Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“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 obstinacy.
“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 deep-set eyes at the deliberate emphasis. “If you’ll step this way, gentlemen, to our remote-graph 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 period—between 7:03 and 7:08 was the time give by the ’cast—has 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 has prejudged us guilty, though you are at this moment surrounded by incontrovertible evidence of our collective innocence. You arrived here, emanating disruptive emotions—no, 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 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 registers—as Harold Orley does—the 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 ultra-delicate 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 liked 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 pro-Talent,” 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 goddamned 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 set-up: 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 half-hoped … 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 angle—at my request—but 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 this—ah—renegade happens to be broadcasting joy and elation over her heist.”
“Her?”
“The concensus 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 Q.”
As Pennstrak and op Owen reached the map, Welch announced with a groan. “Gawd, that’s a multi-layer apartment zone.”
“A have-not,” added op Owen.
“Gil Grade 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 GO 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 loveseat. 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 black-lace 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.”