Authors: Anne McCaffrey
“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 Daffyd 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 or 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 heading 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 step—a 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 Sow of men and women with briefcases or shopping bags, hurrying home. At snub-nosed city cars
and squatty trucks angling into parking slots. At the bloated cross-city 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 north-south 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 Us 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 something 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 Hefa 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!” Hefa 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 Us guides. He was running, slowly at first but gathering speed steadily, mindlessly brushing aside anything that stood in Us 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 Grade’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 sarrender 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 over-charged mind … hold it long enough … pain/fear/black/red/moiled-orange/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 too-thin 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 words—after Gil Gracie’s death—had been hers, not his distressed imagining. She had known him then as her real antagonist. Only now was
he
forced to recognize her for what she was, all she was—and regrettably, all she would not be.
He fought the inexorable decision of that split-second 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, low-ceiling 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. Heis’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 half-covered 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 is 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, tea-leaves and that bit.”