Authors: Anne McCaffrey
Secretary Abubakar was on his feet and coming forward to welcome his visitor, however unexpected.
Boris held up a pencil file. “I came straight to you with this information, Secretary.”
“Information?” Abubakar accepted the file and put it in the reader. The information came on the screen on his desk. “Georg? But he was with Mai the whole time.”
“Notice the time of the encounter, Secretary. There was sufficient time for Fraga to reach the boat bay, speak to the man we have positively identified as Albert Ponce, aka Flimflam, and return to his vigil beside her. As she was sedated, he has no one to vouch for his so exemplary vigil.”
“But Georg Fraga? I can’t believe it.” Abubakar sat down heavily, his handsome face showing sincere disbelief and astonishment. “He passed the highest security checks. His work has been above reproach.”
“What is his connection with Mai Leitao?”
“Colleagues. Colleagues only. He’s married to a research executive and they have two children. Leitao’s never been the least bit interested in men. She’s still on holiday. But I can’t see any other connection.”
“Then let us ask ourselves what might tempt a man like Georg Fraga to liaise with an offender like Ponce, risk his job with SA. Why was Mai Leitao so terrified of Peter Reidinger? Because he’s psychic? Is it possible that she’s religiously inclined? Might have encountered Ponce in one of his Religious Interpretative Group activities?” Abubakar looked shocked at the questions Boris fired at him. “In strictest confidence, there already has been a totally unexpected connection with Ponce’s spurious RIGs. Is there
any way that Ponce or Shimaz could have coerced Fraga? Would either of them have had contact with Shimaz? Or been in Malaysia?”
Abubakar spent one more baffled moment. He shook himself and, waving Boris to the comfortable chair beside his workstation, regained his legendary composure.
“We shall certainly find out, Commissioner. We shall certainly find out. We have too much at stake at Space Authority right now, especially now that young Reidinger is on-line.” He asked for the confidential personnel files.
Three hours later, they found the connection. Georg Fraga’s oldest child had had bladder, liver, and pancreas replacements. The organs had been supplied to the hospital.
“Shimaz!” Boris said, running his fingers through his blond hair in a moment of rare agitation. “He farmed children for organ transplants in the hills of Sabah!”
“But that transplant operation was nine years ago,” Abubakar exclaimed.
“Since you have such faith in Fraga’s integrity, perhaps you would not object if I ask him a few questions.”
Abubakar hesitated only briefly and then nodded. He opened the comlink and requested Georg Fraga to come to his office. “I don’t see how Mai could be involved. She lives only for work,” and the Secretary’s little smile was rueful.
Fraga appeared and Roznine saw no apprehension in his posture until the Secretary introduced him as the LEO Commissioner.
“How may I help you, Commissioner?” His manner remained smooth and quite possibly he wasn’t aware that Boris was a strong telepath, though most people at Fraga’s level knew that LEO used parapsychics.
“I must ask you a few questions in line with an ongoing investigation,” Boris said.
“But, of course,” Fraga replied, his mien still betraying no trace of guilt or apprehension as he took the chair the Secretary had indicated.
Boris crossed his right leg over his left knee, outwardly totally at ease. “Would the name Shimaz mean anything to you?”
“No.”
That was true enough. “Listening” for truth or falsehood was not illegal so long as listening went no further than public thoughts.
“From what source did you obtain organ transplants for your son?” Boris snapped the query off.
Fraga went into shock, color draining from his face and his mind hardening. It would now be more difficult for Boris to tell truth from fiction but there were other betraying signs of guilt or anxiety.
“Oooh!” Fraga seemed to fold in on himself. “I
had
to. I
had
to. I’ve repaid every single credit. Mai took it out of my salary. She said she had a discretionary fund. She was willing to
loan
me credit from it. I have repaid it.”
“Mai Leitao was involved?” The Secretary was astonished and glanced covertly at Boris.
“I certainly didn’t have that amount of credit at my disposal. I was desperate. I asked her would the SA see their way clear to give me an advance. I had to tell her why. There wasn’t much time, you see, if Josef was to live. The credit had to be sent to the special account number I was given.”
That also was the truth. Fraga was willing for that to be seen in his eyes, his manner, his agitated hand gestures.
“Do you remember where the credit was sent?” Boris asked.
“A bank in Sandakan.” Fraga swallowed and clasped his hands. Possibly, Boris thought, to control their shaking.
“An organ farm was situated in the nearby mountains,” Boris said in a neutral voice.
Fraga visibly shuddered and closed his eyes. “I didn’t know.” He opened his eyes. “I didn’t care.” He made an effort to master himself. “My son was dying.”
Boris waited a moment before he asked the next question. He disliked harassing people who had acted for the best of personal reasons but Law Enforcement was as necessary to this complex world as what Order could be achieved. Organ-replacement from unauthorized sources was illegal. Almost as dangerous to the recipients who might pay exorbitant prices; possibly paying again when the organs failed or bequeathed other diseases to the recipients. In some respects, Shimaz’s operation had been well organized: the transplants did match the recipient’s blood type and tissue sample and in most cases the organs were healthy, the transplants successful.
“Did you make contact with a person on Padrugoi during your visit there on the fifth of March?” Boris fired the important query before Fraga could recover.
Fraga dropped his head into his hands. “Did you bring him a message or some item?”
Fraga was close to collapse. Boris waited. Abubakar’s face was a study of sympathy and consternation, his eyes sad. Fraga’s reply was jerky; it was obviously an effort to speak.
“I brought a message. I was made to or the illegal organ purchase would become public knowledge. And Mai would be implicated since the credit note could be traced back to her office.”
“Tell me how, and when, you were asked to be a messenger. In person?”
“No, a comm message. Out of the blue. Eight years after the operation.”
“Precisely when?” Boris asked ruthlessly.
Georg Fraga raised his tormented eyes. “The day before the meeting up at Padrugoi.” He made a mirthless sound. “I kept a voiceprint. In case there was another attempt at blackmail. I’d’ve gone to you then.”
That, Boris was pleased to “hear,” was the truth. He suppressed the flare of pleasure that Fraga had had the forethought to take a print. It would be a valuable piece of evidence. Since Fraga had been honest, Boris would see what he could do to mitigate the charges against the man. Honesty was the best policy.
“It’s regrettable that you didn’t come to us in the first instance,” he said sternly.
“And be charged with an illegal organ transplant?” Fraga asked ironically.
“Did you tell Mai Leitao.” Abubakar asked gently.
“I had to find out if she’d been contacted, too. I had to warn her.”
The Secretary nodded. Now he turned to the LEO Commissioner.
“May I inquire what happened because Georg delivered that message?” he asked in a bleak tone.
“Fortunately the consequences were not as serious as they might have been,” Boris replied. He turned to the dispirited Fraga. “The voiceprint will be a crucial piece of evidence, Mr. Fraga.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“I’ll come with you, Mr. Fraga, as I have taken entirely too much of the Secretary’s time.”
Fraga rose stiffly.
“Come back here directly, Georg,” Abubakar said in a colorless voice.
Fraga gave a slight bow and then led the way out of the office.
T
he next two weeks did not give Peter a single opportunity to put in for time on Padrugoi’s link with the far-side telescopes. But he did make time for one thing: a call to Professor Gadriel to make his own personal apologies. Checking the time in Geneva, Peter placed a person-to-person call on a secured line to Professor Tomas Gadriel at CERN. High time, too. Apologies should be made sooner rather than later. He knew that Rhyssa, as head of the Eastern Parapsychic Center, had been in touch with Gadriel, but Peter had been responsible for the ruination of those new circuits, not Rhyssa. It should be just after the lunch break at the research facility.
“
Bonjour, Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire,
” a pleasant-sounding receptionist answered.
“
Bonjour,
” Peter replied in his best French, “
ici Peter Reidinger de la station d’espace Padrugoi. Je veux parler avec Professeur Tomas Gadriel, s’il vous plaît.
”
“You are calling from Padrugoi.” The receptionist switched to flawless English, making it clear to Peter that his accent needed a lot of work. “May I tell the professor the purpose of your call?”
Peter felt himself growing hot. “I wanted to discuss his latest parapsychic experiment with him.”
“Very well,” the receptionist said. “One moment please.” The line went dead for some seconds. “I am transferring you to the professor now. Good day.”
“Hello?” The voice that replaced the receptionist’s was baritone. “Mr. Reidinger?” There was a distinct note of pleased surprise in the tone.
“Professor Gadriel, thank you for accepting my call,” Peter began.
“Ah, it is yourself who calls me,” and the professor switched on the visual, showing himself to be totally unlike Peter’s original mental image of the telekinetic physicist. A tall, burly man who looked more like an alpine climber than scientist, beamed at him. With both hands he smoothed back thick brown hair from his forehead in what was a characteristic gesture, as he leaned eagerly toward the screen and planted muscled forearms on the worktop. “I must thank you for all that you have done.”
Peter was surprised. “Thank me? But your generators!”
“But the science!” Professor Gadriel responded with a Gallic twist of his shoulders. “I am so glad that my generators were available when you needed them, and flattered that you would think of them at a time when you were quite obviously under a lot of stress—”
“Professor, what were you told?” Peter broke in.
“I was told nothing.” Tomas Gadriel laughed. “But I am a man of science, and if you work at CERN, you learn to think quickly. My instruments were on and tracking that day, young man. I know exactly when you dumped power into my generators and exactly how much power you dumped. The explosion in space—the so-called ‘fire in the sky’—was on every newsvid. It took me less than an hour to sort through the math, you know.”
“I see,” Peter replied slowly, wondering who else would be able to do the math. “Wait a minute, you say ‘dumped’?”
“
Mais oui!
” Professor Gadriel said. “You dumped over ninety-eight gigawatts of power through my circuitry. It held up rather well, too. It did not take me long to realize that that figure represented an orbital translation—and a lunar one at that. You see, you had to compensate for the difference in specific energy.”
Peter slumped in his chair. “Professor, I don’t understand. What specific energy?”
Professor Gadriel pursed his lips in thought. “Young man, has not Madame Lehardt insisted that you are well rounded in all the sciences?”
“Well, she has tried,” Peter replied in a rueful tone.
“And do I not understand that you have a keen interest in space flight and space travel?”
“I do,” Peter admitted.
“Then I would expect you to understand that for every kilogram of mass you put in an orbit, you must have increased the body’s energy—both kinetic and potential—by a certain amount.”
Peter nodded in comprehension. “I’m sorry, I follow you now. In translating an object from Earth’s orbit to rest on the moon, I had to change the total energy per kilogram for every kilogram I lifted.”
“If by ‘lifted’ you mean teleported, then yes, exactly,” Professor Gadriel agreed. “But there is more energy per kilogram in an object orbiting the Earth at an altitude of two hundred kilometers than there
is in an object at rest on the Moon. So the energy had to go somewhere,
n’est-ce pas?
”
“Naturally,” Peter responded automatically. “But how did your generators cope with such an influx of power?”
Professor Gadriel shrugged. “They did not, of course. But my gestalt circuitry took the power, and when the couplings fused, the power grounded to Earth, Which is a pity, because otherwise CERN would have sold a very tidy sum of electricity to the European power grid.” The professor grinned. “Next time, we will handle that. In another six months, please feel free to repeat your performance.”
Peter grinned back. “It’s not a performance I want to
have
to repeat, thank you.”
“And why not?”
“Because I have never felt so drained,” Peter replied. “But why, if I received so much power, should I feel drained?”
“You should ask my fuse the same question, young man,” Professor Gadriel replied with a hearty guffaw. “It’s not the direction the power flows in which matters—it’s the total amount of power.”
Peter nodded thoughtfully. “I can see why there would be a power surplus in this case, but if we are only teleporting objects from place to place on Earth, why do we need gestalt generators?”
“Well, of course,” the professor replied, “you don’t—or we would never have discovered psychic powers. Over short distances, for small masses, the power requirements are such that the psychic’s own power is sufficient. It’s only over long distances or with large masses that we require additional help.
“Of course, even over relatively short distance, we telekinetics require more power than we use—and that is a mystery,” Professor Gadriel continued. “It is a mystery that I am trying to solve.”