating.  She'd
the appearance of a small girl trying to get out of a scold.  Actually
her public mind was wide open to Daffyd's, permitting him a review of
her initial impressions of the singer.  "I mean, while I couldn't think
what else she might be, there was the possibility that it was all sonic
amplification.  You know what a skilled operator can do."

"All the more reason you should have reported it, Sally.  That kind of
manipulation is why mechanical amplification is strictly licensed to
reputable and reliable technicians."

"And not a clue about the girl?"

"Not yet."  The licensed owners of the Factory were among those
drowsily helpless inside the office in the lobby of the building.

They'd be questioned, of course, by Gillings's men.  Perpetrators of
riots could expect scant mercy from the LEO office.

"We've got to get to the girl first, Sally."

"If only I'd told you sooner ..."  Sally was floating in chagrin.

"I keep telling you, and every other member of my staff, I don't mind
being bothered with so called 'trivia."  Because it isn't always as
trivial as you might believe."

"I know.  I know.  I simply wasn't thinking clearly."  That was what
she said, but what Sally was thinking, also for him to see, was that
she hadn't wanted to disappoint him, or herself, in case her initial
impression about the singer had been wrong.  The girl had been almost
too good to be true.

"Was she afraid of that crowd, Daffyd?  It was three times the size of
the one the other night.  In fact, the size alone put me off."

"You first heard her ..."

"Just two days ago.  I tried to get backstage to see her ..."  Sally
shrugged her failure.

"Muscle boys?"

"No."  Sally was astonished.  "Everyone else wanted to get next to
her.

I'd never have had a chance to find out for sure with so much
interference, much less suggest she come to the Center."

Daffyd began to stroll about, his arms crossed over his chest, his head
down.

"We both sensed her fright?"

Sally nodded.

"We are both agreed that she is a broadcasting empath?"

Sally nodded again, more emphatically.  "Could she also receive?  I
mean, that would account for that 'echo' phenomenon, wouldn't it?  She
throws the emotions out and then magnifies them on retrieval" "That's
one explanation."

"Hmm, but you don't subscribe to it with any enthusiasm."

Daffyd grinned at Sally.  "It doesn't fit all the circumstances.

Besides, Roznine used a plural ... 'those effing copouts."

" Sally's eyes rounded with surprise.  "She links.  That would account
for the amplification and the echo."  Daffyd nodded.  "Then who's the
other empath, or empaths?"  Daffyd shrugged.  "Doesn't she realize what
she is?"

"Probably not.  We shall have to inform her."

"And how do you plan to do that?"

"I think we ask for Frank Gillings's help ..."

"But ... but ... she started the riot.  You know what happens to riot
provokers."

"Yes, but I also know that Frank wants all Talented people registered,
trained and controllable.  So when he's had a chance to question the
sleeping beauties ..."

"We can trace Cinderella and fit her out with glass slippers ..."

Sally grinned saucily as she picked up the analogy.

"Before Pegasus flies away with her."

"Pegasus?  He's a myth, not a fairy tale.  That's not fair, Daffyd!"

"But the analogy is most apt," and op Owen was grimly serious.  "And
we've got to put a bridle on her Pegasus or she'll end up with singed
wings."

Although the LEO Commissioner and the Director of the Eastern American
Parapsychic Center were on good working terms,  the Commissioner
avoided coming to the Center.  Respecting this whimsy, Daffyd called
through to Gillings's office the next morning, asking for an
appointment and specifying his business as the Fact riot.

"How did you happen to be there, Dave?"  Gillings greeted him, rising
from his chair as op Owen was ushered into his tower office.

Daffyd spent a moment admiring the 360 view of the sprawling hazed
metropolis.

"Tracking a rather unique Talent."

"That singer?"  And Gillings swore when Daffyd nodded.  "Do you know
the toll on that caper?"

"No, but it's one helluva lot cheaper than it would have been if we
hadn't alerted riot control."

Gillings frowned.  "She shouldn't be allowed a public performer's
license."

"I wanted to find out if she had one."

Glaring, Gillings icily banged at his desk comset and demanded to be
put through to ID.  No license had been issued to anyone answering the
description of the singer, Amalda: nor had there been a license issued
to the Fact for solo entertaining.  There were, however, specifications
on record as to what mechanical amplification was permitted the
management of the Fact, the frequency of the programming and the nights
on which public gatherings could be held and the maximum number of
people permitted to gather.

Last night's performance, it transpired, was completely illegal.

Gillings issued a summons for the owners, brothers named Dick and Harry
Ditts, who had told an entirely different tale the previous evening
when they had recovered from sleepy gas.  Five minutes later, Gillings
was informed that neither Dick nor Harry Ditts could be located at
their residences on record.

"Have they any known connection with Roznine?"

"Roznine?"  Gillings regarded Daffyd with a combination of disgusted
annoyance and startled concern which faded into deep reflection.  "You
saw him there?"

"Yes, he was at the Fact.  When we were withdrawing from the scene of
the imminent riot, he was deep in conversation with several types in
the lobby.  Later he spotted the LEO copters on their way in and made
his way out.  Funny he didn't suggest to the Ditts brothers that they
leave with him."

"Don't be naive.  Roznine looks after Roznine, first, last and always
or I'd've had him cooled long ago.  But Sector K is far from his
bailiwick ..."  Gillings stared out across the city with narrowed
eyes.

"He's been getting too damned powerful in the City and not just with
the Slavs.  A megalomaniac is what he is and they operate with a
curious ability to avoid minor disasters ... until they get
overconfident.  Roznine hasn't made that mistake ... yet .  .

"I shouldn't wonder that there's some Talent in a megalomaniac, apart
from his madness."

"Talent?"  Gillings erupted as Daffyd had known he would.  "Christ,
that's all I need is a Talented panethnic leader.  Goddamnit, why don't
you people get on the ball and round up all these goddamn freaking
Talents before they go haywire.  We've got enough problems keeping
that ..."  and his bluntfingered hand described a circle at the
panoramic metropolis outside the plexiglass, "... from exploding as it
is without unnatural hazards like latent Talents ..."

"... Then help us find Amalda.  She can be immensely useful ..."

"She's a riot provoker ..."  Gillings's eyes narrowed with a flash of
vindictiveness.

"Are you going to help me, or hinder me, Frank?  The girl is valuable
to both of us but not in your cooler as an RP.  She's an intelligent
broadcasting empath of tremendous range and power.  I don't think she
realizes what she is ... or didn't until possibly last night.

Something frightened her out of her wits halfway through her third
song.  She ran!  I don't know what it was nor do I know exactly how she
can broadcast the way she does, but it's imperative that the Center
find and protect her."

Gillings's eyebrows rose in ironic surprise.  "You and Iselin were
there.  Why didn't you get her then?  What happened?"

"Among other things, a riot.  Some people shield automatically, Frank,
and if you can't trace the mind, you can't catch the body."

"All right, all right," Gillings said, irritably waving aside Daffyd's
mild reproval.  "But how come she doesn't know what she is?  All right,
all right.  I know the answer to that, too.  All right, what do I
do?"

"I want a tracer on any young singer of her description applying for a
performer's license anywhere in the country.  And I want to know where
she has sung, where she trained, where she came from.  She's gone to
cover and she won't find easy.  In the first place, she's terrified of
whatever hit her last night.  And secondly, she'll have a good idea
what happened when the audience found out she wasn't going to sing
again.  She has two very good reasons for being scarce.  I also don't
want her frightened out of her wits so let me handle the actual search
with my people.  I'll get my propaganda team to alter some of the
public info broadcasts subliminally.  We might get her to seek us out
spontaneously which would be preferable," Daffyd added, rising.

"Okay, you handle it, but I want that girl found and trained or
whatever it is you do with them.  And quick.  I'll shunt the report on
her to your computer.  Shouldn't take long to trace her." It took two
days to trace the girl known as Amalda.  And the printout had many
gaps.

She'd been born and reared in a small Appalachian commune: educated to
her sixteenth year in the County School system which she quit to
"travel" ... a not uncommon pattern for an undirected or unmotivated
youngster.  There was no record of formal music inst ruction but music
was a feature in her environment: no official record of her for several
years until she took work in a Florida food control complex.  Two
applications for performer's license in Florida were denied by the
Audition Board there.  The third application was provisionally granted
and lapsed without formal request for an extension, but several short
term engagements were on record for her as an unamplified,
stringinstrumented folk singer.  A new application as apprentice,
nonsinger, had been filed in Washington, D. C. four months before: one
engagement was listed without a termination date.  Then Daffyd had a
check made on the play in which she had appeared.  Amalda, who had
started as a walkon, had been abruptly promoted to an important
supporting role.  The play was scheduled for a metropolitan opening in
three weeks.

Although Daffyd had only a superficial acquaintance with the mechanics
of the Performing Arts, there were several glaring contradictions in
this report.  And no explanation for Amalda's sudden appearance as a
selfaccompanied soloist in a minority entertainment hall of dubious
reputation.

In the meantime, he and Sally worked with the propaganda de appeal for
someone in Amalda's situation.  Daffyd also got in touch with the
play's producer.

"I've had enough trouble with that flitting bird," Norman Kabilov told
op Owen.  "If she does show up, I'll tell her straight: she gets no
more contracts and she shouldn't ever hope to get a PP license
approved.  Not if I have any connection with the PA."

"What kind of trouble did you have with Amalda?"  Daffyd asked,
injecting placatory thoughts at the irritated little man.

"Troubles, plural, not trouble singular," and Norman Kabilov glowered
at op Owen.

Daffyd knew the man was considerably perplexed by the Center's interest
in his exactress.

"First, she latches on to my stage manager, Red Vaden ... good man,
Vaden.  Solid.  Dependable.  Only this little twit has him hopping to
her tune like he'd never tried to brush off a stagestruck tail
before.

Red doesn't ask many favors so when he wants this bird in the cast
...

so when the show travels, he's not lacking what he's been having
regular ... I say, yes.  What harm?  Suddenly I got Red begging me to
give her an audition for one of the secondary leads.  I already got a
good PA picked out for the part .

.."  Kabilov's expression told Daffyd that his choice had been personal
rather than professional.  "... but I gotta keep 'em happy so I
audition the girl."  The little producer frowned now, his thoughts
vivid to Daffyd.  The man had been surprised out of boredom at the
quality of the audition and immediately signed Amalda for the role,
despite the fact that he'd known he'd be in for a heavy time with the
disappointed candidate.  "Mind you, it wasn't that great a part until
that kid reads it."  Another headshake of perplexity.  "I dunno how
she did it because she sure had no theatre arts credits but I couldn't
not give her the part.  And then the author comes to rehearsal and
hell, he's rewriting the part to give her more.  I damn near have a
jeopardy action from Carl a Jacobs who's the name in the play.  Only
Red goes to work on her and she quiets down like a lily.  And you gotta
believe that Jacobs don't handle that easy.  She's pushing fifty,
y'see, and any new bird is a threat.  Funny thing," and Kabilov stared
off above Daffyd's head, his mind taking up and discarding a hundred
different glimpses of Carla Jacobs in high tantrum, Carla Jacobs
soothed and very few snatches of Amalda.  The man was unconsciously
censoring those recollections.  "Once La Jacobs got to working with
the kid, things were okay.  Wanta see the reviews we got?"

Daffyd hastily assented but he was given no chance to do more than
glance at the commendatory headlines in the fasc sheets.

"As long as we were in Washington, it was okay.  But the minute we got
to Jerhattan, troubles!  La Jacobs storms in here with her lawyers and
her current man and she won't play with that creature anymore.  In
fact, she gets so absolutely violent we gotta trank her.  Now I can't
lose La Jacobs or I lose the theatre and the play since that's the
contract.  So I tell Red to find his bird another nest.  I can't afford
trouble.  And they both walk!"  He was indignant.  "Just like that.  He
walks.  A guy I'd sworn was 100% dependable walks out of the show two
weeks before opening.  On account of a scrawny bird!"

If Norman Kabilov looked the picture of outraged innocence, he
"sounded" like a man reprieved from an unknown ordeal.  However, he did
have publicity shots of Amalda and Red Vaden, which he appeared
relieved to give Daffyd: as if by getting rid of everything reminding
him of this unsettling episode he could erase it from his memory.

Daffyd op Owen had his best finders scan the pictures, he sent copies
to the LEO office and, on an off chance, gave a final print to his best
precog.

"You better find that girl," Gillings told op Owen, "or I'll find her
and make her answer-officially-for that riot."

"Frank, don't provoke another Maggie O."

Though the comset was not color, Daffyd was certain that Gillings's
face changed shade.

"We're doing all we can," he went on soothingly, "to find her but
there's no way of forcing her to come to us."

Gillings growled something dire as he broke the connection.

There were days when Gillings was not Daffyd's only cross.  He and
Sally had spent most of the morning trying to figure out a way to
attract Amalda to them.  Lester Welch walked in, listened a few minutes
and then snorted in disgust.

"Why don't you just find out where this Red Vaden lives?  If he was so
gone on the girl he'd leave a successful show, he's probably tied up
tight with her.  And if he's at leisure," and Lester grinned as he used
the performing arts' euphemism, "he's surely checked into the PA
Casting Agency."

Op Owen closed his eyes briefly before he thanked Lester with a good
grace.

"I'm not sure what we'd ever do without your common sense, Les."

"Oh, someone else'd tell you your nose is on your face."  And Les
left.

"This is one time I wish I were a kinetic," Daffyd said with a wistful
sigh, thinking all kinds of disasters, of a minor sort, to befall the
dour New Englander on his way down the aisle to his own office.  Then
he caught Sally grinning at him, her eyes sparkling.  "And if you
repeat any of what I was thinking ..."

She composed her face into solemnity, raising one hand.  "Dai, you know
I can't 'path that accurately."  But in her mind was a vivid picture of
Lester stuffed into one of his wastepaper baskets.

Daffyd placed a call to the Casting Agency.  Bruce Vaden had reported
his availability and a new address.  However, the Agency informed him,
the address was naturally restricted.  Daffyd explained who he was and
that he urgently needed to get in touch with Va den and was informed
that Performing Artist Vaden would be contacted and would return his
call if he were interested.

" 'If he were interested' indeed," Daffyd repeated, breaking the
connection with uncharacteristic irritability.

"Shall we think Lesterish, and perhaps drop a word in the omnipotent
ear of our local lion?"  asked Sally.

Her suggestion elicited the needed address in five minutes and in less
than half an hour, they were on their way by copter to an isolated area
of the Coast.  The small seasilvered cottage was tightly locked and
obviously untenanted.  Rather depressed, Sally and Daffyd returned to
the Center.  Lester met them at the roof stairs.

"You're covered with canary feathers," said Sally.

"I thought you couldn't read my mind," Lester replied, startled.

"With your expression I don't need to."

But Sally hesitated at the door of Daffyd's office.  Rather more
aggravated with circumstance than Sally, Daffyd took her firmly by the
arm and pushed her into the room.  He was instantly overwhelmed by
several devastating impressions: contact with Sally inf orming him that
her emotions were highly unstable; there were intense lovehate auras
swirling in the room and among them the sure knowledge that the
chestnuthaired girl seated facing the door was a powerful and violently
agitated empath; that the redbearded man standing by the window was
linked to her in a desperate, despairing bond.

"I'm Daffyd op Owen," he said, "and this is Sally Iselin, head of our
Clinic Recruiting Team.  We've been looking for you."  Daffyd poured
out waves of sympathy/reassurance/overt love and respect.

"We found you," replied the man.  "I'm Bruce Vaden."

"We tried to locate you at the Fact last night," Daffyd said, turning
to Amalda.  His second impression was that the girl was about to
implode.

At that point, Sally gasped and made a movement towards Amalda as the
impact of fear/confusion/hatred/love/horror/revulsion/affection lapped
over the two Talents.

"That's just a sample of what I can do."  Despite a southern softness,
the girl's voice grated in their ears and was echoed by an intense
mental shout that caused both Daffyd and Sally to shake their heads.

"I don't want this.  It doesn't matter any more if Red is in or out of
the room.  It works anywhere now."  She was drenched in bitterness, but
there was pity as well as satisfaction to be read from her glance as
she watched Sally beginning to shake with reaction.

Daffyd curtly gestured Sally from the room.  She resisted until he
reinforced the order mentally, telling her to get Jerry Frames over
here on the double.  He duly noted that she was rebellious and not
bothering to hide the fact in her public mind or her expression.

Daffyd winced slightly as Sally slammed the door behind her.

"You're an empath," Daffyd told Amalda, trying to reach through her
broadcast to soothe her stampeding emotions.

"I don't care what I am.  I want you to stop it.  Now!"

"I can't stop it, my dear," he said in his kindest voice, but he had a
vision of a bridleless winged horse bolting across the heavens.

Amalda rose, in a single fluid movement, her eyes blazing.  "Then I
will!"  Her words rose to the edge of a scream as she launched herself
at the window.  Daffyd moved to intercept her physically and mentally,
but not as swiftly as Red Vaden.  Not that she could have achieved her
end, since the window was unbreakable.  So she hit the plastic hard and
crumpled into the arms of the redhead, sobbing hysterically and
broadcasting such conflicting and powerful emotions that, out of pity,
Daffyd reached for the trank gun in his desk and shot her.

There was absolute silence on every level in the room as the two men
stared down at the limp figure in Vaden's arms.

"I suppose that was necessary," the man said in a bleak voice as he
swung her up in his arms.

Daffyd could read the relief in the man's mind which had been bruised
by confusion, fear and an unquestioning devotion to the girl.  Op Owen
gestured towards the couch.

"All right, op Owen, what now?"  Vaden asked after he had arranged
Amalda gently in a comfortable position.  The man's eyes were a cold,
troubled blue.

Daffyd returned the gaze, probing deftly and finding in Vaden's outer
thoughts that their visit here had been his suggestion, a last
possibility of assistance, since Amalda had been determined to end her
Talent even if it meant taking her life.

"First we have the Center's doctor prescribe sedation," and Daffyd
nodded towards the painfully thin arm of the unconscious girl, "and a
decent diet."

Vaden snorted as if practical advice was the last thing he'd expected
from op Owen but he took the chair Daffyd indicated to him.

"Then the Center teaches her to control this Talent."

"Talent?"  Vaden exploded.  "Talent?  It's an effing curse!  After the
other night, she's scared to go out of the house.  She'll never perform
again ... She won't even ..."  and he clenched his teeth over what he'd
been about to add but not before the thought, " audible" to Daffyd,
made him pity the two more.

"Any Talent is a twoedged sword, Vaden," op Owen said, swinging his
chair a little, a soothing motion.

"What kind of a freak is she?"

"She's by no means a freak," Daffyd answered in rather severe tones.

"She's a broadcasting telempath ..."

"And I'm the booster station?"

"I think that would be a good analogy."

"Look, op Owen, I've read a good bit about you Talents and nothing was
said about what Amalda does ..."

"Quite likely.  We're just beginning to appreciate the mutations
possible in the parapsychic.  We have only one true telempath here.  He
unfortunately has no more mind than a rabbit and he only  receives.

Amalda can apparently transmit exactly what she chooses.  I gather the
phenomenon only began when she met you?"

On the top of Vaden's mind was the actual first meeting: a sort of
dazed comprehension that they were "meant for each other."  Their first
lovemaking had been a revelation to the blase, sex-wearied Vaden and
each succeeding day had strengthened their interd ependence.

"She was down and out," Vaden said aloud in an expressionless voice.

What he wasn't saying was vividly and pictorially flashing across his
mind, elaborating with every shade of the emotional spectrum a dry
recital of fact.  "Thank God it was me she approached ..."  and beyond
the flashes of memories, Daffyd saw that Vaden had never allowed
himself the luxury of loving or caring for anyone for fear of being
hurt and used.  In a transient profession, constantly besieged by
stagestruck youngsters who thought a PA license was "all" they needed
to achieve fame, he had been invulnerable to physical charms and
ordinary ploys.  But he had absolutely no defense against the impact of
Amalda's mind in his.  Now he ran nervous fingers through his crisp red
hair.  "We went eve rywhere."  He'd been haunted with the fear that
she'd leave him or be taken from him.  "Even to rehearsal.  Then the
girl who was to play Charmian was late so I asked Amalda to fill in and
read it 'til she came.  I've never heard a better first reading.  She
even lost every trace of her regional accent and became the
hard-voiced trollop.  We all loathed her.  It was such a total
characterization!  I've never seen such a thing in all the years I've
been a PA.  I'd expect such expertise from someone like Mathes or Cru
sada, but a novice?  An excanary?"  Vaden looked toward the unconscious
girl and gave a sort of incredulous shrug.  "She was so pleased to
think she did have ability.  She'd tried often enough to qualify as a
vocalist."  Vaden made an exasperated noise in his throat.  "The first
time she sang for me I couldn't credit that she'd been refused a
license."  He turned back to Daffyd.  "It just didn't make sense."

"I'd hazard that you were the missing factor."

"A modern Svengali?"  Vaden was bitter.

"Not exactly.  But the brain generates electrical currents.  And in the
same way that a receiver must be tuned to a certain wavelength to get a
message broadcast on that same wavelength, minds must be broadcasting
on the same frequency.  Yours and Amalda's ar e. Were either of your
ever parapsychically tested?"

"Not that I know of."

"Well, we can sort out the pure mechanics later during testing but
there is one other pressing question I must ask."

Vaden did have Talent, whether it had blossomed through contact with
Amalda or not was immaterial, for he instantly perceived what was on
Daffyd's mind and stiffened.  Daffyd continued, feeling it wiser not to
let Vaden realize that he was in the presence of a strong telepath
...

at least not yet.

"Granted you serve in the capacity of an amplifier for whatever mood
Amalda creates, what happened the other night at the Fact?  What
terrified her so that she fled from what obviously was a
smashsuccess?

She had that audience in the palm of her hand."

An expression akin to terror crossed Vaden's face, ruthlessly
suppressed in a second.

"You were in the audience?"  Vaden asked, temporizing.

"Yes, Sally Iselin had heard Amalda two nights before and wanted me to
confirm her suspicion that Amalda was a highgain empathist.  What
scared Amalda off that stage?  And sent both of you into hiding?"

There was nothing helpful in Vaden's mind except a repetition of what
Daffyd and Sally had felt in Amalda's projection.  Instead, Vaden's
thoughts became despairing.

"That's why you've got to help us, op Owen.  Turn Amalda off!"

Vaden didn't attempt to disguise his fear now.  And he didn't strike op
Owen as easily frightened.  He was tough, able to take care of himself
from the look of his bearlike build.  And had taken care of himself, to
judge by the scars on his knuckles and face.

"Fortunately, no one can turn Amalda off.  Nor do I yet see the
necessity."  Only a nebulous but overwhelming fear in both Vaden and
Amalda.

"You'd better see," Vaden cried, leaning urgently toward op Owen.  His
eyes were blazing with anger, fear and a sense of impotence which would
be more frightening and humiliating to a man of Vaden's temperament.

"You'd better see that it's crushing Amalda to the point where she was
willing to commit suicide rather than live with what she's become!"

"You haven't told me what frightened her and what, if I may speak
candidly, is bothering you as well."

Vaden got a grip on his fear and anger.  "There was someone else in
that audience," he said in a harsh controlled voice, "who suddenly
linked up with us.  Someone who was trying to dominate.  Who was
determined to control what Amalda can do.  She got the brunt of it, of
course, then I caught it."

Op Owen was certain then, with an awful instinct, that Roznine was the
third person.  And the ramifications of that premise were decidedly
unsettling.  He managed to smile reassuringly at Bruce Vaden.  He swung
his chair idly from side to side with counterfeit unconcern.  He had
lost Solange Boshe but he wouldn't lose Amalda ... and Vaden ... and
Roznine.

"That's very interesting," he told Vaden.  "Does Amalda have any idea
of the man's identity?"

"How could she?"  Red Vaden asked scornfully.  He was making a notable
effort to cover his inner perturbations.  He couldn't bear even the
notion of sharing Amalda with anyone.  "The minute she realized what
was happening, how strong the guy was, and what he wanted her to do,
she made as if she was taking a short break.  And told me to follow.

But she won't ever sing again.  You don't know what it does to you
..."

"I probably more than any man," Daffyd said with a slight smile.

Vaden discredited the statement with a cutting sweep of his hand.

"You've got to understand that Amalda must be turned off."

There was an edge in his voice now: he was hitting an emotional high,
too.  Daffyd reached surreptitiously for the trank gun.

"Don't you dare!"  Vaden moved with surprising speed and grabbed op
Owen's hand.

"I thought you'd understand, op Owen.  Whoever that guy is is double
dangerous!"

"You'll have every bit of protection the Center and every other Center
in the world can offer you, Vaden," Daffyd replied, allowing his voice
to take on strength without volume.  "Which is not inconsiderable, I
assure you.  What you don't understand, Vaden, is that Amalda's main
problem is simply lack of control of her rather breathtaking
ability."

"You don't understand."  Vaden was desperate.  "She can control masses
of people.  Those subbies in the Fact ... she could have made them do
anything.  That's what's terrifying her.  And me.  And that other
freakedout mind ... he wanted to use her to control that kind of a
dangerous mob.  God, man, I know what riot is.  I've seen them.  I've
been caught in them.  I know what happens.  She could cause one.  She
even started one by not being there.  She could incite the entire
god damned Jerhattan complex ..."

"How?"  asked Daffyd blandly.

"By ... by ... doing what that mind wanted her to do the other
night."

"But," and Daffyd matched Red Vaden's urgency with his own, "she
didn't!  And she couldn't!  And nothing on this world, not even some
freakedout mind with a megalomaniacal bent could make her.  And once
she's learned to control this ... winged horse of hers, I think you'll
all find this not so cursed a Talent."

"I don't believe you."

"How old is Amalda?"

"What?  What has that got to do?"

"How old?"

"She's twenty-two...."

"Twenty-two.  And rather young for twenty-two, I should imagine.  That's
still a tender age."  Daffyd could've wished for some of Amalda's
empathic strength but he was getting through to Vaden's basic
reasonableness.  "And she has become emotionally involved with you
...

No offense, please, Mr. Vaden.  From a rather humdrum frustrating
existence, she has erupted onto the stage, into prominence ... Even a
mature personality could be dazzled.  Then she is thrown into a highly
charged situationthe concert at the Fact-it was unnerving for me as an
observer, and I'm well in command of my emotional responses.  She is
frightened and runs!  For which I don't blame her at all.  In short,
Amalda has been operating on high for some time.  We are still frail
masters of our powers, Mr. Vaden.  And that receiver/broadcaster unit
which is Amalda is overcharged.

"No, Mr. Vaden, we can't turn her off.  We don't want to.  But we can
teach her how to channel her Talent, how to discipline it so it won't
run away with her as it has just done.  We can also show you how to
help her put on the brakes.  On, yes, you can apply what, to all
intents and purposes, are circuit breakers.  She will need your
strength and aggression, Mr. Vaden.  In fact, and this is between us,
Amalda is not as important as both of you.  So I will consider you a
team, because that's what you are."

"Then you can help?"  asked Vaden.  He didn't quite believe op Owen but
the aura of belligerent desperation was fading.

"I just said so."

"No," and Vaden shook his head angrily as if he'd thought Daffyd
would "know" his exact referents.

"Emotion is as much a tool as a pen or a pneumatic drill ..."

Vaden stared at him, and then unexpectedly chuckled.  "And Amalda's
been swinging the drill?"

Inwardly op Owen cheered.  Thank God the man had a sense of humor.

"Exactly.  Amalda has all the finesse of a tyro.  If you had been the
focus instead of this rather impressionable and previously frustrated
young woman, I think matters might have progressed more
circumspectly.

As it was ..."

"I don't think Amalda's going to believe you, op Owen," Vaden said,
looking sadly down at the unconscious girl.

"I don't think she'll have any alternative," Daffyd replied severely.

Vaden frowned, his eyes narrowing, but op Owen returned the look,
adding a mental reinforcement.  "She is exhausted from the look of her,
which is what happens when you run an engine on full power for any
length of time.  We'll sedate her sufficiently to let her body and mind
rest.  And we'll keep her sedated until she begins to realize that she
cannot control everything around her with the grip of a tyrant ... for
that seems to be her main fear.  Rather commendable, actually."

"And?"  Vaden said in a flat, noargument voice.

"And, in the meantime, you will have to learn how to aid her.  You've
been more or less passive.  Shall we say," and Daffyd smiled slightly
as he bowed to Vaden, "you are both engaged for a long-term contract
with no options."

The door burst open to admit Jerry Frames, the Center's physician and
Sally Iselin, who glared her way back into the office.  Daffyd smiled
as he stepped aside to let them through to Amalda.

"What took you so long?"  he asked Sally.

"What d'you think I am?  A lousy pop Talent?"

She's able to cover completely now, Daffyd," Sally said with
understandable pride.

They were watching through the oneway mirror as Amalda fed Harold
Orley.  The witless empath was neatly eating, with appetite, and often
a small smile of pleasure on his childlike features.

"Never thought we'd use Harold as an instructor," said op Owen.  Sally
grinned at him, her eyes sparkling.  "Harold's a useful old tool."

Daffyd thought fleetingly of Solange Boshe.

"Don't, Dai!"  Sally's one word was reinforced by her mental command
behind which Daffyd sensed sympathy, pity and, oddly enough,
annoyance.

"She's off all tranks now?"  he asked, grateful to her.

"Heavens yes.  She's got to concentrate on Harold, you know."

"Then let's start them moving about outside."

"I would if I were you.  The Red Bear's about to go stir crazy."

"Red Bear?"

Sally wrinkled her nose.  "That's what I call Vaden."

"Then Amalda's Goldilocks?"

"Good heavens, no.  She's Cinderella, remember?"

"Cinderella and the One Bear?"

"Cinderella, the One Bear and ... the Wolf!"

Daffyd frowned.  "I thought I was a better therapist than that."

"Oh, it's just a backofthemind worry.  She's not going to trust herself
until she does meet and vanquish the Wolf.  And then we can all live
happily ever after."

There was a tinge of bitterness in Sally's bright voice that made
Daffyd look at her closely.  He was tempted to probe but that wasn't
ethical, particularly since Sally would be instantly aware of the
intrusion.  So he observed Amalda for a few more moments before leaving
the Clinic.

In the month Amalda had been at the Center, the overthin, intense
girlchild had been replaced by a still slender but composed young
woman.  Her fears had slowly been eased by Daffyd's adroit therapy and
by her own ability to discipline her emotions, to channel the vital
energies deftly.

The first sessions with Harold Orley had been conducted with Amalda
fairly well sedated.  The girl had been revolted by Harold's
witlessness.  There could have been no clearer mirror for her
reaction.

Pity for the moronic empath had been quickly suppressed because Harold
would disconcertingly burst into tears.  At first Amalda had rebelled
at being forced to work with Harold but she could not refute the fact
that he would react instantly to her emotions and until she could
control them in his presence, she couldn't expect to be able to
control them sufficiently in public.

In the first days at the Center, she had also demanded, even under
heavy sedation, to be lobotomized: an operation which Amalda
erroneously supposed would suppress her gratuitous Talent.  Then she
met Harold and realized that the psionic portion of her brain would
not be excised by such an operation.  Step Two in Amalda's
rehabilitation was her introduction to the Center's star young Talent,
twoyear old Dorotea Horvath.  It didn't take Amalda long to recognize
the lesson which was thus demonstrated to her.

Small Dorotea was playing contentedly with sixsided blocks.  When they
tumbled, her fury exploded ... to be checked, unconsciously but firmly,
by her mother.  The young telepath's thoughts were so loud and clear
that Amalda couldn't fail to recognize the analogy.

"So I discovered a bright new toy in my mind and it won't play with me,
is that it?"

"You have to learn to balance the toy just as Dorotea does ..."  Daffyd
said gently.

"So they won't all fall down and go boom?"

"With you underneath," added Sally.  "Like the night at the Fact."

Despite sedation, Amalda paled and shuddered.

"He can't find me, can he?"

"Not here, behind shielded walls, my dear," Daffyd reassured her.

Once Amalda could control her emotions, Vaden began to take part in the
exercises.  It was during these sessions that the phenomenon of the
second Fact concert was harnessed.  Amalda, with Red, could dominate
the emotional atmosphere of any large room, could project, even to the
minds of sensitives, any emotion she chose.  But the force that Daffyd
and Sally had felt at the Fact was absent.

"The team right now is limited," Daffyd said to Sally, somewhat
ruefully.

"Limited?"  Sally was surprised.

"Yes.  As long as there are no dark emotions being counterbroadcast,
she can project what she wants of the lighter ones.  But I was rather
hoping that she and Vaden would be strong enough together to counteract
..."

"An incipient riot?"

"Yes," and Daffyd leaned forward eagerly.  "That would placate Frank
Gillings and wipe out that RP he's still got against her.  And think
what it would mean in riot control techniques: two people instead of
twenty sensitives, if we have 'em available when we need 'em, or
instead of the gas."

"Well, so that's what you've had in mind."

"As it is, I think we'll let them operate as a team in those gatherings
that tend to develop brawls: conventions, fairs, industrial shows."

"And what about the Wolf?"

"Ah, yes, but you see, I want him to come out of the woods."

"And Amalda?"  Sally "sounded" furious with him.

"Which would you wager on?  A Wolf or a Bear?"

Daffyd op Owen was by no means as callous of Amalda's safety as Sally
might think, for he'd circulated a warning to all sensitives for any
inquiry about Amalda or Bruce Vaden and any unusual activity on
Roznine's part.  Ted Lewis, the chief police Talent, gave them their
first hint of interest.  A well known and respected Performer's Agent
who just happened to be Polish, asked for assistance from Central
Casting to find a missing PA, Bruce "Red" Vaden who was reportedly
employed but who had obviously not appeared with any working
company.

"Now that could be legit," Ted Lewis told Daffyd.  "The guy really is
forming up a variety show for the Borscht circuit but for that he
doesn't need a stage director with Vaden's rating."

"What about an unamplified folk singer?"

Ted Lewis shook his head.  "Now Roznine may have found out that Amalda
is Vaden's bird but it's also fairly common knowledge that Gillings is
still after the folksinger who started the riot at the Fact.  Stupid
Roznine isn't.  Devious, yes."

It suited Daffyd that Gillings had not yet dropped that charge, for
while Amalda was recovering herself and learning to control her
abilities, the charge would provide her with a certain protection.

What did puzzle Daffyd was what Roznine intended doing with Amalda if,
as, and when, he got possession of her.  To be sure, the public was
informed, in broad terms, about the capabilities of the Talented but
nothing had ever been released about the more biz arre possibilities of
psionic powers.  Certainly nothing related to Amalda's ability for the
very good reason that until Amalda had met Bruce Vaden, such a Talent
couldn't even have been conjectured as possible.  Therefore, what could
Roznine's active imagination have suggested to him?  Did he realize
that he, Roznine, was Talented?  Since he had domination over his
ethnic group, did he plan to dominate the entire City through Amalda?

"Vsevolod Roznine is no man's fool, boss," Ted Lewis was saying to
Daffyd's further agitation.  "He's got every single employment and
patronage plum available for his Slavs.  Oh, all very legal; a bit
dicey if you're looking at it from some other ethnic corner, but
legal.  And he's fast moving out of his own bailiwick.  He's been
getting cooperation where no PanSlav has ever got it before.  How, why,
what he does, we don't know.  He may use a common garden variety of
blackmail or he may even have a genuine Talent .  Though Gillings'll
flip if he's got to deal with a Talented ethnic leader!"

"There could be worse things," Daffyd said, though obviously Ted Lewis
wouldn't agree.  "Have you got the LEO precogs sensitive to both
Roznine and Amalda?"

Ted Lewis shot his superior a disgusted look.  "They're all sleeping on
papered pillows."

"And?"

"Boss, you know you can't force a valid precog."

"No Incidents at all?"

"Nary a one.  Only vague feelings of uneasiness."  He was evidently
repeating a frequently reply, which satisfied him no more than it did
Daffyd.

"Keep an open mind on Roznine.  And don't let Gillings know we suspect
Roznine is Talented.  I'm going to start using Amalda and Vaden as a
team.  Sooner or later Roznine will discover her again."

"You want that?"

"Very much."  And in Daffyd's mind, as he left Ted Lewis, was the
memory of Solange Boshe's wild demented face before she teleported
through a steel door in the parking building.

Gillings was delighted to use Amalda and Bruce Vaden as riot
prevention.  He even offered to take the charge off the books but
Daffyd suggested that it remain a while longer.  The team was instantly
assigned to a round of rallies, meetings, conferences, and
conventions.

Such gatherings were encouraged to divert a population with too much
unoccupied time but any one of them might explode into a riot, given
the proper stimuli.  Decibel alarms were legally required in every
meeting hall, including churches, but clever agitators could and had
sabotaged them so that the suppressant gases were not released when the
"noise" level reached the sharp pitch of incipient riot.  The
professional agitators had also learned how to modulate their voices
below the danger level, carefully goading their victims into the
spontaneous combustion which neither gas nor water jets could
control.

And which no precog could be expected to accurately predict until too
late for effective action.

Fortuitously, as Amalda learned to control herself, she learned to read
Harold with an accuracy and perception that surpassed Sally's.  Harold
could serve with the team, Daffyd decided, as a gauge for the general
atmosphere of a group and as, in an emergency, a body guard for
Amalda.  (You learned things, even from disasters, Daffyd told himself
positively.) Partnered with the empath, Amalda would sit in the center
of an audience or circulate through a crowd.  Vaden would be on the
periphery, ready to "broadca st" if it became necessary.  They could
also be expected to keep up a running projection of whatever aura the
LEO authorities or the sponsors of the occasion requested, if this were
not a commercial affair.  Subliminal pressures for mercantile purposes
were, of course, an illegal and unethical use of Talent.

The team was extraordinarily successful in unexpected ways.  The
Motorboat show had the lowest incidence of petty pilfering in its
history: the Home Show reported no lost children and a remarkably
quiet, wellbehaved quota of siblings following their parents through
the exhibits.  Two conventions, noted for the inebriation of their
members, had their damage deposits reduced as a result of genial but
undestructive behavior.

And Amalda began to gain confidence to the point where Sally remarked
that even Bruce Vaden had been seen to smile occasionally.

I was surely right about the menu today, Amalda thought as the waiter
plunked down the mock chicken, lumpy reconstituted potatoes and
shrivelled snap beans.  Oh, well, all part of Life's Rich Pageant, she
added and started broadcasting recklessly intense delicious taste
feelings.  Harold began to beam beside her, attacking his food with
relish.

She glanced casually around at her table mates, as pompous a crew of
convention goers as she'd ever seen and she was now an authority.  (Did
they always use the same "masks" at conventions?  Or could it be the
same group of people as the Plastic Container Manufacturers last week,
and the Fabric Finishers Association on Tuesdayweek?) They responded to
her prompting as rapidly as Harold, all grunting with pleasure as they
ate their cardboard food.  Amalda sighed.  Too bad she and Bruce
couldn't get a kickback from the catering staff for "improving" their
food beyond the call of duty.

Now there I go again, she thought, but it does seem that the Talented
were letting an awful good thing go the way of Duty and Honor.

She was rather pleased with her broadcasting today.  She had begun to
bother with such fine points in their assignments, more to amuse
herself at first like stopping all those kids from whining at the Boat
Fair.  But it had sounded like home, all her brothers and sisters
whining at once, before they'd tied Ma off.  If she never heard another
child whine it would be soon enough.  And making food at least "seem"
tasty was in defense of her poor abused digestion.  According to
specifications, all the nutrients and v itamins were in the food and
would be absorbed by her system.  But she'd come to prefer "tasting"
things.  It made these convention luncheons bearable.  What a way to
earn a living!

And yet, Amalda reluctantly admitted, she didn't dislike it.  If only
... She wouldn't think about that.  It'd ruin her appetite.  After all,
now she'd got the hang of this trick mind of hers, she could make whole
bunches of people feel what she wanted them to. When the time came,
she could control him, too.  Bruce was never far from her.  She smiled,
the warmth of his infinite love a presence to counteract any nibble of
fear.  Sometimes when Bruce made love to her, she wanted to embrace the
whole world with its beauty, but that sort of broadcasting wasn't even
moral: that was private between her and Bruce and ... He'd thought
things at her that night ... Things she didn't even dare to think about
...

Harold was getting restless.  She curbed her reminiscences.

And then, the jab.  So sharp she gasped, so hard it was physical yet
the prod was in her mind ... and all too familiar.  He was here.

Harold whimpered, empathizing with her.  She hastily damped down her
shock of fearful surprise.  He was as abruptly gone from her mind.  She
shivered, unable to suppress the lingering sense of revulsion that that
recognition touch evoked in her.  She overcame the feeling, smiling
inanely around at her table mates.  She patted Harold soothingly on the
arm.  He grinned, restored to equilibrium.  Good, she must keep this to
herself.

But she couldn't keep from glancing around for Bruce: he was at table
4, near the dignitaries.  He glanced up, nodded at her, and was then
required to make some answer to his partner, a female who simpered up
at him.

Sometimes, Amalda thought, Red has the harder role to play.

Part of her mind wanted to search for him, but her strongest desire was
never to be touched by him again, ever.  She scanned the room now,
certain she'd be able to locate his evil self.  She'd certainly studied
his Ids long enough to spot him physically anyw here.  Waiters were
coming and going from the kitchens.  He wasn't one of them.  He
wouldn't be one of the conventioneers.  She'd've identified him long
before now.  She opened her mind, making it, as Dave had suggested,
like the lens of a camera, slowly widening.  She didn't really want
to: too much of an appalling and revolting nature seeped in.  She
wondered how Dave, who was a full telepath and "heard" actual thoughts,
not just emotions as she did, could bear it.  She wondered how much he
had "conditioned" her mind to accept her Talent.  She knew he had: he'd
told her so.  She didn't mind ... probably Dave had done that, too.

But he was so kind.  Now if only he'd ...

No, she told herself sternly, these thoughts you may not have.  Sally
loves Daffyd op Owen.  She grimaced.  For a perceptive Talent, Dave
could be awfully dense.  For the Lord's sake, you didn't even have to
be a telepath to see Sally Iselin was madly in love with him.  Or maybe
Dave knew and couldn't do anything about it?  Couldn't someone
condition Dave?  Mmmm.  Maybe I'll get to work on it.  No, and Amalda
gave her head a little regretful shake, that would be tampering and
that's not ethical.

She sighed.  Being a Talent imposed certain rules and regulations which
absolutely couldn't be broken.  In the first place, you got found out
too fast.  Not much of a bridle on that winged horse Dave's always
talking about but it kept you from falling off ...

morally The waiter was bending over her.  Amalda leaned toward Harold
to permit the waiter to remove her plate.  Instead he mumbled
something.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't hear you," she said, smiling up at him.

He gave her a stare and said something in the same unintelligible
mumble.  She could, however, sense his urgency.  He had something she
must do?

"I'm really very sorry, but would you repeat your question?"  She
gestured at the chattering diners by way of explanation.

The little man looked angry.  In a clear voice, he asked the waiter at
the next table to join him.

"I ask her a simple question and she gives me this sosorry routine," he
said.  But he was incensed about something.  And his urgency
intensified.

"Really, there's so much noise," Amalda said.

The second waiter, a burly man, gave her a fierce scowl.

"What's your problem, miss?  You got delusions?  Ain't you
conventioneers satisfied with nothing?  Do like he says and there'll be
no trouble."

"I certainly don't want to cause trouble."  And Amalda began to
broadcast soothing thoughts.

Suddenly a third man was pulling her chair from under her and the first
two had her by the arms.

"You just come with us, miss.  You just come with us."

They were scared: they were prompted by an urgency which was unnatural
and artificially induced.  He had instigated their actions.

She got Harold to his feet.  The poor witless fool was momentarily as
confused as she was.  She felt Bruce reacting.  But she was being
physically manhandled away from the table by the two waiters.  If they
did get her out of the hallit wasn't that far to the kitchen
entranceAmalda tried to keep from panicking.  The next thing she knew
Harold reached out and grabbed the waiters by the shoulders, had torn
their hands from her arms, and banged their heads together.

Then Bruce and two officials closed in on the knot of people and
somehow the unconscious waiters were being whisked from the banquet
hall."Calm 'em, Mally," Bruce hissed at her and she began to pour out
such sweetness and light that everyone at her table stopped eating to
beam at each other.  She modified the broadcast, got Harold and herself
reseated.  She even managed to keep her trembling reaction inward so
that none of it boiled over to erase the idiotic smile from Harold
Orley's face.

By the time the luncheon ended, however, the effort began to tell on
her and was reflected in Harold's nervousness.  She felt physically
drained.  What if he had been able to get her away before Harold could
react?  Before Bruce, on the other side of the hall , had been able to
get to her?  Supposing he had ...

Bruce was at her side, his face set and determined.  She knew that
look.  But now she was afraid of leaving the semiprotection of so many
people.  If he had actually tried to kidnap her in the middle of a
convention ...

A plainclothes LEO man was bearing down on them.  She rose, smiling
brightly.  Harold twitched his hulk to his feet, but his brow was
clouding with childlike anxiety.

Disgust at her spinelessness buoyed Amalda's weakening knees.  The
instant Red put his arm around her protectingly, she almost crawled
into him.

"Let's get her out of here," Red said and gestured the LEO man to lead
Harold.

"Come this way," the LEO man said, gesturing to the draperies at the
side of the huge banquet hall.  A door in the paneling gave onto a
small anteroom.  "The Waiters Union is screaming over those busted
skulls.  We got to get you out of here quietly.  What'n'hell did
happen, Amalda?"

"I don't quite know," she murmured, aware that exhaustion was
overcoming mental resolve.  "Is it all right to leave?"  She looked
back over her shoulder at the diners dispersing slowly.

"The hell with them," Bruce said in a savage voice.

"I'm so sorry.  So sorry."  Amalda had a sense of failure.  The first
time she came up against him she had fallen apart.  She wanted to
cry.

She was a failure.  After all Daffyd and the others had done to help
her ... to swoon like any vapid female ...

"I'll get you.  I'll get you the next time."  The voice was as loud in
her ears as Bruce's exclamation.

"Bruce ... " Charlie Moorfield came through Daffyd's door without
bothering to knock.

"They did it," he cried, halting his forward momentum just short of
gouging his thighs on the desk edge.

Daffyd picked up the images so vivid in Charlie's mind, and despite the
fact that he could also perceive that the emergency was over, he sprang
to his feet.

"Who did what?"  demanded Sally, excitedly.  She wasn't accurate enough
to 'path the sequence.

"They tried to snatch Amalda at the Morcam Convention luncheon," Daffyd
told her.

"Only she got Harold to bash their skulls in."

Sally gasped.

"Gillings said the attempt and the arrest were handled so quickly that
no one at the table with Amalda and Harold knew what happened," Charlie
went on.  "Waiters Union is screaming over the quote unwarranted
unquote arrest of three members.  There's hell to pay."

"Not necessarily," said Lester but he was glowering as he walked into
the room and carefully closed the door behind him.  "This is a clear
case of professional immunity."

"How do you construe that?"  Daffyd asked.

Lester sighed as he regarded his boss with a tolerant expression.

"Amalda is a registered Talent, right?  She was present at the Luncheon
in a professional capacity.  Therefore no one, not anybody, has the
right to interfere.  The waiters did, by trying to remove her from the
hall.  They broke the law.  Amalda hasn't.  Neither has Harold.  Even
if he was a little overzealous, he is now protected from the
consequences of his Talent."

"Wait a minute, Lester," Charlie said, "that Immunity Law only means
that you can't get sued when ..."

"It also means," and Lester waggled a bony finger at Charlie and Daffyd
in turn, "according to the way Senator Joel Andres and our legal eagles
interpreted it to me, that any citizen attempting to interfere with a
registered Talent's performance of his dut y is violating that law."

"This would be the first time we've had to invoke the law," Daffyd
said.

Lester raised his eyebrows in surprised alarm.  "So what's wrong with
that?  Or did you break your ..."  he glanced abruptly at Sally who
stifled her laugh ... "your bones arranging protection not to use
it?"

Op Owen made a cutoff gesture with one hand.  Lester Welch muttered in
disgust.

"I thought by this time you'd've learned the cost of idealism, Dave.

We sweated out that Bill: it damned near cost us Joel Andres's life; we
have a clear case of an infraction and by God's little chickens, you're
going to invoke it.  If Gillings hasn't already."

The comset on Daffyd's desk lit up, flashing red.  He pushed the toggle
down.

"Commissioner Gillings, sir, urgently."

Daffyd nodded acceptance.

"Op Owen, we're getting a lot of static from the Waiters Union, about
Amalda, false arrest and all that crap," Gillings stated with no
preamble.  "So far I've played it that their member was pushing a lust
act and got told to bug off: that the lady-in-question is sufficiently
upset to invoke female citizen's rights.  Then we got the
honestemployees, good union men with clean sex records and she's a
pervertafterthedamages claim."  Gillings sighed with heavy disgust.

"You know, the usual convention static.  Now, we can clear all this up
by invoking the Professional Immunity Act but ..."  and Gillings
waggled a thick finger at Daffyd.  "I'm not all that eager to break the
team's cover.  Bruce Vaden told my men that something had scared Amalda
and the only thing I know she's scared about is what happened at the
Fact.  Was there a repeat at the Morcam?"

"I haven't talked to Amalda yet, Frank," Daffyd said.  "I assume she's
on her way back here with Vaden?"  Gillings nodded.  "Give me a little
time."

"Don't take too much.  That Waiters Union packs quite a wallop."

As soon as the Commissioner's face had faded from the screen, Daffyd
asked for Ted Lewis in the LEO Block.

"Ted, you heard about the snatch attempt on Amalda?"

"It's all over the place.  Say, why don't you just invoke the Immunity
Act ... No?"  Ted was as perplexed as Lester.

"Is Roznine involved in any way in the Waiters Union?"

"Hell yes.  There isn't one Union he isn't involved with right now."

"Any chance of finding out if he was at the Morcam Convention Hotel
this afternoon?"

Ted Lewis held up a hand, flicked on another switch, his words and the
reply indistinct, being off the receiver limit of the comscreen.  He
looked more confused.

"We've had Croner sort of keeping him under the eye/ear.  Croner says
he's at a TRID on Market and Hall.  Huh, how's that, Croner?  Hey,
boss, Roznine has been watching a lot of TRID lately."

"Then he suspects he's been under surveillance and is ducking out the
other exit of the TRID.  Fine."  This was an unsettling development
because it could mean that Roznine was developing as a Talent.  If he
got pushed too hard.... op Owen shuddered.  "Let's go see Amalda."

"It was him," Amalda told Daffyd.  She looked white, shaken and small
as she huddled against Red Vaden on the couch in the living room of
their suite.

"How close to you?"

She shook her head.  "He wasn't in the room.  I'd've seen him.  But he
was near enough to recognize me.  My mind, I mean."  She gave a
delicate shudder.  Had he recognized her because she'd been thinking
those thoughts about him?  She wanted to ask Daffyd but she didn't
dare.  She'd let him down enough already.

"Were you aware of anything, Red?"  Daffyd asked.

"Not at first.  Then only Amalda's surprise.  I looked up and saw the
waiters grabbing her.  But before I could get across the room, Harold
had acted."  There was admiration on Vaden's face for the maneuver.  "I
should apologize to the guy.  I think we got things quieted down
before any of the convention crowd got wise."

"After the attempt, were you aware of Roznine's mind, Amalda?"

"Not until we were leaving the hall."  She closed her eyes.  "He said
'I'll get you.  The next time I'll get you."

" Daffyd looked questioningly at Red who shook his head.

"Had you ever received words before, Amalda?"  Daffyd asked.

Amalda looked at him startled and then shook her head, smiling shyly.

"Only from you.  Before now."  She was aware of his concern.  "That's
bad, ain't it?"  she asked, her soft southern inflection intensifying
her regret.

"Not necessarily.  We have a problem," he began, choosing his words
carefully.  "We know that Roznine would like to ... get you, Amalda, to
accomplish his own ends which, knowing your capability, must be illegal
control of men's emotions.  We have to assume he's been trying to
locate you.  We must also assume that he may not realize that Bruce is
part of your ability.  And that's a link that can and will protect you,
Amalda."  Daffyd reinforced that notion with a stern telepathic
voice.

"Roznine couldn't succeed in kidnapping you today, could he?  Well, he
damned well won't be able to anywhere else either."

"You can't be sure of that, Daffyd," she said in a very small scared
voice.

"I don't intend to put it to the test, Amalda," Daffyd continued
smoothly, smiling at the apprehensive girl, "but kindly remember that
you have successfully eluded him twice now.  Once by running away and
hidingsuccessfully.  And today by direct action again st his agents."

Amalda slowly nodded her head in agreement.

"Now, while Roznine is keen to get his hands on you, we ... and I
include the Commissioner ... are very anxious to get Roznine."  It was
Bruce Vaden who stiffened and looked with an intensity close to hatred
at Daffyd op Owen.  The telepath returned that look calmly, knowing in
that exchange that Vaden understood the implication even if Amalda
didn't.

"Roznine is obviously a latent Talent.  We know he fits minds with
Amalda.  We don't know what else he can do, and he is in a peculiarly
sensitive position in the ethnic situation of this city: in a position
to do a lot of damage or a lot of good.  We can't push him too far and
we can't let him go.  We do want him, preferably on his own initiative
as you did, to come to the Center.  You know what it's like to have an
unmanageable Talent ..."

Daffyd was speaking more to Bruce Vaden than Amalda but it was the girl
who answered.

"It's awful ... awful lonely, awful wonderful."  She gave Daffyd a
smile, tremulous, and though she held her chin up in an attitude of
confidence, he could see the indecision and fear of her mind.

"Now," he went on briskly, "in using the Waiters Union to snag you,
Roznine has put us in a difficult position: we can easily use the
Professional Immunity Act to protect you but that would necessitate
your appearance in court.  And believe me, everyone int erested in our
cover agents would be there to identify you.  Your team usefulness
would decrease ..."

"Does Amalda have to appear in court?"  asked Red suddenly.

"Well, yes.  Oh, I see what you mean," and Daffyd started to grin.  He
managed to keep his smile normal despite what he had read in Bruce
Vaden's mind under the cover of the constructive suggestion.  "Very
good point.  Two ways.  Yes, I suppose we could make Am alda up to look
different ... or we could have a standin for her.  In that case, Amalda
would have to be physically present because Roznine would be there and
he'd know if she weren't present, which could score against us if an
EEG reading is requested by the prosecution.  Hmmm.  Good notion."

"What can Roznine hope to achieve by forcing us into court?"  asked
Red.  He was trying to cover his earlier thoughts before they came
apparent to Daffyd.  Present now was a thread of hopelessness, a
presentiment that the intense happiness and rapport that Br uce Vaden
had enjoyed with Amalda was to be sundered: too good to last.  Daffyd
could only answer the spoken question.

"Now that has me stumped," he said, and meant it on several levels.

"Standin?"  Gillings appeared to reject the stratagem instantly and
just as abruptly, he frowned thoughtfully.  "Why?  You don't think
anyone would be crazy enough to try and snatch Amalda in court, do
you?

Although ..."  he glanced over at the windows, "the a tmosphere is
damned unstable ..."

"I know," Daffyd agreed.  Even during the short copter flight to : the
LEO Block, he'd been aware of the pervasive "darkness" of the city's
emotional aura.  The weather had been miserable, which didn't help;
general employment was down; there'd been the usual complaints about
the subsistencelevel foods; gripes about the TRI-D programming; nothing
out of the ordinary ... yet.  There might indeed be the makings of a
major blowup.

It would take two weeks for an improvement in the food to have a
perceptible effect: TRID programming was undoubtedly being altered but
even the most perceptive Talents could be fooled over what the public
really wanted on the boob tubes.  The variety of "c ircuses" available
was almost as infinite as foodtastes and yet one never knew precisely
what would satiate the public appetite.  Op Owen made a mental note to
check all precog rumblings.  Strange there hadn't been any definite
Incident by anyone when such a large population unit was involved.

"Look, op Owen," Gillings was saying, "I've got to have the team
available for riot spotting.  Particularly right now.  And I can't have
them identifiable."

"Then we send Amalda to the hearing made up."

Gillings muttered under his breath about fancy dress and sow's ears and
then suddenly swung round to fix op Owen with a startled glare.  Daffyd
hadn't expected to keep Gillings in the dark long.

"Okay, op Owen, what's behind all this pussyfooting?  Who was trying to
snatch Amalda at the Morcam Luncheon?  Was it the same guy who was at
the Fact?  Because if it was, let's get him and cool him.  I need that
team operating.  And there's that open charge of riot provocation
..."

Op Owen took a deep breath.  "I don't think it would be advisable to
cool Roznine."

"Roznine?"  Gillings exploded from his chair with all the frustrated
astonished exasperated impotence of the strong man suddenly discovering
himself in an untenable position.  "Roznine!  Christ, op Owen, do you
know what would happen to this city, in the present mood, if I
arrested the PanSlavic leader?"  He fumed on, in much the same vein,
for moments more until either Daffyd's placatory thoughts or his own
lack of breath brought a stop to the flow of recriminations.

"I haven't suggested you arrest Roznine.  In fact, that would not only
be impolitic but dangerous."

Gillings glared at him, snapping out one short explosive word.

"How?"

"Because Roznine is a latent Talent.  That's what scared Amalda."

Gillings erupted again, thoroughly enraged.  This time the shield of
his public mind slipped sufficiently for Daffyd to see past the anger
to the panic his confession evoked.

"No!"  Daffyd's negative, forcible mental as well as audible, carried
weight on every level and blocked those avenues of action which he
could perceive Gillings already plotting.  "Roznine is contained ... at
the moment.  But this time we don't force a latent into a position where
he can become dangerous to an entire city.  I want to avoid another
Maggie O far, far more than you do!"

Gillings had no escape from Daffyd's mind, so op Owen did not relent in
the pressure until he was certain of Gillings's uneasy and resentful
cooperation.

"Roznine is no threat to us ... yet.  But he does threaten Amalda,"
Daffyd went on.  "That threat is real.  It would be stupid," and he
paused to let that word be absorbed, for Gillings was not a stupid man,
"to get Roznine so frustrated that additional facets of his
Talentwhatever it isare stimulated."

Gillings's face was a study of frustration.  He gave vent to a stream
of profanity which so delighted and enlightened op Owen that he could
ignore the fact that he was the victim of the spiel.  But, with the
avalanche, Gillings recovered his mental equilibri um.

"I told you a couple of months ago that what you guys really need is a
law that makes it illegal to conceal Talent."

Daffyd laughed wryly.  "Roznine may be unaware that what he uses is
Talent!"

"Unaware?  My effing foot.  With all the publicity you guys have been
larding the TRIDs with, he's got to know what he isespecially if he's
been playing mental pattycakes with that Amalda.  Op Owen, I don't need
a Roznine in this city!  You Talents put him where he belongs and
bridle him or lobotomize him or something.  Or I'll invoke whatever law
on the books suits me and cool him permanently.  I can't have this city
turned into a battlefield.  Or have you forgotten Belfast?"

His buzzer winked the urgent red.  Gillings raised one fist as if to
squash the unit and then, swearing viciously, slapped the toggle
open.

"Well?"

There was a moment's hesitation.  Daffyd could almost see the caller
swallowing hastily, probably wishing he didn't have to continue.

"Commissioner, the lawyers for the WU are here with bail for their
members.  Do we release them?"

"I want to scan them," Daffyd said in a swift undertone.

"Delay 'em.  Someone's on the way down from this office.  Then permit
bail."

Gillings tossed an oddly designed coat button to op Owen.

"This'll get you anywhere in the building.  And keep it."

Daffyd thanked the Commissioner, and left.  Prowling the LEO offices
would not be a frequent pastime: the "neural" noise level was more than
a telepath of Daffyd's sensitivity could bear.

The Waiters Union had sent a battery of lawyers to procure the release
of their incarcerated members.  They had been shown into a waiting
room, just off the main admissions hall of the retention section of the
LEO Complex.

Daffyd sauntered by, scanning each man's mind quickly.  What he "heard"
he didn't like, but it confirmed the fact that Roznine was organizing
the proceedings.  None of these men knew more than his own
assignment.

But each was moved by an intense desire to complete it expeditiously
and successfully or ... The "or else" held dark, dire and fearful
consequences.

Daffyd returned as quickly as possible to the shielded calm of
Gillings's private eyrie.  The Commissioner was absent.  Daffyd used
the few moments' respite for some solid thinking.

There were times, he finally concluded, when a man had to operate on
the "feel" of things alone.  He was not, God forfend, a precog, but
there were also times when a man simply had to dispense with rational
thought and its consequences.  Particularly when faced by a free agent
like Roznine who could not be expected to have predictable responses to
stimuli and pressures.

The similarities between Roznine and Maggie O were inescapable, but
this time Daffyd had a tool and a resolve.

"We've been fighting fire with oldfashioned water, Frank," he said to
the Commissioner when the man stalked back into his office.  "From now
on we use modern methods, foam and tranquilizers."

"What are you jibbering about?"

"I can't explain, but will you trust me?"

Gillings glared back at him, but his tight natural shield-leaked
conflicting emotions of desire-to-believe, distrust, and irritable
frustration.

"I goddamn well have to, don't I?  But, goddamn it, Dave, if you
Talents don't contain Roznine ..."

"We can," and Daffyd op Owen began to grin with utter malice for the
underhanded, immoral, unethical use of Talent he was about to invoke.

Lester wouldn't approve either, but then, he didn't plan to tell Lester
Welch.

The stratagem did require the invocation of the Immunity Act.  What
Daffyd didn't count on was the hue and cry when the news of the hearing
was announced on the media.  Suddenly Aaron Greenfield vociferously
supported the Waiters' Union in their outraged cry against Talent
abusing untalented people and hiding behind the law.  The Morcam
Convention Committee tried to evade any responsibility by claiming that
they had not hired a Talent team for their Luncheon ... their defense
being that their convention members were law-abiding peaceful people
with no record of violence, so a LEO team was unnecessary and an insult
to their good name, etc. Greenfield made political hay of this as
well.  He'd never been in support of the Immunity Law because
"obviously it was a screen for illegal, immoral, unethical invasion of
privacy: one more instance of establishmentarianism and totally
unwarranted minority privilege."

"Repeal the Immunity Act; no extraordinary privilege for minorities!"

"Make them Pay Their Own Way!  Taxation for all on an equal basis."

Precogs began to have troubled Incidents.  To alter circumstances, the
team began wearing disguises, with Amalda and Bruce Vaden both paired
to combattrained LEO men.  They were also on twenty-four-hour call,
hopping from one gathering to another, trying to forestall
explosionsusually at rallies designed to bring their own downfall.

Twice Amalda felt Roznine's mind searching for hers.  She'd break off
all broadcasting and the team would leave that area instantly.

The weather remained unseasonably hot and humid.  There were
unprecedented foulups in the food supply and a heavy drain on the power
sources necessitated cuts of the entertainment circuits.  More
trouble.

Roznine's strategem also suffered from his zealousness.  On the day of
the hearing, there were so many people wanting to attend this test of
the Immunity Act that he couldn't possibly have attempted a
kidnapping.

The press of hopeful attendees provided the LEO officials with an
excuse to be selective and, naturally, the audience was conveniently
packed with outoftown Talents whom Daffyd had invited.  Sensitives at
the Court Block entrance tipped the LEO men off whom to exclude and the
PanSlavic contingent was decimated.  In the wake of the prosecuting
force, Roznine was admitted in his capacity as PanSlavic leader since
one of the waiters was his ethnic.  It was the first opportunity Daffyd
op Owen had had to get a good look at the man and he was somewhat
surprised by Roznine's physical appearance.  Daffyd would have liked
to "scan" him but the emotional aura of the courtroom made that
mentally and physically impossible.  The telepath pondered on the
subconscious impressions he'd been receiving from Gillings and Am alda,
for Roznine was a perfectly presentable, personable looking chap,
quietly dressed in a moderately expensive tunic, his heavy head of
black hair cut to his shoulders and his thick black moustache trimmed
to join the sideburns, leaving the rest of the strong face bare.

Roznine took a seat by the wall and turned for a careful survey of
those already seated.

Op Owen sincerely regretted the impossibility of probing the man's
mind.  He must have planned something.  He had a "waiting" about him,
calmly composed in the midst of a hectic scene.

But there had been no precogs on the situation.  There'd been
incidental auguries but of too varied a nature to be useful or
indicative of the trend of the day's events.  Daffyd could only
conclude, as the Correlation Staff had, that it didn't matter how the
hearing went today.  That in itself was unsettling.  However, plans had
been made for such contingencies as common sense indicated.  Daffyd had
warned Vaden, among other things, and then "conditioned" Amalda with
strong confidences.  There were Talents unknown to the girl in the
audience and they had their instructions.

Bruce Vaden entered, slipping into an aisle seat at the rear.  He, too,
glanced around, his eyes sliding past Daffyd's.  He's looking for
Roznine, Daffyd thought, as Vaden's eyes lingered once on some
bullchested man but not on Roznine's mustachioed face.  Ro znine's
attention was held by a wiry little man in sloppy tweeds of ancient
manufacture who pranced conspicuously down the aisle to a seat reserved
for him by the prosecution's table.

So, thought Daffyd, Aaron Greenfield had a small man's push!

Greenfield leaned over, tapping one of the prosecuting attorneys on the
shoulder and engaged him in a guarded conversation, all the  time
glancing around the audience, pointing at last to the very empty seats
on the defendant's side.

The hearing lights went on and the "judge" sounded his electronic gavel
for the court to come to order.  One of the prosecution team rose to
protest the absence of the defendant and counsel but that was Amalda's
cue and she, and her escort, made their entrance.

There was, of course, the anticipated cry of protest from the
prosecuting attorneys.  The defendant arrived garbed in voluminous
robes, bewigged and made up a la japonaise, escorted by two women
exactly the same to the last hair and measurement.  Even as the
prosecution leapt to its collective feet, the three figures shifted in
a complicated pattern, making it impossible for any untalented person
to know which one was which.

However, as this was a preliminary hearing, necessarily conducted in
front of the legal computer, the "hearing judge" had no directives
about the dress or escort of the defendants and/or attorneys so long as
they appeared clad and reasonably clean.  Prosecution replied that the
defendant was deliberately obstructing justice by appearing with
lookalike escorts.  One of the Amaldas rose, presented two sets of
credentials as legal counselors for the defendant and asked the
"hearing judge" if it was programmed to refuse defendant's counsel on
the basis of similarity in shape and appearance to defendant.  The
objection was overruled.

Prosecution instantly demanded EEG readings to prove that the women so
attired were in fact the aforesaid attorneys and the defendant.

Defense had no objection and EEG readings were promptly taken,
establishing beyond controversy who were the attorneys and who the
defendant.  At which point, the three women repeated their rapid
"shellact."  Daffyd op Owen watched furious anger suffuse the faces at
the prosecution table, evidence that the ruse was successful.  The
audience murmured, half in amusement, the other half totally confused
by the antics.

The hearing proceeded with the charge being made of illegal arrest and
restraint, countered by the defense invoking the Professional Immunity
Act, requiring that the complaint against Amalda, Registered Talent, be
dropped.

Rather smug, Daffyd missed the first twinge of Amalda's alarm.

"Daffyd, " she said, her mind tone anxious, "he's after me."

"Make everyone laugh, " Daffyd said and so quickly did she react, with
such forcefulness, that Daffyd didn't need to call in the reserve
empaths to help.

For a moment Daffyd wondered if fear prompted her outrageous strength,
for everyone in the audience, himself and the planted Talents, were
struck by an epidemic of giggles.  It would appear that the audience
was attempting to laugh the complaint out of court.

Daffyd suppressed Amalda's projection sufficiently so that he wasn't
doubled with uncontrollable mirth.  Roznine had a rictus-like grin
across his face: he'd leaned back against the wall in an effort to
control his body and he was forcing his head to move so he could scan
the audience.  Daffyd bent over slightly, counterfeiting excessive
mirth, and noticed that Red Vaden and the other Talents were doing the
same thing.

Grand!  Let Roznine think only Amalda was responsible!  But could
Amaldaeven with Red helpingbroadcast so strongly?  Could she actually
use Roznine without his consent?  If so ...

The "hearing judge" mechanically sounded the gavel and called for
order, its voice getting louder and louder as the giggles continued.

It ordered the courtroom cleared of "obstructionists."  The paroxysms
which had afflicted everyone abruptly ceased and people weakly wiped
their eyes and ordered their clothing.  Aaron Greenfield looked
anxiously around, his face flushed with anger.  The man was no fool,
Daffyd realized.  He'd know that Talent had been responsible and, with
his prickly dignity offended, he'd red ouble his efforts to get the
Talented taxed.  Oh, well, you couldn't make an omelette without
breaking eggs, thought Daffyd philosophically.  He nodded approvingly
at Amalda who, with her twins, had sneaked a glance at him.

Prosecution then announced possession of a sworn statement from the
Morcam Convention Committee that it had requested no LEO
surveillance.

Defense replied that all convention situations fell under the
RiotPrevention Act and the LEO Commission was quite within its
jurisdiction to use such riot prevention techniques as seemed
advisable.  The uncertain climate of the city was cited to be in the
"unsettled" percentile which permitted the LEO Commission to take such
precautions as it deemed necessary to ensure law enforcement and
order.  The defense counsel reminded the "judge" that any gathering of
200 or more persons (and the Morcam Luncheon had had 525 paid and
consumed covers) was liable to auxiliary surveillance whether requested
or not when the climate of the city registered in the "uneasy"
percentiles.  Prosecution demanded to know exactly what riot prevention
technique was employed by Amalda.  Defense responded that she was a
registered empath of a + 15 sensitivity and a perceptive rating of +
12, and offered to produce positive testimonials from organizations
which had employed Amalda in her capacity as a Talent for riot
prevention.  Prosecution repeated its demand for an explicit
description of her crowd control technique and defense invoked the
provisions of the Law Enforcement and Order Commission.

Daffyd wasn't certain whether the prosecution wanted to separate Amalda
from her lookalikes or discover the exact procedure she used.

Defense again requested that the charge be dropped: she didn't wish to
waste the Court's time and public money when the evidence clearly
pointed to a nolle prosequi situation.

Prosecution insisted vehemently that this was a clear case of personal
infringement and misuse of privilege just as the time-limit light came
on.  There was the rumble as the "hearing judge" searched its
programming for precedents.  That didn't take long.  Moments later the
date for a trial appeared on the screen: a date seven weeks hence.

Not bad, thought Daffyd, although he'd half wished that the computer
would throw the case out.  With no precedents, there'd been slim chance
of that.

Amalda's fear was like a knife in his own guts.  He tried to get
through to Roznine, to fathom what the man was doing.  Bruce Vaden
jumped to his feet, started down the aisle, his progress blocked by
others who were beginning to leave the courtroom.

Daffyd had the sense that every Talent in the audience stiffened
suddenly and then Roznine, half rising from his seat, stunned amazement
on his face, began to topple slowly over onto the people in the row in
front of him.

"Hey, this guy's passed out," someone cried.  "Is there a medic
around?"

Bruce Vaden kept trying to reach Roznine.  Daffyd signalled to two
other Talents to assist.  If they could bring Roznine to the Center
this way ...

"I'm a physician," a woman said in a firm loud voice, three rows away,
holding up her emergency pouch.  There was a slight scuffle as Bruce
tried to intercept her, but suddenly the PanSlavs moved, jumping over
seats, knocking people aside in an effort to protect their fallen
leader.

Daffyd caught Vaden back, called off the others.

The bailiff scurried from the court, yelling for an ambicopter, as the
woman medic and three Slavs lifted the stricken man and carried him to
the prosecution's table.  The "hearing judge" began to call for order,
for the next case, for the obstructionists to be removed from the
courtroom.  Its voice got louder and louder until it finally called a
recess until the court could be humanly cleared.

"All right, all right, we've got him under heavy sedation in the Court
Block infirmary," Frank Gillings told Daffyd, "but that took doing.

The place is crawling with PanSlavs.  We can't arrest a man for
collapsing in court ... and how did you do it?"

"One of the teleports gave him a 'punch,' " Daffyd said with a rueful
grimace.

Gillings stared at him with awe and respect.

"One has to be very careful," Daffyd explained almost apologetically,
"pressing against the carotid.  But he was pressuring Amalda."

"You expected that!  But I expected you guys to grab him there.  And
that god damned hearing is affecting the entire city.  Now don't tell me
you expected that!"

Daffyd looked at Gillings and, for a microsecond, hesitated.

"No, not exactly, but we're doing our very best."

"What?  What in hell do you mean by that?"

"I mean, we've set the trap and baited it and we simply have to have
patience."

"Patience?  With this city about to erupt?"

"Curiously enough, Gillings, I don't think the city is going to
erupt.

Oh, we've recorded some Incidents, minor ones, involving Talents ..."

and Daffyd frowned because the Incidents were distressing and so vague
that only a general allTalent warning could be issued.

Gillings gave one of his disgusted growls.  "You guys make me sick.

You can't even protect yourselves."

"We'll do what we can," and Daffyd's voice turned steely enough to
reprimand Gillings.  "What concerns you, Commissioner, is the fact that
our precogs have predicted no major Incidents.  Your city is going to
be safe!"

"Prove it!"  demanded Gillings but Daffyd op Owen made no reply as he
left the Commissioner's office.

It took the telepath the entire trip back to the Center to get control
of his inner perturbation.  Of course, Gillings had to be ruthless and
consider only the larger aspect, the safety of the City, but it galled
Daffyd to think that Gillings could so offhandedly dismiss the
personal trials of the Talented.  It grieved Daffyd that there would be
more precedents on the newlyprogrammed Immunity Law after the next few
days.  The fact that Talents would now have redress for the precogged
personal assaults on them was no satisfaction.  He'd really have
preferred never to have had to invoke that Law.

It would serve Gillings proper notice if Roznine did burst out of
bounds ... And how in hell were they to promulgate a law that made it
illegal to conceal Talent?  Latent Talents were always cropping up when
the right connections were made ...

And not a single Incident connected with Amalda or Red or Vsevolod
Roznine.  And he'd had every precog in the Center sensitized to that
unholy trio.  How could that possibly be?

Daffyd's state of mind was grim as he landed the copter on the roof of
the main administration building of the Center.  He tried to drain the
poisons of bitterness and anger from his mind as he descended the
stairs.  He paused at his office door but swung away.  He had to calm
himself.  This excessive reaction was selfdefeating.  Gillings might be
a latent Talent himself but he remained obdurately impervious to the
problems of the Talented, especially when they interfered with the law
enforcement and order of his precious city.

While Roznine was unconscious in the Court Block infirmary, Daffyd had
managed to implant a suggestion that Roznine seek Amalda out at the
Center.  It was the only feasible practicable method ... make the
mountain come to Mahomet.  And the mountain must appa rently come of
its own volition.  Now, if he could just get Mahomet to do a Lorelei
... it would speed matters up, and maybe so many Talents wouldn't get
hurt.

That brought Daffyd back to the point of anger he'd reached in
Gillings's office and the whole thought sequence started again.

His path led him past the playyard where he could hear the children
yelling and screaming, arguing over some violently important
triviality.  Triviality?  To him, perhaps, yet they were as devoted to
their separate sides of the argument as he was to ...

"Well?"  Sally Iselin stood in his way, her fists planted on her hips,
a mockferocious expression on her pert pretty face.  "Aren't you
pleased with the outcome of the hearing?"  She frowned, sensing his
uncertainty.  "But you were able to plant a suggestion in Roznine's
mind?  Oh, that Gillings.  What is it about a cop that sours the
man?"

It was Daffyd's turn to be surprised.  "That's pretty good reading,
Sally."

As suddenly he felt her mind tighten and the contact that had begun to
lift his depression was taken away.

"What does Gillings expect of us anyway?"  she asked.

"A happy ending!"

Sally eyed him speculatively and then fell in step with him,
grinning.

"There has to be a happy ending to every fairy tale, after all.  Though
I shouldn't have expected it of Gillings, fer gawd's sake."

Her switch of mood, while it obscured her thoughts from him, lifted his
spirits.  Nonetheless, he said rather gloomily that there hadn't been a
precog of any happy ending for Cinderella.

"Oh, you ... honestly!"  Sally sounded peeved and her eyes flashed at
him irritably.  "Your trouble, Daffyd op Owen, is that you don't really
believe in Talent."

"I beg your pardon?"  Daffyd stopped and stared down at her.

"Just because no one has precogged a disaster of some monumental
proportion resulting from this fairy tale affair, you're down in the
doldrums.  Does everything Talented have to end in disaster?  Are you
going to be committed to grief for the rest of your bo rn days?  Or are
you willing to admit that there hasn't been a disaster precog because
there isn't going to be a disaster?  That things will work out right?

All the sensitives are edgy, but not miserably so.  Good God, do we
have to wallow in sorrow all the time?  Do we have to run around
wondering if we have a right to be happy?"

Daffyd thought he knew Sally Iselin fairly well but thisfrom a girl
characteristically full of puppyish goodnature and exuberance?

She turned on him, her brown eyes flashing with anger as she stamped
her foot.  "And I am not a goodnatured puppy!  I can be just as much of
a bitch as any other woman!"

In that outraged mood, she forgot to shield her inner thoughts.  It was
all there, what propriety had kept Daffyd from "perceiving" and her
sense of honor had prevented her from showing him more openly.

Abruptly Daffyd reached out and drew her into his arms, savoring the
miraculous disclosure.  Unaccountably Sally struggled, and courtesy
disregarded, Daffyd probed deeply into her mind, past the barriers she
had carefully erected, past the pert verbosity with which she masked
those inner feelings.  With a strangled sob, she relaxed against him
and let him perceive the whole of her conflict.  The older man/much
younger woman, her yearning to be tall/ elegant, an appropriate spouse
for a man of his status/abilities, the puppy image of herself from his
mind, her feeling of inadequacy because she couldn't locate more and
more Talents to relieve the burdens on him ... all the small sins and
great vanities that inhabit the soul of any human being.  And what he
saw in that instant of perception only endeared her to him more.

With one hand he tilted her head back, forcing her to meet his eyes,
amused that a telepath required a look.  Her mouth lifted slightly in a
smile as she shared his thought.  He felt a pressing need to articulate
the thoughts he was transferring to her mind but all he could say was
her name before he kissed her.  No more was needed.

The next morning the nebulous anxieties of the sensitives were
translated into attacks on the Talented.  One of the finders attached
to the LEO Block was beaten up on his way to the Center.  A Talent
mechanic at the big MidTown Parking Complex was seriously mauled and
shoved into the boot of the car he'd been servicing.  Two healers in
the General Hospital were raped and shorn of their hair but their
assailants were caught because the girls had the ability to "call" for
help.

In the clear light of that morning, Daffyd bitterly wondered if indeed
he had a right to any personal happiness.

"And if that isn't a piece of outright antediluvian puritanical
nonsense, I don't know what is," Sally said, popping out of the
bathroom with all the savagery of a miniature ... "... I am not a
miniature anything, Dai op Owen."

But she was comical enough in her undressed state, mentally bristling
at his thoughts and aggravated by his pessimistic rumination to put the
morning's disasters in their proper perspective.

"I'm not sure what good it'll do to have Roznine marching in here now,"
she went on, pouring out coffee.

"I'd hoped he'd come as soon as he regained consciousness."

Sally's eyebrows flicked up.  "You've never failed of your mark
before.

Unless ..."  She pursed her lips, frowning.

"Amalda's inhibiting him?"  Daffyd caught the halfsuppressed notion.

"You know she's scared of him.  I mean, scared as a woman is of a very
domineering man ... sexually, I mean.  Oh, you know what I mean and
then there's Bruce Vaden and all that."

"Amalda had proof positive yesterday that Roznine couldn't dominate
her."

"Perhaps ... I mean, intellectually, Talentwise, yes.  But it's Bruce
that's holding her back.  He's already at the top of the Glass mountain
and Amalda doesn't dare roll the other apple."

Daffyd caught the unarticulated ramifications of Sally's thinking.

Part of Amalda's reluctance to admit Roznine's attractiveness to her
stemmed from a fear of losing Bruce Vaden, to whom she was equally
attracted but for different reasons.

"She's not one to drop the bone she's got in her mouth for the one she
sees in the water," Sally said.

"Now it's fables?"

"Why not?  You added myths to my fairy tales so it's my shot."

"That only leaves me proverbs."

"So?"

"So!  That leaves us with Amalda inhibiting Roznine?"

"He should've been here otherwise."

Daffyd was turning over this interesting possibility in his mind when
the comset beeped.

"Boss, we got pickets out in front," said Lester in a thoroughly
disgusted tone of voice.  "Pay your fair share.  Everyone else is
taxed.  Why not you?  No Minority privileges."

Daffyd sighed long and deeply.

"Pete's on reception and he says they've got legal political platforms,
their Ids are upstate and they're registered party members.  Legally,
under the Political Platform Act, they can picket the grounds because
there is legislation concerning our tax status before the State Senate
right now."

"Did you inform Gillings?"

"Hah!  They informed us about the time the first picketers foregathered
on our gatestep.  What'n'hell happened to your Machiavellian nonsense
of yesterday?"

" 'There's many a slip twixt cup and lip!"

" Daffyd replied.  Sally gasped and signaled surrender.

"Huh?"  Lester wanted an explanation.

"I must ask Gillings if Roznine's had a visit from Aaron Greenfield
since the hearing yesterday," was Daffyd's reply.

"Did you goof, boss?  Now what do we do?"

"Keep tabs that the onlookers remain quiescent, and alert riot
control.

" "Amalda and Red?"

"No, plunk Harold in the gatelodge with Pete.  Ask Gillings ..."

"Ask him yourself: Charlie says he's just called through."

Before Daffyd could request a deferment of that call, Charlie had
patched it through and Daffyd hoped his flinching wasn't apparent to
the LEO Commissioner.

"You got troubles?"  Gillings's face was impassive.

"Nothing we can't handle ..."

"Oh, the trap's sprung?"  Gillings looked almost pleased.

"Hmmmm ... but I'd like a few of your riotmobiles around."

Gillings's expression changed rapidly to sour discontent.

"Like that, huh?  I thought Roznine was supposed to come like a
lamb?"

Daffyd shot a glance at Sally who was muttering something about
metaphors being illegal.  Her levity was not appropriate to the gravity
of the present situation and yet ... it helped.

"Roznine's a strong personality ...""I'm going after him ..."

Gillings now looked like a trap sprung.

"Gillings," and Daffyd's tone of voice was far sterner than people were
apt to use in addressing the LEO Commissioner, "don't go after
Roznine.

We've exerted all the pressure possible under the circumstances.

He'll come ..."

The Commissioner regarded the Director for a long moment.

"You better know what the hell you're doing, op Owen."

"I do."

"Well, you sound as if you do," Sally said when the call was
disconnected.

"I really think I do, Sally."  Daffyd looked out of his window toward
the building which housed Amalda and Red.  "Two birds in one bush, two
baskets with the same eggs, two minds with the same great thought
..."

"Spare me!  Uncle!  I yield!"

"Good, then let's figure out how to unwind Amalda.  I did not suggest
to Roznine that he bring Great Birnam Wood to Dunsinane."

"I should have guessed that Shakespeare would be next."

"Considering my propensity for quoting Alexander Pope, I wonder you
dared."

"He's coming for me," said Amalda when she and Red noticed the circling
picketers and the gathering of curious bystanders.

Bruce Vaden threw back his head and roared.  He wasn't counterfeiting
the amusement though it had a bitter note.  But her woebegone
expression was ludicrous and his laughter was not the sympathy she'd
expected.

"My dear child, if Roznine has to salve his Slavic ego by resorting to
that kind of subterfuge ..."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that Roznine simply can't walk in here, no matter what
suggestion op Owen planted in his mind when he was unconscious."

Her irritation was replaced by a shudder.  Vaden could feel the
repugnance she experienced when touching Roznine's mind.  But her
impression no longer dominated his reaction to Roznine.  Not after
seeing the man in Court yesterday.

"Did you really look at Vsevolod Roznine yesterday?"

Amalda gave him that wideeyed innocent stare and he felt her going
"dead" on him.  At first Bruce thought it was because she was afraid of
Roznine and censored any references to him.  Now he knew differently.

"Mally hon," and he took her by the shoulders, forcing her to  look
him in the eye.  "I looked at Roznine.  I looked him over good and
strangely enough, I liked what I saw."  That got her where she lived,
and Red took a deep breath, opening his own inner mind so she couldn't
fail to see the sincerity of his words.  "He's the kind of guy I'd
trust and respect even if I could probably take him apart in a fair
fight.  Oh, I know.  I've heard all this static about his sewersink
mind and his power in the city and I don't know as my public mind would
be all that clean and pure.  I' ve learned to do my improper thinking
carefully but no one's warned Roznine that there're guys around reading
him now and again."

Amalda was staring up at him.  Her eyes had gone all big and her lips
were parted.  He wanted to kiss her, to love and reassure her, but not
just then.

"Mind you, I don't think Roznine's a crusading saint but feckitall,
Mally, he's up against City Hall and when you're fighting City Hall you
use every advantage you can beg, borrow or," he clipped her lightly on
the jaw, "kidnap.  Not that I blame him for flipping his nut over
you."  He couldn't keep his voice steady and he knew he was playingback
their initial meeting.  "If you affect Roznine the way you do me, I'm
damned sorry for the poor guy.  It must be hell for him to want you and
not get you."

Amalda discarded all restraint and now
remorse/love/appreciation/agreement/understanding/pride/loyalty washed
over him.

"Don't do that, Mally.  I've got to think."

She bit her lip apologetically and "buttoned" her emotions up.

"Thanks.  Now, where was I?  Yeah.  As of yesterday, I don't think
Roznine could use you.  Not now.  Or only if you let him.  And you
won't.  If that's what's bugging you, forget it.  Or don't you remember
how easily you knocked him out?  You gotta take it easy on the guy,
hon.  He loves you even if he doesn't know it."

"It's you I'm worried about, Bruce," she said in a very low voice, her
eyes wide and full of tears.

So he embraced her, pressing her slender body against him, so she'd
"feel" all he couldn't express.  His knowledge that you aren't selfish
with Talent, whatever kind you possessed: that they had a relationship
too strong to be broken or diminished by the acceptance of a third
party: that Talent had obligations beyond the personal and this was one
of them, for both Amalda and Bruce.

She reached up tenderly to stroke his face, her fingers enjoying the
tactile contact with the silky hair of his beard, letting her fingers
express what she didn't articulate.  As she had learned to accept
Bruce's right to decide for them both, she accepted his decision now.

"The stage is set, honey," he said finally.  "Extras all milling about,
waiting for the director.  Are you going to let him come?"

She gave an impatient little shrug, then squared her shoulders and
smiled at him, ready to move mountains, from the look of her.  He liked
that about Amalda, among a thousand other things.  He conveyed that
approval with a gentle, mindblown hug.  Talent has a dvantages, too.

Roznine rubbed at his temples, wondering what kind of fake powder the
medic had sold him as a headache remedy.

They had done something to him when he was unconscious.  Just as he,
Vsevolod Roznine, knew that they had caused him to black out at the
hearing.  No, not "they"!  Her!

The conviction that he had to get to her, be with her, returned with
renewed and irresistible force.  And Roznine fought it again, fought it
as his head throbbed, and his hands clenched into fists of effort to
withstand the compulsion.

He flung himself from the table, catching the leg with his foot and
upsetting the untouched meal, halfstumbling against the door and
striking his temple on the frame.  He hit his head a second, a third
time.  And clutching the molding, threw back his head in bitter
laughter.

"Roznine has to beat his own head, because it feels so good when he
stops!"

His fingers dug into the frame until his nails bent against the durable
plastic.  His head turned slowly, as if he could see straight through
concrete and plastic, across the miles to the Center in which direction
he unerringly turned.

"NO!"This time his fists thudded into plastic.  "Roznine does not come
at a woman's call.  She comes to him!"

How had they done this to him?  How could she call him?  Once he'd
known her name and that she was at the Center, he'd had his people find
out all they could.  She was registered as a telempath.  Roznine had
looked that up and the answer had only confirmed what he'd guessed
himself: she could transmit emotions and probably receive them.

Roznine pounded the wall viciously, transmitting such hatred and
discontent as boiled up in him from the frustration of not having her
and the humiliation of being knocked unconscious ... in full view of
his constituents ... by a slip of a girl he could br eak in two pieces
with one hand.

And who was the redbearded man who worked with her?  How close did he
work with her?

Jealousy was added to the seething emotions of Vsevolod Roznine.  And
the skin of his skull pulsed with a surfeit of his angry blood.

The intensity of his desire to see Amalda reached another peak.  He
fought it.  He would not go to her.  She must come to him!  He could
not go to her.  She had to come to him.  She, who could read his
thoughts, let her read that one.  Let her read his feelings .

..

"No!"

Roznine stopped.  Everything about him stopped, his heart, his lungs,
the oxygen molecules in his blood.  Then he took a deep breath and
exhaled, his wide mouth forming an odd smile in a suddenly calm face.

No wonder she had not come to him, the little one.  She could read his
thoughts.  She would be terrified of him, Roznine: terrified of the
anger he had felt toward his little bird.  He had felt her fear before,
felt her spirit fluttering away from him.  That was why she had run
from the Fact.  But she shouldn't fear him, Vsevolod Roznine.  Every
man, boy and adult she should fear but not Vsevolod Roznine.  He would
go to her.  He would explain.

Chort vozmi!  Would his head never stop aching?

His comset buzzed.  The noise stabbed piercingly through his skull.  He
grabbed frantically for the set to stop the noise, answering in a
savage tone.

"Everyone's in position, Gospodeen."

"Position?"  Roznine shook his battered head, unable to recollect which
position and where.

"The picketers have been checked by the Center's guards, who are two
old men: nothing to worry about."

Picketers?  Pickets?  At the Center?  Oh, yes.  He'd discussed that
with the little man from upstate.  How could he have forgotten?

"And the riot squad?"

"Parked at or working conveniently nearby.  The disposal men ..."

"Good enough!"  His head pounded like a drill press but he
remembered.

How could he have forgotten?  So she was a riot control team, was
she?

Well, let her control this riot!  Men would pour in to the Center's so
private, so secluded, so sacrosanct grounds from all over the city:
men from many ethnic groups so it couldn't be blamed on his section.

It had meant cancelling half the favors he was owed but, just let him
get his hands on that little riot controller and ...

He threw open the illegally unsealed window and slid down the air shaft
on the escape line.  He opened the window in the rear flat, which
conveniently belonged to a relative who was blind anyhow, and exited
through the back door.  Found the iron prybar and flipped up the sewer
lid, snagging it deftly back over the manhole when he was within.  He
walked briskly over the thin stream which trickled down the pipes at
this time of day.  Two rights and a left brought him to a wider section
conduit with a catwalk on one side.  Two more rights and two lefts and
he climbed a ladder.  The manhole had been shielded and a Disposal
truck was just drawing up.  Swiftly he was within the truck and issuing
orders to the driver.

The sensitive signalled LEO headquarters that Roznine had left his
quarters.  Immediately Gillings warned the Center and circulated the
alert to all stations.

Charlie Moorfield ran through to Daffyd's quarters.

"Ring Amalda and tell her I'm on my way over."

Sally was struggling into her coverall, excitement making her fingers
fumble so that Daffyd held the collar until she could find the
armholes.

"He is coming.  You were too much for him."

"Possibly."

Daffyd could also see another interpretation of Roznine's secret exit,
particularly with the picketers outside and the observers forming a
larger and larger ragged semicircle beyond the gates to the Center.

"Yes, I see what you mean, Dai."

"Let's reinforce Amalda."

The buzzer sounded again.  "Boss, I get no answer from Amalda."

"Tell Gillings to get all riot units here on the double.  Alert
Ours."

Daffyd op Owen swore as he grabbed Sally's hand and pulled her out the
door.  Short of teleporting, he'd never been down the stairs so fast.

Afterwards Sally told him her feet had touched the steps only three
times.

Amalda and Bruce Vaden had exited through one of the sidegates in the
grounds.  They'd come up on the picketline from one side, mingling with
the onlookers until they were directly opposite the main gates.  The
picketers were dutifully chanting the slogans they carried, the four
LEO men routinely assigned a picket, were almost as bored with the
proceedings.  A passenger conveyance settled to the public landing some
hundred yards from the gates and the occupants, carrying collapsed
signs, descended in an orderl y fashion.

"Those are bully boys, not bona fide picketers," Bruce told Amalda in a
quiet voice.

She nodded for she'd unerringly sighted the one man who was
important.

"He's with them."

"Well, this is the last place he'd be looking for us.  Are you
shielding tightly?"

Amalda nodded again but she didn't take her eyes from Roznine.

He really was attractive, she thought.  There was something proud and
fierce in his manner.  Bruce was right: she hadn't really seen him
before.  She's been just so scared of his mind ...

She stopped thinking because Roznine was suddenly glancing over his
shoulder, at the crowd, frowning slightly.  He stood near the copter,
to one side of the new shift of pickets.  They were milling about ...

"Warn Dave, Amalda, and get set.  See how they're maneuvering?"  Even
as he spoke, Bruce glided to a more advantageous position for
teamwork.

The new arrivals, for all their aimless movement, could now be seen
aiming for LEO men and the Center's two guards, mildappearing gentlemen
who were in fact top kineticists and could hold a grown man immobile on
the ground without lifting a physical finger .

The old shift broke from their circuit, grounding and collapsing their
signs, preparatory to leaving.  Some elements of the crowd which had
watched pacifically from the footpath began to move toward the
grounds.

Amalda began to broadcast, gently at first, the feeling of immense
fatigue, utter boredom and a dislike of this activity.

Bruce moved further across the street, picking up and increasing the
intensity of her broadcast.  But he watched Roznine, saw the man
stiffen, his head turn slowly, unerringly towards Amalda.  The group in
which she had been standing shifted and she was by herself.

The setting of the confrontation was superb, Bruce Vaden told himself
with a curious objectivity.  As if by magic or common consent, everyone
melted from the two principals, leaving a clear path between them.

"Don't get scared, honey baby," Bruce told her under his breath,
fighting in his mind to hold the broadcast and disguise the inner
reluctance of sharing Amalda with anyone at all.

Suddenly he felt buoyed up, felt the indescribable mental support and
touch of Daffyd op Owen, speaking through him to Amalda.  And it wasn't
just Dave, but something ... no, someone else.

The area was blanketed with silence by Amalda's projection which began
to waver slightly.  Bruce intensified it, imagining as he'd been
taught, that the emotion was something visible which he was
manipulating tangibly, as visible and tangible as water falling over a
specific area, drenching everything with its cascade.

Everything went at half speed.  Roznine pulled first one heavy leg
forward, then the other, like a man treading through molasses, sticky,
cloying.  The man's face was contorted with effort and concentration.

Amalda just stood, her chin slightly raised, looking as regal and
poised as she had on the E;act stage, so sure of herself that she
almost fooled Vaden.

The action was all slow motion: the picketers, real and bogus,
discarding their all too heavy signs, inexorably sinking to the ground,
sprawling in poses of utter exhaustion.  It affected the LEO men though
they tried hard to resist the pressure, falling to their knees and
hands, faces down on the ground.

Then only she, Bruce and Roznine were standing.  She took a deep breath
and looked straight at Roznine's eyes: the first time she had done
so.

And Bruce was right that Vascha (she found his nickname easily:
though he thought of himself, selfimportantly, only as Vsevolod
Roznine, the Vascha personality was there, too) was nice looking, with
a strong body and sensitive hands.  She liked long, wellsh aped fingers
on a man she liked to have such hands on her body.

"All right, here I am," she said out loud and dared him in her mind to
overpower her.

His eyes seemed to eat her flesh hungrily, as if starved for the
essence beneath the covering tissue.

"You 're mine.  1, Vsevolod Roznine, say yo are mine."  That was his
thought, beating away at her.  She wanted to laugh, to sing out because
his thought couldn't go any further than her mind.  It couldn't reach
Bruce, standing not more than five feet away.  Not unless she wanted
it to go further!

"Well, what are you waiting for?"  she asked gently because the
knowledge of such total power over another human being humbled her.

Some of his bully boys were getting to their feet for she'd turned off
some of her blanketing projection to deal with Vascha.  Through
Vsevolod Roznine she sent a fleeting thought of nausea that instantly
reduced them to retching bodies on the grass.  And as abruptly, she
deflected the actual illness.  Then she turned off the empathetical
broadcast completely, knowing its cessation would leave the victims
disoriented enough to cause no further trouble.

"I think you'd better come with us, Vsevolod," she said to Roznine and
took his hand, turning and leading him toward the Center as if he had
no other choice.  He didn't because Bruce fell in on the other side,
their strides matching.

Roznine was dazed, his lips compressed into a thin line.  He glared
down at Amalda as she led him, at arm's length, like a mother dragging
an errant child home.

The gateman nodded to the trio as they passed into the Center's
Grounds.

"What'n'hell has happened to your common sense, op Owen?"  Frank
Gillings demanded.  "Letting not only Amalda and Vaden but Roznine into
the City Council?  For Chrissake that's what he wanted Amalda for
..."

"Easy, Frank.  The team's on assignment, completely legitimate."

"Council isn't a riot situation ..."

Daffyd raised his eyebrows in polite surprise.  "No?  According to
Roznine, the tempers get so hot no constructive work is ever done.

Each ethnic group insists that its members are being discriminated
against with accusations and counteraccusations until the mediator
adjourns the hearing with nothing accomplished except exhibitions of
parliamentary bad manners.  Sorry.  The team is going to cool things
long enough for common sense to prevail.  Roznine's reason for wanting
Amalda's Talent in City Hall was valid."

Daffyd also neglected to add that that was the bargain he'd struck with
Roznine to join the Center.  All the man wanted was to be certain the
employment allotments were impartially assigned.  Well, not all, Daffyd
amended to himself, but Roznine had gone about it the wrong way.

Daffyd grinned reassuringly at Gillings's image in the comset.  "He's
part of the team now and she follows orders."

"But does Roznine?"  asked Gillings sarcastically.

"As I've explained to you, Frank, Roznine is paraphysically dead to
anyone else.  Oh, Bruce Vaden empathizes with him to some extent now
they've both had training, but Roznine's is a oneway Talent, right to
Amalda.  She's the focus of the gestalt.  You might say, he's been
checkreined."

Frank Gillings grunted, somewhat mollified.  Then, jutting out his
chin, he glared at the Director.  "You going to start lobbying for a
rider on that Talent Immunity Law?"

"Immediately.  In fact," and Daffyd's smile broadened with sheer
malice, "Senator Greenfield is helping us get an interim rider through
the State Senate on a Bill he has coming up on the Agenda next
session."

"Greenfield?"

"Yes.  Roznine invited him here at the Center for a chat.  The Senator
was most amenable to the suggestion."

The LEO Commissioner's frown was partially perplexity.  "What'd you
guys do to Greenfield?  Blanket him with loving kindness?"

"Good heavens, no.  It was merely pointed out to him that the Center is
not a minority, but a collection of minorities since all ethnic groups
are represented.  He took a tour of the grounds and instantly perceived
that the housing was by no means as luxurious as he'd been previously
led to believe, with swimming pools or wasted space that might house
additional families.  In fact, he complimented us on our planning and
thrifty use of facilities."

Frank Gillings was by no means taken in by Daffyd op Owen's bland
manner.  He growled something under his breath.

"What did Roznine have on him, Dave?"

"I don't know what you mean, Frank."

The LEO man made a gesture of disgust.

"Dave, don't give me any more problems for a while, will you?"

"Nothing's coming up in the foreseeable future."

The screen went blank on Gillings's incredulous expression.

"Daffyd, that was highly immoral, unethical and downright dirty," said
Sally, half scolding as she rose from the couch where she'd been
sitting out of line-of-vision of the comset.  She walked in under his
arm, linking him around the waist.  He nuzzled her curls and kissed
her forehead.

"Probably.  Les is always reminding me that it's bad policy to tell
all."

"It's a shame about Vascha though."  Sally sighed.

"Why?"

"Oh, it's rather sad, his being a psychic mule, her Pegasus."

"Thank God he is," Daffyd said so fervently she looked up, startled.

"With the ambition and drive that young man has, he'd rule the world in
half a year if Amalda and Bruce weren't there to stop him."

PEGASUS IN FLIGHT

This Book is respectfully and gratefully dedicated to Diana Tyler and
Diane Pearson.

PROLOGUE

During the late twentieth century's exploration of space, a major
breakthrough occurred in the validation and recording of extrasensory
perceptions, the socalled 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 inadvertently
discovered when the device was used to monitor a head injury in an
intensivecare unit of Jerhattan.  The patient, Henry Darrow, was a
selfstyled clairvoyant with an astonishing percentage of accurate
"guesses."  In 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
talents certain privileges and responsibilities in a society basically
skeptical, hostile, or overtly paranoid about such abilities.

Extrasensory perceptionor Talent, as it came to be called-came in
varying strengths and forms.  Simple, shortrange telepathy was fairly
common, once inhibitions were discarded.  But there were also oneway
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.

TelekineticsTalents who could move physical objects by sheer mental
powerwere also invaluable, their abilities ranging from lifting heavy
machinery to manipulating 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 he averted.  Some
clairvoyants had special affinities: some sensed events revolving
around fire, water, or wind; others were more apt to perceive children,
or violence, or criminal intentions.

Finders also had affinitiessome could locate people or animals, while
others were able to sense inanimate objectsand 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 outstripped the supply.  For those potential few , the training
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
twelveyearold body against the plasslab wall.  Public Health officials
were swarming all over, rounding up the early morning crowd of
ablebodied workers who had been scanning the employment board for a
day's work, the mothers with their handicapped kids making their way to
the Rehab centers, 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 inform: 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, Arisan, and Cyotoand she had better
ask Mama Bobchik if there were newborns, 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, yesshe 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 centershaft 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 multiethnic thirtystoried 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 born to Dikkaonly the first, Tirla's brother,
Kail, was legal.  The government tied a woman off when she gave birth
to a second child.  Consequently Firza, Lenny, Ahm ed, and Tirla had
all been born in Dikka's singleparent 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 braceletsa fine legacy.  Selfsufficient and resourceful, she had
managed to retain the squat, drawing two subsistence rations, until
Dikka's ID was canceled 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 Articles, 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 possessions-hotter unit,
the best of the sleep sacks, the 'corder, and the pretties Dikka's men
had given her from time to timeinto 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 eyrie, where massive ducts formed a broad platform
before bending up the inner wall.  She patched her hotter and 'corder
wires in to the overhead cables, certain that her small use of
electricity was unlikely to be discovered, and settled in.  She did
miss the all night informational programs on the squat's trid.  The big
public trids 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 issue, and other amenities until
"Kail" failed to appear at Evaluation Center within three weeks of his
sixteenth birthday.  The cancellation caused Tir la 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 subsi stencelevel Residential Linears saved
clients hours at official trans-speech 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 anyway, there was no profityetin reporting her illi cit
existence.

The various errands she didand she was scrupulously silent about
themoften brought in "floating" credit chips.  Floaters were legal
tenderPay to Bearer, untraceable chips that changed hands frequently.

Jerhattan 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 existe nces 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 Palisades 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 Manhattan Island, and to ooh and aah at the monorail cars,
large and small, that zipped along the tracks which garlanded 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 Linear squats to live in proper big apartments with a
bedroom 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 struggled off the bedshelf.

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

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,
ablebodies, students, handies and their mothers."

"Ah, we must hurry.  Elpidia, Zaveta ..."  Mama Bobchik began reciting
the names of her usual maternity 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 clothingissue 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 YassimTirla made the warding sign at just the
thought of that manhad paid Mama a huge sum for him.  Buril's unusual
talent for "fixing" official equipment made him quite valuablehe had
not gone the usual route of Yassim's purchases, and Mama had been paid
enough floaters 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, sle eve 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 trid, 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, knowing perfectly well that an
ID was essential when the PHOs were swarming the Linear.  Mama Bobchik
pretended 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 singlepiece 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 contrived.  They were good
for one day's use onlyone 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 expense of the spray gun."

"Fortyfive!"

The two hagglers eyed each other, and then Mama's broad face beamed
down at Tirla's unyielding expression.  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 hurry now."

The girl was already slipping through the halfopened door and down the
hall to spread the warning.

Despite her speed, Tirla barely finished her route before 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 publicaddress system
droned on constantly 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
staggered against the table.  While the PH woman was coping 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 appropriately 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 miraculous.  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 bracelet on as many
public dispensers as she passed, no matter 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 acquired 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 productive, thoughtful mood, she touched his arm,
reinforcing 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 early morning sleep pattern, 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 Palisades.  This archaic remainder of the
twentiethcentury residential suburbs interrupted the flow of Linear
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 am ong 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 running 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 himself and Rhyssa curled together
in her bed, the doublethick 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, Saschabear.  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 searching for him takes
too much out of you.  You're going to need all your energy to deal with
the Zealots.  He projected the vision of three persons with limbs so
entangled 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 whiskbroom 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 Talents 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 registered?"  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 understand protocol.  I do
wish they didn't always feel required to overreact to their newfound
mindpowers."

"Damned strong one!"  Maliciously, Rhyssa projected 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 embarrassingly possessive of
him, an adulation he was finding increasingly difficult to discountit
was the reason that he assiduously cultivated the notion that he and
Rhyssa were on the brink of a tot al partnership.  Kindly, Rhyssa did
not disclaim the rumor.

"I'll have Sirikit run a check on possible emergents," 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 Sascha 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 indexcode side
was visible.  She selected the one she wanted and neatly piled the
others in front of her, code side outward, 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 fleeting nudge."

"A secret lover?"

"Could be," Rhyssa murmured, projecting an image of a sly grin and a
comehither 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 office.  As he took
the antigrav shaft down from her tower to the vast basement complex
where most of the Center'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 spiderwebbing 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 grandfather, Daffyd op Owen, had
had: young, vibrant, with dark blue eyes that sparkled and gleamed with
intelligence, 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 prettyher 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
parentsand of the grandfat her who had battled to secure the position
of Talents in the present socioeconomicpolitical atmosphere.

Sascha Roznine, himself a thirdgeneration Talent and younger than
Rhyssa by three months, preferred his current 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 nerveracking sessions with Jerhattan'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 confidence.  When
Rhyssa had once pointed out that, in their own way, emergent Talents
were as obnoxious as managers, Sascha had replied that 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
prescience was limited to people they knew or we re assigned to watch;
and those whose precognitions had affinities with fire, water, males or
females, childrenthere was as wide an assortment of focus points as
there 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 pervading ones.  A trained telempath could either
dampen negative auras or reinforce positive ones, a Talent useful for
altering the tension in a crowd, preventing rampaging 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.

Telekinetics 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.  Telekinetics were invaluable in so many wal ks 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 telepathslike
Rhyssa, who could send and receive communications across the world as
long as she had met the person she wished to contact She could
penetrate 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 established 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 tapdancing across a
soundresonant surface.

Until you learn 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 response 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.

Sasha: 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 voluptuous eighteenyearold 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 readings.  Sascha had not
tried to dampen his immediate concern.  With so many telepaths aware of
the alarm, keeping the investigation under wraps had been impossible.

Someone actually intruded on Rhyssa?  Madlyn projected 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 attacking anything that
threatened Rhyssa.  Who in the Center wasn't?

They found Sirikit already scanning Rhyssa's Goosegg encephalographs
for the previous month.  Several were paused at the spoking that
indicated intrusive wakenings.  The Goosegg, initially developed to
monitor the odd light flashes experienced by astronauts, was especially
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
paranormal activity, slipped on a net that could read brain activity.

Many Talents, particularly the precognitives and clairvoyants, wore
them night and day.  They were lightweight, of a strong fine mesh
matching the wearer'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 perceptions did occur.

"Look at Rhyssa's recordings, Sascha.  There's no question that the
Incidents have been increasing," Sirikit said as Sascha strode to the
bank of horizontal spindles used in such comparisons.  "First one three
weeks ago, second four days later, then three, and this past week once
a nightabout fourish."

Sasha: Odd time for a voyeur!

Sirikit: With threequarters of the population asleep in bed.

Madlyn: Insomniac?

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

Sasha: 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 insomniac phases.  Anx iety 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: Threethirty 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 morning 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 vindictive.

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

CHAPTER 3

Barchenka, Duoml, and His Highness Manager Prince Phanibal Shimaz
arrived promptly for their meeting with Parapsychic Center Director
Rhyssa Owen at the Jerhattan City Manager's Tower, a massive structure
in the center of Central Park, the last vestige of nineteenth and
twentiethcentury Manhattan.  The tower, rising above the tallest of the
mercantile buildings, was crowned by ziggurats of communication dishes,
giving it an appearance from any distance of a grotesque bunch of stiff
daisies rammed into an imm ense glass brick.  Skycars of varying sizes
at the landing level stuck out like a fringe of angular, multicolored
leaves.

Space Station Construction Manager Ludmilla Barchenka entered first,
her odd bouncing gait indicating that 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 abrasive personality:
she was stocky, bigboned though not fleshy, with a flat, broad face and
unexceptional features.  Pale blue eyes and shortcropped hair only
added to the image of a tough person a cold, inflexible tenacity.  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 Eastern 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 services she desperately
needed even as she deplored their abilities.  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 implement the colonization program
was incredible.  But first the Padrugoi Station, the essential
springboard to the stars, had to be completed.  The project had
worldwide priority and the enthusiastic support of every political 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 considerable.  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 workbut
that she expected the same dedication from everyone on the project.

Unfortunately she did not have the charisma or leadership ability to
generate either loyalty to herself or to the project.  Initially many
Talents had volunteered to assist, but one after another they declined
to renew their contracts.  The many enticements to return with their
unique cap abilities to work on Padrugoi Station had met with
failure.

Personnel Manager Per Duoml, coming in behind Ludmilla, moved with the
heaviness of someone accustomed 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 Talents had liked working with
Duoml: he was fair, competent, 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 dutifully asked the directors of
every Center in the world, she had no takers to offer Duoml.

Program Manager Prince Phanibal Shimaz pounced in behind Per Duoml, and
his presence was neither essential 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 geniussome said he had
thought in binary codes in his creche and teethed on chipsand when he
was barely out of his teens, he had mastered the use of the Josephson
junctions in what he termed an "idiot proof" application to regulate
with complete safety the vast flow of skycars and drones in and out of
major Linear depots an dover densely populated areas.  He was currently
applying 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 themselves.

"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 revealed 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 certainly 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 specifically request.  Certainly I could not ask
untrained Talents 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 Duoml 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 platform.  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 Engineer, but which is
extremely unpleasant to sensitives."

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

"No, Madame Barchenka, not pampered or spoiled, but yes, catered to,"
Rhyssa flashed back.  "The Talented are skilled personnel and require
some minor considerations 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 influence on the economic life of our
world.  In the airport, in the spaceport, in industry where, while I
order materiel, 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 woman'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 this world priority
project."

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

"Bah!  They are uselesssterile, uneducated, untrainable 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 dangerous imbalance, made a lurching exit, Prince Phanibal
following her.

Per Duoml 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 Duoml, insure the Talents shielded
quarters and a sixhour 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 accommodations."

"Then Engineer Barchenka is stuck with the result."  Rhyssa fervently
wished that Per Duoml 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 obj ects 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 energy required by both tasks is the same and
exhausting.  They need quiet to restore their strengththey are
sensitive to the metallic vibrations of Padrugoi itself, the inhumanly
close quartering, the lack of privacy, and the appallingly bad rations
which are insufficient to replenish their bodies and minds."

Per Duoml 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 boy blinked three times, and the channel on the ceiling screen
changed again.  He sighed.  Yet another 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 attentionnot 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 trids all
through the long nights.  Kept his mind offthingsafter 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 himself 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 itbefore he had run alongside 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 collapse?  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 safesafe from both
the wall and the boys 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 corners of his mouth
up, stretching them until his cheeks lifted, his chin droppe d, 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 muted sounds
of his parents talking and laughing.  He expelled another 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 Allen 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
displayed the readings from his monitors.

"Why was there a respiratory fluctuation, Peter?"

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

"You were not."  Miz Allen 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 burn girl on the other
side of the circular ward.

Miz Allen, reproving smile and all, disappeared, and Peter counted her
steps, twenty-one, to get to the critical case.  Then he counted to
thirty, and the whimpering 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
sensation 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 Jerhattan.  It had been
part of the vacation farm to which his parents had taken him when he
was eight.  For someone raised in Linear Jerhattan, surrounded
constantly by the noise and smell of people and maintenance
machineries, 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
inexplicable strands, comforting wisps of thought, enticing him to
linger.  One in particular intrigued him, and he hovered 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 Allen'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 Allen 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 quavered, 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 MR 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
whitehot 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 muscles 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 satisfaction.  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?"  Sascha 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 outofbody job?"  Sascha asked, turning on
Madlyn with surprise.

"What else could it be?"

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

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

"But o.o.bing 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 systems, 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 prisoners 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 and/or
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 highandmighty Law Enforcement 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 reminder."

"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 people 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 subsistencelevel
food, there'll be unreported birthsand continued traffic in
pre-adolescents 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 Teres a Aiello's desk.

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

Teresa inadvertently glanced down.  She was a toughminded woman, but
she had a tenyearold 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 appalling discovery had
been made.  The temper of Jerhattan 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
kidnapped six weeks ago ..."

Teresa winced and let out a groan.  The Waddells were acquaintances of
hers, hightech 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 permittedprovided they did not
carry the proscribed genetic recessivesto 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 residential 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 pregnancies 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 outage, but
that was a onceoff."  Then he spread his hands wide, matching Dunster's
resignation.  "You know our situation.  We manage to keep a lid on most
of the troubleif 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 hygiene programs don't reachin 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."

"In the last gruesome chucking, three months back or so, only four were
recognizable ethnic types," Harv Dunster said grimly.  "Near
EasternersLebanese and Arabic.  Two were TaySachs, ten were
darkskinned, and one was an HIV carrierwhich may well be why they were
all ... disposed of."  The medic sighed heavily.  "I suspect Lab may
also find antibody positives 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 hovered 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 corner 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
timeyours and mine.  These murders go deeper than the loss of thirty
juveniles.  Forget the HIV factorit'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 searchandfind 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 chagrin.  "Most of those children had to be illegals.  We all
know that that group of pederasts is activeand supplieddespite
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 eve ryone.  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 Teresa, 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
childstealers 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 formula, and now the altered strand can be traced for
up to six months.  There're certain anomalies to be resolved, 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
singletower 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 palmsup 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 Vernon Altenbach.

We got problems?  she asked.

Girl, you really deserve all the headaches of administration 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 halfamused, halfirritated.

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 appreciate
the applications of Talentafter 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 because, when they
warned of disasters which were, by those warnings, averted, they had
been subjected to expensive and timeconsuming 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 abilities, 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 Vernon's got tremendous pressure on
him.

I'm the loudest of the Washington/Luxembourg 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 besessi ons that have been attended
by some of the most antagonistic 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 empathic Talents was that
of "minding" vulnerable topranking 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 resettlements and
the institution of the Linear developments near every major urban area,
and the incidence of assassinations 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 Vernon Altenbach had been
shielding his thoughts from his minder, especially since Johnny was
also Vernon's best friend, as well as his brother-inlaw.  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 himself 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 discussed.  Barchenka and
Duoml 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 performance record she's got!

Vernon's tried!  She's so bloody good at what she doesit'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 whiff!

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 foresightif Johnny's reading of the situation
was correctwas surprising.

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 Vernon's schedule.  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 physical appearance.  Medium tall, he kept himself
physically trim, and one would never guess his serious injuries from
seeing him walk or manage eating utensils.  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
Vernon Altenbach, Exalted Engineer Ludmilla Barchenka, and Padrugoi
Personnel Manager Per Duoml  were seated.  Johnny's broad smile
welcomed her, and they exchanged touch and a kiss.

Would you have dared look so stunning if the amorous Phanibal had come,
too?  Johnny's greenflecked 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 family's plantations?

Johnny: All you need is a strong handsome man who'll scare him off.

Right now you've got this lot embarrassed by your appearance, and yet
they haven't said a thing out of line, he added, all in the split
seconds of the greeting.

Rhyssa gave Altenbach a genuinely glad smile, then nodded politely to
the fiercely scowling Barchenka and the blandfaced 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 unexpected guest, "you can't disrupt the
established procedure of lobbying.  That's not the way to play the
game."

"Nor is going behind my back," Rhyssa said, smiling 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 individual 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 uncompromising expression.  "The platform will be
finished as scheduled.  The kinetics will participate."

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

"There are ways," Barchenka added, her cold eyes scanning Rhyssa's
whole appearance from the elegantly coiffed 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 thisimpassecan 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 appeared and handed him a
slim folder, which he presented to Barchenka with a flourish.  She gave
him, then Johnny, a sardonic look that turned to agreeable surprise 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 fash?  She's
poisonsure she's got us where she wants us.

Simultaneously three other minders, dining with their charges in the
same room, sent Rhyssa similar warnings.  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
contingency?

Been driving myself and my clerks all hours trying to find one, Rhyssa,
replied Gordon Havers.  There's nothing 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 convoluted as
their grammar!

"You can, of course, invoke some forgotten but still active statute,"
Rhyssa remarked all too blandly, waiting for reactions, "to conscript
Talents ..."  Both Barchenka and Duoml 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
concessions were made to cater 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 obstructive.  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 ponderously 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," Vernon 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 Duoml added,
but he made no move to leave the table.  "We are forced to use
unpleasant alternatives to avert far more serious disasters overtaking
the world!"

"I'll see if I can calm her down, make her see reason," Vernon 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 Duoml," 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 impervious, Rhyssa
thought, as his unwillingness to understand the nature of Talent.  "It
is the opinion that thisreluctanceputs 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 candor.  Per Duoml 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 interesting 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 professional compliment," Rhyssa
said amiably.  "This soup is excellent, Per Duoml.  Let us enjoy it."

Bingo!  Gordie Havers told Rhyssa the next day.  There was absolutely
no joy to his tone.

You mean Barchenka can conscript Talents?  Rhyssa felt a cold paralysis
grip her.

You've got it!  I've been over the statute-and it is Russian, from the
preglasnost days, and should have been repealed long ago it's so
archaic.  In the good old Bolshevik days, it was illegalget that,
illegal-to be unemployed.  The State was the only employern of the
employer of last resortbut the only employer.  Ergo, everyone worked.

Consequently, the only employer in a system that makes it illegal to be
unemployed can certainly do whatever is deemed necessary with its work
force.  Legally, it gives Barchenka the right, under Padrugoi'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 glibtongued attorney like Lester Favelly, we might just win.

But the trial would take years, and could be construed by Barchenka to
prove her contentionthat 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 perform 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 tenets
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 not keep the bitterness out of her
tone.

Ours, as you well know, was Gordon Havers's crisp reply.  Ergo, it has
to work out by our compliance.  But I've initiated some investigations
that might just give us a lever against Barchenka.  Meanwhile, consult,
Rhyssa.  Quick action might shift public support to us.

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
theoretically equal, no director decided issues that would affect all
Talents without consulting the others first, and Rhyssa-in charge of
negotiations for the Talents because 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 Ivanova, said Vsevolod Gebrowski of the 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 foodnutritious food
could at least have a distinctive flavor.  How she can expect us to
function ...

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 Padrugoi ...

Well, Commerce and Industry want this station-they'll 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 conditions
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 understanding 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 enlightened his ignorance.  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, perhaps .  .

If she's after the gross, that makes rotation impossible!

I can try to insist on some sort of shortterm stretches, Rhyssa said.

Let us also issue some publicity, Miklos Horvath suggested, 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 anyone below Civil Service8.

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, Per Duoml?  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 telepaths!

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

Wouldn't dream of it!

You mean, she doesn't know?

Ludmilla Ivanova knows what she wants to know, Vsevolod said wearily.

She only hears the explanations she wishes to hear.

In twelve minutes of rapidfire exchanges, the Talents arrived at a grim
but workable course of action.  Max, Baden, and Jimmy would do the
actual selection of suitable kinetics.  Some Talents could be excused
on grounds of infirmity, pregnancy, or unsuitable skillsthough two of
Baden's "featherdusters" 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 maximum, 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 in 0.5grav conditions.

What we must also organize, for ourselves, Kayankira 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 bad 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 farms
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 remark.  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 materiel
usually hoisted by a kinetic.  Who's handling the publicity?

We're going to have to be careful about thatdon't want Barchenka to say
we're interfering with her ongoing employment drive.

The man I have in mind is not a valid Talent, but be's a brilliant
publicist, Rhyssa.  Let me get Dave Lehardt 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 anti-witchcraft 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 Scandinavia.  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 deliver on time.  That clause is
just coming home to roost where they didn't expect it.  They'll 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 oldfashioned 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 coststhe 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, tearing 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 apoplectic 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, welladjusted personality.  He was handsom eenough, with
midbrown hair, blue eyes, and regular but not remarkable features, and
he dressed with conservative 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 expression.  "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 observer 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 Talents 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 another client, and believe me, I'm on your
side!"

Rhyssa smiled to herself.  Dave Lehardt did have something like a
Talenta selfconfidence 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 experience, 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 nonTalents 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
assistance, even at the expense of long-established links with the
public sector, at considerable personal sacrifice.  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 consideration ..."

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

Rhyssa grinned.  "One of the bestkept 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 corner of a graphic sheet from the pile and spread it
out.

"To address your two points: sixhour shifts and shieldingvery
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 expendituresthat sort of recordable
data.  Remember, I've seen your kinetics in action, but I doubt that
Ludmilla or even Per Duoml have taken the trouble to watch them work.

They've been too busy bitching about weightlessne ss 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 remarkable
insights into the actual shift mechanics.  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 presentationand that's where I'm the
expert."

His grin was a mixture of impudence and malice.

For the first time in her Talented life, Rhyssa found herself
fascinated by a Mute, and half of that fascination 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 engineer had to listen attentively to catch his points.  Per Duoml
was, as usual, with her, but Rhyssa had been spared another
confrontation with Prince Phanibal.

"All we have had is talk, empty talk," Ludmilla Barchenka said when
Dave had explained the dual problems 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 demonstration ..."

"I have no time for demonstrations," the Exalted Engineer stated
dismissively.  "I must return to the platform.  Already there are
delays which must be rectified."

"Understood, Engineer Barchenka," Dave said soothingly, with just the
right amount of respect and understanding.  "Perhaps Per Duoml 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."

Duoml would be much easier to deal with his mind was not totally closed,
although he was as dedicated to the 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 Duoml to our side."  Rhyssa frowned.  "I
don't see what else we could have done.  Dave Lehardt is running
publicopinion polls.  One point is clear: Everyone wants Padrugoi to be
finished, 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
Duoml to the most prestigious exercise complex in Jerhattan, a facility
that occupied the first nine floors of a Residential ziggurat near
Central Park.  The largest gymnasium was set up with three sets of
stressmonitoring paraphernalia and technicians, three pyramids of
standardsize packages, a forklift, a bevy of impartial observers, and
the Complex director, Menasherat ibn Malik, who had been a multiple
Olympic gold medalist for four times running.

Per Duoml 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 Mal ik accepted Per
Duoml's homage and conversed amiably with him.

"Now, Manager Duoml," 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
machines.  "Let me introduce you to Pavel Korl, bronze medalist in
heavyweight boxing; Chas Huntley, a forklift operator with
International Canning; and Rick Hobson, the kinetic."

Rhyssa was almost as bemused as Per Duoml as ibn Malik made the
introductions.  Korl and Huntley were big men, towering over Duoml 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
Duoml, to assure yourself that they are equal in weight ..."

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

"Then once our guinea pigs' wires are doublechecked, we can start the
testwhich 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 sporting events, "on Padrugoi, three men will be
doing exactly the same in Qhangar."  He spoke into his collar mike.

"If you're ready up at Pad rugoi?"  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 Clark.  Are you
all ready?  On your marks" The gold medalist raised his arm.  "Get
setgo!"  His arm came down, and the activity on the gym floor and in
(_hangar commenced.  "This test will last an hour," he informed Per
Duoml, gesturing for the observers to take seats to one side .

After the first few minutes, Per Duoml 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 Duoml
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 energy and used up twice as many calories.

When the test had been completed, Dave Lehardt stripped the hardcopy
sheets from all six printers.  Neatly folding them, he handed the sheaf
to Per Duoml, 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 Duoml," Dave Lehardt said, "but I'm
sure you recognized the fact that weightlessness grants no bonuses to
the kinetic.  As to the noise factor ..."  The publ icist took a
compact recorder from his hip pocket and thumbed it on.

At the babel and squeaks and metallic groans, Per Duoml 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, angers,
and myriad metallic noises that some of the kinetics 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 efficie ncy if they have no respite from
it in shielded quarters."

Having set the decibel rate herself, Rhyssa knew that covering his ears
gave Duoml 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 Duoml said with a grim expression.  "I
shall present them to Ludmilla Barchenka."

"Present them and insure their implementation, Per Duoml, 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 electrician was about to
disconnect the trid 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
electrician 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 voiceover to identify the
scene as the estate of the late George Henner, one of the earliest
supporters of the parapsychics.  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 soughta 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
invaded.  They needed their privacy to do all the wonderful 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 sacrifice," 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.  Plat form
Manager Ludmilla Barchenka announces that the most ambitious 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, halfteasing.  He was always a little 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 extremities, 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 independence he had in his condition.

"Yes, it's time for Peter's bodybrace session anyway," 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
limbicsystem smile on your face."

Peter hated the body brace and the morning's "torture 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 unexpectedly registered a blip.

While Peter gamely concentrated on his bodybrace 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 specialized 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 disappointed in him.  He did
try to make his body remember how to move.  The frame sent electrical
impulses into his atrophied muscles, the theory being that the little
jolts would restimulate neural and muscular activity.  He hated that
intrusion into his body even more than he hated being paralyzed.

"Peter, if you would only stop resisting the mechanism," 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 problem 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 objectgenerally, 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 himit 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 learn that he was reviewing
that vision of the Center, with its trees and lawns and ... Rhyssa
Owen.

That night, Rhyssa was wakeful, going over an dover 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 cowardly 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 touchenvious, 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
touchtimorous 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 savoring that touch, examining it, letting her perception analyze
it.

Such swiftness suggested a young mind-no old thoughts or experiences to
slow the instantaneity of action.  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 crippled or
paralyzed.

I want to see who was awake on the wards at threeforty-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 outofbody
experiences were the results of traumas and useless in a commercial
senseand theorists still argued over whether the outofbody phenomenon
was a kinetic manifestation or a strong telepathic projection.

Just remember, she told herself that it was the commercial 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 interstellar
communication, a multilingual garble that they were picking up.  Open
your mind up, gal.  Look around you.  Look at Dave Lehardt.  He has to
be Talented, even if it won't register on a Goos egg 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 employment 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
casualties.

" "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 unexpectedly, she had been
busy reshuffling the rotas of the Center's kinetics, steeling herself
to endure their understandable reproaches and arguments.  Any
interruption 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
allowable.  The major reason is because Barchenka's so bloodyminded
about keeping her Sacred Schedules, she won't interrupt a shift to
retrieve drifters!"

To be sure she understood his meaning, Rhyssa unconsciously tried to
read his mind.  It was like stubbing her toe on a stair riser 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 ginormous 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 J G and Samjan and some long program
analyses to piece fact out of the publicly available fictions."

"But all the recruitment films show safety lines and ..."  Part of
Rhyssa crowed with delight at discovering 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 linesthey 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 Lehardt 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 supervisors and skilled
techniciansbut 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 instincts 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
eighthour shifts are another platform fallacy.

"On top of that conspicuous savings of consumables, I uncovered several
other little anomalies: grunt suits have limitedrange com 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!  Accidental death!  Never suicide!  Always
accidental.  After all," he said, taking on a mock Russian accent,
"everyone 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."  Da ve paused
again.

"Checking through medical records, it becomes apparent 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 shudder 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 understanding in his warm blue eyes was
obvious.  She would not tell him that Talents generally disliked
tactile contactsurprisingly 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 simonpure to lower yourselves to outright
blackmail."

"Not when the lives and safety of my Talents are at risk, I'm not,"
Rhyssa declared stoutly.  "Not to mention 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 safet y lines for everyone
working on the platform and the deployment of rescue skiffs.  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 Barchenka can pull the same tricks on hem
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 popular with the
grunts because you " he waggled his finger 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 Barchenka 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'll 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 telepath 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 to 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
Duoml?  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 contracts?"

"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 organization.  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 bioengineering permitted" "Hold
it right there, Dave."  Rhyssa held up a warding hand.

"Read the Code: congenital defects, yesmanipulations, no.  And I doubt
any genetic engineer 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 experimentation, 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 rule out the possibility."

"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 longer than the
transactions required.  "I thank you, sir."  What on earth was
happening to her in Dave Lehardt's presence?  She felt as giddy asas
Madlyn could be in Sascha's company.

When Per Duoml, 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, Gord ie Havers, and
Lance Baden, found the meeting eminently satisfying.

Showing the accurate fatality statisticsfigures that bleached all color
from the faces of Duoml and the princeDave Lehardt talked knowledgeably
of some of the "minor" problems that the Talents would be willing to
undertake, such as the retrieval of any suited workers experiencing
"malfunction of suit jets," and telepathic contact "with those using
shortrange com units," plus monitoring systems; they would also include
among the Talents two with broad diagnostic capabilities.  Dave pointed
out that the savings on skiff fuel and manhours 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 Talent liaison with the engineering staff
and that was that.

And what were they saying about cowardly capitulations?  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 Duoml 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 compromises, 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 little 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 modern, with state-of-the-art technology, but
the main reception rooms were reminders of more leisurely times.  The
kitchen, where modern appointments were hidden behind oldfashioned
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 the touch, once again colored with wistfulness 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 mise rytragedy
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
precipitated the nebulous contact.  And her mind, less controlled 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 afternoonusually we get 'em at
night," the hospital's maintenance man said as he held up the printout
to the consultant engineer whom the concerned hospital administration
had finally called in.

The engineer peered at the peak, a sudden sharp deviation 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 everything apart on that ward and
there wasn't nothing malfunctioning.  Craziest thing I've  ever
seen.

And you know how Admin is when you got outages and anomalies with all
them life-support systems hooked up.  Funny though, nothing in the
ICUs."

"Okay, screen me your schematics for all the equipment 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 Allen 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 Allen began to
introduce her to the kids in the ward.  Cecily even smiled and answered
the lady.  Cecily 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 Allen cocked her
right eyebrow told Peter that he had better behave himself.

Ms. Horvath just smiled down at him, her eyes twinkling, 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 gracefully, 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 lipsand yet he had heard
her voice clearly in his mind.

"Peter ..."  Miz Allen prompted him.

"Pleased ta meetcha!"  Peter managed to get out.  Miz Allen cleared her
throat warningly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Allen, I'll just chat a bit with Peter," Dorotea
Horvath said, pulling a chair to Peter's bedside and dismissing Miz
Allen in a manner that astounded the boy.  "Miz Allen 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 because it seemed to
envelop Peter with warmth and caring.  The hard knot of self-pity and
resentment that had been building up at the thought of another
bodybrace 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.  Dorotea 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 amusement 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 Jerhattan 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 matteroffactly.  All that manly repression has also
been blocking Talent.  I do believe that the brace also posed an
inhibition.  I think it short circuited natural ability.  We'll sort it
out.  Of that I'm positive.

And suddenly Peter had no doubt at all.

"First, of course, we have to get your parents' permission."  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 absence, 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 beneath 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 Dorotea 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
peripheral static or get wound up in everyone else's pain.  Though he's
not your gardenvariety kinetic or telepath.  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 trouble 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
perspective now that Peter'll 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 RhyssaDorotea usually had no
trouble doubletalking.  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 carry" 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 Barchenka and Duoml but would certainly make
more effective 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 nothingwaiting 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 tardy suppliers, but the time spent doing
that will cut down on the manhours 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 highpriced consultant barmy.  And it also explains
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 Allen, is one of those
by-thebookers 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
standard 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 SpaceForce posters
on every wall, models of space shuttles, mass passenger hotols,
stealths, space labs, and generation ships depending from the ceiling,
and a bunk bed with desk space below.  Nothing could be more distant
from the antiseptic environment he's been living in for months.

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

Ilsa Reidinger was a pleasant enough woman, terribly concerned for and
certainly extremely proud of her Petey.  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 Peter 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 understandable reaction, Dorotea told Rhyssa as the women
deftly maneuvered Peter's gurney 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 heliamb 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 mischief he's getting into.  All right ?"

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

Rick, hook me up a line from the 4.5kpm 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, smothering her with love, affection, and
admiration.

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

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 Hobson 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 electronic 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 assure 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 selfesteem 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 intrusion."

"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 outofbody 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 mastered 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
spacesuited 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!  Ob, my God!  And suddenly Rhyssa began to
fathom the potential 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 bending as modern 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 yourself "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 myself 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
excels.  The spoken word sometimes isn't as clear as it should be:
words can be misused, inappropriately assigned 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 mindtomind 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 interference."

"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!  Ana' manage most of your daily care.  You won't be
dependent on nurses or orderlies 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 ceremony 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 condition; 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 managed 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 himself and then
over-controlled 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 delicate control of the
gestalt and managed to imitate walking; only the really 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 positions 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 twofifths of
our brain potential."

Ilsa Reidinger did not really understand Dorotea's explanation, but she
accepted it because Dorotea spoke with such authority.

"The human body learns to compensate, Mrs. Reidinger," 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
youngstersand adults, toowho 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 scholarship
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 dominant 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 will le Peter was getting
everything his way just because he had gotten lucky.

"Can he read minds?"  is what Ilsa 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 shortrange.  His Talent lies in kinetics.  Do you
understand that word?"

"Yes, it means people can push things about without 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 trid.T hen Ilsa asked
more timorously, "Would Petey go into space?"  In her very audible
public mind, Ilsa decided 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, however, 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 basics, Dorotea thought,
or comprehended the obvious achievements.  She had barely grasped the
fact that Peter 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 convalescence, but the strain had taken a
toll on her, too.  Dorotea ventured to wa more enthusiastic about
Peter's potential.

It suddenly occurred to Dorotea to wonder if the testing routines,
established by Daffyd op Owen, needed to be updated or made more
sensitive.  Hospitals were usually well staffed with Talents of all
descriptions.  Why hadn't someone spotted Peter?  She really y ought to
discuss that notion with Rhyssawhen the mess with Barchenka 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 overcome 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 unexpected 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 arranging 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 Aborigines 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 fourpointfive 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 perpetual 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 expression 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 required for any number of valid reasons apart from a
jumpingoff point to the stars."

How many know about Petey boy?

About his potential?  Main staff know he's unusual.  I was too excited
when I realized the possibilities inherent in his gestalt, but they
only know I was excited about the boy.  There are just three of
usmyself Dorotea, and Saschawho realize that the boy might be
unusual.

I don't think Sascha's had the chance to appreciate the potential that
Dorotea and I are just beginning 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 Padrugoi, so we're cramming
as much technique in as possible.  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 handling 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 Peterhe looked so frail after so long in a
hospital bed.  So did Dorotea, both keeping 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, Peer 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
foodpreparation exercises.  He could pare apples and potatoes, scrape
carrots, and cut up vegetables, all kinetically.  He ate anything and
everything, 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 paralytic 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 Padrugoi, 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'll be hard."

"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 anyone 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 everything for yourself and help out
in the house and the garden.  Now you begin the next steptesting
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 trid visuals and
maybe even using mathematical coordinates.  For example, that forkful
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 welltraveled 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 housetrained 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 objects 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 Control Room, getting his placements from squares
crayoned onto the floor until Budworth finally signaled that his aim
was perfect.

"Weight seems to be no object," Sascha said, reviewing 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
training 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 dragoon Lance Baden as his advanced trainer as
soon as that wretched Padrugoi is finished."  She blued the mental 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 special alarm speaker in Rhyssa's office.

What kind?  she asked immediately.

"Goddamnit, I want to speak to Director Owen now!"  said a voice on the
room address system as Budworth patched the call through.

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

"Dammit, didn't they tell you?  Bob Gaskin, Jerhattan 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 for klift 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 ofice.  We've got to try to help.  They're patching
through the image.

Dorotea: Dare we?

Rhyssa: We'll 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 in
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
cornerand nothing at all of the 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 entered; Peter's eyes went
immediately to the screen.

"If your god damned Center hadn't pulled our kinetic," Gaskin exploded,
"this wouldn't haveHoly hell!  How'd you get 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 hurting had.

"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 image of Peter's frail form, bony structure
emphasized, made it very hard for Rhyssa to keep her features
composed"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 accidents, you know."  She ignored Sascha's exaggerated
grimace as she saw medics rushing to assist the injured men as a
Southside heliamb 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," Dorotea 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 realize how quickly he's emerging to full use of his Talent.

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 bodylanguage 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 herTalents 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 early completion?"  Rhyssa was annoyed.  Damn
the woman to a disintegrating orbit!

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

"I heard a great deal about penalties and a completion 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 rumorsand, 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 notsosturdy body.  He was strengthening
himself dailyexercising was becoming almost an obsession with him.

But she was still rigorously restricting the use of his Talent to
life-threatening situations in the Jerhattan area, which, fortunately,
were few.  Meanwhile, in the ongoing training sessions, he was using
fax placement 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 bow 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 Padrugoi."

Sascha blinked, then projected a series of images depicting Barchenka's
expression, the consternation on the eggsplattered 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, elongated 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 featherweight to achieve the necessary heft, but the
application is limited due to the extreme youth of the participants."

Rhyssa sighed.  "That old tangledweb 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, silverhaired, 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.  "Lifesaving, 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 fun 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.  Under-age, 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
gestured resignedly at the stacks on the edge of her desk.  "Testing
reports to go through."

"Why don't you take a night off?"  Sascha suggested, 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 presence.

"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 something was about to happen to relieve
the tedium of Linear living.  As always, there were some general
workers scurrying to the Plaza to see if the Work-Board was scrolling
out any jobs for able-bodieds, concerned with getting enough day work to
keep out of Conscriptive Work Services.  No selfrespecting 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 earnestly, "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 unexpectedly scheduled
for Linear G. That was odd.  The Public Health meeting had been only
four weeks earlier.  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 adjourning 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 ancient 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 excitement.  "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 Interpreter Groups
generally said nothing, in the most ornamented 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 sanitary engineers.  "The word is that this Religious is
allseeing," 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
cargotrain 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 arguing over the advisability of such a move.  Some
insisted that, since the extension was legal there would be no risk.

Then Mirda Khana person Tirla was always careful to pleasecame 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 audible 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 inspection, there were
always alternate explanations for healings 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 scrutinybut Tirla was quicker, moving to flatten herself
against the Concourse pillar.  She had heard enough any how and left.

So this Religious Interpreter, this RIG, had a reputation?  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 pointers.

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 publitext 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, complete with fanfares
of brass instruments and snippets of the Respected Venerable Homilifier
Ponsit Prosit smiling beatifically at vast audiences.  A chorus was
promised, and a short blast of five part harmon y and high soprano
descant was presented as an enticement to attend the full show.  This V
R & Holy Religious Interpretation 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 sometimes and often more
showy.

Tirla liked showsand 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 coursethat was standard
procedurebut 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 offendhad told her
that she was being given the opportunity in rewa rd for services
already rendered.  Having consented to a professional engagement with
Mama Bobchik, who was not only another person it was unwise to offend
but someone who, having presided over Tirla's birth, would always
defend the girl, Tirla was committed on two counts to attend.

Prepared with several contingency plans, Tirla began her usual morning
routinebargaining for the day's meals and getting a bath and a clean
issue of clothing.  But as she proceeded, she was stopped by various
female clients, each wanting her company during this Religious Event
because the featured Lamashaman was reputed to speak in tongues and
Tirla was absolutely the only person who would faithfully tell them
everything 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 attempted to organize them.

"Bilala, you and Pilau must come together.  Anna, you team up with
Marika.  Zaveta, Elpidia comes as well.  Chishu, Lao Wang with you.

Cyoto, Arisan 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," Sirikit 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 maneuver 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 hertha!"

"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.hertha Zoccola was generally a relaxed and tolerant
individual, but mention of that particular RIG was enough to enrage
her.  Budworth set himself for her fury in reporting a precog involving
the man.

Whenever precognitive Talents responded to an Incident, they would
flash the Center, alerting Control to receive a verbal description of
what they had previewed.  Budworth positioned his chair at the
fingeRboard next to Sirikit and scratched his chin on the rim of his
head support, feeling the surge of excited anticipation that he always
experienced at such moments.

"C'mon, you netheads, 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 protecting
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 postIncidental 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 Ponsit backdrops.

Nothing unusual ... except" Auer paused, frowning down at something.

"Exceptthat'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, scrubbing downward.  "It's gone now.  It's gone."  The
screen blackened.

Another screen brightened.

"You shouldn't allow that man a permit at all!"hertha 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 appalling sort of pantheist
tripe.  And in the worst language!"

"What did you see,hertha?"  Budworth asked the plump little woman, who
still cherished a worn deck of Tarot cards that her greatgrandmother
had once read with a high enough degree of accuracy to earn a
significant credit balance.

"I keep telling you that man is nothing but trouble."  Her double chin
quivered, and her expression was concerned.  "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 carnie!"

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

"Halfway through that that gibberous effort of hisyou never can tell
what he's saying in that mumbojumble of histhere'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 righ t?"  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,hertha dear.  You've filled in some details."

"Who else?"hertha asked, as always.

"Auer."

"Him?"hertha 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.  "Residential 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 Slaviccast 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 infiltration with the Bro."  Rhyssa,
we've got an incipient 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
Centerto 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 Incident.  Although
the Talented had come to have immense 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 followed.  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 mundane.

CHAPTER 8

Tirla did not dare be late to the meeting, but she also did not want to
arrive too soon and risk being hassled by even more people demanding
her particular services.  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
aircushion 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 riskydisky.

She took note of prices as she wended her way through the gathering
crowd.  She hoped there would be some fresh producewell, fresh in that
it had been recently 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 packagingjust the quality of the contents.  She
found gum at Felter'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 synthissue
clothing.  Yassim was actually 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 ere?  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 shapeprobably pads in his cheeks and lower
lipbut 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, inspecting trinkets,
pausing to ask questions of vendors, appearing 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, didand 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 beginning 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
mirroradorned headdress, for she swung around, her face as sharp as a
predatory bird's, as Tirla approached.  She hooked her fingers
painfully into Tirla'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
RlG'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 tightened 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 forward, acting as a spearhead through
the still thinly scattered 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 wriggled 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 began to relax and
even to enjoy the music despite the patchy sound of the shrill replay
as it ground through a multiethnic 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 movement behind them.  She could just
catch a glimpse of the righth and wings and people milling about,
waiting to go on.  So, there was a chor us.  She much preferred live
singing.

Out of the corner 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 surreptitiously 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 tat was all about.

The man was not Treasury.  She followed his progress, 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
wonder 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 happened 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 flourish, Tirla thought, quite willing
to be carried along by a good show.

Then the choir stalked out selfconsciously and arranged 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 Arieveryone
else mumbled along in their 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 Far 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 cymbals, a painfully glaring display of assorted
lights and narrow beams, an earblasting crescendo of bugle synths
accompanied by fragrant smoke bombs, and the Revered Venerable
Religious Interpreter arrived, his robes artfully gleaming.

Her clients were suitably impressed by his "magical" 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 something 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 immediately, face upturned
so Tirla's best view was of a waggling chin and dark holes of
nostrils.

The light show dazzled as taped music supported his mouthingsfor that
was what they were, syllables meaning absol utely nothing, with random
words from every language she had ever heard tossed in to confuse.

"What does he say, the holy man?"  Mirda demanded.

"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 substantial amount of her weight onto Tirla's undefended
toes.

"Nothing," Tirla replied, disgusted.  "He says nothing!"

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 translatable.  She was pinched and
tweaked and slapped.  In selfdefense she caught the pattern of his
babble and, involuntarily mimicking his stance and delivery , rattled
off the nonsensical sounds in an undertone, translating 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 accusing finger pointing
straight at her.

"Unbelievers, profaning a sacred moment with chatter.  Hear, learn,
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 loving, 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 dramatic 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 greenpepper she had hoped to
purchase with her fee.  The Lamashaman assumed another dramatic pose,
arms out, 1 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.  Barney with his lizard
eyelidsone 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 shapeone touch of the Lamashaman's
healing touch and they would straighten.  Or would it be Maria with her
weeping sores?

The Lamashaman threw back his head, his hands turned gold in the narrow
spotbeams, glittering from some sort of paint he must have used.  Her
clients inhaled 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 Lamashaman began to reel him in.

"You have been chosen, brother.  Come to me!  Embrace me!"  A ramp
extruded from the stage, straight toward the chosen one, who glanced
about with apprehension as he was pushed onto the ramp by those behind
him and propelled forward by those on either side.

"Kneel, brother," the Lamashaman intoned, and appeared to glide down
the air.

Tirla could feel the faint vibration of the stage mechanism 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.

"Rallamadamothuriasticalligomahnozimithioapodociamoturialis
tashadioalisymquepodialOmathurtodispasionatusimperadomusi gena
lliszweigenpolastonuchevaliskyrielisonandia.  Moss
pirialistusquandoruulabetodomoarigatoimustendiationallamegrachiatus
..."  the Revered Venerable intoned, holding his hand above the mark's
head.

More syllables and almostwords 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
forever!

"What does he say?"  Mi,da 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
Lamashaman 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 spectacle.

The Revered slowly turned back to the audience, his face also
goldenhued, the whites of his eyes visible.  "The power is with me.

Whom else will it touch?"

Raising his arms again and extending his hands forward, 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 public.  Not
with Yassim in the hall.  Not with tieds on her, credits she had no
right to possess under any circumstances.

The choir began to chant for the chosen to come forward, 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 starting 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 selfpreserving instincts.  She had a glimp se of one of Yassim's
sassins, face wreathed in a witless grin of success, before she landed
against the far wall, and suddenly two pairs of trousered legs shielded
her.

She was helped to her feet by kind hands and made conscious of soothing
thoughts of assistance, understanding, 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 multitoned 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 familiar
thumping thud in the air abo ve.

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 effective."  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 situation 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 work force, and the necessary
work has not been completed on time.  Now we pay for that.

Miklos Horvath: Not if we draft the kinetics on Padrugoi down to
help.

And the cleanup effort will be reduced 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 reasonI suspect their erection will prove that once again
corruption and bribery have been widespread.  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 disaster 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 fourteenyearold 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 Talentsnow she's doing the matriarchal,
protecting you-against your own altruism.  Ha!

And there isn't a pilot we've talked to who'll risk a drop into the
soup kettle down there, she went on.  Wait!  Lance saysMadlyn's mental
tone altered to a roterecital level--now's the time to try.  He says
you'll 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 horrendous damage than
the last monsoon flood caused, so Talent has got to give kinetic
support.  He's dragooned 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
spacecrazy?

All right, I'm telling them.  He says he, and a contingent of the
heavy duty kineticsenough to effect flood controlwill be on the shuttle
Erasmus in Hangar G at 0800.  They're okay in space, but they'll 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 between 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 different can of worms to a shuttle full of
live folk we can't afford to smear across a gale-struck concrete
runway."

Rhyssa fed a direct repeat of Lance's earlier conversation 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 hearing."

"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 that 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 teleported 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'd be no more difficult than that
container was, or the steel I sent to San Francisco.

"The turbulence of a monsoon is totally unpredictable," 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 powerlike 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 levitated 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
Rhyssa'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 moment; 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 da mage.  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. Baden 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 major consideration,
son ..."

"I've been studying schematics on power generation," 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 expressions and gave them a little smile.

"I used to watch a lot of collegelevel vid courses.  They were a lot
more interesting than most of the late night recre national garbage.

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 belated comprehension.

"Especially," Peter added, his eyes twinkling, "as no one really
seemed to know what to make of my gestalting.  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 chagrined 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 impudence.

"You know, I really think that'll work," Dorotea said, entering the
room.  She was still in her nightclothes, a fetching pale lilac that
set off her lovely white hair and porcelain complexion.  "Since
eavesdropping is in general order today, I've been following the
conversations 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 exceedingly sly look, totally uncharacteristic.

"Let's invoke a G and H!"  She chortled, looking exceedingly pleased
with herself.  "All we have to do then is call Borisget 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
Georgethat's George Henner, who once owned this house and Henrymeaning
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 rubbed 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, noticing that the boy's
face was still registering surprise.

"Yes," he said tentatively.

"You don't really need me, Peter," Sascha said encouragingly.  "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 bathroom."

"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 Daccain good weatherweather 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'll have company!

y Peter thinks be 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 turbulence 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 the best authority you have for whatever's going on."

Boris smiled with whitetoothed 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 conceded.  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 treadingwater gait.  "Hi!"

From the stunned look on Peter's face, Rhyssa suddenly 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'll 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 helibus glided upward and so utheast.

Boris had strapped Peter into a window seat, and utterly 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 remarked 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 inside, he began to emanate excitement,
his eyes sparkling 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 organized 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 highresolution fax
print of the Erasmus; on another, a display of its specifications;
then weather simulations; and finally linking the station'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 powerstation
clock read 0550 as the deep radar net began to show the shuttle'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 runway 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 monitors.  Peter remained outwardly composed.

Rhyssa noticed the slightly condescen ding smile on his face and just
hoped he was not about to overreach himself.

Simultaneously both she and Don noticed the perspiration on the boy's
forehead, but the smile remained 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 in muted
congratulatory tones.

Rhyssa hoped someone was recording for posterity what was
unquestionably the most dramatic moment for Talent since a Goosegg
registered Henry Darrow's deltawave pattern during that first recorded
precognitive 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 suddenly 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 dubious safety of the windbattered terminal.

"Where should I send the shuttle, Rhyssa?  Once I let go, that
turbulence will just flipflop 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 going," Rhyssa said, and
spoke urgently to Sirikit at the Control Center.

We've had the most unusual brown-out 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 tranquillity slipped
into astonishment.  Of course!  Immediately!

Preferably before be 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 curious 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 y
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 complete 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 incredulity as he pointed to an almost normal
pattern on the bioscan screen.

"Fun?  You called that fun, Peter?"  Rhyssa exclaimed 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 going to 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, Peter," 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: Ob, 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 crocodile, 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 going to disobey.  Then
his expressions 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 approaching 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 solicit ude, he gathered up
the exhausted boy and, moving with exquisite care, started up the
stairs with him.  Rhyssa followed, immensely grateful for his
unexpected presence.

CHAPTER 9

Within minutes of the Event, an Incident Room was in place on the wide
mall in front of the Assembly _ _ atrium.  Crowdcontrol 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 sequestered 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 hieyes, 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.  Debriefing reports by crowd-control Talents were being made
at the various stations, while LEO personnel avidly read rap sheets
spewed out by churning printers as the wristID scans were processed.

Frequently the LEO commissioner was interrupted in his viewing to
initial warrants but the main meat of the Incident eluded all.  Revered
Venerable Po nsit Prosit had once again flitted off in time.

"So my precog centered on the women,"hertha 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,hertha, he inadvertently 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 pentup garbage in a catharsis not
generated by passive watching of the trid fare.  Occasionally he runs
pretty close to dogmatic insult, but usually he's innocuous and says
nothing."

"'Says nothing' is right!"hertha muttered indignantly.

Boris went on.  "He had registered sponsors for tonight, 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!"hertha was outraged.  "Religion he ain't got.  And
religious assemblies are supposed 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,hertha, your precog absolves him of primary blame."

Boris tried to exude pacification.  Her voice was getting louder with
each denunciatory remark, 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 searchandfind warrant out for him right now."

"It was me twigged Flimflam, hertha 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 fastdrying mid-range restr ain't.  Top
secret, its formula and processing were of a complexity 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
fortunate.  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 registered 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, pointing 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 an dover
on the screen.  "I keep uptodate 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 dooreyes 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 irreparable but enough to cloud the count.  We're
ID'ing everyone who didn't have a chance to leave after the Incident,
but we're shy counts on exactl y 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 Fli mflam.  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 mentally.

Sir?

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

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

my theory is correct that Flimflam was fingering people for
someoneYassim probably, since his men were there in forceI want to know
what the common denominator of choice was, Boris told his twin.  Most
of them were males except our focus group, which wereah , 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, Sascha 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
beads.

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
relevant scene.

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

"It was very close, Commissioner," Cass said, rolling 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 intervenedno girl child should be caught by  that
scuzbut she freed herself," Suz added.  "Knew well enough how."

"She dodged behind us for a moment, on her way to an exit.  lust then
the Incident erupted.  Funny about that ..."  Cass faltered,
frowning.

"I felt something, Commissioner, 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, stopping 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 hieye had been fixed
on the precogged site of the Incident, 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 distance 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 of ten is
eight hundred and three, including five newborns.  In fact, all the
children apprehended are under ten."

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

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

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

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

"The nineyearolds, sir, but so far no ID's match the genetic print
registered for the number.  There are also far fewer preteens and teens
than a Residential population 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
warningthey 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 further 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 zig gurat.

"Norma 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 relaxed state as the
activity in the room permitted.  Suz began a soothing massage of her
neck muscles to encourage 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 conduits.  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 hiding something.

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

Ranjit: I 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 scrupulous sense of honor, and then felt the
mental touch that meant Sascha had overheard the exchange.

Dealing with the untalented took heroic efforts, Boris thought.  On the
other hand, did he really want everyone to have paranormal abilities?

Or at least some minor paranormal quirk, so that there would be less
hassle?  But that gave rise to envyenvy of some one more Talented than
oneself, which only increased dissension and prejudice.  No, far better
to have a small minority, dedicatedand disciplinedto perform functions
that the mindnumb could not.  And all of the peculiar 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, preadolescent female.  Good strong genoprint,
good immune factors, healthy, unusually so.  The techn ician sounded
surprised.  Linear G subsistence fare was nutritionally adequate, of
course, but if the child was illegal, 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 styleif 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
whereabouts.  Carmen always looked so placid and imperturbable 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 exhau sting, 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, bub?  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 defeated.

They don't go as grunts They're trained to do something 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'm
putting 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'll 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 aweinspiring official
manner.  Tall, handsome, the strength in his powerful frame shown off
even by the bulky action uniform, he succeeded in scaring the gaggle of
women silent, a silence that did not last too lon g, though the renewed
bursts of argumentative crosstalk were considerably 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 resentment, 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 faul t."  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, breastbeating, 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 castemarked virago
from rushing at the haughty, hawknosed older woman on the other side of
the room.  She says Mirda Khan brought all this on herself Mirda Khan
replies thatah, the name again, Tirlawould 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 warranted, the LEO commissioner hurried
back to the Incident 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 thoughtfrom the fat old womansuggested 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 intelligent reason why a RIG damned
near turned into a fullscale riot, and she just might provide the
answer," he concluded.  Sascha, could someone be an instantaneous
translator?

Sascha considered that.  I'd say that she displayed more than a mere
language facilityquite possibly Talent.  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.  Fir st we'll have to.find
her.  Then we can evaluate her abilities.

Tirla!

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 no 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 hideyholes.

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 ID's.  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
thorough.  Not even she had been able to get into the engineering
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 figured 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 diswipe.  Bulbar could have been carrying 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 Lamasha-man!  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 laynot 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 dryeat made terrible noises in her head.  She
had heard about the widerange 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 airconditioning 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, Sascha?"

"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 bellwhen 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 Roznine mightthis oncebe
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 ablebodies, doing enough work to  keep away from Conscriptive
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 simple 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 dark about her," Sascha added aware of
his brother's next query.  "Carmen'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-that every one of the
related mothers has been having a kid a yearwe'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 stalemated 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 halftriumphant,
halfanxious.

Sascha consulted his watch.  "This time of day?"

"Linear will be crowded with those coming 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 standardissue 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 Healthit 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 children?"

"Why else?"  Mirda lifted her shoulders in an eloquent 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 Tirla's shoulder.  "What was the Lamashaman saying?  You
didn't tell us.  Aiiiye, and to increase insult, you did not even have
the grace to accept the strand that chose you.  You have earned the
undying hatred of Bilala and Pilau for not accepting his choice."

Tirla wrenched herself free.  "Choice?  I am nothingwhy 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
Lamashaman 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
ladrone, 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, then 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 everyone 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 conduit 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 vibroblade 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 placementor 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'll 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 fly.

Sascha: What were they talking about?

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

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

At his desk in the Parapsychic Tower, Sascha Roznine 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 chi ld 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 disasters such as the one
that undeniably existed in the Bangladesh flooding.  Also, the pilot
was an offduty volunteer, and there had been no damage to the Erasmus,
which he had returned to Padrug oi 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 conditions.  The force of
the channeled flood did inundate Chittagong and coastal towns below it,
but not as disastrously 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 there was no doubt that his achievement had
altered him: he neither floated nor essayed to walk-he strutted, 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, especially a fourteenyearold boy
whose only available movement until recently was tonguing a switch or
blinking his eyes at trid 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 derringdo, and
plenty of selfsatisfaction."

"Lighten up, Saschabear," Rhyssa said, smiling encouragingly."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 trouble a kinetic
can," Sascha said, grimly thinking of a girl fumbling in redlit
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 often."

"It's going to have to be pretty good to distract him from the Erasmus
stunt," Sascha said with uncharacteristic 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 spectacular 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 replaced 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: Vernon's had all kinds of flak from NASA, the Space
Authorities, the Padrugoi Authority ...

Rhyssa, fiercely: Remind Vernon what kinetics are doing on the Indian
continent.  Sascha, tell Dave that his public pitch 15 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.  Particularly
you, Greene.  To Dorotea, she said, "I think Peter's immediate
illusions of grandeur are going to be heavily dampened."

Boris entered the telepathic conference.  The Power Resources
commissioner is also demanding an explanation for a G and H that caused
last night's brownout and wiped out al his power reserves, he said
plaintively.  The city commish wants a lot of answers.  Sa scha, 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 earlycompletion 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 untoward Rhyssa: Why did
you bring her in on this?

Dorotea: I think we need al 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 fourteenyearolds 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 riverside was the only way to get to the
secreted holding place Yassim used to stash his merchandise a train
going 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 unthinking 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 redandblack mouth of the G
shunt for nearly an hour before 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, vibrating under her.  The fetid wind, a noxious combination of
overheating metal, grease, and the acrid stink of electricity, roared
down across her body, and she angled 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 selfpreservation, Tirla had once taken
the precaution of investigating his holding cell, a room hidden behind
a false wall of barrels at the back of an automated factory, where the
noise of the illtuned machinery would drown any screaming.  But he did
keep the children reasonably well cared for, since purchasers could
view them on a closedcircuit system he provided.  Disabling the archaic
scanner would be no problem for Tirla, and she knew the precise
location of the ventilator hatch in the room's ceiling.

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 Y assim had
grabbedthen 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 dangled from the ceiling to the excited clamor of
young voices.

"Hey there, cool it way down!"  she ordered in Basic, repeating the
message for those who might be slow to translate or need to be
reassured.  "Yushi, pull a mattress 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
obstaclethe guards were not likely to check soon again nbut 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 Mirmalar's painted face screwed
up into tears.  "They took her an hour ago.  And she had on the
prettiest thingsorange and brown with gold, and new earrings ..."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mirmalar.  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 eightyearold 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 Mirmalar 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 corner.

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

Tombi stopped nibbling the sweet and looked apprehensively 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 themthe 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 going'," Tombi
said, glaring defrance 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 of Bilala.  "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 herself 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 businessshe was safe
there.  Well, safe enough, if she laid low for a while.

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

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 orders.

The unloading platform with its eerie red light gave her no comfortshe
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 speeding 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 Yushi'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 puckering 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."

T hat shut Tombi silent and lost him more face in the eyes of the other
boys.  Tirla shoved him toward a tunnel 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 homeu nless 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 for?  Could Yassim have someone in the main Dispatch office?

Could he know that she had emptied his cage?

There were five cars on the doubleended train.  Two looked like empty
dumpers.  Without waiting to question 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
plasticcoated 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 mysterious 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 frustration.  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
interests in Industrial J.

How about wend 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 hopefulness.

I can try.

If you could, and rigged it, we'd have one more bolthole 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 nuskin.

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 challenged him.  He sat down beside her in a relaxed
position, 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 talisman.  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 approving 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 callousness 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
departure 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 scrutiny 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
realied that she understood perfectly.  She was mature 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 hardening 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 connection.  Especially against
someone like Yassim."

Tirla gave a snort.  "Someone like Yassim buys himself 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, alertand 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 situation 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 no wand we must be quick about it before
Yassim discovers his birds have flownand 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 considered 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 lipap.

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

et on with it then.

Tirla gave him a wideeyed 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 onnow!"  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 archaic ritual.  Her grip was
unusually strong for the delicacy of her bones.  Physical contact with
the conscious and vibrant personality startled Sascha with an odd
jolta 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 bargain, 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 Sascha.  "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 happened.  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
listenedon another level than Tirla, who was kneeling at the lower half
of the opening.  The level and complexity of noise in the main
industrial 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 occasional 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 nodded.

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 tangible.  "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 halfveiled, Tirla considered the problem.  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 corner 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 mattress pads off two of the lower bunks, and the soiled
blankets off the upper ones.  She went back to the corner 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 halfway 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 cooperating 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 trid meteorologist's report on the latest
freak weather conditions that seemed worldwide, Bangladesh being the
worst example.  It was difficult to concentrate when he felt "problem"
hovering in the air.  He knew he had done nothing wrong; in fact, he
knew that he had done something most extraordinary, about which he felt
very good in deed.  But it was hard not to be worried.  He could sense
the nebulous anxiety emanating from Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Sascha.  He
should not have asked Dorot ea 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 fourteenyearold boy.  He had already absorbed enough
Talent discipline 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.

He poured himself another glass of orange juice and brought it to the
living room as the broadcaster announced 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 liftoff 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 wondering how big a generator he
would need to send a shuttle safely through the foul weather when the
program switched to coverage of the flooding in Bangladesh.  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 me ntioned 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
was 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 appear 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 actionslike getting himself an orange juice when he felt thirsty
for itwere, in a special way, far more important than what he had done
with the Erasmus.

He sent the empty glass back to the kitchen, rinsed it out, and put it
upsidedown 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 wonderful feeling to have all that power and do
something no one else could have done with it just when help was
needed.

The trid 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 access to a generator, he
would have been able to do that.  He settled down to learn what he
could about flood control from the program.  Next time he would be
ready to help.  The 4.5kpm was portable, wasn't it?

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

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!

Showoff 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 depthnot 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 trid 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 doubledamn 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, gesturing 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 Center'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 qualification behind the thought and,
remembering his manners, broke the contact.

Dorotea: And we've got to figure out how to improve our testing
methods!  She cleared her throat in a businesslike 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, smiling 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 industries on Earth
and in space is to have you using theirs, and theirs alone."

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 consideration 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 premature exposure could" "Burn me out,"
Peter finished for her, though privately he did not think he could burn
outif he had the right power source for anything he wanted to shift.

"But I didn't burn 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 1," 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 mepeople who thought they might be Talented."

She shot Peter an image of herself as a fiveyearold, prettily
dressedand her early beauty was still apparent in her face and
mannerwalking 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 reduce 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
patently 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 important than individual personal
considerations.  Completing 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 major forward progress in all of human history that has
not been accompanied by some problems."

"Like letting people float out into space and die because 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 me?"  Peter was so
agitated that he floated above the chair.

Dorotea, prosaically: You're drifting, dear.

Peter settled down.  Well, I just won't work for a person 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 trying 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," Dorotea said with a
sarcastic snort.

"Pigeons?  War hawks, Dorotea," Rhyssa corrected, settling into her
chair.  Then they all heard the unmistakable 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 noticed Rhyssa's little
smile.  He also noticed that she was nervously running the stylus
through her fingers.  Dorotea sat even straighter in her chair and
managed to look 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
nodded.

He knew who Peter was even if Peter did not know him, and he was also a
telepath.  He courteously identified himself to Peter as Justice Gordon
Havers.

Peter knew the third man, Dave Lehardt, who immediately 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 uneasy-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: Vernon
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 telem path 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 worldf amous Josephsonjunction
specialist, and a Malaysian prince besides, who did such fantastic
programming of air and space traffic.  Peter did not like the man any
better 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 anywhere 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 smarmyfaced man out of the room and away from Rhyssa.  "I mean, it
was I."

The stunned silence was worse than noisy disclaimers.  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," Vernon Altenbach asked, skeptically,
"you accomplished such a feat?"

Stick to the facts, man, the fact$ 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 disaster potential.  So Rhyssa called a G
and H-that's a Talent maydayand 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 nonTalented in his audience; even
the Russian telempath 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?"  Vernon 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 general 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 on, "but we'd only
just gotten past the necessary stuff when he got conscripted to the
station."

"Talents were not conscripted," General Shevchenko 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 manipulated the
Erasmus?"  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 impossible 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 Josephson junctions and trafficflow
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 moment.  "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 demonstration of his kinetic Talent.  Dorotea was
glaring at him significantly in her enoughisenough 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 twocentimeter gap "away from
paraplegia myself after Mission Number 21," 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 beginning 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, gentlemen.  It takes
time to build muscle, any kind of muscle, 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 from the world a kinetic Talent of demonstrated
ability.  He can take the place of those at Banglade sh ..."  He 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 appropriate 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 intimidate you any further.  General, I think Peter has
inadvertently 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 manager, royal or not, was included in
this gathering."

Engineer Barchenka insisted on his inclusion,' Vernon Altenbach
remarked, attempting some diplomaCY.

I insist that he be excluded from any future meetings Involving the
Center or myself."

Peter: He's a slime-ball!

Johnny Greene 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 parameters of his potential, we will, of course,
be obliged to let prospective employers bid for his contractual
services."

Vernon Altenbach eased the disgruntled Russian general toward 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 possible, given the boy's
display of incredible ability that he couldfrom time to time, that is
... Well, we do have a Serious crisis right now .  .

"What kind" Rhyssa asked in an unenCouraging tone.

"NASAs 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 stern 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 professionally, 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 reduces the glamour
quotient.

Peter did not understand that but felt Dorotea's approval become more
urgent.  He sensed that at last Rhyssa was seriously considering the
suggestion.

"Look," Johnny said aloud, "this is so important that Vernon 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 compromise," 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.  "Sascha'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 gestalts.  I can see
you squirming to go, Peter Reidinger.  Is it what you really want?

Will you behave like a mature 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'd learn a lot."

"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 i ntensely
dislike 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 severe.  "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.

CHAPTER 12

The blond man had an air about him that fascinated 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 internal 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
shuntespecially when she had just realized the difficulty of cajoling
scared whiney brats like Tombi into riding car go pods back to G.

Without that unexpected rescue, Yassim's ladrones would surely have
recaptured them, herself included.  She shuddered.

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 floatersmore than she needed for the tieds
she had been supposed to launder for Yassimso 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 somewhere to wait out the furor.  So, morally, she could
hide the tieds for a while and discreetly exchange them, especially if
Yassim was out of circ ulation, 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 children to their grieving parents.  That is important to you,
isn't it, Tirla?  That Bilala, Zaveta, Pilau, and especially 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 Lamashaman.  Perhaps there had been eyes on her
clients, although why such a gaggle of silly women would be the object
of LEO interest she did not knowunless it had to do with selling
kids.

But none of them had been there to deal kidsmost 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 Bobchik were especially important.

"It just pays to be a good neighbor," she answered diffidently.

"Oh, you have definitely been a good neighbor today, 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,
and 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 identity and then the slowly dawning
knowledge that the bracelet was not banded in the usual Residential
colors.  Green banding meant that one could travel between 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 children were in the hands of Authority.  Nor would they
profit as she had intended.  She had an ID bracel et 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 lightlyand, she felt, kindlyon 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 restless 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 expressions grim.  Under Sascha's hands, Tirla's narrow shoulders
tensed, and surreptitiously she shielded her brand-new ID bracelet by
moving her arm slightly behind her.

"And the children?"  Mirda Khan demanded in Basic, jutting her chin
out.  She stared pointedly at Tirla.

"The records have been checked," Sascha said, his voice diplomatically
apologetic.  "Their births were illegal."

When Mirda Khan frowned, Sascha signaled for Ranjit to translate.  The
wave of hysterical weeping was punctuated as mothers of now officially
illegal children threw themselves across the unconscious bodies,
obviously 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 emotional agitation that battered his senses.  He was
perplexed.  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 planned for them?

I would think so, Sascha replied, but I do not think they'll see it in
the same light.  I'll tap our slush fund if you won't ante up.

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
multi-language groups.

The noise was fearful, the aura exceedingly unpleasant 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 expression.

"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 fate which awaited the children, despite the
grief it causes.  For how else can people survive on mere subsistence
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 lama Bobchik had not intervened.

Sascha sprang forward to protect Tirla, berating himself for not
anticipating an attack.

"Unwanted bitch," the woman shrieked in Basic.  "Illegal, you!  The
hint 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 illegal, 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 of Bilala'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 bargain in fact but
not in spirit?"  she demanded as the drone cover slid shut.  She tugged
at the coveted wristband.

"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 exasperation.

"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 them?"

"You're legal, remember?"  he reassured her with a little smile.

"Technically, you're free to move anywhere 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 astonished.

"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 access Teacher?"

"You've the right to all the education you can stuff into your headthat
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 realize, 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 translating."  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 IDas 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 cheering like a mad
soccer supporter.

When all the excitement dies down, Sascha, we are going through the
testing procedures with the proverbial finetooth 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 allowed somewhat grudgingly.

Sascha smiled and resettled himself.  "It'll be smoother from now on,"
he said to Tirla.  "We're being 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
startlementa hunger and a withdrawalbefore it lowered.  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: or 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 bat!

Sascha had a mental image of his brother withdrawing quietly offending
hat in hand.  No one took on Dorotea 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 Parapsychics, she reacted with amazement and disbelief.  As
the other members of Sascha's team piled out, laughing and chatting
over the successful assignment, Tir la 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 modern 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 gardener'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 atmospheres, 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 someone 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 muddaubed 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 something 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, instead 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: Might 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, surreptitiously trailing
fingers along wooden surfaces and across the 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 finger foods: savories, small openfaced sandwiches, wedges of
fruit, and strips of fresh vegetables.  "Peter, don't drop the
glasses!"  Fortunately, 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 Dorotea and Sascha.

Dorotea: Peter!

Peter: She didn't see it.

When all had been served with juice, Peter bounced into the chair
beside Tirla and took a long drink of the juice, wiping his mouth and
exclaiming with satisfaction 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, the girl had closed her fingers about three, then
increased her haul to six when there was no reaction.  "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."

Tirla let the pepper strips fall into her lap and obediently 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!  Ob, 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 suddenly 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 cravings 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
marvelous.  But then, freshsqueezed orange juice always does, don't
you think so, Tirla?"

Sascha!  Boris's tone was authoritative.  Your waif's in good bands.

Someone just snatched one of the Jerhattan 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, Dorotea 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 eggsfresh eggsin 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 hospital."

Tirla watched to see how he dealt with the foodshe 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 experience people did not
survive walls coming down on them.

"Couldn't walk for months.  Couldn't even feed myself."  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."

Tirla absorbed that remarkable statement as she bent to the task of
eating melon.  It was really goodnot gone off like most of those she
scrounged.  She flicked 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 noticed 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 swallowed 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 handjust 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 larkygetting the kids away from the pervert."

Tirla slowly shook her head, dismissing her achievement.  "Nothing like
what you do.  I don't have much Talent at all."

Peter snorted with goodnatured 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."

Slightly embarrassed by the sincerity of Peter's tone, Tirla changed
the subject, eager to pump him on puzzling topics.  "You said Rhyssa
helped you?  Is she the darkhaired 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,
almost 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 effort of
handcooking.

"I enjoy it," Dorotea replied, smiling gently.  "Especially 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
present 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 thatyetbut kinetic science gives
me movement.  Better'n being stuck in a support chair," he assured her
blithely.  "Here's your terminal, and here're y our earplugs.  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
pleasantfaced woman seated at the desk.  Tirla knew that the Teacher
was a construct, devised to reproduce the old teacherpup il
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 learn.  "Sascha Roznine told us
that you have had some credits under the name of Kai l, 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 emotionsawe at realizing a long held dream and fear
that the miracle might be withdrawn for some capricious reasonTirla
touched RETURN.

I think," Dorotea began, drumming her fingers rapidly on the kitchen
table, "Tirla is going into an educationoverkill 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
consider the conditions under which she's lived."

"Well, I think it's wrong for a child her age to try 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 Jerhattan 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 cocoon.  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 realize she's got Talent in the first
place.

And in the second, how can you test children that a rent supposed to
exist?"

"What training have you planned for Tirla then?"  Rhyssa said.

Sascha shrugged.  "Training?  She's a natural at what she doesgetting
into the communication center of anyone's brain and adapting to
whatever language they're using."  He spread his hands wide.  "How can
we improve 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 afternoon?  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 expression.

"You!"  Dorotea pointed a stern 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 wearing, 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."

"She might know of other kids with unusual aptitudes," 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 halfraised 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 bi 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 problem on the screen.

"Tirla!  Turn that damned thing off!  We've got something 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.  Generally we get ordinary stuff from the Remote Mall, 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.  "In our malls there's a lot to choose from," he
added in a provocative tone.

Whatever misgivings Sascha might have entertained 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
tour.  On the fourth level, fortunately 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 traveling," 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 patron 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, regarding Cass very
narrowly from her suddenly inscrutable 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-theewell.  My
congratulations!"

"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, Cass?  Please say yes!  Sascha pleaded.  I've a
hideous presentiment that that child intends 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 he 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 the docket spun out of
the teller machine, "your young companion has a most delicate and
unusual foot to fit.  May I recommend this concern?  They do very fine
custom work."

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 shopping.

He blessed Cass with every new purchase, for the woman actually seemed
to enjoy the looking, the trying, 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 onepiece outfit as different from subsistence
issue as diamonds from rhinestones.  The main color was a soft blue
with purple accents in seamstitching, pocket trim, and fasteners.  Once
Tirla found that outfit to her taste and Sascha'sit 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 mischievously 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 wearing 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 causing 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 cheerfully and held out
her hand.

Tirla took it readily enough, but her other hand immediately sought
Sascha's, and then she was dragging them after her toward a rack of
brilliantly colored trousers.

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
OldFashioned 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.

Cass: This child has an iron constitution if she's survived 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.

Sascha: Stream of consciousness and loud and clear.  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 quivive 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
fascinating 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 demanded.

"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 cautioned.

"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.

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 darkhaired 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 massive towering gantry,
where galeforce winds whipped the steam from the shuttle's rocket
end.

All recent launches had been pretty tricky, the bad weather causing
havoc with all air transport but none more so than the critical first
minutes of a shuttle launch.

The countdown echoed through the shielded roomat 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
successive 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 fullthroated 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 off 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 with out deviating a centimeter
from the optimum takeoff trajectory.  Lift became obvious with
increasing acceleration, 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
Station, 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
moments, even if he could not feel it.

"You have the conn, Crosbie," the controller said, letting out a small
sight 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 ithe could follow 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, perusing 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 badweather launches-even if I still can't tell how you
do it."  He made a disgruntled noise in his throat.  The exetop 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 suggested.  "I keep as open
as I can ..."

"I know you do, lad.  Wide open.  I'm just too clumsy to get through
the door.  I think it's going to have to be a trained kinetic."

"Secondstage 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 immediately after a launch to move from the couch.  He
grasped at any excuse to gain the few necessary moments to reenergize
himself.

"The bird's okay," the controller assured him.

"Look all you want," Johnny said, reseating himself.  If he had guessed
Peter's secret, he never let on.

The spectators below were beginning to file out of the gallery,
hunching into wetweather gear, bracing themselves for the stiff
winds.

With a wink, the controller 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 Canaveraland he could not believe the contract figure
for his shortterm services.  Not to mention 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 exceptiona brief exception.

Vernon'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 difference 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 technology" had had its first test.  He had
kinetically flown a drone from Canaveral to Eglin Field despite
galeforce winds and a ceiling of 100 meters.  He had landed it right on
the target painted on the runwayto show the precision of the "new
technology."  He was then allowed to launch a loaded drone into orbit,
where it could be retrieved by a Padrugoibased craft.  His precision
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 grudgingly 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 assisting him, had reduced the thrust and the
mission had 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 supply 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 didwhatever 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 temptation to show off unnecessarily.

Dutifully he flipped the slicker over him.  Exiting the concrete
bunker, they all made a dash for their waiting airca r.

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 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.  When ever contact 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.

Boris made one of his rare visits to the Center.  "You know, Bro," he
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 peaceful 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 outrage and fury.

Boris regarded him with surprise.  "That kid was never twelve!  And
what's the matter with using the one advantage we've found in dealing
with Linear abductions?  She's got a unique Talent, a natural
camouflage, and an ability for this sort of thing.  Look how she
managed 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, Brounless 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 searchandseizes, Boris.  Leave Tirla out of your
calculations.  There are other ways, ethical and technological ways, to
solve LEO problems."

"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 intransigence.

"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 Florida 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 mechanics 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 firstyear 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 admiration, John Greene suggested that he had better improve his
computer and English skills, as well, even if he was kinetically
superior.  While Peter understood some chemical and biological
conceptsparticularly those that had a bearing on his accidenthe had,
naturally, 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 the boy wanted to learn while
filling in the more obvious 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  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 haha .  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.

"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 wideeyed innocence.  Me?  Step out of
lineespecially if you threaten to shortcircuit 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 himself on a lounger
and grinned at Rhyssa.  Was she imagining that his eyes were warmer
when he looked at her?  Damn him for not having a Talent!  Damn him for
having such a naturally dense mental shield!  She had no real
clueexcept 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-andtracking 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 topsecret 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 disgruntled as he
floated over, an eerielooking 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 nickname Skeleteam.  You don't look so
much like one anymore."

"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
Rhyssawhen Dave was not aroundthat 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 always 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 running," 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.

"Three weeks, three months, three years, three decades," Johnny replied
in a sepulchral tone.  "Can't even figure of' 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 involuntary 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 accomplished 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 released
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 feelingly.

"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 explosion of Talent necessitated by an intense urge to
survive."

"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 halftrained clowns, doing aerobatics through the
flight path," Johnny told him, cursing 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 uncharacteristic 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 arm fell asleep.

"You're stuck with me for a few days at any rate," Dave replied.

"Without benefit of the Skeleteam, the 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 nuskin sheathing 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 appe ar 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 corner 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, unbruised, but considerably shaken.

"How the hell ..."

"My God!"  Johnny Greene exclaimed.  "Did you do that, Pete?"  he
asked.  The very slightest of snores answered 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 language and her own
responses to him.  She felt her heartbeat begin to speed up, and she
tried not to crash dishes about or drop things.  Worse, she could
extract no helpful 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 pressure of his hand, 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'll 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 to;d 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, caring manespecially considering all he
had done to aid Talents.  Then she willed him not to stop talking such
marvelously romantic stuff and tilted her head up encouragingly.  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.  Rhyssa Owen, would you even consider marrying
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 discussion.

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 ceilinghigh
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 forecast 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, telempaths."

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 two," Sascha commented
cryptically as he exited.  But 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 worried 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 Center'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 handling herself, Dorotea's apprehension waned. Invariably,
Tirla ended her afternoons at the OldFashioned Parlor.  When Tirla
announced that she was going to work her way right through the five
pages of confectionery 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 attendants 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 apprehension 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
offguard again.

"Sascha!"

"Just a minute."

For just a moment, Sascha thought he caught a stray coy thought, and
then the door opened, in stages, because 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: Hamhanded twit!

Tirla blinked at Sascha.  "But you told me I could shop whenever I
wanted to.  Just look what I found today!"  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 the operative phrase.  This " He gestured
broadly, hooking a hanger and its layers of clothing off the door.  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 expressionless, 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 answer."

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 inappropriate 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 different 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 until
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?"  Surprised, Tirla came
out of her sulk.

"Yes.  The 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 Jersey 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 enoughof practically everything, 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 disappointed and confused
twelveyearold.  "More kids missing?"

"Not yet," he said mendaciously.  "We want to keep it that way."

"Is she in a Linear?"  Excitement brightened her expression.

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!"

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 Talent 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 floaters!"  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 something.  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 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 Peter 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
Florida to finalize his PR campaign, setting the stage for Colonel
Johnny Greene to assume the role of Skeleteam.

In his turn, Peter took full notice of Tirla's new elegance 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 Sesame, " 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 out herself?

Dorotea: She picked out everything herself and a lot of things a
twelve-yearold 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 sophisticated.

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 dangerous 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
OldFashioned Parlor of Gastronomical 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 the 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 concoctions 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 hesitation
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 fun 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 gastronomical
delightthe 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 unenlightenment.  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.  "Seethere's the Parlor, just inside the mall entrance," she
added, pointing.

Neither youngster noticed that their progress was being 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 little 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 indignant than
alarmed.

Then an ominous silence descended despite Rhyssa's attempts to
reestablish communications.  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 OldFashioned 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 vehicles.  I'm proceeding immediately to question any
possible 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.  Ob, 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, 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 helilot."

"Oh, my God!"  Sascha's exclamation came out in a sob, then he shook
himself.  Carmen, get in here.  Bertha, 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 murmured, 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 answer."  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 anxiously.

The Talents had to wait another five agonizing minutes before Boris
contacted them.

The kids sat by themselves Tirla's well known here, and she introduced
her friend, Peter, to her usual waitress.  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 registration.  I've an APB on small hoppers with Talent
emblems in Jerhattan, but it'd be helpful if your scanners have picked
up their bracelets.

Sascha: The ID's were cut off.  Left in the sewer outside 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 outburst
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'll find
'em.  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 Talents by reporting
that in excess of thirty children in each Residential had been sold, or
just taken.  Ranjit, working covertly in Residential W, also confirmed
evidence of more activity in the mall markets than could be discreetly
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 Talents.  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 information?"

"Get your department heads thinking," Boris told City Manager 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 nearbyfor a while."

"Everyone on this staff will start examining possibilitiesunused
warehouses, old buildings, underground 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 factory areas.  LEO might just luck out and dislodge a
clue from an apprehensive subbie.

"Peter is alive, isn't he?"  Budworth asked, too concerned 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 of Tirla's hair.  She could not meet his eyes as she
shook her head slowly.

"Christ on a crutch!  How could 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 walltowall Talents," he said, gesturing almost scornfully at the
various teams clustered about monitors or swiftly feeding programs into
the mainframe.  "Where could they have got to?  That many bodies are
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.  "Wherever.  Boris initiated transport surveillance within
minutes.  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 If eel none for not stranding Tirla, for
encouraging her to go to the bloody mall?  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 Tirla'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 BLADDER 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.

"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 head shakes confirmed Dorotea as
the primary contact.  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 disgust was obvious.  I can't remember anything.  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 conflicting emotions in Tirla's
question, but such competitiveness 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 imperiously for Rhyssa
and Sascha to stop trying to insinuate 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 children 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 be?  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 compliance 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 tension in Rhyssa'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 possible, where they came from.  E and R were not
the only Linears hit.  We estimate that upward of a hundred children
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
better 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, stupid 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 'ems 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 Dorotea's conversations, Dave Lehardt had
joined the anxious group in the Control Room.  He linked his fingers in
hers, and the physical contact was almost more reassuring than the aura
of encouragement that emanated from all the telepaths about her.

"Ask her again about the various smells," Sascha 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 mildewing rotten stink that's
stronger.  There's another smell I can't identify.  Oily.  I'm stuffed
into somethingfeels like plastic foam.  Even my fingers are separated
into slots.  I'm bound at the wrists, ankles, waist, and across my
chest.  If it 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 ass he shouted at the other
children.

"Her predicament is beginning to get to her," Dorotea said grimly.

Tirla, I'm with you.  Even if you can't hear them, Rhyssa, Sascha,
Boris, Sirikit, Budworth, Davewe're all here.  We'll get you out of
there, I promise.

Tirla: Soon, please.  If I have to listen to all this crying 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
want you to be in good condition.  They'll 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 longer.

Tirla: You're right.  That's not much consolation.  Dorotea, 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 remember 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 faintness 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.  Reduce 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 common ones.  It was going to take time which
she did not think they hadfor him to shake off the residual
disorientation 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 extraneous.

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!  Fine 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 kinetic!  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 aggravation 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 Peter, helping
him to dissipate the residue of the anesthetic.  Her face mirrored his
desperation and sense of failure, and she leaned heavily against
Dave.

There!  The triumph in Tirla's voice was evident to Dorotea, and she
held up her hand, repeating the girl's words for the others.

Camelgutted tripe!  Miserable dungeaters!  Descendants of snake
offal.

Scuzfarts!  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.  Plasticcoated.  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
activity.  I am not hurting you.  Just using you as a stepladder.  And
I won't let you go, cry-baby.  You're no use to me. Quit your
grizzling.  Another period of silence followed, and 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
little.  Well, whaddya know?  I'm in a shunting 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 would be stupid enough to
walk around this place without a light.

Tell us how many cars have children, Tirla, Dorotea urged.

Tirla: Peter!  Peter!  Answer me!  Peter!  It's Tirla!  Answer 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'll 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.  Justjust 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, anything!"  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 RlG--I think.  Could
have been a B, but the L and the G were clear enough.

When Dorotea repeated what Tirla had said, Sascha exploded to his
feet.

"RLG!  We couldn't be so lucky!"  He slapped his right palm against his
forehead.  "Budworth, get through to Auer and Bertha and see if they
have any tickles about Flimflam."

"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 direction.  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 going to find out
who the other darkflier is!

Tirla!  Dorotea was momentarily stunned by the independence.  Tirla!

She turned to Rhyssa, hands outstretched 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 replied.  For a
palpable moment he and Rhyssa locked wills.  Then he continued in a
gentler tone.  "I do realize, 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 welldeserving Revered Ponsit
Prosit."

"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--VRPP/2403/RlG--at a Riverside address
that is more palatial than reverential.  Boris is sending out
surveillance 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," Sirikit told them.

"That's odd," Rhyssa said with a frown.  "There should be something!"

"I find a precog silence reassuring," Sascha remarked, 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 in flagrante delicto.  Dorotea, is Tirla
available again?"

Dorotea shook her head, her lips pursed in an aggrieved 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 coordinates that brought up the South
Shore area.  "Tirla'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 platform.  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.  "Her e'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.

"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
landing roof.

CHAPTER 16

Tirla's night vision had adjusted to the gloompart mist and part
lightlessness despite the angry redorange glow of Jerhattan that lit
the rim of the horizon on all sides.  The upper levels of distant
Linears, majestic in the night, punctuated the halo of the city with
their long silhouettes.  From top stories, with aerials and stacks,
aircraftwarning signals blinked their light patterns.  She moved
forward carefully along the curved tops of the railcars.  If she
slipped, there would be nothing 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 Dorotea trying to contact her.

Go 'way.  I've got to concentrate.

She cursed softly as she slithered for a panicky moment 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 registration number of an
aircar was undeniable proof.  She crawled forward on her belly,
conscious of every noise she made, the dryness of her mouth, and the
increasingly painful stiffness of her fingers.

There was a sudden break in the murk and there, parked beside the less
distinct blue jetter, was an expensive 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 CD08MAL, clear as
day.  And the other car is right beyond 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
platform and the slightly bulging side of the car on which she lay.

"I tell you I heard something!"  said the man silhouetted 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, maggotyou 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.  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 thinplucked brows.  And she saw
a table piled with credits which two other men were countingfloaters,
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 hardedged: Tirla, don't you ever dare cut me out
again.  Tirla was momentarily dismayed.  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.

Peter!  Help Peter now!  Dorotea did not sound apologetic, but she did
sound anxious.

Tirla knew very well that Peter--not to mention all the other kidsneeded
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 balance, sliding down
the dirtencrusted 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 switch eroo.  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 whiteness of the aircar
lifting slowly from behind the building.

C'mon, Peter urged.  I've got to get to that transformer box or my idea
won't work!  I need the gestalt for this.  You know how to uncouple
cars?

Suddenly the process was driven into Tirla'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 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'sSuddenly
the stiff coupling released itself and she was knocked off balance,
staggering 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 festooned the area around the building.  If Peter
could just get moving ... He was!  She heard the squ eal, 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 someone within had heard the metallic protest.  But
the building 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
building 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 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 continued 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 affected 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, clutching at Peter with both hands, wanting
to help him make the gestalt and needing his supp ort.  Suddenly she
was aware of movement behind her as car after car began to slide past
them onto the trackclickety click, clickety clickfar too loudly.

Suddenly, with a resounding 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 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 corners 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 answered 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, pantomime 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.  "Wherearethe 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 surface 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 lacerated
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 explosive entrance of Sascha, Rhyssa,
Dave Lehardt, and the Talent teams.  And she missed the other
excitements that would have given her immense satisfaction.

CHAPTER 17

"Commissioner," Ranjit said, "that's a diplomatic 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 enforcement 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
beehivenot just the penthouse lift or the domestic floors but that
entire complexsecured.  Whoever is in that car could go to ground
anywhere.  Pack all entries with sensitives.  Tell them to home in on
any strong emotionwe 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 Judicial and get me four-no, make it
five-John Does and a search warrant.  And let's hope that Sascha's
efficient."

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
spinning off along usual routes, having been instructed to move
circumspectly.

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 be?  If the man had, they
might lose the most important criminal.

Sascha, livid with rage: No, not when he had a little girl to
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 GhH.  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.  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.  Flimflam's spilling his guts: His Highness
has rather an extensive operationchild 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 heralded a connection from
Commissioner Aiello.  She appeared 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 incompatible with any
diplomatic occupation," Boris replied, setting his jaw.

"Who?  Surely not the ambassador!"  At that moment, Teresa Aiello was
depressed with pessimism.

"We are not after his Excellency, so Jak can relax.  Members of his
Corps, certainly, and an embassy vehicle 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 despite protests to the contrary, he and
his brother were in constant competition.

The massive bee-hive was aptly nicknamed.  Its bottom levels along the
blocksquare bulk, where other buildings obscured views, housed
maintenance, storage, and worker accommodations.  Where the hive rose
above its neighbors, there were great curved plasglas panels that were
part solarheating, part prestigious display of wealth.  Each pieshaped
apartment boasted luxuriant gardens and views from the outer wall, and
where the hive had an atrium core, rare plants and trees festooned 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 amenities
the residents expected, to secure the ultimate of comfort.

Is the surround complete yet, Ranjit?  Boris asked on his helmet com
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 formal 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 magnificent 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 , unassisted, out
of his own outerwear.  "Exclude them immediately."

"I think not, Prince Phanibal," Boris said, stepping forward while
sending Ranjit a quick thought about reinforcements.

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 diplomatic residence without
invitation?"  Prince Phanibal demanded, his expression haughty and
totally confident.  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 indulgence 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 entrance hall swung open and a number of large men filed
in with military precision.  Three, black-robed and turbaned, with
silvermounted 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 appearance," 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 unwarranted intrusion"
Prince Phanibal began imperiously.  "I am not only a royal prince of my
house but a manager of the Padrugoi.  I am due back on the platform 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 without breaking the law.

The slightest of smiles tugged at the corner 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 anyanimals--I believe," the Boris/Sascha 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 display what many probably considered a handsome
profile.

At that point the ambassador, clad in a deep purple velvet robe with
exquisite gold designs, entered from 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 Excellency," 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 embassy.  I must ask you to
instruct His Highness and his companion to accompany me to the LEO
headquarters."

"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 ambassador 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 undisturbed.  "Such a claim
tries all patience.  You will dismiss 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, spilling 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
consciousness.  That was some scam they had going.  Furthermore, it was
the dear prince who infiltrated LEO programs and filched the strand
formula.  He had all the special clearance passwords because he was
working on Padrugoi and doing all that 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
religious 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 dismiss 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 criminal, for diplomatic
immunity does not shield pederasts," 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 garage log.  Also, Prince Shimaz's
companion was apprehended, attempting to escape."If you will come with
us ..."  Boris began formally, 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 scuz ball will spend the
rest of his life at hard labor on the moon."

"And Flimflam?"  Tirla's eyes flashed with an anger and hatred that
startled Sascha, even though he understood 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 satisfactory 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 ability; 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 hostels, 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 abductions?"

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 empathy, the
source of her unusual linguistic feats.

She was assiduous in following her education program, opting for a very
wide variety of courses, some of which Dorotea was certain she could
not yet comprehend.  Her reports proved that she was more precocious
than anticipated.  She took no joy in the freedom of the Center's
grounds and played with no other children 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 specialized training.  She was virtually
recovered from the abduction, 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 strand a kid?  Cass and Suz said they
were stranding kids in Linear E. Have they improved the strand for a
longterm 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?"  Sascha 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
worldyet.  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 Jerhattan 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 mywhat do you call itcredibility?  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
troublespotter 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 Sascha, 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
selfdeprecation, "works best in a Linear environment."  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 hint!  You'll 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 arguments 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 Talent and too damned
vital to lay about until she's of age.  But there's nothing that says
she has to live at the Center 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
wellbeing 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
use a reliable pulsekeeper like Tirla.

"Did you get any of that, Tirla?"  Sascha asked her, grinning.  Sitting
beside her, he could feel her concentrating 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 animated 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 recognition 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 of her
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 thermosanother 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.

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 sleepfog from Rhyssa's mind.

What was Colonel Greene up to now?  And naturally it's essential for
her to complete the installation?

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 displayed 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.  Eightthirty 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 hankypanky 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 needed.  We know exactly how
long it will take.  Lance must have forgotten to clue Madlyn.  I'm
sorry 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 darkand 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, gathering herself to rise
from the bed.  She felt oddly protective of the new life inside her,
which was silly, since it was obviously well settled in.

"Tirla?"  Dave's eyes nearly popped in astonishment.  "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 microTalent, eroding language barriers.  "Neesters 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 England as a
lecturer and guest-of-honor at science-fiction conventions, Anne McCaffrey
lives at Dragonhold, in the hills of County Wicklow, Ireland, with
assorted horses, cats, and a dog.  Of herself, Ms. McCaffrey says: "I
have green eyes, silver hair, and freckles-the rest changes without
notice.
