To Ride Pegasus (15 page)

“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 affadavit 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. Ten-twelve, twelve noon, whatever.
And
,” Zeusman rattled the words out so loud and so fast that no one could interrupt him,
“in turning off that so-called 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—“despositions from the various qualified, highly trained, highly reputable scientists in charge of the neo-protein research. And here is where these … these meddling godets overreach themselves. That neo-protein research, so rudely interrupted on the brink of success would have producid, by
scientific
methods—accurate, repeatable, proven—a substance that would prevent certain all-too-common 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, why—I ask you,
why
, did they not foresce the effects of their own meddling on their avowed champion?”

Op Owen’s altruism and benignity hit an all-time 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 well-being, 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, one-track 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, et cetera 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 guardianship.

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 enter—for 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 normal-fatigue 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, black-haired father and a grey-eyed, brown haired 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 blue-eyed genes and the blonde-haired 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 out 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.