Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“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 wet-weather 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 Canaveral—and he could not believe the contract figure for his short-term 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 exception—a 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 gale-force winds and a ceiling of 100 meters. He had landed it right on the target painted on the runway—to show the precision of the “new technology.” He was then allowed to launch a loaded drone into orbit, where it could be retrieved by a Padrugoi-based 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 did—whatever it was.
“Get your slicker on, Pete,” Johnny said.
Peter had discovered that he could kinetically keep rain from soaking him, but he tried to resist the temptation to show off unnecessarily. Dutifully he flipped the slicker over him. Exiting the concrete bunker, they all made a dash for their waiting aircar.
Two weeks after Rhyssa and Peter went to Florida, Boris made one of his rare visits to the Center to apprise Sascha of the fact that undercover agents believed more children had been sold. The agents had noticed a lot of floaters being spent in Linears A, B, and C. So Cass and Suz were sent on assignment to Linear E. As the two women frequented all the Jersey Linears, they were known to the inhabitants. Cass’s pregnancy made her even less suspicious, and she pretended ill health to account for Suz’s company. So far they had nothing to report, not even a ripple of expectation. Whenever 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.
“You know, Bro,” Boris said, “we’ve got nothing but stopgap techniques. Planting a telempath won’t stop kids being abducted.” Sascha was in Rhyssa’s office, attending to routine administration details as he took a break from formulating new testing procedures. Boris was standing at the window, looking out on the 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, Bro—unless we can get at the mastermind behind this despicable traffic, we’re going to be losing kids. Kids who might well be Talented, too.”
“You step up your search-and-seizes, Boris. Leave Tirla out of your calculations. There are other ways, ethical and technological ways, to solve LEO 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 first-year 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 concepts—particularly those that had a bearing on his accident—he 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 giving her.
Physiotherapy was still a necessity, and without the inhibiting body brace Peter had no trouble exercising his limbs, which he did religiously, hoping to acquire some muscle.
“There have been instances,” the physiotherapist had told Rhyssa and Johnny, “where even badly damaged neural tissue has been stimulated. That’s what we can wish for Peter. To feel and to move normally.”
“What’s the probability?” Rhyssa asked.
The physiotherapist had shrugged ruefully. “Who knows? It certainly does no harm for him to exercise kinetically. Improves muscle tone and fluidity of movement. I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have guessed he was walking kinetically when he entered the gym the first time.”
Swimming was Peter’s favorite sport. Water supported his body, and with minimal effort he could give the illusion of swimming. He could even do incredible dives off the board, hovering in the air as he made his body twist and then entering the water cleanly. There had not been enough sun in those weeks to produce a tan, but surrogate facilities had given him an excellent color. Rhyssa had benefited, as well.
“You needed this rest,” Johnny told her as they lounged on the sunbeds while keeping an eye on Peter, who was splashing happily about in the pool, pretending he was a dolphin.
“You know,” she said with a deep sigh, “I think I did. It’s been pretty hectic the last few months.” She sighed again. “But that’s the rigors of being Center director—and I wouldn’t be anything else in
spite
of the negatives.”
“You ever going to marry, or have kids?” Johnny asked at his most casual.
“Johnny Greene, what are you leading up to?” She cocked an eyebrow, which warned him that, if he was not straight with her, she would probably winkle the information out of his mind.
Johnny gave her a rakish grin. “Nothing—except that Dave Lehardt just arrived.” His grin broadened as he saw her reaction. “Ah! So! You’re not entirely immune to his charm, after all.”
Rhyssa managed a laugh, though she could not hide the sudden flush of pleasure at the news. “How do you know? You can’t ‘hear’ him if I can’t.”
“I saw him get out of the car. He’s coming around through the house.” The gleam in Johnny’s eyes was intolerable to her.
“We’re just working friends,” she said, and heard a mental ha-ha from Johnny as Dave Lehardt strode into the pool room. Johnny chuckled again as Dave’s glance rested on her just that moment longer before he greeted the others.
“Hi there, Skeleteam,” Dave called to Peter, who had an arm looped around the pool stair rail. “Need a handout?”
“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 wide-eyed innocence.
Me? Step out of line—especially if you threaten to short-circuit my cybernetic limbs in a lousy pool? D’you know what salt water does to my spare parts?
He imaged a violent shudder that sent bits and pieces spinning off his artificial arm and leg.
“Actually, the last three shoots have been within a jog of the same power settings,” Rhyssa said to the new arrival.
Dave Lehardt periscoped his lean length to seat 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 clue—except in blue eyes she wanted to drown in—to go on. No wonder the unTalented regularly bungled relationships. And yet . . .
“NASA is delighted with the effectiveness of its new guidance-and-tracking system,” Dave was saying, looking well pleased, “and they’re quite happy to leave it in the ‘need to know’ category. More queries from Padrugoi, requesting details of this top-secret G and T as a possible adjunct to their systems.”
“And?” Johnny queried, flipping over on the sunbed, eyes narrowed to slits and his body relaxing in the warmth.
“General Halloway hems and haws with the best of them about a trial model, with a formidable test schedule ahead of it, by no means a totally proven system . . .”
“I am too a proven system,” Peter said, looking disgruntled as he floated over, an eerie-looking maneuver since his feet were invisible under the swathing of towel that he was trying to keep out of the puddles around the pool. His teeth chattered.
“Oh here,” Rhyssa said, making room for him on the sunbed. She would have fallen off if Dave had not quickly prevented it with hands and knees. She felt warm where he touched her, a warmth that was nothing generated by a sunbed. Then she settled Peter beside her, adjusting his limbs. “You’re up to fifteen minutes’ sunning today, aren’t you?”
“Tell you one thing,” Dave went on, still supporting Rhyssa’s body. “I’m going to have to change the 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 Rhyssa—when Dave was not around—that the man had to have Talent but that it simply wasn’t measurable. Then he discussed things like traumatic breakthroughs and psychological reluctances, and Rhyssa replied that sometimes it was nice to know someone who could 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 ol’ Petey boy out, and I’ve been busting my buns for weeks now.”
“Pete,” Dave began, “how do you see what you do? Might as well ask the source right out straight,” he added in a broad aside to Rhyssa.
Peter laughed and pretended to consider the question, knotting his brows and rubbing his chin the way Johnny sometimes did. “It’s like I think that’s what I want to do—move the shuttle up—and I sort of lean into the generators, revving them up, and then I sort of”—he shrugged his thin shoulders—“let go.”
“Like a stone from a slingshot?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, sort of like that.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“I’m not. It needs doing. I do it.”
Rhyssa, sensing Peter’s distress about being unable to explain adequately, put a warning hand on Dave’s knee. His hand immediately covered hers, keeping her arm in a slightly awkward position. Over Peter’s prone body, Johnny grinned at her.
“There are many operations,” Rhyssa went on quickly, “that one accomplishes strictly on an 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 half-trained 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 nu-skin 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 appear like any other healthy, if scrawny, boy his age. He was also falling asleep, considerably more tired by the morning’s activities than he would ever admit. Smiling tenderly down at the boy, Rhyssa eased herself off the sunbed and onto the lounger that Dave had just vacated. She checked the timer: Peter had ten minutes to go. She relaxed on the soft mattress.
“Je-
sus
Christ!”
Dave’s sudden expletive roused her, and she watched helplessly as, in midair, he flailed with arms and legs from a slip in a puddle, his long body poised to come down right across the 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.