"Lady in the Tower" and "A Meeting of Minds"

are really logical extensions of the concept found in

"To Ride Pegasus," in which parapsychic powers are

combined with machines in a gestalt that gives the

mind enough power to reach the stars. They both

predate Dai op Owen and the Eastern Parapsychic

Center.

"Lady" is the story I prefer to acknowledge as my

first; it appeared in the Magazine of Fantasy and Sci-

ence Fiction in April 1959, in the distinguished com-

pany of Daniel Keyes' "Flowers for Algernon." Algis

Budrys was a reader for Bob Mills at the time and he

brought the story to Bob's notice. They both felt

that it needed some reworking and asked my per-

mission, which, needless to say, I immediately and

ecstatically gave. (Someone wanted to publish a story

of mine? Leap, grab, say YES!) I don't remember all

the changes Algis made, and I've made a few myself

with the wisdom and expertise of twenty years of

writing and publishing. But basically, it's the same

story.

Ten years later, "A Meeting of Minds" was pub-

lished by Ed Perman, the new editor of Fantasy and

Science Fiction. I have also done a good deal of rewrit-

ing on it, since that story had appeared so long after its

parent story.

Both are unashamed love stories. That's what I do

best: combining either science fact or fantasy with

heterogenous inter'reaction.

These two stories were supposed to be part of a

novel I'd tentatively entitled The Bitter Tower. But,

when I got started on the story "A Womanly Talent,"

I got involved with Dai op Owen and wrote the

four stories which comprise To Ride Pegasus. So these

two stories never became part of a novel. But the

Raven women are good strong characters, and who

knows when I'll write about that third generation of

Ravens.

Lady in the Tower

WHEN THE ROWAN CAME STORMING TOWARD

the station, its personnel mentally and literally ducked.

Mentally, because she was apt to forget to shield. Lit-

erally, because the Rowan was prone to slamming

around desks and filing cabinets when she got upset.

Today, however, she was in fair command of herself

and merely stamped up the stairs into the tower. A

vague rumble of noisy thoughts tossed around the

first floor of the station for a few minutes, but the

computer and analogue men ignored the depressing

effects with the gratitude of those saved from greater

disaster.

From the residue of her passage, Brian Ackerman,

the stationmaster, caught the impression of intense

purple frustration. He was basically only a T-9, but

constant association with the Rowan had widened his

area of perception. Ackerman appreciated this side

effect of his position—when he was anywhere else but

at the station.

He had been trying to quit Callisto for more than

five years, with no success. Federal Telepathers and

Teleporters, Inc., had established a routine regarding

his continuous applications for transfer. The first one

handed in each quarter was ignored; the second

brought an adroitly worded reply on how sensitive

and crucial a position he held at Callisto Prime Sta-

tion; his third—often a violently worded demand—

always got him a special shipment of scotch and to-

bacco; his fourth—a piteous wail—brought the Sec-

tion Supervisor out for a face-to-face chat and, only

then, a few discreet words to the Rowan.

3

Ackerman was positive she always knew the full

story before the Supervisor finally approached her.

It pleased her to be difficult, but the one time Acker-

maQ discarded protocol and snarled back at her, she

had mended her ways for a whole quarter. It had

reluctantly dawned on Ackerman that she must like

him and he had since used this knowledge to advan-

tage. He had lasted eight years, as against five station-

masters in three months before his appointment.

Each of the twenty-three station staff members

had gone through a similar shuffling until the Rowan

had accepted them. It took a very delicate balance of

mental talent, personality, and intelligence to achieve

the proper gestalt needed to move giant liners and tons

of freight. Federal Tel and Tel had only five com-

plete Primes—five T-l's—each strategically placed in

a station near the five major and most central stars

to effect the best possible transmission of commerce

and communications throughout the sprawling Nine-

Star League. The lesser staff positions at each Prime

Station were filled by personnel who could only tele-

port, or telepath. It was FT & T's dream someday to

provide instantaneous transmission of anything, any-

where, anytime. Until that day, FT & T exercised

patient diplomacy with its five T-l's, putting up with

their vagaries like the doting owners of so many

golden geese. If keeping the Rowan happy had meant

changing the entire lesser personnel twice daily, it

would probably have been done. As it happened, the

present staff had been intact for over two years and

only minor soothing had been necessary.

Ackerman hoped that only minor soothing would

be needed today. The Rowan had been peevish for a

week, and he was beginning to smart under the back-

lash. So far no one knew why the Rowan was upset.

Ready for the liner! Her thought lashed out so

piercingly that Ackerman was sure everyone in the

ship waiting outside had heard her. But he switched

the intercom in to the ship's captain.

"I heard," the captain said wryly. "Give me a five-

count and then set us off."

Ackerman didn"t bother to relay the message to

the Rowan. In her mood, she'd be hearing straight

4

to Capella and back. The generator men were hopping

between switches, bringing the booster field up to

peak, while she impatiently revved up the launching

units to push-off strength. She was well ahead of the

standard timing, and the pent-up power seemed to

keen through the station. The countdown came fast

as the singing power note increased past endurable

limits.

ROWAN, NO TRICKS, Ackerman said.

He caught her mental laugh, and barked a warning

to the captain. He hoped the man had heard it, be-

cause the Rowan was on zero before he could finish

and the ship was gone beyond radio transmission dis-

tance in seconds.

The keening dynamos lost only a minute edge of

sharpness before they sang at peak again. The lots on

the launchers snapped out into space as fast as they

could be set up. Then the loads rocketed into receiv-

ing area from other Prime Stations, and the ground

crews hustled rerouting and hold orders. The power

note settled to a bearable hum as the Rowan worked

out her mood without losing the efficient and accurate

thrust that made her FT & T's best Prime.

One of the ground crew signaled a frantic yellow

across the board, then red as ten tons of cargo from

Earth settled on the Priority Receiving cradle. The

waybill said Deneb VIII, which was at the Rowan's

limit. But the shipment was marked "Rush/Emer-

gency, priority medicine for a virulent plague on the

colony planet." And the waybill specified direct trans-

mission.

Well, where're my coordinates and my placement

photo? snapped the Rowan. / can't thrust blind, you

know, and we've always rerouted for Deneb VIII.

Bill Powers was flipping through the indexed cata-

logue, but the Rowan reached out and grabbed the

photo.

Zowie! Do I have to land all that mass there my-

self?

No, Lazybones, I'll pick it up at 24.578.82—that

nice little convenient black dwarf midway. You won't

have to strain a single convolution. The lazy mascu-

line voice drawled in every mind.

5

The silence was deafening.

Well, I'll be . . . came from the Rowan.

Of course, you are, sweetheart—just push that nice

little package out my way. Or is it too much for you?

The lazy voice was solicitous rather than insulting.

You'll get your package! replied the Rowan, and

the dynamos keened piercingly just once as the ten

tons disappeared out of the cradle.

Why, you little minx . . . slow it down or I'll bum

your ears back!

Come out and catch it! The Rowan's laugh broke

off in a gasp of surprise and Ackerman could feel her

slamming up her mental shields.

/ want that stuff in one piece, not smeared a mil-

limeter thin on the surface, my dear, the voice said

sternly. Okay, I've got it. Thanks! We need this.

Hey, who the blazes are you? What's your place-

ment?

Deneb Sender, my dear, and a busy little boy right

now. Ta ta.

The silence was broken only by the whine of the

dynamos dying to an idle burr.

Not a hint of what the Rowan was thinking came

through now, but Ackerman could pick up the aura

of incredulity, shock, speculation, and satisfaction that

pervaded the thoughts of everyone else in the station.

The Rowan had met her match. No one except a T-l

could have projected that far. There'd been no men-

tion of another T-l at FT & T, and, as far as Acker-

man knew, FT & T had all of the five known T-ls.

However, Deneb was now in its third generation and

colonial peculiarities had produced the Rowan in two.

"Hey, people," Ackerman said, "sock up your

shields. She's not going to like your drift."

Dutifully the aura was dampened, but the grins did

not fade and Powers started to whistle cheerfully.

Another yellow flag came up from a ground man

on the Altair hurdle and the waybill designated Live

shipment to Betelgeuse. The dynamos whined noisily

and then the launcher was empty. Whatever might be

going through her mind at the moment, the Rowan

was doing her work.

All told, it was an odd day, and Ackerman didn't

know whether to be thankful or not. He had no prece-

dents to go on and the Rowan wasn't leaking any

clues. She spun the day's lot in and out with careless

ease. By the time Jupiter's bulk had moved around to

blanket out-system traffic, Callisto's day was over,

and the Rowan wasn't off-power as much as decibel

one. Once the in-Sun traffic was finished with, Acker-

man signed off for the day. The computer banks and

dynamos were slapped off ... but the Rowan did

not come down.

Ray Loftus and Afra, the Capellan T-4, came over

to sit on the edge of Ackerman's desk. They took out

cigarettes. As usual, Afra's yellow eyes began to wa-

ter from the smoke.

"I was going to ask her Highness to give me a lift

home," Loftus said, "but I dunno now. Got a date

with—"

He disappeared. A moment later, Ackerman could

see him near a personnel carrier. Not only had he

been set gently down, but various small necessities,

among them a shaving kit, floated out of nowhere

onto a neat pile in the carrier. Ray was given time

to settle himself before the hatch sealed and he was

whisked off.

Powers joined Afra and Ackerman.

"She's sure in a funny mood," he said.

When the Rowan got peevish, few of the men at

the station asked her to transport them to Earth.

She was psychologically held planetbound, and re-

sented the fact that lesser talents could be moved

about through space without suffering traumatic

shock.

Anyone else?

Adier and Toglia spoke up and promptly disap-

peared together. Ackerman and Powers exchanged

looks which they hastily suppressed as the Rowan ap-

peared before them, smiling. It was the first time that

welcome and totally unexpected expression had

crossed her face for two weeks.

She smiled but said nothing. She took a drag of

Ackerman's cigarette and handed it back with a

thank-you. For all her temperament, the Rowan acted

with propriety face to face. She had grown up with

7

her skill, carefully taught by the old and original T-l,

Siglen, the Altairian. She'd had certain courtesies

drilled into her: the less gifted could be alienated by

inappropriate use of talent. She was perfectly justified

in "reaching" things during business hours, but she em-

ployed the usual methods at other times.

"The big boys mention our Denebian friend be-

fore?" she asked, all too casually.

Ackerman shook his head. "Those planets are three

generations colonized, and you came out of Altair in

two."

"That could explain it, but there isn't even an FT &

T station. And you know they advertise continuously

for anyone with Talent."

"He's a wild talent?" Powers helpfully suggested.

"Too far off the beaten track." She shook her head.

"I checked it. All I can get from Center is that they

received an urgent call about a virus, were given a run-

down on the syndrome and symptoms. Lab came up

with a serum, batched and packed it. They were as-

sured that there was someone capable of picking it up

and taking it the rest of the way past 24.578.82 if a

Prime would get it that far. And that's all anybody

knows." Then she added thoughtfully, "Deneb VIII

isn't a very big colony."

Oh, we're big enough, sweetheart, interrupted the

drawling voice. Sorry to get you after hours, my

dear, but 1 can't seem to get in to Terra and I heard

you coloring the atmosphere.

What's wrong? the Rowan asked. Did you smear

your serum after all that proud talk?

Smear it hell! I've been drinking it. We've got some

ET visitors. They think they're exterminators. Thirty

UFO's are perched four thousand miles above us.

That batch of serum you wafted out to me this morn-

ing was for the sixth virus we've been socked with

in the last two weeks. Soon as our boys whip up

something to knock out one, another takes its place.

Ifs always worse than the one before. We've lost 25

percent of our population already and this last virus

is a beaut. I want two top germdogs out here on the

double and about three patrol squadrons. We're fiat

on our backs now. I doubt our friends will hover

around, dousing us with nasty bugs much longer.

They're going to start blowing holes in us any minute

now. So sort of push the word along to Earth, will

you, sweetheart? And get us some heavy support!

I'll relay, naturally. But why don't you send direct?

To whom? You're the only one I can hear.

Your isolation won't last much longer if I know my

bosses.

You may know your bosses, but you don't know

me.

That can always be arranged.

This is no time for flirting. Get that message

through for me like a good girl.

Which message?

The one I just gave you.

That old one? They say you can have two germ-

dogs in the morning as soon as we clear Jupiter. But

Earth says no squadrons. No armed attack.

You can double-talk too, huh? You're talented. But

the morning does us no good. Now is when we need

them. Can't you sling them . . . no, they might leave

a few important atoms or something in Jupiter's mass.

But I've got to have some pretty potent help, and if

six viruses don't constitute armed attack, what does?

Missiles constitute armed attack, the Rowan said

primly.

I'll notify my friends up there. Missiles would be

preferable. Them 1 can see, I need those germdogs

now. Can't you turn your sweet little mind to a solu-

tion?

As you mentioned, it's after hours.

By the Horsehead, woman! the drawl was replaced

by a cutting mental roar. My friends are dying!

Look, after hours here means we're behind Jupiter

... But. .. Wait! How deep is your range?

I don't honestly know. And doubt crept into the

bodiless voice in their minds.

"Ackerman." The Rowan turned to her station-

master.

"I've been listening."

Hang on, Deneb, I've got an idea. I'll deliver your

germdogs. Open to me in half an hour.

The Rowan whirled on Ackerman. "I want my

shell." Her brilliant eyes were flashing and her face

was alight. "Afra!"

The station's T-4, a handsome yellow-eyed Capellan,

raised himself from the chair in which he'd been qui-

etly watching her. Afra was second in command of the

station.

"Yes, Rowan?"

Abruptly she realized that her mental conversation

with the Denebian had been heard by all the others.

Her fleeting frown was replaced by the miraculous

smile that always disconcerted Ackerman with its hint

of suppressed passion. She looked at each of the men,

bathing them in that smile.

"I want to be launched, slowly, over Jupiter's

curve," she said to Afra. Ackerman switched up the

dynamos, Bill Powers punched for her special shell to

be deposited on the launching rack. "Real slow, Afra.

Then I'll want to draw heavy." She took a deep breath.

Like all Primes, she was unable to launch herself

through space. Her initial trip from Altair to Callisto

had almost driven her mad with agoraphobia. Only

by the exercise of severe self-discipline was she able

to take her specially opaque shell a short way off

Callisto.

She took another deep breath and disappeared

from the station. Then she was beside the launcher.

She settled daintily into the shock couch of the shell.

The moment the lock whistle shut off, she could feel

the shell moving gently, gently away from Callisto.

She could sense Afra's reassuring mental touch. Only

when the shell had swung into position over Jupiter's

great curve did she reply to the priority call coming

from Earth Central.

Now what the Billy blue blazes are you doing,

Rowan? The voice of Reidinger, the FT & T Central

Prime, cracked across the void. Have you lost what's

left of your precious mind?

She's doing me a favor, Deneb said, unexpectedly

joining them.

Who'n hell're you? demanded Reidinger. Then, in

shocked surprise, Deneb! How'd you get out there?

Wishful thinking. Hey, push those germdogs to my

pretty friend here, huh?

10

Now, wait a minute! You're going a little too

far, Deneb. You can't burn out my best prime with

an unbased send like this.

Oh, I'll pick up midway. Like those antibiotics this

morning.

Deneb, what's this business with antibiotics and

germdogs? What're you cooking up out there in that

heathenish hole?

Oh, we're merely fighting a few plagues with one

hand and keeping thirty bogey ET's upstairs. Deneb

gave them a look with his vision at an enormous

hospital, a continuous stream of airborne ambulances

coming in: at crowded wards, grim-faced nurses and

doctors, and uncomfortable high piles of sheeted still

figures.

Well, I didn't realize. All right, you can have any-

thing you want—within reason. But I want a full re-

port, said Reidinger.

And patrol squadrons?

Reidinger's tone changed to impatience. You've ob-

viously got an exaggerated idea of our capabilities.

I can't mobilize patrol squadrons like that! There was

a mental snap of fingers.

Would you perhaps drop a little word in the C.O.C's

ear? Those ET's may gobble Deneb tonight and go

after Terra tomorrow.

I'll do what I can, of course, but you colonists

agreed to the risks when you signed up. The ET's

were probably hoping for a soft touch. You're show-

ing them different. They'll give up and get—

You're all heart, said Deneb.

Reidinger was silent for a moment. Then he said,

Germdogs sealed, Rowan; Pick 'em up and throw 'em

out, and signed off.

Rowan—that's a pretty name, said Deneb.

Thanks, she said absently. She had followed along

Reidinger's initial push, and picked up the two per-

sonnel carriers as they materialized beside her shell.

She pressed into the station dynamos and gathered

strength. The generators whined and she pushed out.

The carriers disappeared.

They're coming in. Rowan. Thanks a lot.

A passionate and tender kiss was blown to her

across eighteen light-years of space. She tried to fol-

low after the carriers and pick up his touch again, but

he was no longer receiving.

She sank back in her couch. Deneb's sudden ap-

pearance had disconcerted her completely. All of the

Primes were isolated in their high talents, but the

Rowan was more alone than any of the others.

Siglen, the Altairian Prime who had discovered the

Rowan as a child and carefully nursed her talent into

its tremendous potential, was the oldest Prime of all.

The Rowan, a scant twenty-three now, had never got-

ten anything from Siglen to comfort her except old-

fashioned platitudes. Betelgeuse Prime David was

madly in love with his T-2 wife and occupied with

raising a brood of high-potential brats. Although

Reidinger was always open to the Rowan, he also had

to keep open every single minute to all the vast prob-

lems of the FT & T system. Capella was available

but so mixed up herself that her touch aggravated the

Rowan to the point of fury.

Reidinger had tried to ease her devastating loneli-

ness by sending up T-3's and T-4's like Afra, but she

had never taken to any of them. The only male T-2

ever discovered in the Nine-Star League had been a

confirmed homosexual. Ackerman was a nice, barely

talented guy, devoted to his wife. And now, on Deneb,

a T-l had emerged, out of nowhere—and so very,

very far away.

Afra, take me home now, she said, very tired.

Afra brought the shell down with infinite care.

After the others had left the station, the Rowan lay

for a long while on her couch in the personnel carrier.

In her unsleeping consciousness, she was aware that

the station was closing down, that Ackerman and the

others had left for their homes until Callisto once more

came out from behind Jupiter's titan bulk. Everyone

had some place to go, except the Rowan who made it

all possible. The bitter, screaming loneliness that over-

came her during her off hours welled up—the frustra-

tion of being unable to go off-planet past Afra's sharply

limited range—alone, alone with her two-edged talent.

Murky green and black swamped her mind until she

remembered the blown kiss. Suddenly, completely, she

fell into her first restful sleep in two weeks.

Rowan. It was Deneb's touch that roused her. Ro-

wan, please wake up.

Hmmmm? Her sleepy response was reluctant.

Our guests are getting rougher . . . since the germ-

dogs . . . whipped up a broad spectrum antibiotic . . .

that phase . . . of their attack failed ... so now they're

. . . pounding us . . . with missiles . . . give my re-

gards to your space-lawyer friend . .. Reidinger.

You're playing pitch with missiles? The Rowan came

awake hurriedly. She could feel Deneb's contact cutting

in and out as he interrupted himself to catch incoming

missiles and fling them back.

/ need backup help, sweetheart, like you and. . . any

twin sisters . . . you happen . . . to have . . . handy.

Buzz over ... here, will you?

Buzz? What? I can't go there!

Why not?

I can't! I can't f The Rowan moaned, twisting against

the web of the couch.

But I've got . . . to . . . have . . . help, he said and

faded away.

Reidinger! The Rowan's call was a scream.

Rowan, I don't care if you are a T-l. There are cer-

tain limits to my patience and you've stretched every

blasted one of them, you little white-haired ape!

His answer scorched her. She blocked automatically

but clung to his touch. Someone has got to help Deneb!

she cried, transmitting the Mayday.

What? He's joking!

How could he, about a thing like that!

Did you see the missiles? Did he show you what he

was actually doing?

No, but I felt him thrusting. And since when does

one of us distrust another when he asks for help.

Since when? Reidinger's reply crackled across space.

Since Eve handed Adam a rosy round fruit and said

"eat." And exactly since Deneb's never been integrated

into the prime network. We can't be sure who or what

he is—or exactly where he is. I don't like this taking

everything at his word. Try and get him back for me to

hear.

I can't reach him! He's too busy lobbing missiles

spaceward.

That's a hot one! Look, he can tap any other poten-

tials on his own planet. That's all the help he needs.

But ...

But me no buts and leave me alone. I'll play cupid

only so far. Meanwhile I've got a company—a league—

to hold together. Reidinger signed off with a backlash

that stung. The Rowan lay in her couch, bewildered

by Reidinger's response. He was always busy, always

gruff. But he had never been stupidly unreasonable.

While out there, Deneb was growing weaker ...

Callisto was clear of Jupiter and the station was

operating again. Incoming cargoes were piling up on

the launchers. But there was no outgoing traffic. Ten-

sion and worry hung over the station.

"There must be something we can do for him . . .

something," the Rowan said, choked with tears.

Afra looked down at her sadly and compassionately,

and patted her frail shoulder.

"What? Not even you can reach all the way out to

him. Patrol Squadrons are needed by what you've said,

but we can't send them. Did you ask him if he's tried to

find help on his own planet?"                      "-.

"He needs Prime help and—"

"You're all tied to your little worlds with the um-

bilical cord of space-fear," Afra finished for her, a

blunt summation of the problem that made her wince

for her devastating inability.

Kerrist! The radar warning! Ackerman's mental

shout startled both of them.

Instantly the Rowan linked her mind to his as Acker-

man plunged toward the little-used radar screen. As

she probed into space, she found the intruder, a highly

powered projectile, arrowing in from behind Uranus.

Guiltily she flushed, for she ought to have detected it

away beyond the radar's range.

There was no time to run up the idling dynamos.

The projectile was coming in too fast.

I want a wide-open mind from everyone on this

moon! The Rowan's broadcast was inescapable. She

14

felt the surge of power as forty-eight talents on Cal-

listo, including Ackerman's ten-year-old son, lowered

their shields. She picked up their power—from the least

12 to Afra's sturdy 4—sent her touch racing out be-

yond Jupiter, and reached the alien bomb. She had to

wrestle for a moment with the totally unfamiliar mo-

lecular structure of its constituents. Then, with her

augmented energy, it was easy enough to deactivate the

trigger and then scatter the fissionables from the war-

head into Jupiter's seething mass.

She released the others who had joined her and fell

back into the couch.

"How in hell did that thing find us?" Afra asked

from the chair in which he had slumped.

She shook her head wearily. Without the dynamos,

there had been no surge of power to act as the initial

carrier wave for her touch. Even with the help of the

others—and all of them put together didn't add up to

one-third the strength of another Prime—it had been a

wearying exercise. She thought of Deneb—alone, with-

out an FT & T Station to assist him—doing this again,

and again, and again—and her heart twisted.

Warm up the dynamos, Brian—there'll be more of

those missiles.

Afra looked up, startled.

Prime Rowan of Callisto Station alerting Earth Prime

Reidinger and all other primes! Prepare for possible

attack by fissionable projectiles of alien origin. Alert

all radar watch stations and patrol forces. She lost her

official calm and added angrily. We've got to help

Deneb now—we've got to! Ifs no longer an isolated ag-

gression against an outlying colony. Ifs a concerted

attack on our heart world. Ifs an attack on every prime

in the nine-star league.

Rowan! Before Reidinger got more than her name

into her mind, she opened to him and showed the five

new projectiles driving toward Callisto. For the love of

little apples! Reidinger's mind radiated incredulity.

What has our little man been stirring up?

Shall we find out? Rowan asked with deadly sweet-

ness.

Reidinger transmitted impatience, fury, misery and

then shock as he gathered her intention.

I?

Your plan won't work. Ifs impossible. We can't

merge minds to fight. All of us are too egocentric. Too

unstable. We'd burn out, fighting each other.

You, me, Altair, Betelgeuse and Capella. We can do

it. If I can deactivate one of those hell missiles with

only forty-eight minor talents and no power for help,

five primes plus full power ought to be able to turn

the trick. We can knock the missiles off. Then we can

merge with Deneb to help him, that'll make six of us.

Show me the ET who could stand up to such a counter-

assault!

Look girl, Reidinger replied, almost pleading, We

don't have his measure. We can't just merge—He could

split us apart, or we could burn him up. We don't know

him. We can't gauge a telepath of unknown ability.

You'd better catch that missile coming at you, she

said calmly. 1 can't handle more than ten at a time and

keep up a sensible conversation.

She felt Reidinger's resistance to her plan weaken-

ing. She pushed the advantage. If Deneb's been han-

dling a planet-wide barrage, that's a pretty good indica-

tion of his strength. I'll handle the ego-merge because I

damned well want to. Besides, there isn't any other

course open to us now, is there?

We could launch patrol squadrons.

We should have done that the first time he asked.

It's too late now.

Their conversation was taking the briefest possible

time and yet more missiles were coming in. All the

Prime stations were under bombardment.

All right, Reidinger said in angry resignation, and

contacted the other Primes.

No, no, no! You'll burn her out—burn her out, poor

thing! Old Siglen from Altair babbled. Let us stick to

our last—we dare not expose ourselves, no, no, no! The

ET's would attack us then.

Shut up, Ironpants, David said.

Shoulder to the wheel, you old wart, Capella chimed

in waspishly. Hit hard first, that's safest.

Look, Rowan, Reidinger said. Siglen's right. He

could burn you out.

I'll take the chance.

16

Damn Deneb for starting all this! Reidinger didn't

quite shield his aggravation.

We've got to do it. And now!

Tentatively at the outset, and then with stunningly

increased force, the unleashed power of the other FT

& T Primes, augmented by the mechanical surge of the

five stations' generators, was forced through the Rowan.

She grew, grew and only dimly saw the puny ET bom-

bardment swept aside like so many mayflies. She grew,

grew until she felt herself a colossus, larger than omi-

nous Jupiter. Slowly, carefully, tentatively, because the

massive power was braked only by her slender con-

scious control, she reached out to Deneb.

She spun on, in grandeur, astounded by the limitless

force she had become. She passed the small black

dwarf that was the midway point. Then she felt the

mind she searched for; a tired mind, its periphery

wincing with weariness but doggedly persevering its

evasive actions.

Oh, Deneb, Deneb, you're still intact! She was so re-

lieved, so grateful to find him fighting his desperate

battle that they merged before her ego could offer even

a token resistance. She abandoned her most guarded

self to him and, with the surrender, the massed power

she held flowed into him. The tired mind of the man

grew, healed, strengthened and blossomed until she

was a mere fraction of the total, lost in the greater part

of this immense mental whole. Suddenly she saw with

his eyes, heard with his ears and felt with his touch, was

immersed in the titanic struggle.

The greenish sky above was pitted with mushroom

puffs, and the raw young hills around him were scarred

with deflected missiles. Easily now, he was turning

aside the warheads aimed at him.

Let's go up there and find out what they are, the

Reidinger segment said. Now!

Deneb approached the thirty mile-long ships. The

mass-mind took indelible note of the intruders. Then,

off-handedly, Deneb broke the hulls of twenty-nine of

the ET ships, spilling the contents into space. To the

occupants of the survivor, he gave a searing impression

of the Primes and the indestructability of the worlds in

this section of space. With one great heave, he threw

17

the lone ship away from his exhausted planet, set it

hurtling farther than it had come, into uncharted black

immensity.

He thanked the Primes for the incomparable compli-

ment of an ego-merge and explained in a millisecond

the tremendous gratitude of his planet, based on all

that Denebians had accomplished in three generations

which had been so nearly obliterated and emphasized

by their hopes for the future.

The Rowan felt the links dissolving as the other

Primes, murmuring withdrawal courtesies, left him.

Deneb caught her mind fast to his and held on. When

they were alone, he opened all this thoughts to her, so

that now she knew him as intimately as he knew her.

Sweet Rowan. Look around you. It'll take a while

for Deneb to be beautiful again but we'll make it love-

lier than ever. Come live with me, my love.

The Rowan's wracked cry of protest reverberated

cruelly in both naked minds.

/ can't! I can't! She cringed against her own outburst

and closed off her inner heart so that he couldn't see

the pitiful why. In the moment of his confusion, she

retreated back to her frail body, and beat her fists

hopelessly against her thighs.

Rowan! came his cry. Rowan, I love you.

She deadened the outer fringe of her perception to

everything and curled forward in her chair. Afra, who

had watched patiently over her while her mind was far

away, touched her shoulder.

Oh, Afra! To be so close to love and so far away.

Our minds were one. Our bodies are forever separate.

Deneb! Deneb!

The Rowan forced her bruised self into sleep. Afra

picked her up gently and carried her to a bed in a room

off the station's main level. He shut the door and tip-

toed away. Then he sat down, on watch in the corridor

outside, his handsome face dark with sorrow, his yellow

eyes blinking away moisture.

Afra and Ackerman reached the only possible con-

clusion: the Rowan had burned herself out. They'd

have to tell Reidhiger. Forty-eight hours had elapsed

since they'd had a single contact with her mind. She

18

had not heard, or had ignored, their tentative requests

for her assistance. Afra, Ackerman, and the machines

could handle some of the routing and freighting, but

two liners were due in and that required her. They

knew she was alive but that was all: her mind was

blank to any touch. At first, Ackerman had assumed

that she was recuperating. Afra had known better and,

for that forty-eight hours, he'd hoped fervently that she

would accept the irreconcilable situation.

"I'll run up the dynamos," Ackerman said to Afra

with a reluctant sigh, "and we'll tell Reidinger."

Well, where's Rowan? Reidinger asked. A moment's

touch with Afra told him. He, too, sighed. We'll just

have to rouse her some way. She isn't burned out;

that's one mercy.

Is it? replied Ackerman bitterly. // you'd paid atten-

tion to her in the first place ...

Yes, I'm sure, Reidinger cut him off brusquely. If

I'd gotten her light of love his patrol squadrons when

she wanted me to, she wouldn't have thought of merging

with him mentally. I put as much pressure on her as I

dared. But when that cocky young rooster on Deneb

started lobbing deflected ET missiles at us ... I hadn't

counted on that development. At least we managed to

spur her to act. And off-planet at that. He sighed. /

was hoping that love might make at least one prime

fly.

Whaaa-at? Afra roared. You mean that battle was

staged?

Hardly. As I said, we hadn't anticipated the ET.

Deneb presumably had only a mutating virus plague to

cope with. Not ET.

Then you didn't know about them?

Of course not! Reidinger sounded disgusted. Oh,

the original contact with Deneb for biological assistance

was sheer chance. I took it as providential, an oppor-

tunity to see if I couldn't break the fear psychosis we

all have. Rowan's the youngest of us. If I could get her

to go to him—physically—I failed. Reidinger's resig-

nation saddened Afra, too. One didn't consider the

Central Prime as a fallible human. Love isn't as strong

as it's supposed to be. And where I'll get new Primes if

19

/ can't breed 'em, I don't know. I'd hoped that Rowan

and Deneb ...

As a matchmaker...

/ should resign ...

Afra cut the contact abruptly as the door opened,

admitting the Rowan, a wan, pale, very quiet Rowan.

She smiled apologetically. "I've been asleep a long

time."

"You had a tiring day," Ackennan said gently.

She winced and then smiled to ease Ackerman's

instant concern. "I still am, a little." Then she frowned.

"Did I hear you two talking to Reidinger just now?"

"We got worried," Ackennan replied. "There're two

liners coming in, and Afra and I just plain don't care to

handle human cargo, you know."

The Rowan gave a rueful smile. "I know. I'm all

set." She walked slowly up the stairs to her tower.

Ackerman shook his head sadly. "She sure has taken

it hard."

Her chastened attitude wasn't the relief that her staff

had once considered it might be. The work that day

went on with monotonous efficiency, with none of the

byplay and freakish temperament that had previously

kept them on their toes. The men moved around auto-

matically, depressed by this gently tragic Rowan. That

might have been one reason why no one noticed par-

ticularly when, toward the very end of the day, the

young man came in. Only when Ackerman rose from

his desk for more coffee did he notice him sitting there

quietly.

"You new?"

"Well, yes. I was told to see the Rowan. Reidinger

signed me on in his office late this morning." He spoke

pleasantly, rising to his feet slowly and ending his ex-

planation with a smile. Fleetingly Ackerman was re-

minded of the miracle of the Rowan's sudden smiles

that hinted at some incredible treasure of the spirit.

This man's smile was full of uninhibited, magnetic

vigor, and the brilliant blue eyes danced with good

humor and friendliness.

Ackerman found himself grinning back like a fool,

and shaking the man's hand stoutly.

"Mightly glad to know you. What's your name?"

20

"Jeff Raven. I just got in from—"

"Hey, Afra, want you to meet Jeff Raven. Here, have

a coffee. A little raw on the walk up from the freight-

ing station, isn't it? Been on any other Prime stations?"

"As a matter of fact..."

Toglia and Loftus had looked around from their

computers to the recipient of such unusual cordiality.

They found themselves as eager to welcome this mag-

netic stranger. Raven graciously accepted the coffee

from Ackerman, who instantly proffered cigarettes.

The stationmaster had the feeling that he must give

this wonderful guy something else, it had been such a

pleasure to provide him with coffee.

Afra looked quietly at the stranger, his calm yellow

eyes a little clouded. "Hello," he said in a rueful mur-

mur.

Jeff Raven's grin altered imperceptibly. "Hello," he

replied, and more was exchanged between the two men

than a simple greeting.

Before anyone in the station quite realized what was

happening, everyone had left his post and gathered

around Raven, chattering and grinning, using the sim-

plest excuse to touch his hand or shoulder. He was

genuinely interested in everything said to him, and

although there were twenty-three people vying anx-

iously to monopolize his attention, no one felt slighted.

His reception seemed to envelop them all.

What the hell is happening down there? asked the

Rowan with a tinge of her familiar irritation. Why ...

Contrary to all her previously sacred rules, she ap-

peared suddenly in the middle of the room, looked

about wildly. Raven touched her hand gently.

"Reidinger said you needed me," he said.

"Deneb?" Her body arched to project the astounded

whisper. "Deneb? But you're . . . you're here! You're

here!"

He smiled tenderly and drew his hand across her

shining hair. The Rowan's jaw dropped and she burst

out laughing, the laughter of a supremely happy care-

free girl. Then her laughter broke off in a gasp of pure

terror.

How did you get here?

Just came. You can, too, you know.

21

No, no, I can't. No T-l can. The Rowan tried to

free herself from his grasp as if he were suddenly re-

pulsive.

/ did, though. His gentle insistence was unequivoca-

ble. Ifs only a question of rearranging atoms. Why

should it matter whose they are?

Oh, no, no ...

"Did you know," Raven said conversationally, speak-

ing for everyone's benefit "that Siglen of Altair gets

sick just going up and down stairs?" He looked straight

at the Rowan. "You remember that she lives all on

one floor? Ever wondered why all her furniture has

short legs, Rowan?"

The girl shook her head, her eyes wonderingly wide.

"No one ever stopped to ask why, did they? I did.

Seemed damned silly to me when I met the woman.

Siglen's middle ear reacts very badly to free-fall. She

was so miserably sick the first time she tried moving

herself anywhere, she went into a trauma about it. Of

course, it never occurred to her to find out why. So she

went a little crazy on the subject, and who trained all

the other Primes?"

"Siglen ... Oh, Deneb, you mean? ..."

Raven grinned. "Yes, I do. She passed on the

trauma to every one of you. The Curse of Talent! The

Great Fear! The great bushwah! But agoraphobia, or

a middle-ear imbalance, is not a stigma of Talent.

Siglen never trained me." He laughed with wicked

boyish delight and opened his mind to the Rowan.

Warmth and reassurance passed between them. Her

careful conditioning began to wither in that warmth.

Her eyes shone.

Now come live with me and be my love. Rowan.

Reidinger says you can commute from here to Deneb

every day.

"Commute?" She said it aloud, conscious of the over-

all value of Siglen's training, but already questioning

every aspect.

"Certainly," Jeff said, approving her thoughts.

"You're still a working T-l under contract to FT & T.

And so, my love, am I."

"I guess I dp know my bosses, don't I?" she said

with a chuckle.

22

"Well, the terms were fair. Reidinger didn't haggle

for a second after I walked into his private office at

eleven this morning."

"Commuting to Callisto?" the Rowan repeated

dazedly.

"All finished here for the day?" Raven asked Acker-

man, who shook his head after a glance at the launch-

ing racks.

"C'mon, gal. Take me to your ivory tower and we'll

finish up in a jiffy. Then we'll go home. With two of

us working in our spare time, Deneb'll be put to rights

in no time... And when we've finished that...

Jeff Raven smiled wickedly at the Rowan and

pressed her hand to his lips in the age-old gesture of

courtliness. The Rowan's smile answered his with

blinding joy.

The others were respectfully silent as the two Tal-

ents made there way up the stairs to the once-lonely

tower.

Afra broke the tableau by taking the burning ciga-

rette from Ackerman's motionless hand. He took a

deep drag that turned his skin a deeper green. It wasn't

the cigarette smoke that caused his eyes to water so

profusely.

"Not that that pair needs much of our help, people,"

he said, "but we can add a certain flourish and speed

them on their way."

23"

A Meeting of Minds

IOTA AUMGAE WAS A BLAZE AT ZENITH, TO

Damia's left, glinting off her tiny personal capsule.

Capella's light, from the right nadir, was a pulsing

blue-white. Starlight from the Milky Way bathed her,

too, but the only sound was her even breathing as she

allowed her mind to open fully to the mindless, echo-

freedom of deep space.

It was as if she could feel the separate cerebral

muscles relaxing, expanding, just as her tall slender

body went gradually limp. But it was primarily the

mental relief that Damia sought so far away from her

control Tower at the Federated Telepath and Teleport

installation on Aurigae. It was the utter peace of deep

space she required as anodyne to the constant demands

of her position as Psionic Prime, responsible for the

flow of commerce and communication in this Sector

of Federated Worlds, the Nine-Star League. She was

young, true, barely twenty; but age is relative, partic-

ularly when the need is great, and her mental talents

were unusually mature. Furthermore, she was of the

Raven Clan, bom into a tremendously talented family,

carefully indoctrinated and trained to assume an execu-

tive role as the influence of Federated Worlds ex-

panded into new star systems, needing more Prime

Talents.

Occasionally, even her young mind felt the strain

and required respite from the insistent murmur of

broadcasting thoughts that beat, beat, beat against hers:

little minds which could not conceive the forces that

Damia, Aurigan Prime, could marshall in gestalt with

the mighty dynamos of the Tower.

24

With a flick of a finger, Damia screened out the

overbrilliant starlight and opened her eyes. The sof-

tened stargleams, points of gem fire in the black of

space, winked and pulsed at her. Idly she identified the

familiar patterns they made, these silent friends.

Somehow the petty grievances that built up inside her

were gently dispersed as the overwhelming imperson-

ality of cold nothingness brought them into proper per-

spective.

She could even forget her present preoccupation for

a moment: forget how lonely she was; how she envied

her brother, Larak, his loving, lovely wife and their

new son; envied her mother the company of her hus-

band and children; envied her Afra's . ..

Afra! What right had he to interfere, to reprimand

her! His words still seared. "You've been getting an

almighty huge vicarious charge out of peeking in on

Larak and Jenna. Scared Jenna out of her wits, lurking

in her mind while she was in labor! You leave them

both alone!"

She was forced to admit herself at fault. But how

had Afra known? Unless Larak had told him. She

sighed. Yes, Larak would have known she was eaves-

dropping. Though he was the only T-3 among her

brothers and sisters, he had always been extremely

sensitive to her mind touch. And she and Larak could

always overwhelm any combination of the others, even

if Jeran, Cera, and Ezro, all T-ls, teamed up against

them. Somehow, she switched mental gears, doubling

the capability of other minds within her focus.

But it had humiliated her to be reamed by Afra.

Well, better by that yellow-eyed, green-skinned T-4

Capellan than her father, acting in his capacity as Earth

Prime. She rather hoped that her father had not learned

of her breach of T- etiquette.

Odd, though, she hadn't heard as much as a whisper

from Afra since then. It must be over seven months.

He had listened in as she'd apologized to both Jenna

and Larak, and then silence. He couldn't be that angry

with her.

Damia diverted her thoughts away from Afra, and

went through the ritual of muscular relaxation, of men-

tal wipeout. She must be back in the Tower very soon.

2?

In a way, the fact that she could handle Prime duties

with no higher ratings than a T-6 to assist had certain

disadvantages. The Tower staff could handle only rou-

tine, planetary traffic, but she had to be on hand for all

interstellar telepathic and teleportation commerce.

It would be wonderful to have a T-3 with her:

someone who could understand. Not someone ... be

honest with yourself out here in space, Damia. Some

man. Only men shy away from you as if you'd devel-

oped Lynx-sun cancers. And the only other unmarried

Prime was her own brother, Jeran. Come to think

about Jeran, the smug tone in his recent mind-touches

as they exchanged cargoes and messages between

Deneb and Auriga undoubtedly meant that he had

found a likely mate, too.

It was no consolation to Damia that her mother had

known and warned her of this intense, feminine loneli-

ness. But Jeff Raven had appeared to breach the

Rowan's tower and the Rowan had at least had Afra's

company. ..

Afra! Why did her mind keep returning to him?

Damia realized that she was grinding her teeth. She

forced herself through the rituals again, sternly making

specific thought dissipate until her mind drifted. And,

in the course of that aimless drifting, an aura impinged

on her roving consciousness. Startled—for nothing

could be coming in from that far quarter of space—she

tightened her mind into a seeking channel.

An aura. A mere wisp of the presence of something.

Something . .. alien!

Alien! Damia recomposed herself. She disciplined

her mind to a pure, clear, uncluttered shaft. She

touched the aura. Recognition of her touch, retreat,

return.

The aura was undeniably alien, but so faint that she

would have doubted its existence except that her finely

trained mind was not given to error.

An exultation as hot as lust caused her blood to

pound in her ears. She was not wrong. The trace was

there.

Taking a deep breath, she directed an arrow-fine

mental shout across the light-years, nadirward, to the

26

Earth Prime FT & T Tower, high above the Grand

Canyon.

Alien spacecraft approaching our galaxy intercepting

at Auriga, she informed Jeff Raven.

Damia, control, damn it, girl. Control, Jeff replied,

keeping his own mental roar within tolerable bounds.

Sorry, Damia amended briefly without real contri-

tion. Her father was capable of deflecting her most

powerful thrust.

You are on a tight focus, I trust, with news like

this? he asked in an official tone.

Of course, I am. But my first duty is to report to

Earth Prime, isn't it?

Don't come over sweet innocence on me, missy.

Now, give your full report.

Can't give a full one. The alien aura is barely de-

tectible, four light-years galactic north-northeast. Sec-

tor 2. I arrowed in once I heard the trace and it

responded.

It responded—

The aura.

You reported a spacecraft.

Father, how else could anything cross the intergalac-

tic sea?

My dear child, in our galaxy, we have encountered

many odd life forms that did not require light or oxy-

gen to exist.

I say, spacecraft. I touched it.

Damia? and Jeff's tone was suspicious. Where are

you?

I was only resting, she temporized, suddenly aware

that she was doing something not quite circumspect.

Resting is permitted. But how far are you from the

Tower? Jeff insisted.

A light-year.

With only a T-6 Station as control? Supposing,

daughter, something happened to you? Supposing that

alien aura decided to home in on you ...

Oh, Dad, if I can't read more than an aura of

Them, and they haven't changed position or rate since

I informed you, they sure as hell don't pose any threat

to me.

She carefully suppressed a giggle at her father's ex-

27

asperation. She very seldom got the better of either her

father or Afra—she erased that name and went on—

but it didn't keep her from trying.

All right, missy, show me, Jeff demanded, still se-

vere.

She allowed him to join her mind completely as she

led him out beyond the blaze of stars. She led him di-

rectly to the alien trace. The aura was palpable but so

far away that only the extraordinary perception of two

powerful minds could sense it.

/ caught anticipation, curiosity, Jeff told his daughter

thoughtfully as he withdrew from the tight focus. And

caution, too. Whatever it is, is approaching our galaxy.

I shall maintain a watch, Damia volunteered, unable

to conceal her intense excitement at this momentous

event.

Not at any time personally endangering yourself,

Prime, Jeff abjured her, coloring the official concern

with personal.

No, of course not. But I'd like to borrow Larak to

maintain an augmented watch.

Larak's training T-3s to augment old Gut-man on

Altair. The old man sleeps most of the time but he's

the only Prime we have for that Sector until Eva's

older, Jeff replied. I'll send you Afra. He'd be better

anyhow.

Because Afra has already touched those aliens you

and mother routed above Deneb twenty-odd years ago?

Damia laughed, covering up her reaction to Afra's

coming with a jab at her father's recall.

Jeff chuckled amiably, giving her credit for a deep

perception.

Well, I'd rather wait until Larak's free. 1 can just

hear mother screaming at being deprived of Afra.

Damia, Jeff's tone crackled with disapproval. That

is an irrational, childish and insulting remark. Repair

your attitude. His tone altered. If you hadn't, at one

time or another, intimidated every T-2, -3 and -4 in

the Federated Worlds, I could send someone else—

And matchmake into the bargain? She tinged her

thoughts with derision, and then advised smugly. Your

dynastic plans will bear better fruit with Jeran. Only

don't let him settle for anything less than a T-4.

28

That was score two for her, she decided as she felt

her father's startled pause.

You haven't been eavesdropping again, have you,

Damia?

She parried that surprise with a quick. After Afra

reamed me for that with Larak? Not bloody likely.

Oh, it was he who stopped you? Your mother

thought it was Isthia.

The trouble with telepaths is sometimes they think

too much, she remarked acidly, infuriated afresh to

realize that her mother, also, knew of that incident.

Damia! Jeff's tone was unusually severe. Your

mother is the only person in the galaxy who has any

inkling of your problems ...

Then why did she hand me over to Isthia to raise?

Damia flashed back without thinking.

Because, my darling daughter, you were without

doubt the most infuriating, incalcitrant, unmanageable

four-year-old. Your mother was too ill with her preg-

nancy to keep track of you blithely teleporting all over

the system. 1 sent you away, not your mother. It was

not her decision and she resisted it every step of the

way. I've told you that before. But you two are so

bloody much alike ...

Damia snorted. She was not the least bit like her

mother. There was absolutely no resemblance between

them. She was Jeff's daughter from her slender height

to her black hair and vivid blue eyes. Ezro, yes, and

Larak, too, took after the Rowan. But not she. Of

course, Damia had to admit, her mother had an ex-

ceedingly strong and diverse psionic talent or she

wouldn't be Callisto Prime, but Damia was just as

strong, and she had the added advantage of that ca-

talystic ability as well.

Well, Jeff was saying in a milder tone, you'll see it

one day, my dear, and I, for one, shall be immensely

relieved. Your mother and 1 love you very much and

we're damned proud of the way you've taken over your

official responsibilities on Auriga. Professionally I have

no quarrel with you.

Damia basked in her father's praise. He didn't give

it lightly.

// you were only able to relate more to the people

29

around you, he continued, spoiling the compliment,

then added briskly, I'll send Afra on directest. I can

trust his impartiality, and to Damia's amazement, her

father chuckled.

She stabbed at his mind to find the basis for the

amusement, but met a blankness as her father had

turned his mind to some other problem.

"Impartiality? Afra?" The sound of her own voice

in the little personal capsule startled her.

What on earth was that supposed to mean? Why

would Afra's impartiality be trusted—above hers—in

identifying or evaluating an alien aura?

But Afra was to come to Auriga.

After he had broken contact with Damia, Jeff did

not immediately turn to other problems. He mulled

over the subtler aspects of that vivid contact with his

daughter. Damia's mind was as brilliant as Iota

Aurigae, and about as stable as any active star's sur-

face. He had caught the edges of her skillfully shielded

reactions to several of his references. He was reas-

sured to note growing evidence of emotional maturity,

except where her mother and Afra were concerned.

Damia had unwittingly suppressed what Jeff recalled

most vividly about the day he had sent her away to

Isthia on Betelgeuse for fostering. It had been Afra

the four-year-old Damia had clung to, cried for, not

her mother. Jeff sighed. The decision to send Damia

to Isthia had been one of the hardest he had ever had

to make, personally and professionally. But Rowan had

been extremely ill during her pregnancy with Larak,

and Damia, coming early into her extraordinary men-

tal powers, had made life pure hell for everyone in the

Raven household: teleporting herself—and anything

her fancies seized upon—indiscriminately around the

system. Only Afra had any control over her, and he

had had to be at Callisto Tower.

Under Isthia's calm, unruffled discipline, Damia had

learned to control her waywardness. She became sin-

cerely fond of Isthia. Strange that it was the Rowan

whom Damia still blamed for that separation.

Rowan, Jeff called out to Callisto Tower, and sensed

30

that his wife was resting as the interchanges on Cal-

Usto's cargo decks filled from Earthside.

Her mind touched his gladly, with a delight that be-

lied the fact they had breakfasted together a few hours

earlier.

Open to me. Damia's made an alien contact. See it.

Alien? Near Damia? The fleeting maternal concern

was quickly supplanted by professional curiosity as the

Rowan scanned Jeff's recent experience beyond Auriga.

Of course, Afra can go. But why on earth would

Damia think Afra couldn't be reassigned as you see fit.

He often has, but it's true I never get on as well with

other T-3's.

Too true, Jeff replied teasingly, to divert Rowan

from scanning recent conversations too deeply, but if I

didn't know Afra as well as 1 do ...

Jeff Raven, there has never been a single thought be-

tween me and Afra that—

Jeff laughed and she sputtered at him indignantly.

Actually, she continued, thoughtfully, I'd be very re-

lieved to have Afra with Damia. I know how lonely it

must be for her . ..

If she hadn't been so heavy-handed with every other

high T young male, she wouldn't be lonely, Jeff said

briskly, before Rowan got started on how she had

failed her daughter. Now, is Afra in gestalt with you?

Right here. I'll leave you two men alone.

Refusing to placate her ruffled feelings, Jeff caressed

her with a very affectionate thought before he felt

Afra's mind touch his.

Are you sure you're only T-3? he asked, a little sur-

prised at the firmness in the Capellan's touch.

I'm in gestalt, after all, Afra replied, good-naturedly.

And, in the course of twenty-odd years in the presence

of the fine Raven touch, even a lowly T-3 learns a

few tricks. From the expression on the Rowan's face,

I'd hazard that Damia is being discussed. What's she

up to now?

Damia had just returned to Auriga when she heard

the Rowan giving the Tower official warning of the

transmission of a personal capsule.

31

Afra? Damia exclaimed, reaching back along her

mother's touch to Callisto.

Damia! Afra said wamingly but too late.

Without waiting for the Rowan to flip the capsule

halfway to Auriga, Damia blithely drew the carrier

directly from Callisto, ignoring her mother's stunned

and angry reaction to such an abuse of protocol.

She regretted her impulsive action almost imme-

diately. But Afra's capsule was opening and he was

swinging himself over the edge. She could not have

missed his trenchant disapproval if she'd been a mere

T-15. He stood up, looking down at her, the same

aloof, contained man. Now why, Damia wondered ir-

ritably, had she expected Afra to change? Had she?

And would Afra condescend to comment on those

changes in her?

She rose from her own capsule, instinctively stand-

ing very erect as if to minimize the differences in their

heights. Tall as she was, inches taller than her mother,

she came only to Afra's shoulder.

"You will apologize to your mother, Damia," Afra

said, his unexpected tenor speaking voice a curious

echo of his quiet mental tone. "Isthia taught you bet-

ter manners even if we never could."

"You've been trying to lately, though, haven't you?"

The retort came out before she could stop it. Would

Afra always have this effect on her?

He cocked his head to one side and regarded her

steadily. She sent a swift probe which he parried eas-

ily.

"You were distressing Jenna unnecessarily, Damia.

She appealed to me as the nearest male of her Clan,

and because she did not wish Jeff to know of your in-

discretion."

"She chose well." Damia was so appalled at the

waspishness of her tone that she extended her hand

toward him apologetically.

She could feel him throw up his mental barriers

and, for a second, she wondered if he might refuse

what was, after all, the height of familiarity between

telepaths. But his'hand rose smoothly to clasp hers,

lightly, warmly, leaving her with the essential cool-

32

green-comfortable-security that was the physical/men-

tal double-touch of him.

Then, with a one-sided smile, he bowed to indicate

he was flattered but allowed a recollection of her as

a nude baby on a bath towel to cross his public mind.

She made a face at him, and substituted Larak's

son. Afra blandly put "her" back on the towel be-

side her nephew.

"All right," she laughed, "I'll behave."

"About time," he said with an affable grin, and

looked beyond her to their surroundings.

He had seen Auriga in others' mind-eyes but the

amber sunlight was easier on his eyes than Earth's

bright yellow, so that Auriga was not a dark world to

him, but a restful one. The sweet-scented breeze sweep-

ing down from the high snowy mountain range was

lightly moist and the atmosphere had a high oxygen

content, exhilarating him.

"It's a lovely world you have here, Damia."

She smiled up at him, her blue eyes brilliant under

the fringes of long black lashes.

"It's a lovely young vigorous world. Come see

where I live," and she led the way from the landing

stage to her dwelling.

The house perched on the high plateau above the

noisy metropolis that was Auriga's major city, and

Damia's Sector Headquarters. Its randomly sprawling

newness had a vitality which the planned order of

Earth lacked. Afra found the sight stimulating.

"It is, isn't it?" Damia agreed, following his sur-

face thought. Then she directed his mind to her day's

discovery, giving tha experience exactly as it had hap-

pened to her. "And the touch is unlike anything I've

ever met."

"You certainly didn't expect it to be familiar, did

you?" Afra asked in dry amusement.

"Just because they come from another galaxy

doesn't mean they can't be humanoid," she replied.

Afra snorted in disgust and went into her main liv-

ing room.

"I'll fix your favorite protein," she volunteered in

one of her mercurial shifts.

"Oh, don't go to any trouble for me."

33

"No trouble at all." Mischievously, she allowed him

to see her reaching for supplies from his home world

light-years away.

"Always the thoughtful hostess," he said, graciously

inclining his head. "Have you estimated the alien's ar-

rival?"

"I'll know better when I've had a chance to judge

their relative speed," she said. "A day or two would

give me some idea."

He watched her at the homey duties. Like most

T-ls, she enjoyed manual work and performed the

daily housekeeping herself, without relying on mechan-

ical services most households considered necessities.

In a few minutes she set before him a perfectly cooked

attractively served meal which he greeted perfunc-

torily.

"Can't I ever impress you?" she asked, half wistful,

half sharp.

"Why should you want to?" he asked, affecting mild

surprise. "I knew you from your first incoherent

thought."

"Familiarity breeds contempt, huh?"

"Contempt, no. Understanding, yes. Particularly at

our levels. And, of course, confusion, wherever you

are," Afra replied. "Very good, just the way I like it,"

he added appreciatively, indicating his dinner.

Damia made a face at him across the table, and

with a deliberate disregard for T- manners, reached a

portion of the sauce-steeped meat into her mouth with-

out spilling a drop. When Afra continued to ignore

her, she sighed and picked up her fork.

"Shall I take over the regular workload, Damia, and

leave you free for surveillance?"

"We don't have a heavy traffic right now. It's be-

tween harvests in this system, and manufacturing is

slow for the next few months. The usual amount of

tourists, though."

"How have you covered your absences with the

staff?"

"Just told them I've been resting. I'll account for

your presence as a preliminary survey for FT & T.

Right? As if any 'of those lamebrains could 'search'

me," she concluded contemptuously.

34

"So true," Afra replied, indicating in his public

mind his professional respect for her.

She was not deaf to the irony and was about to re-

ply hotly, but went back to eating rather than give

him further satisfaction.

It was unprecedented, this contact with sentient life

from what was probably another galaxy, yet for all

her capriciousness, Damia had not permitted a hint of

panic or her own inner excitement to escape. In that

she heeded one of the basic tenets of her position.

Panic enough was fomented within the complex Fed-

erated Worlds in the normal course of power struggles,

revolutions, ecological problems, and pioneer exigen-

cies. By common consent, instantaneous communica-

tions between planets no longer meant instant hysteria

of worlds unconcerned with the emergency. Federated

World Government handled the reports of all local dis-

putes which were, by law, reported to them by FT & T

Primes. Interstellar political or natural disasters were

not added to the emotional burdens already suffered

by populations. Primes exercised the option to disperse

or retain reports which might affect minorities within

their jurisdiction, but digests of all communications

were, by law, available on request.

Damia propped her chin in her hands and looked

earnestly at Afra across the table. She sighed heavily.

"You were right to call me to task for 'tasting' Larak

and Jenna. But I did want to know what it would be

like to be in love and then bring forth a baby."

"And . . . ?"

"Apart from the pain, I guess it's rewarding enough."

"You don't sound too sure."

Damia cocked her head and traced an involved pat-

tern on the table with her index finger.

"It must be different to do it yourself, no matter how

deeply you scan."

A trace thought behind her shield, called forth by

her remark, sent through Afra a bolt of terror which he

barely managed to contain. She was unconsciously cen-

soring, and it had to do with the alien aura and with

her own desire for the experience of motherhood. But

trace thought it was, and he had only that one-

millisecond impression, tantalizing, terrorizing.

3?

"Why, Afra, why?" Damia continued, unaware of

the reaction she had produced in him, her own mind

absorbed in self-pity. She launched herself physically

from the table in one lightning move, and stood at the

window wall, her back as expressive of her frustration

and bitterness as her mind. "Why am I a loner? The

Rowan found Jeff, but where, when will I find some-

one?"

"Damia, you've met every psionic prospect Talent

above Class 7 in the Nine-Star League."

"Them," she dismissed those candidates scornfully.

"Young Nicos, the T-5 working with Jeran on

Deneb, was mighty taken with you. Calm down a

bit—"

"Nicos!" Damia's eyes flashed blue fire. "That post-

adolescent mess! Why, it'd be five or six years before

he's even presentable."

Afra was no stranger to such dismissals. He'd heard

many since the time Damia had begun to be interested

in the opposite sex as a precocious adolescent. There

had been times when he wished he had followed his

own deep-hidden desire. But he had given a great deal

of thought to the variables, and knew that he could

only wait. He knew how hard it must be for Damia to

watch others pairing off, achieving the enviable total

accord that telepaths enjoyed, and for which she was

so eager. Her very brilliance and beauty caused

many otherwise willing mates to shy away. Usually,

she would talk herself out of her mood, but tonight

there was a new undercurrent that was dangerous in

its intensity.

"Is that why you so eagerly await the arrival of

the aliens?" Afra said in a soft drawl, deliberately

leaching all emotion out of his words. "On the off

chance they're biologically compatible? Do you envi-

sion your soul mate winging across the void to you?"

She whirled to face him, her eyes wide with rage.

"Don't you taunt me, Afra," she said in a hoarse

whisper.

He inclined his head in apology.

"Better get some sleep, Damia," he said gently,

and gave her a little mental push toward her bedroom.

"You're right. I am tired, Afra, and excited, and

36

silly. It's just . . . just that sometimes I feel like noth-

ing more than a useful mental stevedore: not a person

at all. Then this happens . . . and I ... I have the fan-

tastic chance to establish communication with alien

minds ..."

Again Afra caught the unmistakable and uncon-

scious suppression of a thought within the maelstrom

of her weariness.

Damia turned on her heel and left the room. Afra

watched the sunset turn the plateau a deep tangerine,

then diminish in the east. Brooding over the evening's

conversation, he waited until the roiling activity of

Damia's mind subsided into the even beat of sleep.

Then he, too, went to bed. Carefully, just as he was

on the edge of sleep, he reinforced his mental screens

so that none of his longing for her would escape. He

wondered, in that honest interval between conscious-

ness and dreaming, if he would have enough strength

left to cope with a third generation of Raven women.

The next day they initiated the new routine. Damia

handled the long-distance items first. Then after the

incoming workload had been sorted out and there

were no more demands on her talent, she departed in-

to space, to "rest," leaving Afra to deal with the re-

maining tasks.

Although the function of a Prime was complex, a

two-minute mental briefing by Damia supplied Afra

with the background of immediate problems and all

the procedures peculiar to that station. The memory

bank would give any additional information. When the

focal talents of the gestalt were exchanged, not even

one-half a beat of the pulse of the Aurigean Sector

Headquarters was missed. The allocation of duties

pleased Afra because it. would give him the oppor-

tunity to use the gestalt of the Station to reach Jeff

without Damia knowing. She would be too busy "reach-

ing" for the alien touch to be aware of Afra. The tem-

porary breach of her trust in him was offset by the

absolving knowledge of its necessity.

In terms of intergalactic distances, the aliens ap-

proached at a snail's pace: by interstellar references,

faster than the speed of light. A week passed and then

one evening Damia returned from her daily "rest"

37

bursting with news. She moved from the landing area

right into the living room, where Afra was lounging.

"I made individual contact," she cried. "And what

a mind!" She was so excited that she didn't notice the

flare of jealousy which Afra couldn't suppress. "And

what a surprise he got," she went on.

From the moment she had entered, Afra had known

that the mind was male.

"A Prime talent?" he asked, counterfeiting a show

of genuine interest.

"I can't assess it. He's so ... different," she ex-

claimed, her eyes shining and her mental aura daz-

zling with her success. "He fades and then returns.

The distance is immense, and there isn't much def-

inition in the thoughts. I can only reach the surface."

Damia threw herself onto the long couch. "I'm ex-

hausted. I shall have to sleep before I can reach Jeff

with the news. I don't dare use the station."

Afra agreed readily, waiting until she relaxed into

sleep. Ethics aside, he tried to reach this experience

in her mind below the emotional level, only to find

himself overwhelmed by the subjective. Damia was

treating herself to a high emotional kick! Afra was

afraid for her, with a fear deeper than any he had

ever touched personally or vicariously. Afra withdrew

troubled. She had better calm down and start acting

like a Prime when she woke, instead of a giddy girl.

If she didn't, he'd push the panic button himself.

After several hours' sleep, Damia's mental pyrotech-

nics were calmer. She "reached" Jeff with a profes-

sional report of the contact, only just a trifle high.

When she had finished broadcasting, Jeff got a private

thought to Afra but Afra could only confirm Damia's

report. He did not yet comment on his vague fore-

bodings.

The next day, Damia tossed off her necessary work

as fast as she could, then went into space. And Afra

waited as he had been waiting for Damia for years.

She returned so shining from the second encounter,

Afra had to clamp an icy hold over his mind.

The third morning, as Damia sat in the control

tower, she worked' with such haste Afra reprimanded

her. She corrected herself, gaily, making far too light

of her mistake, and then, eagerly, she propelled her-

self out toward the rendezvous. When she returned

that evening so tired that she reeled into the living

room, Afra took command.

"I'm going with you tomorrow, Damia," he said

firmly.

"What for?" She sat bolt upright to glare at him.

"You forget that I have a direct order from Earth

Prime to check the aura of these aliens. You've no

way of knowing this isn't a reinvasion by the same

entities that attacked Deneb twenty years ago."

"Sodan said they'd had no previous contact with

any sentients," she said, half angry.

"Sodan?"

"That is how he identifies himself," she said with

smug complacency. She lay back on the couch, smiling

up at Afra.

It disturbed him to know that this entity had a

name. It made the alien seem too human. Nor could

Afra quite reason away the tenderness with which

Damia spoke that name.

"Good enough," Afra said, with an indifference he

didn't feel. "However, you don't need to introduce

me formally. All I need is to check on the aura. I'll

know in an instant if there's any familiarity. I won't

jeopardize his confidence in your touch. He'll never

know I've been there." Afra yawned.

"Why are you tired?"

"I've been stevedoring all day," he said with a ma-

licious grin.

The remark had the desired effect of infuriating

Damia. The very fact that he could so easily divert

her conclusively proved to Afra that her emotions

were unhealthily involved. It no longer mattered

whether this Sodan was of the race that Jeff and the

Rowan had fought. He was a menace in himself.

Somehow Afra got through the evening without a

hint of his inner absorption spilling over. Damia, re-

living the success of her day, wasn't listening to any-

thing but her own thoughts.

The next day, after the necessary work was com-

pleted, Damia and Afra both took to their personal

capsules. Afra followed Damia's thrust and held him-

self silently as she reached the area where she could

touch the aura of Sodan. Damia then linked Afra

and carried his mind to the alien ship. As soon as the

alien touch impinged on Afra's awareness, much was

suddenly clear to him: much seen, and worse, much

unseen.

What Damia could not, would not, or did not see

justified Afra's nagging presentiment of danger. Noth-

ing out of Sedan's mind was visible: and nothing be-

yond his public mind was touchable. The alien had a

very powerful brain. As a quiescent eavesdropper,

Afra could not probe, but he widened his own sensi-

tivity to its limit and the impressions he received were

as unreassuring as his increasingly stronger intuition

of disaster.

It was patent that this Sodan was not of the pre-

vious invasion species: that he had been traveling

for an unspecifiable length of time far in excess of

two Earth decades.

It would not occur to Damia that Afra would lin-

ger once he had established his facts. But Afra did

linger, discovering other disturbing things. Sedan's

mind, undeniably brilliant, was nevertheless aug-

mented. Afra couldn't perceive whether Sodan was

the focus for other minds on the ship or in gestalt with

the ship's power source. Straining to his limit without

revealing himself, Afra tried to pierce the visual

screen or, at least, the aural one. All he received was

a low stereo babble of mechanical activity, and the

bum of heavy elements.

Defeated, Afra withdrew, leaving Sodan and Damia

to exchange thoughts that he had to admit were the

ploys of courtship. He returned to Auriga and lay in

the Tower couch, summoning up the energy to call.

Jeff Raven had moved young Larak nearer to Auriga

to facilitate sub-rosa communications.

It was not, Afra assured himself, that Damia had

deliberately hidden anything in her reports to him-

self or to Jeff: she was unaware that her usually keen

perceptions were fuddled and distorted by her emo-

tional involvement:^ she who had prided herself on

her ability to assess dispassionately any emotionally

charged incident.

40

Larak, Afra called, drawing heavily on the gestalt

and projecting his own mental/physical concept of

Larak to aid him in reaching the mind.

Man, you're beat, Larak came back, sharp, clear

green.

Larak, relay back to Jeff that this Sodan...

It's got a name?

It's got more than that and Damia is responding on

a very high emotional level, Afra sighed heavily. Re-

lay back to Jeff that I want him and the Rowan to re-

main on call at all times to me. I consider this an

emergency. Get yourself, pushed out here as soon as

you can relay that message. I'll need you here so we

can get through to Prime when we need to without

going through Station or Damia.

Coming, Larak responded crisply.

Afra leaned back in the couch and flicked off the

generators, thanking the paradox that allowed Damia

to run a Station on low T ratings; she would be un-

able to catch what he had just transmitted.

He would have given much to have been able to

handle the Sodan mind by himself, without having to

call on other Primes. All through Damia's life, Afra

had been able to cope with her mercurial tempers and

to direct her restless energies. And though his recent

complete withdrawal from her had been painfully

calculated, it meant that now he could neither fur-

ther his cause, nor divert Damia from her headlong

immersion in romance. Nor was he able to chal-

lenge Sodan and remove that competition.

"Galloping gronites, you look like a rough ride on

a long ellipse comet," was Larak's cheery greeting

as he bounced into the Tower.

"Your description is remarkably apt," Afra replied

grimly, and gripped Larak's shoulder to convey the

one impression he had not included in the broadcast.

Love has touched our fair sister at last, huW. Larak

murmured sympathetically. And with a total alien.

A very dangerous alien, unfortunately, Afra added.

"There is fissionable material aboard, mighty heavy

stuff for a ship bound on an ostensibly peaceful ex-

ploratory mission. Heavy enough to suspect whoever

41

gave Sodan his mission knew our civilization is on an

advanced level."

"More's the pity," Larak agreed thoughtfully, perch-

ing on the edge of the console. "Could you sense any

communications with his own people?"

"Tremendous power source in the ship. Tremen-

dous, but by the mighty atom, Larak, you can't get

past the public mind. Anyhow, I couldn't. And Damia

hasn't." Afra rose, paced restlessly back and forth in

the narrow Tower.

"Then it's possible he has informed them of the

contact?"

"I can't tell."

Larak held Afra's glance, and then sighed.

"It'll be a shame to have to destroy him," he said

slowly.

"Ha! We'll be lucky if we can," Afra replied. "Oh,

yes, Larak, that mind is the equal, if not the superior,

of Damia's. It could destroy ... all of us."

"Then we must act quickly before any suspicion

leaks to Damia," Larak said in sudden resolution.

Together the two flicked on the generators and so-

berly presented to Jeff and the Rowan the action they

deemed advisable.

But are we sure the evasions are deliberate? Maybe

this alien is exercising caution? I would if I met a mind

in outer space, the Rowan said in argument. She met

absolute resistance to her position. Why can't we de-

stroy him then? Why must we ask her to do it? She

spoke as Damia's mother, not Callisto Prime.

For one thing, we can't reach that far without her.

Nor can we draw, as Damia can, without prearrange-

ment on other Talent reserves, Jeff replied. We'll

have to show her how dangerous Sodan is, he added,

disliking this as much as any of them.

Each day Damia returns to Auriga a little more tired

than the previous one, Afra said slowly. I suspect that

he realized he must drain her before she suspects his

intentions.

Playing with her? The Rowan was angry now.

Don't be silly, mother, Larak said derisively.

Not in that sense. Rowan, Afra answered her. ;

42

suspect Damia was as much a surprise to him as he

has been to her.

Hurry, Larak cautioned him. She's returning. And

boy, is she exhausted!

Afra suppressed a feeling of annoyance that the cu-

rious childhood link between Damia and Larak gave

him the edge in sensing Damia's return. He turned his

mind to the debate, as decision and strategy were set-

tled in the moment before Damia's capsule landed

back on Auriga.

"Larak. I thought I felt you near," she cried hap-

pily as she saw her brother, the picture of casual re-

laxation, perched on the edge of the console.

"Just thought? You usually know," he said, crow-

ing with boyish delight. "This alien sure has got you

wrapped up and tied like a present. See how the

mighty have fallen."

When Damia flushed, Larak roared with laughter.

"I've got to meet this guy," he said.

"I've always felt that I was building experience and

training for one special reason," Damia said, her eyes

shining, "and now I know what it is!"

"The whole Sector will know in a moment if you

don't lower your 'voice,'" Afra said, sharply, to give

Larak a chance to control the shock the boy was feel-

ing as he witnessed Damia's exultation.

Resentfully, Damia dampered her emotional out-

pouring.

"I suppose you arrived with an appetite like a

mule," she said sourly.

Larak's face was a study in innocent hurt.

"I'm a growing boy, and while you're out courting,

Afra's getting overworked, and leaner and hungrier."

Damia looked guiltily at Afra.

"You do look tired," she said with concern. "Let's

all push over to the house and have dinner. Larak,

why are you here?"

"Oh, Dad wants Afra to pinch-hit on Procyon. Two

high T's are down with one of the local viruses and

traffic is backing up. Say, what's this alien ship like?

Crew or full automation for a void trek?"

Her hand poised over the cooking dials, Damia

hesitated. She looked at her brother blankly.

43

"Oh, you men are all alike. Details, details!"

"Well, sure," Larak replied. "But if details like that

bore you, they fascinate me. I'll ask him myself."

"You can't reach that far!"

"I planned to hop a ride with you tomorrow."

Damia hesitated, looking for assistance from Afra,

who shrugged noncommittally.

"Oh, for glory's sake, Damia. This is no time to be

coy," her brother said.

"I'm not being coy!" she exploded. "It's just that...

just that..."

"Who're you kidding?" Larak wanted to know, let-

ting his temper rise with hers. "You're gone on this

guy, and how do you know he's even anything re-

sembling a man?"

"His is a true mind, brilliant and powerful," she

said haughtily.

"That's great for fireside chats, but no damned

good in bed."

Damia reddened, half with fury and indignation,

and half with sudden virginal embarrassment at her

brother's accurate thrust.

"You're insufferable. If it weren't for me, we

wouldn't have been warned at all."

"Warned?" Afra leapt on the choice of word. Per-

haps she was not as completely bedazzled as they'd

thought.

"Of this momentous meeting," she went on, obliv-

ious to the implication. "You've touched him, Afra.

Don't you agree?"

"That it's a brilliant mind? Yes," and Afra nodded

judiciously.

Damia caught his sour undertone. "Oh, you . . .

you're jealous, that's all." And then she frowned, look-

ing at Afra with sudden suspicion.

"Hey, you're letting my dinner bum," Larak said,

pointing.

"And you say that women gossip," Damia exclaimed,

quickly lifting two pans from the heat. "It's a mercy

nothing is burned."

They ate in strained silence, Larak and Afra con-

centrating hard to'maintain a convincing surface of

thought. They hardly needed to because Damia

44

went off into her own private reverie, ignoring them

completely.

"You may be infatuated with this Sodan," Larak

said, "but it doesn't affect your cooking. Doesn't even

taste scorched."

Too much a woman not to be pleased by even a

brother's praise, Damia relaxed.

"He isn't an advance scout for a second invasion

force, I gather," Larak addressed Afra.

"No. In the very brief touch I had," Afra replied

quickly, "he's been traveling much longer than

twenty years."

Larak whistled appreciatively, just as if he didn't

know this already.

"Did you take a look around at the details my

sweet sister is uninterested in?" he asked.

"No. There were no obvious visual images and I

was only concerned with recognition."

"He has eyes," Damia replied loyally. "We've dis-

cussed the concept of sight. You must take into con-

sideration that he is also the controller of the ship, and

the drain on his energies reaching me and managing

his crew and ship must be enormous. It certainly is

on me."

"Yeah. You need your beauty sleep—bad," said

Larak.

"I'd like to see you do half as well."

"Children! Cut it out!" Afra intervened authorita-

tively.

Larak and Damia glared at each other, but the long

habit of obeying Afra held.

"Both of you, get to bed," he added. "Snarling

at each other in the worst example of sibling rivalry

I've seen since you returned from Isthia's an opinion-

ated ten-year-old. Makes me wonder how your father

dared put you in as Aurigan Prime."

"If there's anything that annoys me more than

Larak acting fraternal, it's you, Afra, making like the

older generation." She spoke coolly, but her flare of

temper had subsided.

Afra shrugged, relieved that his diversion had

worked before Larak inadvertently showed Damia

why he was probing these particular areas.

T

"At least, this generation's representative has sense

enough to go to bed when he's out on his feet," he

muttered. As he passed Larak, the boy winked.

The next morning at breakfast, no one looked as if

he had slept well. Afra kept a surface rumble going in

his mind to mask both tension and anxiety. Larak de-

livered a running monologue on his son. Damia was

also closely shielding. When they reached the Tower,

Damia took the most cursory glance at Station busi-

ness, and said "I'll take you out now, Larak."

"Fine. Dad wants Afra back at Callisto tonight."

Damia hesitated. "Afra had better come along, then,

for a second look around." She looked challengingly at

Afra, who shrugged.

This was, however, unexpected luck. Afra had

thought he might have to follow Larak and Damia sur-

reptitiously. He switched the boosters up to the top,

and signaled Damia and Larak to get into their cap-

sules. While they did so, he called Jeff and the Rowan

to stand by, then settled into his own shell, reassured

by their sustaining presence in his mind.

Is there any possible chance we're wrong about

Sedan's intentions, or the depth of Damia's emotional

commitment? pleaded the Rowan.

Less and less, Afra told her, grimly. We'll know

soon for certain. Larak needled her last night. She'll

have to check to make sure he's wrong.

Then he touched Damia and Larak, and all three

went the mere half-light further to the ship and

Sodan.

You have rested well and are strong today, was the

cool greeting after an instant's welcoming flash.

Damia instinctively covered against the discovery of

her co-riders, but the greeting stuck in her mind.

There was the hint that Sodan did not wish her so

strong, and yet a tinge of relief colored that fleck of

thought.

You come nearer to physical contact with us every

day, she began.

Us? Sodan queried.

My planet, my people ... me.

I'm only interested in you, he replied.

46

But my people will be interested in you, she parried

unable to censor from Afra and Larak the pleasure

she felt in his compliment.

There are many people on your planets? he asked.

Planet.

At least, Afra concluded, she remembered to be

politically discreet.

Doesn't your sun have several life-supporting sat-

ellites?

That is why I must know more about your physical

requirements. Damia replied smoothly. After all, my

home world may not have the proper atmosphere . . .

My physical wants are attended to, Sodan replied

coldly, with a slight emphasis on the second word.

It was the Rowan who caught the infinitesimal

break in his shielding, and simultaneously all four

minds stabbed at the area to lay it bare. Sodan, torn

by this powerful invasion, lashed back in self-defense

with a vicious blow at Damia, whom he thought per-

petrated the attack.

No, no! Not I, Sodan, she screamed. Larak, what

are you doing?

Afra struggled frantically to become the focus of the

other minds, only to find himself caught in Larak's

mind with the Rowan and Jeff, as the curious bond be-

tween brother and sister snapped into effect.

He must be destroyed before he can destroy you,

Damia, the Larak-focus said, tinging its inexorable de-

cision with the regret it felt.

No! I love him. His mind is so brilliant, cried Damia,

pitting her own strength against her peers to defend

her lover. The Larak-focus staggered back, unable to

prosecute and attack against such a combination.

Damia, he is only a mind!

Stunned, Damia hestitated, and the Larak-focus

plunged forward again, battering against the shielded

Sodan.

Only mind? She gasped, begging Sodan to deny it.

Why no vision? Why no sound? He is only a brain,

devoid of all except remembered emotion. He is bound

here to destroy. Feel the heavy stuff in the ship? Is

that customary for a peaceful scouting expedition?

47

You're against me, against me. No one -wants me

to be happy, cried Damia, suddenly aware, terribly

aware of her loving blindness. He loves me. I love

him.

If he has nothing to hide, he will let you see, the

Larak-focus continued implacably.

Let me see you, Sodan. Damia was pleading, des-

perately, hopefully.

For what seemed an eternity, Sodan hesitated.

// / could, I would, he said softly and with honest

regret.

Like a vengeful sword, her mind, freed from the

infatuation Sodan had artfully fostered, gathered and

sprang with the others to destroy the aggressor. For

Damia now understood the purpose behind Sedan's

impersonality. The battle was waged in the tremendous

space between two heartbeats. Sodan, his mind forti-

fied by the nuclear power of his ship, was stronger than

their conservative estimates. And almost negligently,

he held the Larak-focus at bay, his mind laughing

at what he considered their puny efforts.

Then Damia's pressure increased as she stripped

away the veil of her romantic illusions to align her-

self with the Larak-focus to defend her Sector. Sodan

called for more power within himself. The scorching

blaze that fed through Damia's growing catalystic mind

flashed through and stripped him bare, lashing beyond

to trigger the atoms of the ship into instability. Invol-

untarily, and for a microsecond, Sedan's past nickered.

Once, generations ago, embodied, he had breathed

an alien air, walked an alien road; until his brain had

been chosen to undertake the incredible enterprise of

crossing the galactic rift.

In my fashion have I loved you, he cried to Damia

as he felt her reach the fuel mass. But you never loved

me, he added with intense surprise as her mind, vul-

nerable in the instant of that massive thrust, was open

to him. And he shall not have you either!

With his last strength, Sodan sent out one final jeal-

ous mental blast just as the ship exploded.

Frantically, even as she felt herself blacking out

from the tremendous drain on her resources, Damia

tried to deflect that blow.

. As a kingpin flattens a row of its fellows, so Sedan's

blast, striking through the Larak-focus, caused a wave

of mental agony to roll backward to Auriga where Sta-

tion personnel grabbed at their skulls in anguish, to

Earth and Callisto where T-ratings cringed in pain,

and on to Deneb and even Altair. Horrified crews

found Jeffrey Raven and the Rowan unconscious in

their Tower couches. Jeran, head aching, was hastily

summoned, for FT & T command devolved to him in

the emergency. Jeran took time out to assure himself

that with sufficient rest his parents would recover, then

he informed the Federated World Government of the

event. He was requested to proceed with the defensive

fleet to Auriga.

Isthia appeared at Earth Headquarters at his urgent

bidding and, with her help, he was able to extract

gently from Jeff's taxed mind the position of the three

personal shells.

As they approached the orbit, they could "hear"

nothing.

It is possible, Isthia said hopefully as they could find

no discernible aura, that all three have gone into very

deep shock. The power in Damia's final thrust!

Damia cannot be dead, Jeran tried to convince him-

self. Sodan may have been powerful, but is there a

T-rating in the galaxy who didn't feel her hit him?

We cannot lose her! He had already resigned himself

to other losses.

"Ah!" Isthia gave a sharp gasp. 7 have them.

Jeran reached with her, signaling the flagship's T-3

to assist.

"She's alive," he cried in relief. / thought I felt

them all die.

"Afra lives, too, but he's very faint. Larak . . ." and

Isthia's voice faded. Why did the focus have to snap

through him?

They brought Afra's capsule in first, and Jeran, who

was at the head as the shell was opened, pressed fear-

ful hands against the man's temples. Afra's body was

drawn up in the fetal position of complete withdrawal.

"He's badly hurt, Isthia. God, will we save him?

Should we, if he'll be psionically numb for the rest of

his life?"

Isthia moved his hands aside, and applied her own,

her touch naturally more delicate than Jeran's.

"I can't tell more than that he wants to die. The

spark of life is very faint." She gave rapid mental or-

ders to the medics standing by so that, within seconds,

Afra's body was receiving emergency injections to

stimulate the failing life signs.

Divorce your emotions Jeran, Isthia told him

sharply. Help me reach him. He wants to die. We

must pull him back.

Jeran shook himself and, holding his breath, placed

his hands above Isthia's on Afra's head.

Together they probed, ignoring the mental anguish

they experienced at having to touch so torn a mind.

Uppermost was the thought that both Larak and Afra

had shared: Sodan striking at them and Damia, ex-

hausted, trying to block it.

He'll kill her, he'll kill her, was the repeated cry of

terror, a curious melding of both Larak and Afra,

swirling in the pain of Afra's mind. No, Damia. Don't

try. I waited too long. No, Damia. Then the enigmatic

sequence was repeated.

Damia lives, Damia lives, Jeran and Isthia told him.

Damia lives, damia lives damia lives, whispered the

essence of Afra.

Isthia caught Jeran's eyes with surprised confusion.

Hopeful now, they reinforced the will to live.

Afra, Damia lives. She rests. She waits for you,

Isthia murmured soothingly.

Sleep, Afra, rest. Damia lives, Jeran urged.

Damia lives? Damia lives!

With a shudder, Afra's body untwisted from the

fetal curl. For one terrifying moment, he was still.

Gasping, Isthia dipped way down into the suddenly

tranquil mind only to be reassured that Afra had

merely slipped into deep sleep.

"He's very badly hurt, Jeran," Isthia admitted sadly

as they watched the medics wheel Afra away to a

tightly shielded room.

They opened Damia's capsule together. She lay on

her side, looking very young, but there were marks

that showed the effects of that meeting of minds. She

had bitten through her underlip and a trickle of blood

50

ran in a scarlet line across her cheek. Her fingernails

had cut into her palms when she had clenched her fists

and her face was streaked with tears.

With infinite compassion, Isthia turned the girl onto

her back and laid both her hands lightly on Damia's

temples.

I can't reach them. I can't get there in time. I hurt.

I've got to try. I hurt. Oh, will I lose them both?

Isthia could hear the words faintly, deep in the tired

mind.

With a sigh of relief, Isthia straightened.

Is she badly burned? Jeran asked impatiently, hav-

ing waited outside Isthia's contact but aware it had

been made.

Not burned but deeply hurt on several levels.

Damia's been cut down to size, Isthia remarked rue-

fully, the terrible way only the very bright and confi-

dent are. She'll never forget that she underestimated

Sedan's potential because she became infatuated with

him.

For all of that, if she hadn't touched him first, where

would we be with such a menace zeroing from space?

Isthia waved that aside as of incidental importance.

That won't matter to Damia, Jeran. Her initial lapse

of judgment caused Larak's death and has seriously

injured Afra.

Merciful God, Isthia, once the attack on Sodan be-

gan, nothing could have saved Larak, no matter where

he was in the focus-mind. Death is far kinder than be-

ing burned out. She's not to blame.

Isthia shook her head sadly. No, she isn't to blame

and I hope it never occurs to her that, in the crisis,

instinct overrode reason and it was Afra she struggled

to save.

Afra? What in hell? asked Jeran before he followed

Isthia's thought to its source. So that's why Sodan struck

to kill. He was after Afra.

He stepped back as Isthia signaled to the medics to

administer deep-sleep drugs and intravenous nourish-

ment to Damia.

With great reluctance they turned to Larak's silent

shell. Because they had to, they opened it and saw

with some little relief that there was no mark of his

?1

passing on the young face. A curiously surprised smile

lingered on his lips.

Isthia turned away in tears and Jeran, too numb to

display his own sorrow, put his arm around her to

lead her away.

"Sir," the captain of the ship said respectfully when

they entered the control room, "we have the location

of the alien ship debris. Permission to recover frag-

ments?"

"Permission granted. Isthia and I will return to

the Tower."

"Very good, sir," the captain said, and stiffened to

a rigid attention. The unashamed tears in his eyes

and his very crisp salute expressed wordlessly his pride,

his sympathy, and his sorrow.

Struggling against a will determined to keep her

asleep, Damia fought her way to semi-consciousness.

"I can't keep her under. She's resisting," a remote

voice called to someone.

As distant as the sound was, like a far echo in a

subterranean cavern, each syllable fell like a hammer

on her exposed nerves. Sobbing, Damia struggled for

consciousness, sanity, and a release from her agony.

She couldn't seem to trigger the reflexes that would

divert pain, and an effort to call Afra to help her met

with not only the resistance of increased agony but a

vast blankness. Her mind was as stiff as iron, holding

each thought firmly to it as though magnetized.

"Damia, do not reach. Do not use your mind," a

voice said in her ear. The sound was like a blessing and

the reassurance it gave her wavering sanity was rein-

forced by the touch of ... Isthia's hands on hers.

Damia focused her eyes on the woman's face and

clutched Isthia's hands to her temples in an uncon-

scious plea for relief of pain.

"What happened? Why can't I control my head?"

cried Damia, tears of weakness streaming down her

face.

"You overreached yourself, destroying Sodan,"

Isthia said.

"I can't remember," Damia groaned, blinking away

the tears so she could at least see clearly.

52

"Every rating in FT & T does."

"Oh, my head. It's all a blank and there's some-

thing I have got to do and I can't remember what it

is."

"You will, you will. But you're very tired, dear,"

Isthia said crooningly as she stroked her forehead with

cool hands. Each caress seemed to lessen the terrible

pain.

Damia felt the coolness of an injection pop into her

arm.

"I'm putting you back to sleep, Damia. We're very

proud of you but you must allow your mind to heal in

sleep."

" 'Great nature's second course, that knits the rav-

elled 'sleeve of care.' What's knitting, Isthia? I've never

known," Damia heard herself babbling with a cool

scalliony taste in her throat as the drug spread.

Again, after what seemed no passage of time at all,

Damia was inexorably forced to consciousness by

her indefinable but relentless need.

"I can't understand it," came Isthia's voice. This

time it did not reverberate across Damia's pained mind

like tympany in a small room. "I gave her enough to

put a city to sleep."

"She's worrying at something and probably won't

rest until she's resolved it. Let's wake her up and get

the agony over."

Damia forced her mind to concentrate on identify-

ing the second voice. With a grateful smile she la-

belled it "Jeff." She felt her face gently slapped and,

opening her eyes, saw Jeff's face swimming out of

the blurred mass about her.

"Jeff," she pleaded, not because he had slapped

her but because she had to make him understand.

"Dear Damia," he said with such loving pride she

almost lost the tenuous thought she tried to hold

from him.

Her body strained with the effort to reach out only

a few inches a mind that once had blithely coursed

light-years, but she soon managed to communicate her

crime.

/ burned out Larak and Afra. I killed them. I linked

?3

to the Larak-focus and killed them to destroy Sodan.

I saved myself and killed them.

Behind Jeff she heard Rowan's cry and Isthia's ex-

clamation.

"No, no," Jeff said gently, shaking his head. He

placed her hands on his forehead to let her feel the

honesty of his denial. "In the first place, you couldn't.

You don't use others. You sort of shift gears into high

speed to make other minds work on a higher level. You

drew power from the Larak-focus to destroy Sodan,

yes. But the killing thrust was yours, Damia; you

were the only one capable of doing it. And every

T-rating in the Federated Worlds will vouch for that.

Your touch, my dear, is indescribable. Further, with-

out you to throw us into high gear, Sodan could have

destroyed every Prime in FT & T."

Damia heard an approving, admiring murmur from

Rowan.

"Will my touch come back? I can't feel anything,"

and in spite of her control Damia's chin quivered and

she started to sob with fear.

"Of course it'll come back, dear," said the Rowan,

who elbowed Jeff aside to kneel by her daughter and

stroke her hair tenderly.

"You'd better go knit some more sleeves of ravelled

care," Isthia suggested with therapeutic asperity. "You

knit like this," and Isthia inserted a visual demonstra-

tion of the technique of knitting into Damia's mind. It

was an adroit change of subject, but Damia, with a

flash return of perception, saw the three were evading

her.

"I must be told what has happened," she demanded

imperiously. A wisp of memory nagged at her and she

caught it. "I remember. Sodan made one last thrust."

She closed her eyes against that recall, remembering

too, that she had tried to intercept it and, "Larak's

dead," she said in a flat voice. "And Afra. I couldn't

shield in time."

"Afra lives," the Rowan said.

"But Larak? Why Larak?" Damia demanded, des-

perately striving to touch what she felt they must still be

hiding from her.,

"Larak was the focus," Rowan said softly, knowing,

54

too, that Damia would never absolve herself of her

brother's death. "Afra was supposed to be the focus,

being the experienced mind, but the old bond between

you and Larak snapped into effect. You tried to shield

Larak, but his mind was too unskilled to draw help

from you. Jeff and I felt it because we were part of the

focus, too, and we tried to help divert it. We could

cushion only Afra in time. Sedan's was a very power-

ful mind."

Damia looked from her mother to her father and

knew that that much was true. But another reservation

hovered in their eyes...

"You're still hiding something," she insisted, fighting

with exhaustion. "Where's Afra?"

"Okay, skeptic," Jeff said, lifting her into his arms.

"Though why his snores haven't kept you awake, I

don't know."

He carried her down the hall. Pausing at an open

door, he swung her around so she could see into the

room. A night light hung over the bed, illuminating

Afra's quiet face, deeply lined with fatigue and pain.

Denying even the physical evidence, Damia reached

out, touching just enough for reassurance the pained

mental rumble that meant Afra still inhabited his body.

"Damia, don't do that again," Jeff said, carrying her

back to her room.

"I won't but I had to," she replied, her head bal-

looning with agony.

"And we'll see you don't again until you're well

enough. Out you go, missy," and she slid into black-

ness.

An insistent whisper nibbled at the corners of her

awareness and roused Damia from restoring sleep.

Cringing in anticipation of the return of pain, she was

mildly surprised to feel only the faintest discomfort.

Experimentally, Damia pushed a depressant on the

ache and that, too, disappeared. Unutterably pleased

by her success, she sat up in bed. It was night and she

was in her family's home. She stretched until a cramp

caught her in the side.

Heavens, hasn't anyone moved me in months? she

asked herself, noting that her mental tone was firm. She

5?

lay back in bed, deliberating. Poor Damia, she said in a

self-derisive tone, ever since that encounter with that

dreadful mind-alien, she's been nothing but a T-4, T-9?

T-3? Damia tried out the different grades for size and

then discarded them all, along with her histrionics.

You idiot, you'll never know till you try.

Tentatively, without apparent effort, she reached out

and counted the pulses of three ... no four, sleepers.

Afra's was the faint one. But, Damia realized in calm

triumph, it was there. Which brought her face to face

with the second fact.

She slid from her bed to stand by the window. Be-

yond the lawn of evergrass, beyond the little lake, to

the copse of evergreens her glance traveled. And

stopped. Instinct told her that Larak was buried there

and the thought of Larak buried and his touch for-

ever gone broke her. She wept in loneliness, biting her

knuckles and pressing her arms tightly into her breasts

to muffle the sound of her mourning.

Out of the night, out of the stillness, the whisper

tugged at her again. She stifled her tears to listen, try-

ing to identify that sliver of sound. It faded before she

caught it.

Resolutely now, she laid her sorrow gently in her

deepest soul, a part of her but apart forever. No matter

what Jeff and Rowan said, she had caused Larak's

death and maimed Afra. Had she been less preoc-

cupied, less self-centered, she would not have been so

dazzled by the fancy that Sodan was her Prince Charm-

ing, her knight in cylindrical armor.

Such a pitiful thing she was: a spoiled, rotten-hearted

child, demanding a new toy to dispel boredom when all

the time .. .

The whisper again, fainter, surer. With a startled cry

of joy, Damia whirled from her room, running on light

feet down the hall. Catching at the door frame to brake

her headlong flight, she hesitated on the threshold of

Afra's room.

She caught her breath as she realized that Afra was

sitting up. He was looking at her with a smile of disbe-

lief on his face.

"You've been calling me," she whispered, half-

questioning, half-stating.

56

"In a lame-brained way," he replied. "I can't seem

to reach beyond the edge of the bed."

"Don't try. It hurts," she said quickly, stepping into

the room to pause shyly at the foot of the bed.

Afra grimaced, rubbing his forehead. "I know it hurts

but I can't seem to find any balance in my skull," he

confessed, his voice uneven, worried.

"May I?" she asked formally, unexpectedly timid

with him.

Closing his eyes, Afra nodded.

Sitting down cautiously, Damia lightly laid her fin-

gertips to his temples, and touched his mind as deli-

cately as she knew how. Afra stiffened with pain and

Damia quickly established a block, spreading it over

the damaged edges. Resolutely, regardless of the cost

to her own recent recovery, she drew away the pain,

laying in the tender areas a healing mental anesthesia.

Jealousy, she noticed someone else had been doing the

same thing.

Isthia... has... a... delicate ... touch... too. He

sent the thought carefully, slowly.

"Oh, Afra," Damia cried for the agony the simple

thought cost him, "You aren't burned out. You won't

be numb. I won't let you be. Together we can be just as

powerful as ever."

Afra leaned forward, his face close to hers, his yellow

eyes blazing.

"Together, Damia?" he asked in a low intense voice

as he searched her face.

Her fingers plucking shyly and nervously at his

blanket, Damia could not look away from an Afra who

had altered disturbingly. Damia tried to comprehend

the startling change. Unable to resort to a mental touch,

she saw Afra for the first time with only physical sight.

And he was suddenly a very different man. A man!

That was it. He was so excessively masculine.

How could she have blundered around so, looking

for a mind that was superior to hers, completely over-

looking the fact that a woman's most important func-

tion in life begins with physical domination?

"Damia—speechless?" Afra teased her, his voice

tender.

She nodded violently as she felt his warm fingers

?7

closing around her nervous hand. Immediately she ex-

perienced a profoundly sensual empathy.

"Why did you wait so long, knowing that I needed

you?" The words burst from her.

With a low triumphant laugh, Afra pulled her into

his arms, cradling her body against his and settling her

head in the crook of his arm.

"Familiarity breeds contempt?" he asked, mocking

her gently with her own words.

"And how could you ... a T-3 . . . manage

to mask..." she went on, growing indignant.

"Familiarity also bred certain skills."

"But you were always so aloof and reserved. And

Mother..."

"Your mother was no more for me than Sodan was

for you," Afra interrupted her, his eyes stern as she

stared up at him, shaken by his harsh voice.

His expression altered again, his arms tightened con-

vulsively as he bent his head and kissed her with an

urgent, lusty eagerness.

"Sodan may have loved you, in his fashion, Damia,"

Afra's voice said in her ear, "but mine will be far more

satisfying for you."

Trembling and ready, Damia opened her mind to

Afra without a single reservation. Their lips met again

as Afra held her tightly in what would shortly be far

more than a mere meeting of minds.

"Daughter" and "Dull Drums" were specifically

slanted for the young adult market, but the original

yam concerning Nora Fenn and the futuristic uni-

versity system is far, far out.

I had submitted a story called "A Pocket to Mend"

at the Pennsylvania Milford SF Writers' Conference,

chaired by Damon Knight and Kate Wilhelm. It was

savaged by the assembled writers as sentimental, im-

possible, and stupid! And after I had the opportunity

to try to explain my intentions, I was told that I had

done all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.

They suggested I go home and really think the basic

idea through. From the original premise I retained the

term "Wendy," meaning a girl with tolerance and un-

derstanding (in my story, training), who acts as house-

mother to and bears the children of men with homo-

sexual proclivities.

I had enough homosexual male friends—even be-

fore the Gay Liberation developed—who were bitter

that they could not adopt children because of their

sexual preferences. I have never felt capable of writing

a full-length novel about this situation as it should

be written. So only these three stories exist, and they

involve a futuristic society in which all citizens may

have a "legal" child.

"Changeling" has never before been published. This

story deals with one aspect of the "Wendy" theme.

I wrote it originally in response to Harlan Ellison's

request for a story for his Dangerous Visions anthol-

ogy. Frankly, I think this one has a far more dangerous

vision than "The Bones Do Lie," the story Harlan

finally accepted.

?9

T

Daughter

THE MOMENT HER FATHER BEGAN TO YELL AT

her twin brother Nick, Nora Fenn edged toward the

door of the Complex office. George Fenn's anger al-

ways seemed to expand in direct proportion to the

number of witnesses. She knew it humiliated Nick to

be harangued in front of anyone, and this time there

was absolutely nothing she could say in Nick's de-

fense. Why hadn't he waited till she got back from

school and could help him program the Planter?

"Fifty acres clearly marked corn," and Father

viciously stabbed a thick forefinger at the comer of

the room dominated by the scale model of the farm.

He'd spent hours last winter rearranging the movable

field units. In fact, Nora thought he displayed a lot

more concern for the proper allocation of crops than

he did for his two children. He certainly didn't berate

the corn when the ears weren't plump or turned to

ergot.

"And you," roared Father, suddenly clamping his

hands tightly to his sides, as if he were afraid of the

damage they'd do if he didn't, "you plant turnips.

What kind of programmer are you, Nicholas? A sim-

ple chore even your sister could do!"

Nora flinched at that. If Father ever found out that

it was she, not Nick, who did the most complex pro-

gramming . . . She eased past the county maps, care-

ful not to rustle the thin sheets of plastic overlay that

Father had marked with crop, irrigation, and fertiliz-

ing patterns. The office was not small. One wall, of

course, was the computer console and storage banks,

then the window that looked out onto the big yard of

60

the Complex, the three-foot-square relief model of the

Fenn Farmlands on its stand. But two angry Fenns

would diminish a Bargaining Hall.

Nora was struck by a resemblance between father

and son, which she'd not really appreciated before.

Not only were both men holding their arms stiffly

against their sides, but their jaws were set at the same

obstinate angle and each held one shoulder slightly

higher than the other.

"I'm going to see that so-called Guidance Counse-

lor of yours tomorrow and find out what kind of

abortive computer courses you've been given. I

thought I'd made it plain what electives you were to

take."

"I get the course I'm able to absorb ..."

Oh, please. Nick, breathed Nora, don't argue with

him. The Educational Advancements will be posted

in a day, two at the most, and then there's nothing he

can do to alter the decision.

"Fenns are landsmen," Father shouted. "Born to

the land, bred by the land!"

The dictum reverberated through the room, and

Nora used the noise to mask the slipping sound of

the office door. She was out in the narrow passage-

way before Father realized that he'd lost part of his

audience. She half ran to the outer door, the spongy-

fiber flooring masking the sounds of her booted feet.

When she was safely outside the rambling trilevel

habitation, she breathed with relief. She'd better fin-

ish her own after-school chores. Now that Father'd

got started on Nick, he'd be finding fault elsewhere.

Since there weren't any apprentice landsmen on the

Fenn Farm Complex right now, "elsewhere" could

only be Nora. Mother never came in for Father's

criticism, because everything she did in her quiet

unspectacular way was perfectly done. Nora sighed.

It wasn't fair to be so good at everything. When her

children complained Mary Fenn would laugh and

remark that practice made perfect. But Mother al-

ways had some bit of praise, or a hug or a kiss to

hearten you when she knew you'd tried. Father ... if

Father would only say something encouraging to

Nick...

61

Nora stayed to the left of the low, rambling, living

quarters, out of the view afforded by the office win-

dow. She glanced across the huge plasti-cobbled

yard which she had just finished hosing down. Yes,

she had washed down the bay doors of the enormous

bam that housed the Complex's Seeder, Plowboy,

and Harvester. And done a thorough job of cleaning

the tracks on which the heavy equipment was

shunted out of the yard and onto the various rails

leading to the arable tracts.

Turnips! If only Nick had blown the job with a

high-priority vegetable, like carrots or beets. But

turnips? They were nothing but subsistence-level

food. Father cannily complied with Farm Directives

and still managed to plant most of the Fenn lands to

creditable crops like corn and beets. Fifty more acres

of turnips this year might mean Nick would have that

much less free credit at the university.

Nora sighed. When Educational Advancements

were posted, the suspense would be over, the pres-

sure off the graduating students. Who'd go on to Ap-

plied or Academic in her class, she wondered? But

there was no way of finding out short of stealing

Counselor Fremmeng's wrist recorder. You only got

pass/fail decisions in elementary grades. An ar-

bitrary percentile evaluation defeated the purpose

of modem educational methods. Achievement must

be measured by individual endeavor, not mean av-

erages or sliding curves. Young citizens were taught

to know that knowledge was required of contributing

citizens. Computer-assisted drill constantly checked

on comprehension of concept and use of basic skills.

Educational Advancement, either Applied or Aca-

demic, depended as much on demonstrated diligence

as inherent ability. Consequently, the slow student

had every bit as much chance, and just as much right

to education as the quick learner.

Well, Nora told herself briskly, it doesn't contrib-

ute anything to society to stand here daydreaming.

You'll know in a day or two. In the meantime . . .

Nora went through the grape arbor toward the

skimmer shed, near, the far left compound wall. She

had just turned in to the building when she felt the

62

reverberation of rapid thudding through the linked

plasti-cobbles. Then Nick came pounding around the

side of the building.

"Nora, lend me your skimmer?" he begged, un-

racking it as he spoke. "Mine's still drying out from

Saturday's irrigating."

"But, Nick ... Father..."

Nick's face darkened the way Father's did when

he met resistance.

"Don't give me any static. Nor. I gotta change

state..."

"Oh, Nick, why didn't you wait until I could've

checked you out?"

Nick set his jaw, his eyes blinking rapidly.

"You had to see Fremmeng, remember? And

when I got home, the orders were waiting and I

couldn't. I'm due over at Felicity's now." Nick turned

up the pressure gauge, filling the tanks of the skim-

mer. "Orders. Orders. That's all I ever get from him.

That and 'Fenns are crop farmers,'" Nick snorted.

"He thinks he can program kids like a computer.

Well, I'm not a crop farmer. It switches me off. Off!"

"Nick, please. Keep unity. Once you get to the

university, you choose the courses you want. He can't

go against Educational Advancement. And if he tries,

you can always claim sanctuary against parental co-

ercion. There isn't anyone in the Sector who wouldn't

support your claim ..."

Nick was staring at her incredulously, but sud-

denly the anger drained out of his face and was re-

placed by an exaggerated expression of tolerant

forbearance.

"Claim sanctuary? I haven't lost all sense of unity,

Nora," he told her sternly. "Hey, what did Frem-

meng want you for?"

"Me? Oh, he had the absolutely more irrelevant

questions! About how you and I get along, my opin-

ions on family harmony and social contributions, and

pairing off."

Nick regarded her with an intent, impersonal stare.

"He did, huh? Look, Nor," and her brother's

mood changed state completely, "I need to see

Felicity. I gotta blow out of here!"

63

Nora grabbed his arm as he inflated the skimmer.

"Nick, what did you say to Father?"

Nick gave her a sour look now. "I told him he'd

better hold off making so many big plans for me to

be the Fenn Complex's Master Ruralist, until he sees

the Educational Advancements."

"Nick, if you don't get Advancement, Father will

just...just..."

"Abort and sulk!" Nick finished for her. "No, I'll

get Advancement, all right. On my terms! There's

not a blasted thing wrong with Applied. It's Father

who tried programming the university for me. But

I've had different plans." Nick's look turned as hard

as Father's could when he'd lost crops.

"What do you mean. Nick? What have you been

doing?" Nora was suddenly scared. What had Father

driven Nick to do?

"Nora, sweetie. Old Bates at the Everett Complex

is about due for retirement. Felicity Everett and I

want to pair off as soon as the E.A.'s have been

posted. And it's just possible that Landsman Everett

would opt for me as assistant." Nick's expression

altered again, this time to enthusiasm, and Nora felt

relief at the change.

"Oh, he would. Nick. You know what he said

about your term paper on ovine gene manipulation."

Then Nora caught the significance of his plan.

"Yes, indeedy, sister mine. Nick can cut a program

on his own, without your help or Father's."

She was so astonished at the calculation in his

smile that he was able to loosen her fingers from the

handlebars. He was off on the skimmer at a high

blow before she could stop him.

"Nick..."

"Give my love to our foul-feathered friends!" he

called over his shoulder cheerfully, and launched

the skimmer straight across the meadows toward the

Everetts' Herd Complex.

Resolutely, Nora made for the distant poultry

house on foot. Father proclaimed that chickens and

turkeys were a woman's business. She hated tending

them and usually swapped the chore with Nick. Nick

found poultry a trifle more engrossing than the tedi-

ous crop programming.

Why couldn't Nick focus a little more attention on

what he was doing instead of expending all his ener-

gies thwarting Father? Irritably, she scuffed at a

vagrant pebble in the track that led straight from the

low-rambling Farm Complex, set in the fold of the

soft hills, toward the Poultry house. She could see

the glitter of the round roof as she topped the next

rise.

Educational Advancement! She so hoped that she'd

qualify ... at least for Applied Advancement. That

would prove to Father she wasn't all that stupid,

even if she was a girl. Maybe, if she could make

Journeyman Class Computer ... she really felt that

she understood mathematics and symbolic logic. If

she got Journeyman, Father mightn't be so disap-

pointed when he finally realized that Nick was ab-

solutely set against crop farming. While Father

might feel that women were being educated far be-

yond society's profit, no contributing citizen could

argue with the Advancement Board's decision. For

the board was impartial, having the best interests of

society and the individual at heart. Father might

scoff at the premise that everyone had the constitu-

tional right to shelter, food, clothing, and education

as long as he maintained a class average. But then,

Father disparaged a system that rewarded the dili-

gent student with credit bonuses for something as

intangible as academic excellence.

"That doesn't feed anyone, make anything, buy

or sell anything," he'd say when he'd started on that

tangent. There was no use explaining to such a prag-

matist.

If Nora could get certified in computer logistics

and was able to handle the Complex's Master Rural-

ist, then surely he'd be proud of her. He wouldn't

mind that one of his children was a girl, not the sec-

ond boy he'd printed into the Propagation Registra-

tion.

Father never let Nora, or her mother, forget that

he had not computed twins, nor mixed sexes. He'd

opted for both legal progeny to be male. Since early

65

sex education in school, Nora had wondered how her

mother had managed not only a multiple birth but a

split in sexes without Father's knowledge. For one

thing, multiple births had been uncommon for the

last hundred years, since Population Control had

been initiated. Most duly registered couples opted

for one of each sex, well spaced. Of course, George

Fenn would complain about PC, too. Or rather, the

provision which permitted only exceptional couples

to have one or two more children above the legal

number—in return for extraordinary contributions

to society.

"They put the emphasis on the wrong genetic fac-

tors," Father would argue bitterly whenever the

subject came up. "If you breed for brain, the species

weakens physically, flaws develop." He'd always flex

his huge biceps then, show off his two-meter-tall, one-

hundred-kilo frame in support of his argument. He'd

been disappointed, too, when Nick, scarcely an un-

dersized man, stopped slightly short of two meters in

height. Father'd glower at Nora, as if her slender

body had robbed her twin of extra centimeters.

How had Mary Fenn, a woman of muted qualities,

coped so long and amiably with her husband? Her

quiet, uncritical voice was seldom raised. She knew

when you were upset, though, or sick, and her ca-

pable hands were sure and soft. If anyone deserved

Maternity Surplus, it was Mother. She was so good!

And she'd managed to remain completely in control

of herself, a presence unperturbed by her husband's

tirades and intemperate attitudes, efficiently dealing

with each season and its exigencies.

Of course, it was no wonder that Mother was quiet.

Father was such a dominating person. He could shout

down an entire Rural Sector Meeting.

"A fine landsman," Nora heard her father called.

"But don't cross him," she'd heard whispered. "He'll

try to program things his way, come hell or high wa-

ter. He knows the land, though," was the grudging

summation.

"Knows the land, but not humans," Nora muttered

under her breath. "Not his children. Certainly he

doesn't know what his son really wants."

66

Maybe once Nick gets away to university, har-

mony will be restored between father and son. Nick

ought to have a stronger desire to maintain family

unity...

Crop farming wasn't all that bad, Nora thought.

By punching the right buttons, you could now mow

a thousand-acre field, as Nora had done as a preteen,

when the apprentices let her. You could winnow and

cull with a vacuum attachment; grade, bag, clean

your field far more efficiently than the most careful

ancient gleaners. You could program your Plowboy

to fertilize at five levels as the seed was planted. One

Complex with two families or a couple of responsible

apprentices could efficiently farm an old-time county-

sized spread and still turn a luxury credit. Not to

mention having fresh and ready supplies of any edi-

ble and some of those luxuries above the subsistence

level that the City Complexes craved.

Now Nora could hear the pitiful muted honking of

the geese in the Poultry House. She winced. There

were certain aspects of farming that could not be

completely automated. You can't tape a broody hen,

and you can't computerize the services of a rooster.

Cocks' crows still heralded sunrise over the fields,

whether the clarion summons issued from a wooden

slated crate or the sleek multipentangle that housed

the poultry raised by the Fenn Complex. Eggs laid

by hens in Nora's charge would be powdered and

eventually whipped to edibility on the Jupiter station,

or be flash-frozen to provide sustenance when the

first colony ship set forth as it was rumored to do in

the next decade. Turkeys from this Complex reg-

ularly made the one-way trip to the Moon bases for

Winter Solstice celebrations, call them Saturnalias or

Santa Claus if you would.

She entered the poultry pentangle through the

access tunnel which led straight to the computer core

that handled all watering, feeding, cleaning, egg col-

lection, and slaughter operations. The Fenn Complex

did not sell to dietary groups, so the market prepara-

tions were the standard ones.

She checked the tapes on the Leghorn fifth, re-

plenished the grit supply, and tapped out a reorder

67

sequence. She flushed out all the pen floors and re-

freshed the water. Then she checked the mean weight

of the torn turkeys, growing from scrawny, long-legged

adolescence to plump-breasted maturity. A trifle more

sand for digestion, a richer mash for firmer meats, and

a little less of the growth hormones. Concentrated

goodness, not size for size's sake anymore.

The geese were fattening, too, on their fixed

perches. Goose livers on the rod. Nora hated the

calculated cruelty that brought in credit margin for

the Fenn Complex. Stuff the poor helpless fowl,

engorge their livers for the delectation of the gourmet.

The geese lived sheltered, circumscribed lives, which

was not living at all, for they couldn't see out of then-

own quarters. Nothing distracted them from their

purpose in life—death from enlarged livers. Nora

was distracted from her chores by their shrill honking.

She forced herself to read the gauges. Yes, the upper

group were ready for market. Even their plaint reg-

istered the truth of their self-destruction. They'd been

bred for one purpose. It was their time to fulfill it. She

coldly dialed for a quotation on the price of geese

and goose liver at the Central Farm Exchange. The

European price printed out at a respectable high. She

routed the information to the Farm's main console.

It might Just sweeten Father's cantankerous mood to

realize a quick credit from the sale.

Nora took a detour on the way back, across the

one-hundred-acre field. The willows her great-

grandfather had planted the day the Farm Reforms

were passed were tipped with raw yellow. Spring was

an Earth-moment away. Soon the golden limbs would

sprout their green filaments, to drape and float them

on the irrigation ditch that watered their thirsty feet.

Would her great-grandchildren admire the willows

in their turn? The whimsy irritated her.

She walked faster, away from what the willows

stood for. She didn't really have to be back at the

Complex until mealtime, an hour or so away. Father

always programmed too much time for her to tend

the poultry house, which was an unflattering assess-

ment of her ability but usually gave her more time

for something she'd .wanted to do that Father might

68

not consider contributory. If only once he'd look at

her as if she weren't something printed out by mis-

take. How in the name of little printed circuits had

Mother dared to have twins?

Nora used her spare time to pick cress at the sluice

gate beds. It was a soothing occupation and contrib-

uted to dinner's salad. When she finally got back to the

house, she glanced into the office. The printout slot

was clear, so Father had seen her report. She'd sim-

ply have to wait to find out if he'd acted on the data.

The main console was keyed to his code only.

She heard the meal chime from the kitchen area

and quickly brought the cress to her mother, who was

taking roast lamb out of the oven. Did Mother know

about Nick's quarrel? Lamb was her father's favorite

protein.

"Oh, cress! That was a considerate thought, Nora.

We'll put a few sprigs on the lamb platter for looks.

There'll only be three of us for dinner, you know."

Nora didn't know, for surely Nick would be back

from the Everett Complex; but just then Father

came in, grim-faced, and sat down. Again Nora won-

dered just how far he had goaded Nick this afternoon.

Why had she played the coward and left?

The tender lamb stuck in her throat like so much

dry feed. Her stomach seemed to close up as if eating

had been programmed out, but she forced herself to

clear her plate. No one, in this day and age and es-

pecially at George Fenn's table, wasted real food.

Once—and only once—as a child she had left real

food on her plate. She'd spent the next two weeks

trying to swallow common subsistence-level rations.

Conversation was never encouraged at Fenn meals,

so the awkward meal dragged on. When Nora could

finally excuse herself and make for the sanctuary of

her room, her father stopped her.

"So, Nora, you've been doing Nicholas's program-

ming for him, eh?" Father's voice was icy with dis-

approval; his eyes were specks of gray.

Nora stared back, speechless. Oh, Nick couldn't

have!

"Don't gawk at me, girl. Answer!" Father's big fist

69

banged the table and a startled "Yes, Father," came

from her.

"And how long has this . . . this deception gone

on?"

Nora didn't dare look at him.

"How long?" Father repeated, his voice rising in vol-

ume and getting sharper.

"Since—since spring," she answered.

"Which spring?" was the acid query.

Nora swallowed hard against the sudden nauseat-

ing taste of lamb in her mouth.

"The first year of programming."

"You dared take over a task assigned your brother

—by me? Designed to acquaint him with the prob-

lems he'll face as a landsman?"

Instinctively Nora leaned as far back in her chair,

away from her father's looming body, as she could.

Not even George Fenn would disrupt family harmony

by striking a child, but he was so angry that it seemed

to Nora he had become a terrible stranger, capable

even of causing her physical harm.

"Nick couldn't seem to get the trick of it," she man-

aged to say in her own defense. "I only helped a little.

When he got jammed."

"He's a Penn. He's got farming in his blood. Five

generations of farming. You've robbed him of his her-

itage, of his proper contribu—"

"Oh, no, Father. Nick's always contributed. He'd

do the poultry . . ." and her sentence broke off as she

saw the bloated, red face of her father.

"You dared .. . dared exchange assignments?"

"You miss the point entirely, George," Mother inter-

ceded in her placid way. "The tasks were completed,

were well done, so I cannot see why it is so wrong for

Nick to have done which, and Nora what. They're

both Fenns, after all. That's the core of the matter."

"Have you changed state, woman?" Father wanted

to know, but astonishment had aborted his anger.

"Nicholas is my son! Nora's only a girl."

"Really, George. Don't quibble. You know, I've

been thinking of enlarging my contribution to society

now that the children are about to advance. I'd really

like to go back to the Agriculture Institute and up-

70

date my credentials. Sometimes," Mother went on in

the conversational way in which she was apt to de-

liver startling conclusions, "I think the children have

studied a whole new language when I hear them dis-

cussing computer logic. Remember when I used to

take an apprentice's place, George? Of course, it

would be much more interesting for me if you'd di-

versify the Complex. I can't have any more children,

of course, but if we bred lambs or calves, I'd've young

things to tend again. Society does say it'll satisfy

every individual's needs." She gave her husband an

appealing smile. "Do try to compute that in your fall

program, George. I'd appreciate it."

Looking at Mother as if she'd taken leave of her

senses. Father rose and pushed back his chair. He

mumbled something about checking urgent data, but

stumbled out of the dining area, past the office, and

out of the house.

"Mother, I'd no idea ..."

The rest of Nora's words died in her throat because

her mother's eyes were brimming with mischief and

she looked about to laugh.

"I oughtn't to do that to George when he's had a

big dinner. But there're more ways to kill a cat than

choking him with butter—as my grandmother used

to say. Although that's a shocking way to use butter

—not to mention a good cat—but Grandmother was

full of such dairy-oriented expressions. Hmmm. Now

dairy farming might not be such a bad compromise,

considering the printout quotes on milk and cheese

this spring." Then she closed her lips firmly as if her

own loquacity startled her as much as it did Nora.

The laughter died in her eyes. "Nora?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"In this society, a person is legally permitted to

develop at his own pace and follow his own aptitudes.

Not even a stubborn atavist like your father has the

right to inhibit another's contribution. Of course, the

responsible citizen tries to maintain harmonious re-

lations with his family unit up to that point of inter-

ference.

"You realized, I'm certain, that even if Nick has

no love of crop farming, he is basically attuned to

71

rural life. I've been so grateful to you, dear, for . . .

soothing matters between your father and brother."

The words came out haltingly and though Mother

didn't look directly at her, Nora could appreciate her

difficulty. Mother had scrupulously avoided taking

sides in the constant altercations between Nick and

Father. She had somehow always maintained family

unity. Her unexpected frankness was essentially a

betrayal of that careful neutrality. "I had hoped that

Nick might be a more biddable boy, able to go along

with his father's ambitions. They may be old-

fashioned—"

"Mother, you know Father is positively medieval

at times." Nora regretted her flippancy when she

saw the plea for understanding in her mother's eyes.

"Well, he is, but that's his bit. And he does make a

distinguished contribution as a landsman."

"Yes, Nora. Few men these days have your fa-

ther's real love of the earth. It isn't every landsman,"

Mother added, her voice proud, "who runs a Com-

plex as big as ours and makes a creditable balance."

"If only Father didn't try . . ."

But Mother was looking off into the middle dis-

tance, her face so troubled, her eyes so dark with

worry, that Nora wanted to cry out that she really did

understand. Hadn't she proved that with all she'd done

to keep unity?

"You're a kind, thoughtful, considerate child,

Nora," Mother said finally, smiling with unexpected

tenderness. "You undoubtedly rate very high on in-

terpersonal relationships."

"You must, too," Nora protested, glancing toward

the office.

Mother gave a rueful little laugh. "I do, or I

shouldn't have got on so well with your father all

these years. But, right now, we both have to work

together to maintain family harmony."

"You haven't had a deficiency notice on me, have

you?"

"Good lands, no, child," and Mother was clearly

startled at the notion. "But Nick had an interview

with Counselor Fremmeng and he's reasonably cer-

tain, from the way the Counselor talked, that he is

72

going to disappoint your father. You know that

George has been positive Nick would receive Aca-

demic Advancement. And frankly, Nora, Nick not

only doesn't want it, he's sure he won't get it."

"Yes, he mentioned something like that to me this

afternoon after Father reamed him," Nora said

sadly. "But what could Father possibly do in the face

of E.A. postings except admit that he couldn't com-

pute Nick into his own program?"

Mother gave Nora one of her long, disconcertingly

candid stares.

"It's not a question, Nora, of what your Father

would or would not do. It's a question of how we

maintain family unity, and your father's dignity and

standing in the Sector. With a little tactful and af-

fectionate ... handling, he can think it was all his own

notion in the first place."

Nora stared at her mother with dawning respect

and admiration.

"That's why you offered to update your creden-

tials?"

Mother grinned. "Just thought I'd plant the notion.

It is spring, you know."

"Mother, why on earth did you marry Father?"

Nora asked in a rush. She might never get another

chance to find out.

An unexpectedly tender expression on her mother's

face made her appear younger, prettier.

"Land's sake, because he was the kind of man I

wanted to marry," Mary Fenn said with a proud lift

of her chin. "A man to do for, and George takes a lot

of doing, you know. Keeps me on my toes. He has

such tremendous vitality. I like that. He knows and

loves and understands the land, and I wanted that,

too. I knew that was good for me, to be close to the

land, and I wanted to raise my children close to nat-

ural things. Sometimes I think there's too much de-

pendence on technology. I'm a throwback, too, Nora,

just as much as your father is with his antiquated

notions of a son following in his father's footsteps on

land that's been in the same family for generations."

Mother looked down at her square-palmed strong-

fingered hands as if they represented her inner self.

73

"I like to feel warm earth, to get dirty. I want to do

with my hands, not just let them idly punch a button or

two. I like growing things, young things. If I could've

defied the Population Control laws, too, I'd've had a

whole passel of brats to raise. As it was . . ." and

her lips formed a glowing smile of love and compassion

that could encompass a whole county.

"As it was," Nora said with a giggle, "you had

twins in spite of Father."

"Yes," Mary Fenn chuckled, her eyes lit up with

laughter, "I had twins. A boy for your father," and

her face was both dutiful and mischievous, "and a

girl for me."

"Well, Nick's not the son Father wanted. Mother—"

and suddenly the answer was the most important thing

in Nora's life. "—Mother, am I the daughter you

wanted?"

The laughter died abruptly and Mother placed her

square hands on either side of Nora's face.

"You're a good child, Nora. You never complain.

You work hard and willingly. Yes, you're a good

daughter."

But that wasn't the answer Nora wanted.

"But what do you want me to bet"

"Happy, Nora. I want you to be happy." Mary

Fenn turned, then, to glance around the kitchen area,

checking to see if all was in order. It was a dismissal,

a tacit gesture not to pursue this subject further. Her

mother often did that. Particularly with Father. She

didn't actually evade a question, simply didn't answer

it directly or fully.

"Mother, that isn't enough of an answer anymore."

Her mother turned back to her, her eyebrows

raised in a polite question that turned to a frown when

she'd studied her daughter's stem face.

"I only wanted a daughter, Nora, not a child in my

own image, to follow in my path. Just a girl child to

raise, to love, to delight in. A woman is proud to bear

her son, but she rejoices in her daughter. You've

given me much secret joy, Nora. I'm proud of you for

many, silly little motherly reasons you'll understand

when you have your own daughter. Beyond that . . ."

Mother began to move away. "I believe that every-

74

one must be allowed to determine his own life's

course. In that respect I am completely modem. Do

you dislike farm life as much as your brother, Nora?"

"No," but Nora realized as she said it that she was

no longer sure. "It's not that I dislike it. Mother, it's

just that I'd prefer to do something more ..."

"More cerebral, less manual?" her mother asked

teasingly.

Nora could feel the blush mounting in her cheeks.

She didn't want Mother to think she felt farming

wasn't a substantial contribution.

"Well," and her mother's voice was brisk again,

"the Advancements will soon be posted. They'll de-

cide the matter once and for all. In the meantime—"

"I'll be a good daughter."

"I know I can count on you," and there was a sud-

den worried edge to her mother's voice. "Now go.

You've studying, I know. You want to achieve a good

credit bonus at graduation."

Nora let her mother's gentle shove propel her to-

ward the ramp up to the bedroom level. But she was

far too disquieted to study. Her mother had never

been so forthright, and yet Nora did not feel the re-

assurance which ought to have resulted from such

frankness.

There'd been many nuances in the conversation,

emotional undertones which her mother had never

permitted her daughter to hear before. And so many

shifts. Almost as if Mother had really been sounding

her out. On what? Useless to examine emotions: they

were too subjective. They weren't computable data.

Nora tapped out a request for a mathematics re-

view, senior level, on her home-study console. She

was still staring at the first problem, when the com-

puter pinged warningly and then chattered out the

answer. Nora turned off the console and sat staring

at the printout.

Was she really the daughter Mary Fenn had

wanted? How would she ever know? She was cer-

tainly not the second son her father had intended to

sire, though she had all the capabilities he'd wanted.

If Nick wouldn't crop farm the Fenn Complex, how

were they going to get Father to accept a compromise?

75

Maybe Mother wanted her to prove to Father that she

knew more about crop farming than Nick right now?

No, George Fenn wanted his son to follow him at Fenn

Complex. If not Nick, then some man, because George

Fenn's atavistic temperament required him to pass land

to a man, not a woman, even of his own genetic herit-

age.

This year's apprentices would be assigned here

soon, fresh from their courses in Applied Agriculture

at the Institute. Maybe she'd like one of them, pair

off with him, and then the Fenn land would at least

remain in partially Fenn hands for another genera-

tion. Was this what Mother had been hinting at when

she mentioned Nora's rating in IPR?

No, the trick would be to get Father to agree to

diversify. That way Nick, who was just as stubborn

as his father, could follow his heart's desire and soci-

ety would benefit all around. But, when Mother

brought that notion up at mealtime. Father had

rushed out of the house as if his circuits had jammed.

Nora looked disconsolately down at the console.

Within the parameters of the programming, com-

puters reacted to taped instructions, facts that could

be ineradicably stored as minute bits in their mem-

ories. Only humans put no parameters on dreams and

stored aspirations.

The sound of a vehicle braking to a stop broke

into her thoughts. Nick had come back!

The angle of the house was such that Nora could

only see the blunt anonymous end of a triwheel from

her window. Nick had her skimmer. But—Nora

grasped at the notion—Nick had gone to the Ever-

etts. Maybe Landsman Everett was bringing him

back. Father openly admired the breeder, said he

was a sound husbandsman and made a real contri-

bution to society.

Nora sat very still, straining to hear Nick's voice or

Landsman Everett's cheerful tenor. She heard only

the subdued murmur of her mother's greeting, and

then Father's curt baritone. When she caught the sec-

ond deep male rumble, she ceased listening and turned

back to the console-. She did have exams to pass, and

eavesdropping did not add to family unity.

76

Nora usually enjoyed computer-assisted drill. It

put one on the mental alert. She enjoyed the chal-

lenge of completing the drill well within the allotted

time. So, despite her concerns, she was soon caught

up in her studies. She finished the final level of re-

view with only one equation wrong. Her own fault.

She'd skipped a step in her hurry to beat the com-

puter's time. She could never understand why some

kids said they they were exhausted after a computer-

assisted session. She always felt great.

"Nora!"

Her father's summons startled her. Had she missed

his first call? He sounded angry. You never made

Father call you twice.

"Coming!" Anxious not to irritate him, she ran

down the ramp to the lower level, apologizing all the

way. "Sorry, Father, I was concentrating on CAI

review . . ." and then she saw that the visitor was

Counselor Fremmeng. She muttered a nervous good-

evening. This was the time of year for Parent Con-

sultations, and deficiencies were usually scheduled

first. She couldn't have made that poor a showing . . .

A glance at her father's livid face told her that this

interview was not going the way George Fenn wanted

it.

"Counselor Fremmeng has informed me that you

have achieved sufficient distinction in your schooling

to warrant Academic Advancement."

The savage way her father spat the words out and

the disappointment on his face dried up any thought

Nora had of exulting in her achievement. Hurt and

bewildered, unaccountably rebuked in yet another

effort to win his approval, Nora stared back at him.

Even if she was a girl, surely he didn't hate her for

getting Academic ... In a sudden change of state,

she realized why.

"Then Nick didn't?"

Her father turned from her coldly so that Counse-

lor Fremmeng had to confirm it. His eyes were almost

sad in his long, jowled face. Didn't he take pride in

her achievement? Didn't anyone? Crushed with dis-

appointment, Nora pivoted slowly. When she met her

mother's eyes, she saw in them something greater than

77

mere approval. Something more like anticipation, en-

treaty.

"Your brother," Father went on with such scath-

ing bitterness that Nora shuddered, "has been ten-

tatively allowed two years of Applied Advancement.

The wisdom of society has limited this to the Agri-

cultural Institute with the recommendation that he

study animal husbandry." He turned back to face

his daughter, eyes burning, huge frame rigid with emo-

tion.

Serves him right, Nora thought, and quickly

squelched such disrespect. He had been too certain

that Nick would qualify for the university and be-

come a Computer Master for the Fenn Complex. He'll

just have to adjust. A Fenn is going on. Me.

"How . . ." and suddenly George Fenn erupted,

seeking relief from his disappointment with violent

pacing and exaggerated gestures of his big hands,

"how can a girl qualify when her brother, of the same

parentage, raised in the same environment, given the

same education at the same institution, receives only a

tentative acceptance? Tentative! Why, Nicholas has

twice the brains his sister has!"

"Not demonstrably. Landsman," Counselor Frem-

meng remarked, flicking a cryptic glance at Nora.

"And certainly not the same intense application. Nick

showed the most interest and diligence in biology and

ecology. His term paper, an optional project on the

mutation of angoran ovines, demonstrated an in-depth

appreciation of genetic manipulation. Society encour-

ages such—"

"But sheep!" Father interrupted him. "Fenns are

crop fanners."

"A little diversity improves any operation," Coun-

selor Fremmeng said with such uncharacteristic spe-

ciousness that Nora stared at him.

"My son may study sheep. Well then, what area of

concentration has been opened to my . . . my daugh-

ter?"

Nora swallowed hard, wishing so much that Fa-

ther would not look at her as if she'd been printed out

by mistake. Then she realized that the counselor was

looking at her to answer her father.

78

"I'd prefer to—"

"What area is she qualified to pursue?" Father cut

her off peremptorily, again directing his question to

the counselor.

The man cleared his throat as he flipped open his

wrist recorder and made an adjustment. He studied

the frame for a long moment. It gave Nora a chance

to sort out her own thoughts. She really hadn't be-

lieved Nick this afternoon when he intimated he'd

thwarted Father's plans. And she'd certainly never

expected Academic!

The Counselor tapped the side of the recorder

thoughtfully, pursing his lips as he'd a habit of doing

when he was trying to phrase a motivating reprimand

to an underachiever.

"Nora is unusually astute in mathematics and sym-

bolic logic . . ." The Counselor's eyes slid across her

face, again that oblique warning. "She has shown

some marked skill in Computer Design, but in order

to achieve Computer Technician . . ."

"Computer Tech— Could she actually make Tech-

nician status?" Father demanded sharply, and Nora

could sense the change in him.

Counselor Fremmeng coughed suddenly, cover-

ing his mouth politely. When he looked up again,

Nora could almost swear he'd been covering a laugh,

not a cough. His little eyes were very bright. None of

the other kids believed her when she said that the

Counselor was actually human, with a sense of humor.

Of course, a man in his position had to maintain dig-

nity in front of the student body.

"I believe that is quite within her capability,

Landsman," Counselor Fremmeng said in a rather

strained voice.

"Didn't you say. Counselor, that Nora qualified for

unlimited Academic Advancement?" Mother asked

quietly. She held Nora's eyes steadily for a moment

before she turned with a little smile to her husband.

"So, a Fenn is going on to university this generation,

just as you'd hoped, George. Now, if you could see

your way clear to diversify— And did you notice the

premium angora fleece is bringing? You know how

I've wanted young things to tend and lambs are so

79

endearing. Why, I might even get Counselor Frem-

meng to recommend updating for me at the Institute.

Then, George, you wouldn't need to spend all those

credits for apprentices. The Fenns could work the

Complex all by themselves. Just like the old days!"

"It's an encouraging thing for me to have such a

contributing family unit in my Sector. A real pleas-

ure," Counselor said, smiling at the older Fenns be-

fore he gave Nora a barely perceptible nod.

"Well, girl, so you'll study Computology at the

university?" asked Father. His joviality was a little

forced, and his eyes were still cold.

"I ought to take courses in Stability Phenomena,

Feedback Control, more Disturbance Dynamics . . ."

"Listen to the child. You'd never think such terms

would come so easily to a girl's lips, would you?" asked

Father.

"Mathematics is scarcely a male prerogative,

Landsman," said Counselor Fremmeng, rising. "It's

the major tool of our present sane social structure.

That and social dynamics. Nora's distinguished her-

self in social psychology, which is, as you know, the

prerequisite for building the solid familial relation-

ships which constitute the foundation of our society."

"Oh, she'll be a good mother in her time," Father

said, still with that horrible edge to his heartiness. His

glance lingered on his wife.

"Undoubtedly," the Counselor agreed blandly.

"However, there's more to maintaining a sound fam-

ily structure than maternity. As Nora has demon-

strated. If you'll come to my office after your exams

on Thursday, Nora, we'll discuss your program at

the university in depth, according to your potentials."

His slight emphasis on the pronoun went unnoticed

by George Fenn. Then the Counselor bowed formally

to her parents, congratulated them again on the

achievements of their children, their contribution to so-

ciety, and left.

"So, girl," her father said in a heavy tone, "you'll

be the crop farmer in this generation."

Nora faced him, unable to perjure herself. With

his pitiful honking about farming Fenns, he was like

a goose, fattening for his own destruction. She felt

80

pity for him because he couldn't see beyond his perch

on these acres. But he was doing what he'd been set

in this life to do, as the geese were making their con-

tribution to society, too.

Unlimited Academic Advancement! She'd never

anticipated that. But she could see that it was in great

measure due to her father. Because he had con-

sidered her inferior to Nick, she'd worked doubly

hard, trying to win his approval. She realized now

that she'd never have it. Father being what he was.

And being the person she was, she'd not leave him

in discord. She'd help maintain family unity until

Father came to accept Nick as a sheep-breeder, di-

versification on the Fenn acres, a Fenn daughter in

the university. Mother would step in to help with crop

farming and there'd be no decrease in contribution.

"I'll do all I can to help you. Father," Nora said

finally, realizing that her parents were waiting for

her answer.

Then she caught her mother's shining eyes, saw

in them the approval, the assurance she wanted. She

knew she was the daughter her mother had wanted.

That made her happy.

r

Dull Drums

THE TROUBLE WITH STUDENT-ISSUE CLOTHING

was not its neutrality, thought Nora Fenn, but its in-

stability. Did the suppliers think students doddered

about the academic cloisters like pensioners? She

fingered together the rent across her hip, hoping that

no one would brush against her and widen the tear.

She must have overstressed the fabric when she

stamped out of Con's last night. Wouldn't you know

it'd be on the left side, where her tights had run this

morning?

Doggedly she continued along the pedestrian way,

toward the Metropolis' Main Computer Block, twist-

ing through and dodging clumps of slower-moving

citizens.

It had been such an honor to qualify for the special

Cybernetics course, given by Master Scholar Siffert

himself, that Nora didn't mind the twenty-minute

commute from the University Complex to the Com-

puter Block no matter how the others in the class

complained. (Not much suited them anyhow!) After

nearly a year, she still reacted to the metropolitan

life with added alertness. Just to walk the pedestrian

ways, to look at the variety of faces and costumes and

shops was a treat for a Farm Complexbred girl. She

usually started for this class early so she'd have time

to window-shop and people-watch. But today Con's

mean words leapt about her mind.

"Yeah, you say you like people, Nora Fenn, but I

never saw anyone communicate less in my life."

"Just because I'm not always gibbering . . ." she'd

said in self-defense.

Con had thrown back his head and howled. "The

very notion of you . . . you . . . gibbering! May I be

around to see the day!"

There was nothing wrong, Nora told herself stoutly,

in taking pleasure in just being among people. You

didn't have to participate actively ...

But last night's scathing accusations rang in her

ears.

"You can't be a parameter cloddie forever, Nora.

You'll never really know what life is about until you

start communicating and experiencing actively. And

don't tell me you're in computer programming be-

cause that's your aptitude. That's your cop-out so you

won't have to live and feel. If your Guidance Officer

had wit one about him, he'd have phased you out of

Computer Science, and shoved you into the Human-

ities. And opened wide holes in your father's home-

brewed homilies."

"My father . .."

"Your father," and Con was so incensed the cords

stood out in his neck, "your father is a throwback to

all the parental autocracies, the chauvinistic, narrow-

minded, sex-blocked, inhibiting, maladjusting, mar-

tyrizing, egotistical, possessiveness that our present

system of social harmony is supposed to correct!"

"How dare you say such things!"

"Because you have! Only you're still too much

under your father's domineering influence to realize

how much you resent him."

"I don't resent my father. I understand his—"

"Understand?" Con threw his arms up in dramatic

frustration. "Understand why he's refused to give

you any decent credit allowance? By the printed cir-

cuits which feed us, every other Complex manager

would do without so he could budget something for

any youngster his unit can send on to Academic Ad-

vancement! And for a kid on unlimited Academic

Advancement . . . Wake up, Nora. Your ever-loving

father has never forgiven you, his daughter, much

less the Educational Committee, for letting you go on

to university instead of the male, his son, your

brother."

"I don't need credit allowances." Nora tried to

sound convincing, but she'd been hurt and confused

by her father's parsimony. "I got an academic bonus

of a hundred credits first term."

Con shook his finger right under her nose.

"You can fool yourself, Nora Fenn, but you, sure

as zero times zero is zero, don't fool me! Your pater-

nal parent has royally screwed you, and why you

persist in trying to prove you're worth his disdainful

notice, even if you are female, I don't understand.

He isn't worth the effort."

Con had stepped forward then, his expression hard

and angry as he grabbed her arms and gave her a

good shaking. His manner was frighteningly different

from the jovial, joke-cracking clown pose he usually

affected.

"Abort the Computer courses, Nora. Get into Hu-

manities. Take some Behavorial Psych. See objec-

tively how futile it is to try and win your father over.

And then grow up and live as Nora Fenn instead of

George Fenn's unwanted female child."

"Thank you, Connor Clarke, for your lecture and

your advice. Send me the bill! But don't try my num-

ber. I'm writing you out of my program from now

on."

She had grabbed up her cloak and strode from his

room, racing down the hall to the anti-grav shaft.

She'd entered it fast—that's probably when she'd

torn her tunic—and cried all the way down the a.g.

shaft to her own level, cursing Con under her breath

and desperately trying not to remember what he'd

said.

But his words haunted her now as she walked into

the shadow cast by the Computer Block. It was cold

in the shade and Nora pulled her shabby cloak

tighter around her. It had been the one piece of

Complex-issue clothing she'd been able to bring with

her. Not that her father had ever let his family use

more than farm issue.

"No need to put credits into fancy fabrics and silly

clothes you wear once a month. People should take

us for what we are, not what we wear. It isn't needful

for us to show our status."

"Needful," that was her father's operative word.

84

What was needful was procured instantly, and or-

dered in the best quality, regardless of the cost. What

was unnecessary was given scant consideration.

It hadn't been needful for Nora to have any credit

allowance from the Fenn Farm Complex. She would,

George Fenn had solemnly announced, have student

quarters at the University Complex, adequate food

since students did not eat subsistence-level but a

high-calorie diet, and sufficient clothing to cover her

decently. If Nora were as good a student as the Edu-

ucational Committee (which had passed her for

Advanced Study instead of her brother, Nick) had

said, then she would earn credit bonuses with those

brains of hers, wouldn't she? Privately, Nora had

vowed she'd earn a bundle. And she had. But now

she regretted her diplomacy—no, her subservient

conciliatory gesture, as Con would say—in permit-

ting her father to select a heavy CompSci program

for her first year.

"That way you'll qualify as Computer Technician

Grade n by spring instead of wasting your time on

unnecessary trimmings," her father had said.

What he meant, Nora knew now, was it wouldn't

be needful for the Fenn complex to pay the salary of

the Grade II Comptech for the spring planting.

Six months at University and Nora Fenn knew

that she wouldn't be able to go back to the Farm. It

wasn't simply the knowledge that her father's basic

sociological orientation was limited, but the realiza-

tion that she'd hated her existence there, from fatten-

ing geese to the tractor work that all the automation

in the world couldn't make much less bone-jarring.

The glitter of bright lights and vapid entertainments

in the Metropolis didn't attract her half as much as

the people: crowds, mobs, groups, the antithesis of

the lonely Farm Complex with its rigid society, sea-

sons, and the so-well-known personalities.

She was gregarious—but she didn't have to be

garrulous the way Con was—to enjoy a group sit-

uation. She didn't need to maul people with sweaty

hands: she could enjoy the sound of voices, the play

of emotions on faces, the interaction of brand-new

combinations.

8?

Deep in thought, she arrived at the great Com-

puter building. And crossed the magnificent inner

hall without gawking at the famous sculpture depict-

ing Man overpowering the Laeconia of Science. She

passed but did not re-examine the tri-dex models

reviewing the significant events leading to the Dicta

—Ecology, Economy and Society—in which the

technical sciences had swung violently to alleviate

the crushing social problems and foster the conserva-

tion of dwindling natural resources. She marched

quickly past the programming desk with its lines of

applicants and petitioners.

Every citizen had the right to Bank-storage: every

citizen could apply for additional space, for more

programming time, for re-programming: that was as

much their right as subsistence, shelter, and educa-

tion. Free access had ended citizen fear of a computer-

controlled society and had proved to the doubtful that

science worked for man's good, not his extinction or

domination.

Nora took the anti-grav shaft up to the storage

banks where the class was being held, and despite

her depressing reflections, she experienced that curi-

ous sense of elation, of purpose, that usually gripped

her on the way to this course.

She knew that as a first-year student she was in-

credibly lucky to be in Research Scholar SitEert's

special course. Master Siffert was the man in Com-

puter Programming. Each student had to be espe-

cially recommended by his or her Mentor and then

passed on by Siffert himself. (Nora had lost pounds

anticipating her qualifying interview with the man.)

Their integrity had to be above reproach because the

course included lift-lock privileges. All the laboratory

work involved the erasure of private records to clear

storage for new use, but lift-lock privileges meant the

student would have access to any records in the mem-

ory banks. Hence the care with which the candidates

were chosen.

To clear obsolete records from the memory the

students had to cross-check references in Housing

and Obituary, audit the old text, and check a variety

of items on income, profession, and free individual

86

use of computer access: the last chore was to provide

statistical data for a fair apportionment of storage

space to citizens. Nora wasn't certain of the exact

goal of the course, although she'd learned a lot from

the labs about data retrieval and erasure. Research

Scholar Siffert was known for his eccentric methods,

but undoubtedly all would be clear in the final lec-

ture.

The one aspect of the course she disliked was the

attitude of the other students. Granted they'd all

passed the same integrity clearance, but she did feel

their approach to the lab work was improper. It had

become the fashion to try and top each other with

ridiculous anecdotes drawn from their auditing. Cal-

lous and cruel, Nora thought, to ridicule the dead for

their shortcomings and human follies.

As she entered the Data Erasure room, she heard

Larry Asher's inane, cawing laughter above the gen-

eral chuckles.

"Haven't you heard any good ones, Fenn?" Asher

asked her as she slipped into a chair.

She shook her head.

"Fenn apparently specializes in dull drums," Clas

Heineman said with a twitch of his lips for the pun.

"On the contrary," Nora replied, raising her voice

above the laughter as she remembered Con's jibes,

"I've had some very interesting ones. But I don't

think they're ludicrous."

"Fenn also has no sense of humor," Clas remarked

with a rueful grin.

"Humor has nothing to do with your quips, Clas

Heineman. It's easy to mock something you've not

the sensitivity to appreciate."

"Oho, Fenn's got opinions, too," Larry Asher said,

chortling over the verbal tiff brewing between the

two. Heineman was not only an upperclassman, with

a high scholastic average, but also one of the univer-

sity's dominant personalities. "Tell us more, Fenn."

Clas Heineman dared her, his eyes sparkling. The

rest of the class waited, all too eager to see Heineman

score her down.

She took a deep breath and stolidly addressed

Heineman:

87

"What you don't appreciate, Clas Heineman, is

what a panorama of the human condition you've been

auditing."

"Go on," Clas said in that poisonously quiet tone

she'd heard him use before he changed the state of

some unwary underclassman.

"I know what you'd find hilarious—the woman

who recorded her husband snoring so she could prove

to him that he did. After he died, she'd have that

played back every night so she could get to sleep."

Someone guffawed and she glared in his direction.

"That isn't funny: it's human. So's the man who pro-

grammed a report of his luxury credit standing to

wake him up every morning and put him to sleep at

night. Then he won the Index Lottery and canceled

the instructions. Or the fat woman who had the words

'think thin' played back all day just below the audible

level. It must have worked because three months

later there's a stop-order. Of course, you're all so

grand and well adjusted that you won't need to pro-

gram such things. And all those would-be poets . . .

Why are they so laughable? You all pinion your friends

and make them listen to your sonnets. At least the

dead poets only bored themselves!" She knew that the

frustration and anger in her voice were not for the class

alone but for her own personal situation. But she'd

started to let go all those pent-up feelings. "And I'd

just love to be around when someone, a hundred

years from now, starts auditing your files. I wonder

what will be risible to him."

The smirks had faded from some faces, but Clas

Heineman's smile remained as fixed as the glittering

eyes he focused on her.

"And for all your scholastic honors, I don't think

you've realized just what all these so-funny incidents

show."

"Since you're so acute, suppose you tell the rest of

us obtuse clowns." Heineman's voice was deadly

now and Nora was suddenly as scared as she'd been

when she confronted her father and insisted on her

student rights.

"The subtle change of fear and suspicion of his

neighbors to fear and suspicion of the computer-based

88

society: then a gradual acceptance of computer-

assistance. We all started with records beginning in

1990 when the main Comp banks were switched on

in this Metropolis, so you should all see what I mean.

By mid-century I noticed a definite drop in the in-

cidence of recorded paranoia, and the incidence and

repetition of psycho-chem therapy. It's noticeable

because people begin inputting the most deeply in-

timate secrets. They've realized that no one can

break a privacy seal. . . until we come along with our

sophomoric mentalities."

"Oh, come now, Nora," a girl said from the back

of the room, "so much of it's pretty damned dull."

But she sounded embarrassed.

"I don't agree. I think it's fascinating to watch a

saner mental outlook emerge."

"Thank you for the lecture, Miss Fenn," Larry

Asher said with a jeer.

"Thank you, indeed. Miss Fenn," repeated a

deep voice.

The entire class swiveled about, startled. In the

doorway stood the substantial figure of Research

Scholar Siffert. The students leapt to their feet. "Thank

you, class. Remain standing, Fenn."

She felt the hopeful aura of the class as they

watched Master Siffert approaching her. She felt ut-

terly miserable, but she held her chin up and her

shoulders back. She was damned if she'd let anyone

see her change state.

The Scholar closed the distance between them,

with each step looming more and more forbiddingly.

He isn't at all like Father, she told herself, half-

heartedly. She steeled herself to look him in the eye

and then realized that Master Siffert was by no means

grim. His lined face was suddenly cut by an enor-

mous grin. He seized Nora by the shoulder and turned

her toward the expectant students, one arm proprietar-

ily draped over her shoulder.

"Nora Fenn has just earned a scholarship bonus

of three hundred luxury credits, and a distinctive

honors scholastic credit."

There was an astonished mass gasp. Nora closed

her mouth with a snap when she realized that her

89

jaw had dropped open. Three hundred l.c.'s? He

couldn't possibly mean that! And a d.h.? What on

earth had she done?

"We will dismiss the rest of you from today's audit-

ing. I do not believe that you would be able to keep

your mind on your work after Fenn's astute sum-

mation. And then, too, you will need considerable

time for the essay, the length of which I leave to your

judgment," and he swept the room with the stern

glance, "on the psychological trends in personal pro-

gramming in the early twenty-first century. I believe

that most of you have penetrated the fifty-year mark

of that era. Nora Fenn," and he gave her a paternal

hug, "has spared you what I imagine would have

been an unwelcome surprise at term end when this

essay normally would have been announced. You

are dismissed."

The group rapidly dispersed. Nora made an at-

tempt to follow, but the Scholar's heavy arm re-

mained about her shoulders and to disengage herself

would be improper.

When the room had cleared, the Scholar released

her, gesturing toward a chair. He seated himself next

to her, crossing his legs and beaming at her.

"I don't really deserve—"

"Nonsense, my girl. Not many students outsmart

Siffert." His beam took on additional radiance.

Nora felt a blush rising in her cheeks. He chuckled

and patted her hand.

"No, now. You were using your mind and your

heart, which all too few computer programmers do.

They tend to regard people as bits to be recorded or

changed, instead of thinking, emoting humans with all

the frailties of the human condition." He chuckled

again. "I had rather counted, you know, on the no-

torious student irreverence toward the task to obscure

the ultimate goal of the course."

Nora groaned, realizing that she had undone some

very careful manipulating.

"I do so enjoy the look on their faces when these

young scuts have to change state to the proper polar-

ity. There ought to be some very stimulating essays.

And," his eyes twinkled at Nora, "to have a student

90

capable of some independent evaluation—outguess-

ing a Research Scholar—delightful!" He beamed.

"Really delightful!"

There was no question that she'd pleased him, and

Nora began to relax though she still couldn't believe

in her good fortune. With an alacrity at odds with his

size and age, the Scholar rose and strode to the mas-

ter panel that dominated the classroom. Nora heard

his lift-lock slide in and then the click of rapidly de-

pressed input keys: the almost negligible pause be-

fore print-out occurred. Master Siffert grunted and

turned, leaning against the control board and eying

her thoughtfully.

"Really diverting but, my dear Fenn, whatever are

you doing in Computer Sciences?" He waved a print-

out sheet at her. "You'd be wasted on a Farm Com-

plex. What on earth is your Complex Manager

about? Not to say your Local Guidance Officer? And

why have you been permitted to continue in a cross-

aptitudinal course? Really, I shall have quite a deal

to say to your Mentor. However could he encourage

you in this gross misdirection of ability?"

"Sir, I applied for CompSci."

"What? How's that again? CompSci with your

personality index? Good heavens, no! Won't dol I'd

be going against the precepts of the Educational Act

to condone that!" He strode over to her. "Don't look

so woebegone, my dear. Do some serious re-

evaluation yourself. I'd say you'd be much happier

in socio-psych dynamics, for instance. Can't imagine

how you've been permitted to continue almost a full

academic year in the wrong field. I shall definitely

have a word with your Mentor."

"Please, sir. It's not his fault. My Complex Man-

ager needs a good Computer Technician ..."

"You'd be wasted on a farm, my dear Fenn.

Wasted. Surely your parents have seen your real ap-

titudes."

"Sir, my father is the Complex Manager and it's

my wish to—"

Scholar Siffert pinned her with an astonished stare.

"Your father? Is the Complex Manager and . . .

Good heavens, I thought such situations couldn't

91

happen anymore." Siffert blinked and regarded her

with outright horror. Then his expression softened.

"You appear to me to be a very level-headed young

woman, Nora Fenn."

"The situation has been difficult, sir. You see, my

twin brother. Nick, opted for animal husbandry. He

wasn't qualified for Academic Advancement, just

Applied." Nora knew she was expressing things badly

and stammered on: "Father'd always expected that

Nick would be the Computer Technician and—well,

it wasn't socially harmonious to do anything else just

then."

Siffert regarded her sternly. "The situation is out-

rageous. Parents cannot be permitted to live vicar-

iously through their children. Can't be permitted.

You should not be in Computer Sciences. You're ex-

cused from the rest of the course."

"I'd really like to continue ..."

The Scholar made a rueful noise and then smiled

kindly at her. "Well, it wouldn't be good for class

morale for you to stay on, my dear. Besides, you've

already accomplished what the course was designed

to effect: an understanding of the human condition

behind the bits and program status. No, my dear. Use

this course time to find out where you really belong.

Consult your floor psychman." He gave her a warm,

reassuring smile. "I'll register your scholastic rating

and bonus. Why don't you ring up your boyfriend

and sport him to a real-meal? And I warn you, I shall

have a few words with your Mentor. In person." He

wheeled, his Scholar's robe billowing behind him, to

the master panel, in effect dismissing her. As she left

the room, she heard him typing, heard the printout

chatter a rebuttal.

She couldn't believe what had happened: a fan-

tastic credit bonus and a distinctive honors. Just wait

until she told Con! She could feed him . . . And then

she realized that she couldn't tell Con for several very

good reasons: Scholar Siffert supported Connor

Clarke's opinion that she shouldn't be in CompSd at

all...

"Nora..."

Clas Heineman blocked her path.

92

She ducked, ran to the grav shaft, and entered it

fast. If Con was the last person she wanted to see

right now, Clas Heineman was the next to last. She

whipped out of the grav shaft on the ground level and

dodged through the throng in the Main Hall. She

underestimated Heineman's determination to intercept

her.

He caught up at the entrance, grabbed her hand

and, when she wrenched free, caught at her tunic, all

but ripping the student-issue clothing from her.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he cried, dismayed. Before

Nora could protest, he'd wrapped her tightly in his

own cloak and bustled her onto the fast pedestrian

way, speeding toward the edge of the metropolis. She

couldn't struggle with her clothing in shreds and only

his cloak saving her from an immodesty citation.

Shaken by the morning's events and last night's

scene, Nora began to cry.

"Hey, don't get in that state, Fenn," Clas said,

concerned. "I'm not polarized. In fact, I owe you an

apology. Two." Clas Heineman grinned at her, his

eyes anxious. His arm tightened reassuringly, his

fingers pressing into her waist under the cloak. When

he felt her bare flesh, he politely took a new hold. "I

didn't mean to tear your clothes. This student issue

isn't worth a discarded bit, is it? Good thing you've

got three hundred Ic's."

Clas reminded her in the nicest way that people

were looking at them, even if they were on the fast

belt and speeding by. It wasn't good manners to publi-

cize intimacy.

"Oh, Clas, it's so far back to the U!"

"Back to the U? For more student issue? Don't be

silly, Fenn. We're transferring ... now!"

He half lifted her to the moderate-speed belt and

then, with a second warning, to the slow one. At the

next shopping center, he guided her off and straight

into the clothing section.

"I've always wondered what you'd look like in a

decent outfit," he said conversationally as he steered

her into the shop. He gave her an appraising look.

"Deep red ... like that suit, for instance."

"Oh, no! That's fourteen credits." But Nora

93

couldn't help coveting the smart tunic suit with its

silver piping, the ample sleeves, and the matching

garnet cape. It was made of a tightly woven durable

material.

"A first-year student who has copped a dh in

Siffert's course cannot appear back on campus in

tatters," Clas told her, and before she could protest,

he dragged her up to the shop's computer and shoved

her wrist ID disc into the slot, punching out a data

request. She wasn't certain if Clas made a deliberate

or an unconscious mistake in data retrieval. A credit

balance was all that the shop required, but he'd

punched for a credit check. The entries made a dis-

tressing picture of her economic status. There was the

student bonus for her midterm and the shocking al-

lowance of ten credits from her Complex.

"Clas, that's not fair ..."

His eyes were thoughtful as he looked at her.

"You got a lousy Complex, girl. Well, you can tell

'em to feck off if that's all they can scrape up for a

student with your ability. Why, my Complex . . .

Change state! Let's get you dressed, girl."

The attendant had appeared, prompted by the use

of the computer panel. Clas erased all but the credit

balance and the attendant's smile was correspondingly

affable.

"If you're going to feel guilty about spending for

clothes, Nora Fenn, I'll drag you to the nearest psych

machine," Clas Heineman said later as they emerged,

socially apart, from the shop.

"I shouldn't have let you talk me into buying so

much," Nora said, but she smiled at him. He'd over-

ridden her objections and, neatly reinforced by the

shop attendant, who had visions of a respectable

commission, talked her into buying not only the garnet-

red suit but two other outfits and some pseudo-leather

boots: all completely unnecessary since Nora had

maintained that the one good outfit would do for social

occasions, and she could, after all, do well in student

issue for classes.

"A d.h. has a certain position to maintain, Nora,"

Clas informed her, and told the attendant to airshoot

the rest of the purchases to Nora's student quarters.

94

"Now, I'll do some spending," he said, and steered

her to the nearest eating house.

He didn't consult her, just punched out a high-

protein lunch, definitely luxury class.

"If I asked you what you wanted you'd probably

insist on ordering basic standard, and this is not the

day to be basic or standard. Not after your class per-

formance."

That reminded Nora of the remarks she'd directed

at him and, abashed, she stared down at her hands.

He started to laugh.

"Nora," he said in a wheedling tone that surprised

her into looking up, "do you know the real aim of

Siffert's courses?" Then, before she could speak, he

shook his head. "No, not the humanistic approach

to computer programming. Think again?"

Nora shook her head, too confused by the day's

events to be able to think logically.

"It's to puncture the pomposity of computer pro-

grammers. You were the only one," and Clas

waggled a finger at her, "who wasn't trying to figure

out what technical trick Siffert had up his sleeve this

semester. The trick was not technical, of course, and

the rest of us smart-ass d.h. and student programmers

have been neatly deflated to size. By you and by

Siffert. Oh, for the love of little apples, Nora Fenn,

will you stop blushing? Ah, here's food. Real food!

Not student pap or subbie wad."

Nora ate with as much relish as Clas, although she

was shocked at such profligate expenditure of credit

on food. Clas was amusing company, too, completely

unlike Connor, whose single-minded intensity when

ingesting food left no tune for conversation. Natu-

rally they discussed the course and Clas urged Nora

to expand on her observations. Although it seemed

to Nora that she was monopolizing the conversation,

Clas gave no indication that he was bored by what

she had to say. It wasn't until the lights began glow-

ing on the walkways that Nora realized how late it

was.

"I've got to get back to my Dormblock. I've an

assignment to research," she said.

9?

"Say, it is rather late. And I've work for tomorrow,

too. Not to mention that essay next week."

"Well, you've more than enough material now to

get an honors grade on Siffert's essay," Nora said as

she settled her new cloak about her shoulders and

smoothed the fabric with an appreciative hand. Then

she noticed Clas staring at her in a guilty fashion.

"Did you think I'd—"

"Why not?" Nora was puzzled. "I was afraid you'd

be furious with me for what I said in front of the

class. And then you gave me this lovely treat..."

Why on earth did Clas look so stunned?

"Fenn . . . Nora, you've an alarming habit of

changing state when no one expects it." He got to his

feet.

It was difficult to talk on the fast belt back to the

University Complex, but Clas kept one hand firmly

about her waist and whenever she looked up at him,

he smiled down at her and gave her a little squeeze.

When they finally hopped over to the University Plaza,

he took both her hands in his.

"What's your call sequence?"

She stammered it out, because she certainly hadn't

expected him to ask for it. He gave her hands one

more squeeze.

"You'll be hearing from me, Nora Fenn. After

I've turned in that essay."

And somehow, to her surprise, she believed him.

She had to take the cross-campus belt to her dor-

mitory quad, a trip she'd found rather chilling in the

old cloak with the wet spring winds knifing around

building comers. She pulled the new, windproof

cloak more tightly around her, secure in its warmth

and in the warmth of the day's miracles. Just wait till

she showed Con ...

The day's pleasures diminished. It'd been gratify-

ing to have Clas Heineman interested in her, prod

her into buying more clothes than were really need-

ful, and luxuriating in a high-credit meal, but she'd

rather have shared her triumphs with Con. He'd

shared her miseries.

She was half tempted to go to the Commons and

see if, by any chance, he might be about. But he

96

wouldn't want to see her, not after the way she'd

stormed out of his place yesterday. She'd even told

him she'd canceled his number from her program.

She hadn't, of course, but he wouldn't know that.

She cudgeled her brain to think of some way of

apologizing to him, of making amends. She couldn't

help him with any of his courses because he was in a

different discipline. She'd darned all his socks and

patched his good cloak where the fastening had torn.

She'd . ..

"Hey, don't you speak to old friends now you're a

d.h., with a five-hundred-credit bonus?"

Con's bony fingers clutched her arm and swung her

about. She searched his long, doleful face, with the

shock of bird's nest hair, the rather ludicrous black

handlebar moustache, and saw only comic dismay in

the wide-set intelligent grey eyes.

"You mean, you're still speaking to me?"

"Whaddya mean? Am I still speaking to you?" He

frowned and then, seeing they were attracting at-

tention, pulled her out of the walkway and into the

angle of the building. "You mean, because of last

night?"

She nodded, swallowing anxiously, watching the

shift of expression on his mobile face. He was no Clas

Heineman for looks, but she felt much more com-

fortable with Connor Clarke. He took her by both

arms now and gave her a rough shake, his thin fingers

biting into her flesh.

"Aw, Nora," he said in a cajoling tone, his eyes

tender, "friends can get mad at each other, you

know, without printing out a major disaster. Be-

sides," and he recovered himself with a characteristic

shrug, "I was right and you ought to know it today.

Say, gal, have I been strutting for you since I heard.

A d.h. and 500 Ic's? And you scored oS Clas Heine-

man and all those wire-brained plug-in artists .. ."

"The bonus was only three-hundred and Clas

Heineman—"

"You watch that soft-soaper, Nora," and with one

of his sudden switches, Con was in a sober phase

again. "He may come trying to pick your brains

'cause he's got to maintain his—"

97

"He already has," Nora said, giggling. Now she

knew what had disconcerted Clas Heineman in the

food shop. He'd laid on the charm thick and figured

he'd taken her in when he was pumping her about

her files. Only it'd never occurred to her that that

wasn't a fair exchange for the way she'd talked to

him in class and for the meal he'd bought her. She

did know more about people than programming.

"He has?" Con was nonplussed.

"He waylaid me after Siffert excused me and—"

"He didn't!"

"And," Nora giggled again, twirling on her toes

to show off her cape and the tunic suit underneath,

"he made me spend money on new clothes. D'you

like 'em? The student issue j'ust tore right off me."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, nice— Tore right off you!" Con

looked angry enough to take Clas Heineman apart

bit by bit.

"Mind your thoughts, Con. Really, you're over-

reacting in a gross fashion. Besides which, you caused

the first rip in my s.i. last night . . . All Clas wanted

was to pump me and—well, after the way I rounded

on him in front of the class . .."

"Nora!" Con roared her name with a most reas-

suring possessiveness in his tone. "Nora . . ." Then he

deflated with misery. "Nora, I was wrong last night.

You don't have to gabble like me to relate to people.

You know\"

"No, Con, you were right. And I am out of

CompSci. Master Siffert is ordering me out," she

said, patting Con's face to reassure him and grinning

affectionately at his miserable expression.

"Well, then," and Con brightened immediately,

putting his arm around her waist and drawing her

over to the cross-campus walk, "since that's settled,

let's go eat and you can tell me all about it. Mind you,

I've heard some state-changing versions that don't

sound like my Nora at all." He stopped in his tracks,

so that she all but tripped over his feet. "That is, if

you want to ... after the way I treated you last

night."

Nora smiled up at him. "Oh, go tell it to the com-

puter. It has to listen to you!"

98

Changeling

CLAIRE GLANCED QUICKLY AT ROY AGAIN, HER

mind churning with astonishment, fury, and confusion.

She simply had to persuade him to bring her back to

City. Prenatal instructions blithely stated that the first

birth was apt to take longer, but never how long.

Claire knew that she had a wide pelvis, and she'd done

all the strengthening exer— She concentrated on deep-

breathing as the uterine muscles contracted strongly.

Good God, was this why Roy had been so faithful

in attending the prenatal courses? She and Chess had

thought that it was only because this baby was Roy's

and, because of his sexuality, likely to be his only is-

sue. Had Roy planned this all along?

She swallowed, for the nausea was acute.

"Roy, I'm going to be sick," she said, amazed that

she could speak so calmly.

"Don't!"

The order was frightening, almost as frightening as

the speed with which he skipped the uneven terrain,

barely skimming the low ridges as the helicar climbed

higher and higher into the Alleghenies.

He must be taking me somewhere, but where?

Claire thought desperately. And why? Why?

A short, strong contraction pulled at her and she

gasped inadvertently. Roy looked at her then, his

almond-shaped eyes narrowing slightly.

"That's too soon. Are they increasing?"

"Yes, yes. You've got to take me back to City, Roy."

"No."

A flat-out, inarguable negative.

"For your baby's sake, Roy . . ." The soft entreaty,

99

intense despite her quiet voice, caused the perfect curve

of his wide mouth to flatten in anger.

Claire felt bereft of all courage. Roy was not going

to be dissuaded from whatever insane course he had

inaugurated. And that was very like Roy . . . and ter-

ribly unlike him. Why? Why? Where had she mis-

calculated with this brilliant, beautiful, complicated

personality. What had she, after all, done wrong? Ar-

tificial insemination had solved his basic problem in

the matter of becoming a father. Had he so little con-

fidence in her after the years they'd lived so equably

together? What maggot had got into his mind over this

baby? He couldn't be jealous of Chess ... or EUyot?

That was the prime reason for her having Roy's child

first.

Claire had to stop thinking to concentrate on breath-

ing as the contractions renewed. As she checked the

sweep second hand on the heli's panel, she realized

that Roy, too, was timing the spasms.

Oh, God, what is the matter with him? Why is he

acting this way? We thought we'd covered every pos-

sible reaction. But to kidnap me? At the onset of labor?

Roy, Roy, what did I do wrong?

Claire fought back tears, which would infuriate Roy.

She wanted to scream but such a distressingly female

reaction would not serve. It was the calm, rational

quality of their relationship, the experts had told her,

that was so essential to Roy's stability. The fact that

Claire was always serene, so much the antithesis of the

flamboyant feminine emotionalism which was repug-

nant to Roy Beach, had sustained this unusual experi-

ment in human relationships. Now, every instinct in

her rebelled noisily against his actions. But every last

shred of disciplined rationality she had cried caution,

patience, containment.

What had possessed him that he was compelled to

act in this fashion? Things could go wrong, even at

the last minute, and if they were so far from the City's

obstetrical help, what could she do? Then Claire re-

membered again that Roy had attended every prenatal

lesson and had read more books than she had. She bit

her lips to contain an hysterical sob. Now she knew

100

that it had not been complacent acceptance that Roy

had exhibited, but twisted planning.

No, not twisted planning, she hurriedly corrected her

thoughts. Roy wasn't twisted: he just saw things from

a different angle. A very different angle, since he re-

garded women as a different species, useless in his en-

vironment. Up to the present moment, she'd been the

sole exception. And how could she have been so dense

as to imagine that he would react in any normally pre-

dictable fashion at the moment of parturition of the

one child he was likely to sire?

The groan that issued from Claire's throat was part

despair, part pain.

Roy glanced at her again, his eyes sliding around,

through, beyond her, without seeming to pause long

enough to admit her existence. He did note the con-

tractions that rippled across her swollen belly. He

frowned slightly as he looked back across the hills.

Judging, Claire realized, whether he had enough time

to make his destination before the birth occurred.

Where could he be taking her? Did EUyot know? Or

Chess? Ellyot surely, of the four of them, should have

caught an inkling of Roy's plans. Roy barely noticed

her these last few months, but he was constantly with

EUyot and Chess. The grotesqueness of her once slen-

der, perfect figure would be repugnant to him: she'd

expected that. Her physical perfection had first at-

tached Roy to her. So it was reasonable for him to be

revolted by her gravid condition even though it was his

child that warped her body. She had dressed as con-

cealingly and fashionably as possible and then kept out

of his way—to the point of ducking into closets when-

ever she heard his quick light step in the house.

Unable to look at him or at the blurring green of

the forest over which the heli passed, Claire closed her

eyes and shuddered again. She forced herself to

relax into the contractions. They were unquestionably

stronger—and longer. She could tell that without re-

course to the chronometer. And Roy was timing them,

too. Let Roy take over. He had. Let him do his worst.

He would be the biggest loser. By God and all the

growing insight of modern psychiatry, she had done

101

her best. Between pains, she cast back into memory

and tried to reason out this extraordinary abduction.

Roy Beach, Praxiteles, Adonis, Apollo, call him

Male Beauty in the classic mode, and adore him . . .

at a distance. Always at a distance, please. He is not

to be touched, he is untouchable. The crisp golden curls

that fall in stylish sweeps across the high forehead; the

wide-set, slightly slanting almond-shaped, green-green

eyes over broad cheekbones, eyes that looked with such

ruthless intensity at the wonders of the world, assessing

its hidden beauties, disclosing its accepted horrors; the

fine straight nose with sensitive flaring nostrils; the sen-

suous lips, neither too full nor too thin, graceful in the

double curve of an Apollonian bow; the firm wide jaw.

An incredibly beautiful face—and a beautiful body,

tall, straight, deep-chested, muscular with graceful

strength, hairlessly smooth. Then Nature compounded

her gifts and gave him an intelligence that ranked him

one of the most brilliant geopoliticians of the past three

centuries. Nature, not always kind, added one final

quirk to the psyche of Roy Beach, prince among men,

to ensure that no princess would rouse tender, hetero-

sexual feelings in his superb breast. And yet...

Claire Simonsen met Roy Beach in City University

Complex. If they had not chanced to attend the same

seminar, they would doubtless have been introduced by

some meddler or other. As Roy Beach was a sleeping

prince of godly perfection, Claire Simonsen was Snow

White. Hair black as coal, skin white as snow, lips red

as drops of blood on a queen mother's linen, she was

gracious and gentle, and the fairest in the land—at

least, in Penn City and its environs. She was also an

extremely intelligent young woman: not equal to

Beach as a theoretician—for her talent was in personal

relationships which translated into human terms the

geopolitical equations—but she was both able to follow

and interpret his theories up to the point where he

made the final ascent of intuitive genius.

At the time they met, Roy had not yet admitted his

sexual preference and was intensely aggravated by the

importunities of both sexes. Claire, for the same rea-

son, saw in him the answer to her insistent suitors.

"I don't like females," Roy had told her that first

102

evening in his quarters. "But I also haven't found a

man with whom I can form an attachment." Roy never

equivocated. "I may never find someone congenial. If

you do, you have my blessings. Until that time—" and

one of his rare and beatific smiles touched the perfect

lips "—be my guest?"

"With you, candor has become an art," Claire had

replied.

"If we are to continue to deal pleasantly together,

candor is essential."

Claire distinctly remembered that she had been

strolling around his study room (even as a student, he

rated status quarters), admiring the simplicity and ele-

gance of its furnishings, the knowing placement of the

few paintings, the Britton bronze, the Flock marble

statuette. Unquestionably, Roy had been the model.

"You feel compelled to preserve the image of mas-

culinity?" she had asked.

He had shrugged, his almond, green-green eyes ex-

pressionless.

"I am the image of masculinity."

"But not its substance."

He had frowned slightly, then he again awarded her

that incredible smile. This time, it lit his eyes with hu-

mor.

"Sexuality in this day and age is, thank God, a per-

sonal, not a social choice. However, there is subtle pres-

sure to pah- off, and until this has been done, one is

subjected to constant entreaties." He paused, nodding

understandingly as Claire shuddered. Until Roy had

blatantly annexed her that evening, she had been pes-

tered by three quarrelsome and competitive fellow

freshmen. "You are the most beautiful woman I have

met. It is a pleasure to listen to your voice, to watch

you move across a room." Roy smiled wryly. "Artis-

tically, we complement each other."

"We do," Claire could not help grinning back at their

reflections in the mirror surface of the darkened terrace

doors. "God and witch. White and black."

"Are you always so tactful, Claire?"

She was a trifle startled at the laughter in his voice,

at the definite twinkle in the intensely green eyes.

103

r

Whatever reservations she had faded. Without humor,

Roy Beach would have been insufferable.

"Let us see how we deal together, then," she replied.

"It'll be a relief, even if we split up next Saturday, to

have those hot-handed louts off my . . . my back."

Smoothly, Claire had adapted herself to Roy's ways.

It was never mentioned but it was obvious to a girl

with Claire's perceptions that the weight of compromise

in the arrangement would always be hers. However, it

was a small price to pay for being left alone once the

word got abroad that Roy Beach and Claire Simonsen

were quartering together. There might have been in-

tense private speculation, but custom forbade probing.

They were welcomed everywhere and were soon the

acknowledged leaders of their University class.

The key, Claire had discovered, to Roy's intricate

personality was to accept him at his own evaluation, a

fluid standard which she understood intuitively at first,

then intellectually as she penetrated deeper into Human

Behavorial Sciences, until she could not have said why

she knew how to suit him but invariably did. Theirs

could never be a physical relationship, but Claire oc-

casionally thought she was his mental alter ego. How-

ever, in his own way, he was devoted to her and as

aware of her emotional needs as she was of his; once to

the point of being demonstrably tender with her when

one of her brief love affairs dissolved painfully.

It had been a tempestuous affair and ended in a bit-

ter quarrel. Claire had run blindly back to Roy's quar-

ters to find him waiting for her, and patient with her

distress.

"You appeared to enjoy him," Roy had remarked

when she paused at one point in her harangue. "He's

got a reputation for proficiency, at any rate. Or didn't

he make a good lover, after all?"

Claire had pulled the remnants of her pride together

and looked at Roy.

"He is certainly physically attractive," Roy had said

thoughtfully, taking her by the arm and leading her

toward her old room. "But not your intellectual equal.

You'd've fought sooner or later. Here's a trank: it'll

ease the worst of the withdrawal."

He had pushed her onto her bed, tugged off her

104

boots, gave her water to down the medication, and, to

her immense surprise, had kissed her cheek lightly af-

ter he arranged covers over her.

With amazement, she detected a faint shadow of

worry in his eyes.

"We understand each other, Claire. We complement

each other. Do not settle for less than the best your

own excellence can command."

As she drifted off to sleep, Claire was oddly com-

forted that Roy regarded her as a personality in her

own right, and not as an adjunct or supplement to his

own consequence.

There had been further brief associations for her,

but always the standard that Roy had set for her gov-

erned the flare of sexual desire. On those occasions she

had terminated the relationship—until Ellyot Harding

was introduced to Roy at the Eastern Conference of

Cities.

When Roy brought the slender dark man back to

the flat—Roy and Claire had moved, of course, to ci-

vilian quarters after obtaining their advanced degrees

—Claire was instantly aware of the bond between the

two men, and of her own attraction for Ellyot. She was

also aware of the surprise that rocked Ellyot Harding

at her presence in Roy's quarters. She could all but

hear his startled thought. What's a woman doing with

him?

But Ellyot was quick to perceive subtleties and, on

the heels of the first shock, came comprehension. He

had instantly stepped forward, to grip her hand, to

place a cool kiss on her cheek.

"You must be Claire Simonsen," for Roy had not

yet had a chance to introduce her. "I followed your

programmed analysis of the Deprivation Advantage

with intense interest. In fact, I have allowed for that

factor in the renewal project currently planned in my

City. Oh, I apologize . . . Roy is rescuing me from the

sterility of Transient Accommodations, and the inevi-

tability of having to talk shop with other victims

trapped there."

Ellyot's good-natured smile never touched just his

lips, his whole face was involved in it.

"Go right ahead," Roy urged, turning to dial drinks

10?

at the console. "I rather thought you two would have

overlapping interests. Explore them while I order a din-

ner suitable for this momentous occasion."

The look on Ellyot's face was mirrored in Claire's

for both caught the nuance, the unspoken assumption

in Roy's bland directive. EUyot smiled, raised his eye-

brows in a question.

"Yes, it is indeed an occasion," Claire said. "You

might like our northern scallops, Ellyot—tender, sweet,

delicious."

"The North has much to recommend it," Ellyot re-

plied, leading Claire to the deep wall lounger. His man-

ner was both triumphant and entreating.

Ellyot did not return to the Transient Accommoda-

tions or to the southern City which had sent him to

the Conference. Claire's supervisor hired him immedi-

ately he made known his willingness to transfer. By the

time City Management reviewed accreditation in the

fall, the three had enough status to move to a larger

single dwelling on the outskirts of the City. In fact,

Claire was surprised at the outsized dwelling Roy chose

for them.

"It's marvelous to have such space to spread out in,

Roy, but it'll take every accommodation credit we own

to manage this place," she had said.

"Not for long," was all Roy said, imperturbably.

He looked insufferably pleased with himself during

the few weeks it took them to arrange and settle into

the new house. Claire noticed that Ellyot was unusu-

ally irritable and put that down to Roy's insistence on

each of them having a separate sleeping room. In fact,

relations, up until then extremely harmonious, became

strained.

"What is he up to?" Ellyot demanded of Claire one

evening when Roy was at a meeting. "I know he's be-

ing coy about something."

"So do I, but I thought you'd know."

"Well, I don't. You've known him longer, Claire,

can't you hazard what's on his mind?"

"Did you think I've some magic talisman to see into

Roy's mind? I don't even sleep with him."

"That's the first, catty thing I've heard you say."

"It wasn't catty, Ellyot, truly," she said in gentle

1'06

apology even as he blurted out a request for pardon.

"You're a remarkable woman, Claire. Why have you

never cut out? Why aren't you—well, jealous or . . ."

He hesitated and, to her surprise, blushed. "I mean,

you're so obviously hetero, and yet . . ." He gestured

vaguely around the high-ceilinged living room.

"It's as much Roy for me as for you, Ellyot," she

heard herself say, and then stopped, having finally

voiced that admission. "Yes, it is Roy. We have never

been lovers—never—but there's nothing of misplaced

maternity in my relationship with Roy, or sisterly af-

fection for that matter. It's a relationship ... of the

spirit. No platonic nonsense, either. I honestly, truly,

deeply admire, respect, and . . . and love Roy. I can-

not live fully without him and I cannot—"

"I know exactly what you mean," Ellyot said softly,

with a ghost of a smile on his lips, but none in his eyes.

He leaned back against the couch. "You remember the

day we met? I'd a hetero marriage contract set up in

my old City, you know, but half an hour in Roy's com-

pany and that was all over." He grinned. "I wanted

children, you see, but Roy was too much."

Now Ellyot turned his head toward her, his eyes re-

flecting her image. She felt his hand touch hers, spread

her fingers against his palm.

"She was no match for Roy... or you." He dropped

her hand and abruptly stood up, almost glaring at her.

"And this is not fair to you, either. You've enough

status to have a child of your own from a lover. Get

out of here, have a child, marry, don't waste your life

on us ... on Roy. He doesn't mean to be exclusive.

He just is."

His outburst surprised him as much as did her, for

he dropped down on the sofa, one arm behind her, and

Scowled earnestly as he covered both her hands in a

tight grasp.

"Yes, he just is," Claire said softly. "I cannot leave

him, Ellyot, any more than I can leave you. There's

no other company I'd rather keep, you know." She

gently returned the pressure of his hand.

"But I know you want children. I've seen you paus-

ing by the playyards. I've seen the longing in your

face."

107

"I'm in no hurry. I'll find someone..."

EUyot snorted his opinion of that naivete. "You

haven't even had a lover in the past year. All you've

done is work ... work."

"You've been keeping tabs on me?" Claire was

touched by his sudden protectiveness. That was more

Roy's role than Ellyot's.

"Neither of us wants you wasting your womanhood

on just anybody... or no one."

Claire shook her head slowly, conscious of a deep

and tender affection for EUyot. "Did neither of you

think to ask my opinion?"

Ellyot glanced sharply down at her. His eyes dark-

ened and he pulled in a deep startled breath just as

he bent to kiss her fully and passionately on the mouth.

When she and EUyot emerged from her room the

next morning, Roy merely nodded pleasantly and in-

vited them to join him at the table. Breakfast for three

had already been dialed.

Nor was there any embarrassment. Almost, Claire

once mused, as if Roy had expected something of this

sort and was relieved that it had finaUy taken place.

After the first occasion, Claire had to be the aggressor

with Ellyot, though he was never reluctant.

However, in the course of the next few months,

Claire realized that the lovemaking she shared with

EUyot could become invidious. It was impossible to

make love with Ellyot and not sense Roy, not make

love with Roy through EUyot, not hunger for Roy's

magnificent body when EUyot's covered hers.

Roy had brought EUyot into their circle for his own

ease and solace. Triangularity could deteriorate the re-

lationship. Claire must find a fourth member. She

wasn't getting any younger, and Ellyot was correct

about how much she longed for a child.

Claire was convinced that Roy had perceived her

turn of thought. Of course, they had been talking about

building a real kitchen into the house the next time City

Management raised their total income. Roy was in-

tensely interested in raw food preparation and increas-

ingly annoyed with the mass-produced combinations

available from the public kitchens, despite the interest-

ing variations he achieved with what came out of the

108

dispensers. But it was Claire, restless, increasingly dis-

satisfied, who undertook to find an architect who would

design a kitchen room for them.

The first firm she consulted laughed at the notion of

an entire room devoted to the preparation of food for

consumption. The second thought she wanted a rough

arrangement such as could be installed in a retreat too

far from a City or Center for regular facilities. They

recommended another firm that did reconstruction work

for museums. That was how she met Chess Baurio.

"He's very busy, you know," she was told over the

telephone by the receptionist. "But the notion is bizarre

enough that he might just like to try it." An appoin-

ment was made and she went directly to his office, not

far from their home.

It could never be called love at first sight, for he

was extremely antagonistic from the moment she in-

troduced herself. Only because he'd never attempted

to solve such a design problem did he reluctantly agree.

And then, under the stipulation that it was done his

way. He knocked down one after another of her plans,

sarcastically deriding her painstaking research. In fact,

when she had finally got him to agree to come to the

house and examine the proposed site, Claire wondered

why she had put up with his manner and attitude for

one session, much less contemplate a further associa-

tion.

Still, when he arrived the next morning, he was un-

expectedly pleasant, even charming—until Roy walked

in. If Roy Beach was the personification of the classic

concept of the male manner. Chess Baurio was the

twenty-first century's. Compact, lean, healthily attrac-

tive, alert, he was the antithesis of Roy's studied indo-

lence. Roy was the aloof, detached, arrogant observer;

Chess was the involved, enthusiastic, vital participator.

As Roy strode up to the terrace where she and Chess

were discussing the location of the kitchen room, the air

became charged with electric hostility.

Claire looked at Chess, saw that his eyes were snap-

ping with anger, that the smile on his face was set, that

his movements as he leaned forward slightly to shake

Roy's hand were jerky. His manner became stilted,

109

false. She glanced at Roy, who was his usual urbane

self.

"Chess Baurio? You designed the new theater com-

plex at Northwest 4," Roy said by way of greeting.

"Now, why did you use polyfoam instead of Mutual's

acoustical shielding?"

"Ever heard the wows in the Fine Arts Theater at

Washington South?"

"Can't say that I've been in that theater, but wasn't

it John Bracker, Claire, who was so vehement in his

objections to playing in that hall?"

"He did mention he'd rather play under Niagara

Falls," she said lightly, hoping to ease the tension.

"And polyfoam corrects wow?" Roy demanded of

Chess.

"In that size building, or in amphitheater form."

Baurio's voice had a bitten quality.

"I've been advised to use it in our music room," Roy

went on, blandly, dialing out three coffees and passing

them round as if Chess would naturally take his black

as they did. "What's your opinion on its use in a small

room?"

"As a consultant?"

The rudeness in Chess' tone surprised Claire. People

were rarely rude to Roy. He simply didn't elicit that

kind of response. She held her breath. Roy did not ap-

pear to notice.

"The kitchen room comes before the music room,

but we always combine efforts. I believe that Ellyot

. . . Ellyot Harding," and that was the first time Claire

ever heard Roy qualify any acquaintance so pointedly,

"is the third member of the house . . . has a prefer-

ence for natural woods as acoustical materials, rather

than manmade products."

Hostility fairly bristled from Baurio now.

"We have not really discussed the music room. I

imagine, however. Designer Baurio, that if the kitchen

room is successful, we'll get busy on the other," Claire

said, trying to sound relaxed and gracious. Why was

anything Roy said so offensive to this Baurio?

"I'm not at all sure," Baurio said icily, putting down

his untouched cup of coffee, "if anything I designed

would be successful in this . . . this kind of manage."

110

Not even Roy could ignore that, and he slowly

turned toward Baurio, his eyes glittering.

"You object to polyandry?"

"I object ... I object to such a monopoly, to the

sheer waste of . . ." He broke off, glaring savagely

from Claire to Roy before he spun around and strode

out of the house.

"What on earth possessed you to come out with

statements like that, Roy?" Claire asked. "He was . . .

to design a kitchen room ... What happened?"

Roy smiled down at her. "He'll be back. And you

must make him stay."

After the most tempestuous three months in her en-

tire life, she did, but only when their marriage contract

had been registered in the City. And that came about

only because Roy and Ellyot cornered Chess privately

at the end of a particularly bitter quarrel.

The end of the mad abduction and the cessation of

a particularly painful contraction—her muscles were

beginning to hurt despite training and control—were

simultaneous. Claire opened her eyes to a leafy vista,

the tops of trees below the heli's landing gear. Startled,

she peered down. The heli was perched on the edge of

a sudden, sharp drop, the bottom of which was hidden

by foliage. Wildly she turned to Roy. His eyes wouldn't

focus on her, his breath was uneven.

"Can you move?" he asked.

"Where?" She couldn't control the quaver in her

voice.

He threw up the hatch and jumped out, ignoring the

gasp she made as she had a flash of him disappearing

over the precipice, leaving her alone and at the mercy

of her body's birth-drive in the cramped nose of the

heli.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," he ordered, and

she found herself obeying.

She moved as quickly as she could, knowing that a

spasm was seconds away. It seized her as she reached

out to him and sent her reeling into his arms. He had

seen the look of pain on her face, and deftly caught

her to him, holding her firmly despite the awkward

position for them both.

Ill

It seemed an age until the contraction passed. She

submitted weakly as he swung her up and strode off.

She buried her face against his shoulder.

Does he intend for me to have the child in the

woods, like an animal? she wondered.

"You'll have to open the door," he said in her ear.

She looked down and fumbled for the crude latch,

surprised that there should be a door, for she had only

the fleeting impression of the facade of the retreat, its

rustic logs, the heli's floatons apparently resting on the

surface which camouflaged the retreat. Vaguely, she

hoped the roof was firmly supported against the heli's

weight.

As Roy angled her through the doorway, she caught

a glimpse of the superb view of the valley below them,

the mountains beyond. When had he acquired such a

retreat? Or who had lent it to him? Stupefied, Claire

wondered if Ellyot had suspected this and kept silent.

A contraction. She couldn't suppress the groan,

which deafened her to a statement Roy muttered under

his breath. But, seemingly a century later, he laid her

on a bed and was arranging her body in the best posi-

tion to ease the strain.

"A hard one, huh?" he said as she lay, panting. She

didn't resist as his hands turned her gently and stripped

off her maternity sack, or as they felt her writhing ab-

domen.

How can he bear to touch me? He has scarcely

looked at me for five months.

The next moment she became aware of other prep-

arations for the coming birth and she began to struggle

fastidiously.

"Don't resist. This has to be done. For the child's

sake."

Hearing the anger and distaste in his voice for what

he had to do, she forced herself to relax and endure

his ministrations.

Her waters broke while she was on the toilet and

she began to whimper, more from embarrassment and

tension than pain.

"What is it?" His voice was clinical.

"The waters broke."

112

T

He got her back to the bed, on her back, and ex-

amined her with the deftness of her obstetrician.

"The head is in the birth canal," he said just as she

experienced the first of the second-stage contractions.

"That's right. Push down!"

She fought the hand that pressed down on the upper

part of her belly.

"No, no Roy. Leave me alone. Get a doctor. Please,

Roy!"

His face loomed suddenly above her so that she was

forced to open her eyes wide and look at him.

"I know what to do, Claire. The child is mine!"

"But you could have assisted at the hospital, Roy,"

she cried, slowly perceiving through her pain and anx-

iety what motivated him.

"With Chess listed as your legal spouse? We haven't

that right yet. No, Claire, this is my child."

"It's mine, too," she screamed.

"Is the pain unbearable? I'll fix the mask for you."

"Mask?"

"I have assembled everything that might be needed,"

he told her in that odd flat voice. "Do you need the

mask now?"

"No, no. No!" She couldn't succumb to the desire

for relief from the pain, though it was fierce now, fierce

and inexorable, convulsing her body, seizing her with

a steadily increasing rhythm, permitting her not so

much as a moment to relax straining muscles.

"Good. Press harder. Press downward." She heard

his voice through a mist of sweat and tears and pain.

She grabbed at the bed, flailed wildly around for

something to hang onto and was rewarded with a

strong wrist to grasp. But for that hand, she was lost

in a nightmare of stretch, strain, pant and gasp, of a

body that was not hers, that responded to primal urg-

ings. The comforting hand, the reassuring voice were

part of it and apart from it. The rhythm increased, un-

bearable, constant, exhausting, and then, wrenched

by a terrible spasm, her body arched. She was sure

she had been torn apart.

The pain was gone. Sweat dripped into her eyes.

She felt almost lifeless, certainly weightless but . . .

serene, strangely enough. Her legs were spread wide,

113

the thigh muscles ached, her vagina throbbed, and all

pain was replaced by the languor of exhaustion. She

became conscious of movement within the room, of a

harsh breathing, a wet splat, and then the tiny gasp

as infant lungs sucked in air and complained mewlingly.

She raised herself on her elbow, one hand reaching

for the sound.

"Roy?" She dashed sweat and damp hair from her

eyes.

Roy's back was to her. When he turned, she was

startled to see a surgical mask across his face, the

translucence of plastic gloves high up his muscled fore-

arms. And, dangling from his left hand, a tiny, arm-

waving inverted form, the cord still attaching it to her.

"Oh, God, Roy, give him to me."

Roy's eyes were full of tears as he laid the child on

her belly.

"I have delivered my son," Roy said in the gentlest

voice. "Don't touch him," he added, knicking her hand

away with the bare part of his forearm. "You're not

sterile."

"He's mine, too," she protested, but did not reach

out.

She watched as Roy deftly tied on the umbilical

cord, swabbed the child's mouth, painted his eyes. As

he tenderly oiled the reddish skin, Claire craned her

neck to glimpse with greedy eyes at the perfection of

the tiny form.

And the baby was perfect, from the delicate kicking

feet to the twitching fists. His head bones were still

pointed, but there was a fineness about the angrily

screwed features. Despite the unconventionality of his

birth, he was alive and obviously healthy. She did not

protest when Roy swathed the child in a receiving

blanket and laid him in the portable crib that he

pushed gently to one side of the bed.

"Now, you." Again all emotion was leached from his

voice.

With the heel of his hand, he pressed into her flat-

tened belly. She screamed for the pain of it and was

seized, to her horror, with another contraction that

brought a flood of tears to her eyes.

114

"You leave me alone!" she cried, feebly batting at

his arms.

"The afterbirth!"

And it was delivered.

Utterly exhausted, she lay back. She felt but did not

move as he sewed the torn skin of her, only vaguely

wondering that he knew how. She was too weary to

help as he cleaned her, changed the soiled sheets. She

was only grateful that the pain and the shame were

over as he covered her tightly bound body with a light

blanket. She could hear the baby snuffling somewhere

in the room and his continuing vigor was more reassur-

ing than anything else. She felt herself drifting off into

sleep and tried to fight it. She must stay awake. She

couldn't afford to sleep. He might try to leave her now

he had the child he had wanted so desperately.

And that thought stuck in her mind. The child Roy

wanted so desperately was born. That was why he had

acted so rashly. His child. His child! She had, after

all, and however deviously, become the mother of his

child.

A tiny voice, insistent and undeniable for all its lack

of volume, roused her. She felt hands turn back the

covers that lay so comfortingly around her. She felt her

upper body lifted, supported with pillows. Drowsily, she

evaded full consciousness until she felt her arm

crooked, felt the scrape of linen against her skin, the

warmth of a small rounded form, hands against her

right nipple, the coolness of a wet sponge, then the

fumbling of small wet lips and the incredible pleasur-

able pain caused by a suckling child.

She opened her eyes to the dim light. Roy was sit-

ting on the edge of her bed, his hand securing her lax

hold on the child. She was fully aware in that instant,

aware and awake. She glanced down at the tiny face,

eyes tight, lips working instinctively for the nourishment

she could feel it drawing from her breast.

Roy did not remove his hand, yet it was not as if

he did not trust Claire. And suddenly she understood

all that must have been driving him since she had

blithely announced her desire to have his child first.

She had taken him, of them all, by surprise. She had

astounded and startled him. She had given him a hope,

II?

a promise that Roy Beach had never even considered,

given the circumstances of his sexuality. She had given

him the child of his own flesh, yet she had not soiled

him with her femininity.

She understood now why he had been unwilling to

trust anyone but himself with the responsibility of de-

livering his child.

The pressure in her other breast was painful. She

disengaged the nipple from the searching, protesting

mouth and quickly shifted the babe, taking a sensuous

delight in the tug and pull of the eager lips as they

fastened on the new food source.

Then she looked up at Roy. She smiled at him as

their eyes met. She felt that she saw directly into his

heart and soul for the first time in their long associa-

tion. With her free hand, she reached for his and

placed it on their son.

"I called Chess, and told him where you are. He

said Ellyot made him understand."

Claire tried to tell him with her eyes that she did,

too, but all she could say was, "Does he plan to come

here?"

There was a quick start in Roy's body and his eyes

plowed deep into hers as if he, too, had to know her

heart, at least this once.

"It would be more peaceful," she added, holding

onto his gaze, "to have the first few days alone, if you

can stand it."

"H / can stand it..."

Claire had to close her eyes against the look of in-

tense joy, of almost painful jubilation in Roy's face. She

felt him lean toward her, across the child, so that the

baby kicked against the constriction. She felt his lips

on hers, her body responding unreasonably to his ben-

ediction.

When she opened her eyes again, he was smiling

down at the babe with untroubled pride and affection.

And that was how it must be forever, Claire re-

flected and deliberately put aside that brief, tantalizing

glimpse of the forbidden paradise.

"Weather on Welladay" stands alone. Judy-Lynn

del Rey when she was Galaxy Magazine's energet-

ic Gal Friday'Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday,

gave me a future cover for the magazine around which

to write a story. Not as easy as it might seem. A

helicopter and a tall man stood among what looked like

Christmas-tree decorations on the deck of a great whale-

boat. Surrounded by lots of water! So pick up the ball

and throw it, because you have to account for every

element in that cover somewhere in your story.

It was a mystery to me how to do it, so I made the

story a mystery.

Weather on Welladay

WELLADAY WAS INDEED A WATERY WORLD,

Shahanna thought as the day side of the planet turned

under her ship. Good thing that explorers were obsti-

nate creatures; otherwise the hidden riches of this

stormy world would have gone unnoticed.

She checked her location visually as the ship's com-

puter began to print landing instructions.

"I'm not that stupid," she murmured, noticing the

turbulence of several storm centers that blossomed in

the northern hemisphere of Welladay. She tapped out

Locate for the Rib Reefs, the rocky spine of the planet

that stretched from north to south and broadened into

the Blade, the one permanent installation on the wa-

tery world. "At sunrise, hmmm? Wouldn't you know.

And right in the path of one storm. Well, let's beat it

in." She began to punch out landing coordinates.

At that moment, the proximity alarm rang. She hit

the Enlarge toggle of the screen control just in time to

see two telltale blips—the small satellite that ought to

be in orbit near her, and the larger one that certainly

ought not to be in Welladan skies. Suddenly her ship

rocked with the violence of a direct hit. Shahanna re-

mained conscious just long enough to hit the survival

button on the armrest.

Odis planted his flippered foot on the young whale's

blunt snout and shoved.

"This is no time for nuzzling, nuisance," he roared,

as the force of his thrust sent the baby backfinning.

Whales liked to be talked to—roared at—though there

was little chance they understood more than the tone

'118

of voice. Some fishmen denied even that much compre-

hension. "Almost finished now, Mother," Odis bellowed

reassuringly at the massive creature whose thyroid

glands he was tapping.

The indicator dial of the long-beaked suction pump

reached the red area, whereupon, with more deftness

than others gave him credit for, Odis broke the con-

nection and sealed the beaker. He closed the tap mouth

and noted the date of this tap in paint-pen above the

metal insert. Old tap-dates had faded but the new paint

would glow for the three months necessary for a ma-

ture whale to generate more vital radioactive iodine in

its thyroid gland.

Odis touched the zoom button on the drone's remote

control, then scrawled the whale's registry number be-

side the luminous date on the beaker before holding it

for the drone to record. That formality observed, he

scratched the female's rubbery upper lip where the

scales had been torn. What kind of a fight had she been

in? Well, at least the wound had healed.

Once again her child tried to nose Odis' fishboat out

of the way. Chuckling over the creature's antics, Odis

climbed up the boat's ventral fin and over the back to

the hatch. Ducking below, he stored the precious

beaker of radioactive iodine in the chemfoam-protected

carrier.

Back on the fishboat's snub-nosed brow, Odis

frowned at the sight of the school of whales beginning

to melt away from the neighborhood. He had been out

since early morning, tracking them down, and spent

a good hour easing into the herd before he had tried to

tap one. First, he'd pounded affectionately on the snouts

of the mammals he knew as well by scar marks as by

registration code. Two had shied away from him so

wildly that he began to worry that this group had al-

ready been milked by that fardling pirate. When he

was finally able to draw alongside the old blue-scarred

cow and do a light tap, he had decided that their

weather-sense was all that was making them skittish.

Between the freakish storms of Welladay and the

fardling pirates, Odis growled to himself as he squinted

toward the darkening horizon, they might as well pull

the plug on operations here. He frowned. Where else

119

would he find a world more to his liking? A task more

suited to him, a man born and bred on a high-gravity

planet? Or creatures big enough not to suffer from his

inordinate strength?

Pleased with himself, he stepped on the release for

the outboard panel and began to beam toward Shoul-

der Blade for a weather report.

The instrumentation was on a pole that looked like a

colorful Christmas tree when it was lit up—which was

now. It was recording various local indications of the

weather. But when he tried to reach Okker in his har-

bormaster's lookout at the Eye of the lagoon, the beam

crackled with interference. So the easterly storm had

hit them. Even with a band of weather satellites, one

couldn't always be sure of weather on Welladay.

Odis tagged the playback in case Okker had broad-

cast while he was tapping the whale. He whistled as

he listened to Okker's sour report of mach-storm warn-

ings, the advice that all vessels return to Shoulder at

cruising depth and hold at shelf-level until recall—

the local storm over Shoulder seemed to be only a

squall. The warning was repeated twice with additional

ominous details on the mach-storm's wind velocity,

estimated drift, and duration.

Odis grunted. He could just imagine Okker's disgust

at relaying such a message. Tallav, the maggoty Plane-

tary Administrator, had probably been at Okker's el-

bow. With the exercise of tolerance, Odis could

understand the reasons for Tallav's ineffectualness. A

meek man, he was not suited to a blustery, stormy

world like Welladay, even if affairs proceeded nor-

mally. But Tallav was caught in a fladding bind. Some-

one was pirating the main source of Welladan wealth

so that no substantial revenue had been garnered from

the whales in months. Result: Supplies could not be

paid for, and credit had been suspended. What with

the depredations caused by pirates and various natural

catastrophes, only three fishboats were operable. Re-

quests from legitimate sources for the priceless radio-

active iodine had become demands: Urgent! Top

Priority. Gray phage was endemic and periodically epi-

demic. The only specific vaccine was a dilute suspen-

sion of the radioactive iodine. In addition to the risk

120

of tapping to death the few whales they could now find,

Welladan fishmen were constricted by lack of operable

craft.

The two best fishmen, Odis and Murv—a newcomer

on a Debt-Contract—had been sent out in an attempt

to find and tap enough of the valuable substance to

make up at least one critically needed shipment. What-

ever Odis and Murv could get today, therefore, was

crucial. Fleetingly, Odis wished they could charge a

hardship premium, but the price of the iodine had been

fixed by Federation officials who evidently were too

concerned with other crises to pay attention to repeated

Welladan requests to investigate piracy.

So here was timid Tallav, calling the fishmen back

because there was a mach-storm brewing in the west.

Odis ran a quick check of the instrumentation on the

approaching storm, now boiling black and ochre on the

horizon.

As he evaluated the readings, he maneuvered his

ship toward the nearest adult whale. He could get one

more tap completed before he would have to duck and

run home. Fishboats were sturdily designed for

Welladan waters, to race on hydrofoils with the scaly

spawn of her seas, to plunge trenchward with the

whales, to endure the savagery of a sudden squall, to

wallow, whalelike, within the school itself without being

attacked by a nervous male.

He coasted along the port side of the mammal,

rather pleased that the creature was not shying off as

did its schoolmates. The painted code above the tap-

vent had faded completely, so Odis toyed with the idea

of getting at least a beaker and a half, as he made his

preparations to tap.

It was then that he noticed the strange color of the

scales. At first, he thought it was caused by the light

—the sky had already changed with the approach of

the storm. As he looked around, there wasn't another

whale in sight; they'd all raced away, north and south,

deep from the storm center. This whale wasn't moving

because it was close to death.

Cursing with pent-up anger, Odis stomped below,

retrieved the beaker he had just drawn, and prepared

to pump the contents into the sick mammal. Would it

121

be enough? Was the gesture merely a waste of fluid

now—fluid as precious to the life of Welladay as to

this mammal? Odis refused to consider this a waste. In

an angry scrawl he painted the date and the circum-

stances on the whale, adding a crude skull and cross-

bones.

He stepped back then, clenching his teeth, railing

against the brutality of the pirates. He wondered bit-

terly just how many more beasts had been tapped dry,

just how many more black, bloated corpses would roll

in on the fresh tides after the storm?

He waited, hoping for some sign of change in the

creature. There was no way of knowing how long ago

the tap had occurred—hours, days? Or how swiftly the

infusion would correct the whale's deficiency.

A fresh wind came up, and the outboard panel chat-

tered metallically, then began to crackle with an au-

thoritative noise. A craft approaching? Odis scanned

the clouds. Suddenly a second drone broke into view,

higher and north of him. He glanced down at the sea-

viewer, waiting for the indication that another fishboat

approached. The drone whistled overhead, but the sea-

viewer remained empty.

Murv was the only other fishman out! Where was he

that he would send his drone back alone? Had he been

caught by mach-violence? A wilder shriek tore the air;

and the whale reacted with a nervous bobbing, then

pulled away from the fishboat.

Odis swung the Christmas tree, got a fix on the

sound, and followed it. The intruder was high up but

lancing downward, downward and right into the mach-

storm. He nipped the track toggle, keeping the out-

board panel lined up with the visual trace of the

spaceship until it disappeared into the clouds.

That boiling trail had come from nothing based on

Welladay. And it was heading away from the only set-

tlement on the water world. Odis retracted the out-

board panel. As he climbed down the ladder, he shot

a final look at the whale, now moving slowly in a

northerly direction. No, the iodine had not been a

waste. If the creature could just make it out of the

storm's path, it could feed itself back to strength on the

plankton in the northern waters.

122

Odis slammed the hatch down and searched the pi-

lot's couch just as the computer printed out the in-

truder's course: straight into the storm, directly in line

with the only other permanent landfall. Crown Lagoon.

The realization was particularly bitter to Odis, for that

was the direction from which Murv's drone had just

come,

Slowly, Odis tapped out a new course for the fish-

boat. Not back to the safety of Shoulder Blade, but

straight into the storm, directly on the intruder's tail.

Then he fed into the computer the details that Okker

had transmitted on the roach-storm. As the printout

chattered, Odis sank back into the padded couch, his

suspicions confirmed. In approximately five hours, the

eye of the mach-storm would be centered over the gi-

gantic old volcano whose mouth formed a twenty-kilo-

wide lagoon. The shards and lava plateaus of its slopes

were like a galactic-sized crown, thrown down just

above the equator of Welladay in the shallow meadows

of the western seas.

Murv could hold up in the deep beyond the island's

shores—safe enough even with a mach-storm lashing

deep into the ocean—until the eye of the storm cov-

ered Crown. Murv could then surface, deliver the

stolen iodine to the ship which had sneaked in under

cover of the storm. Well, Murv would do well to leave

with that pirate. Once the Investigator got here—and

the planet was registered as bankrupt and taken over

by the Federation, Welladay would be no place for

any freedom-loving man. Finds! Murv must have

enough of the iodine on him to buy a planet. He sure

had sold out Welladay!

Grimly Odis settled down for the long run. He'd

stay on the surface and run on the hydrofoil as long

as he could, at least until the storm's violence forced

him to the relatively quieter, but slower depths. He

had to intercept Murv before the traitor got the iodine

off-planet.

But where had the man hidden the valuable sub-

stance all this time? Every possible crevice on Shoulder

Blade had been searched repeatedly once the fishermen

realized what was happening. Hadn't Tallav initiated

123

the drone-escort to prevent any fishman from tapping

too deeply? How the flads had Murv managed?

True, he had sent his drone back. But you couldn't

tap a whale in the midst of a storm and he was within

his rights. Indeed, Tallav would have screamed if Murv

had kept the drone.

Odis leaned forward, tapped his own drone's con-

trols. He printed out a message for it to transmit once

the squall lifted over Shoulder Blade, then sent it to

track him miles above the coming storm. He might just

find it useful to have a drone in the eye. He would

risk Tallav's tantrums.

As there was nothing more he could do now, Odis

settled down to a short nap.

The old survey charts had better be right about that

underwater channel into the lagoon, Murv thought as

he listened to the stress noises of the fishboat and

grimly watched the danger lights blink warnings. The

fathometer marked the unsteady ascent as the craft

bucked tidal pulls and storm rips. He must be nearing

the archipelago.

The straps that held Murv firmly to the pilot's seat

cut into his flesh and he cursed absently as he began

to match the chart to sea-viewer.

Blighted planet! The whole thing had appeared so

fardling simple. He was used to risks, trained to sur-

mount them. So he had opted to contract as a fishman,

to look around for a while, spot the trouble, and then

back out again, ready for more demanding work. On

a watery planet, with only one permanent settlement,

and only one product that was in great demand

throughout the galaxy, what could have been simpler?

He had not, however, counted on such a trivial detail

as weather. Nor had he counted on the mimsy-pimsy

fardling parasite of a Planetary Administrator coming

up with a drone escort to prove his fishmen were not

the murdering pirates. That wrinkle had restricted

Murv's investigations, but it didn't make him trust

Tallav. Murv knew better than to trust anyone.

Furthermore, Murv had not counted on sympathiz-

ing with the great whales. After he had been taught

to milk them, after he had been assigned a school, it

124

had annoyed the hell out of him to see the rotting car-

casses of whales that had trustingly let humans tap

them to death. They even lined up to get milked. No,

the waste—the fladding waste of it—galled Murv the

most.

He must be nearing the tunnel mouth; he could feel

the fishboat being sucked relentlessly toward the ba-

saltic shelf. His fingers flew over the pitch and yaw

controls, decreased the play in the helm, and ignored

the neck-jarring rolls. On the fathometer and on the

roiled viewscreen in front of him, the bottom of the

ocean met the ramparts of the old volcano in a solid

wall of tortured lava!

Shahanna was roused by the shrieking hiss of the

insistent wind. She opened her eyes to grayness, to the

realization that the crash foam was dissipating, to the

knowledge that she was still alive and breathing. In

spite of the cushioning foam and the padding of her

seat, she felt thoroughly wrung out. Motion was pain-

ful. She turned her head, groaning as stiff muscles pro-

tested. A solitary yellow light gleamed on the control

panel, then blinked off as she watched. The ship had

sent out its death knell, the last thing this type of space-

craft was programmed to do before all its systems

failed.

Shahanna reached with an enfeebled hand to her

side pouch, fumbled for a stimulant and a pain de-

pressor. Clumsily, she jabbed the drugs into her arm

and then, gasping at the discomfort even that slight mo-

tion caused, lay back. The drugs worked swiftly. She

staggered to her feet and worked her muscles, relieved

that nothing had broken or split. Her wrist chrono

showed that some eight hours had elapsed since the

unexpected attack. Automatically, she reached toward

the log recorder.

"All systems dead, gal," she reminded herself, and

looked out the plastight window.

Jagged black rock surrounded the nose of the scout

and sheets of water scudded across the window.

How lucky can a gal get? She thought. I cracked up

on land? Shahanna frowned. "Shoulder?" The Rib

Reefs had been half a planet away when she had been

shot down. There was no possible entry she could have

made that would land her on Shoulder. But she re-

membered some other semi-permanent land masses on

the charts, if one could dignify a wayward archipelago

or a transient volcano as land mass.

The lock was jammed solid, Shahanna discovered,

but the escape hatch was clear. The little scoutship

rocked under her feet, and she realized it had been

rocking ever since she had come to. The pitch of the

wind had risen a few notes, too, and water sloshed

across the viewpane in a constant fall. If she were on

an island in one of those archipelagos, she was on a

very precarious one.

Shahanna wasted no further time on speculation.

She quick-sealed her orders onto her ribs, slapped addi-

tional supplies to her belt, shrugged into an all-purpose

suit. That done, she harnessed on a life-support tank

and donned her headgear and the water-aids, then

punched the destruct on her ship's instrumentation and

threw open the escape hatch. She got a face full of

wave and drew back sputtering and choking. Un-

daunted, she rearranged her mask and took a second

look.

Gaunt black fingers of stone held the ship. But the

rising tides, wind-lashed and moon-churned, rocked the

boat resting in its impromptu dry dock, grabbed it with

a greedy urgency. What remained of the aft section of

the ship was rocking slowly down into the water.

"That guy was a good shot—cleared off my engine.

But I'm a live one." Another wave slapped across her

face. She ducked instinctively and then, with a deft

movement, was over the side of the ship, its bulk pro-

tecting her from a worse battering.

She could see beyond her ship, through the spaces of

the finger rocks. It wasn't a comforting view, for the

huge expanse of water was equally wild. A grinding

sound reminded her that she had little time for delib-

eration. The ship slipped further down the rocky palm.

Shahanna saluted it, promising retribution, and clam-

bered up through the rock fingers. She didn't see that

an outcropping of rock caught and held the forward

section of her sliding ship above the water.

"This is the damnedest terrain" Shahanna said aloud

126

as she scrambled higher, grateful for the tough fabric

of her gloves as she found handholds on the razor-

edged shards of rock. The rain was coming down in

such heavy torrents that she could barely see a few

feet in front of her. The wind pounded her with ham-

mer blows. She would not last long in this maelstrom,

Shahanna decided, peering around for some sort of

shelter against a rocky ledge. Instinct directing her,

she climbed doggedly to such a height as she could

manage on rockpile. The absence of water pouring over

her and the slackening of the wind indicated a sanctu-

ary, and she was inside the little cave before she even

realized it existed. With an inarticulate moan, she

crawled far enough inside to be out of the reach of the

elements. Sighing, she rolled onto her back as exhaus-

tion claimed a battered mind and body.

Planetary Adminstrator Tallav watched anxiously as

the nets drew the battered space craft into the safety

of the Broken Rib Hangars. Almost on cue, rain in

blinding sheets plummeted until the dome over the liv-

ing quarters beyond the hangars looked like a water-

fall and the storm drains began to fill with alarming

speed. Tallav shuddered at the ferocity of the floods.

You'd think twelve-foot-deep dikes would be ample

anywhere—except on Welladay, he thought as he

started down the ramp to welcome the eagerly awaited

Investigator.

It wouldn't do to appear nervous, Tallev thought.

Might cause suspicion. Nor should he appear irritated

that it had taken Federation such an unconscionably

long time to dispatch an Investigator. Didn't they real-

ize the consequences of letting this out-and-out piracy

of the vital radioactive iodine go on for so long? Surely

his messages had been explicit, his reports detailed. But

to wait until Central Credit actually suspended all ship-

ments to Welladay—that was disgraceful. Disgraceful

and unjust.

Tallav slid back the portal and stepped out into the

rock-hewn chamber that housed the drones and visi-

tors' shuttles. Such noise as the crewmen made in se-

curing the ship was lost in the vast room. Tallav was a

little surprised at the Investigator's physical appearance.

127

Not that he expected a full-uniform for a minor planet

like Welladay, but an Investigator ought to appear in

something more than a faded one-piece shipsuit.

"I'm Tallav, Planetary Administrator, Grade 3-B,"

he said in a firm voice, saluting the new arrival with

what he felt was the proper deference. Investigators

were not exactly equal in status to Planetary Adminis-

trators but they had superplenary powers which they

could invoke if circumstances warranted. "And you are

Investigator ..."

"Brack's the name.

Tallav was a little annoyed by the very casual re-

turn of his salute.

"Your arrival couldn't be more opportune," Tallav

went on, indicating the exit to Brack. "We haven't so

much as a drop of the radioactive iodine left, and two

top-priority emergency capsules came in just before

you got here. The tone was rather high-handed. You

timed that a mite close, if I may say so."

The Investigator shot him an odd look as he ducked

under the portal. Tallav dogged the lock wondering if

the Investigator thought he was being critical.

"Storms on Welladay are unusually violent," he con-

tinued. "That's why we net down all craft."

Brack snorted and let Tallav lead the way to the of-

fice.

"If you'll just come this way. Investigator, my tapes

and personnel are entirely at your disposal. We want

this piracy stopped immediately—"

"In that storm?"

"Well, no, of course not. I mean, that is ... surely

my communications gave you ample facts from which

to draw some conclusions? After all, there aren't very

many places on Welladay from which a pirate could

operate."

"No, there aren't."

"Now, here we are. May I offer you some refresh-

ment? Or would you permit yourself to try some off-

world stimulant? I'm afraid the commissary is a little

low—tedious, this business of being boycotted until

these pirates are ^apprehended and the iodine is col-

lected properly."

128

"I could do with some hot protein. Natural ... if

you can supply it."

Tallav decided not to take offense at the suggestion

that Welladay could not feed its population decently.

He roused the mess hall personnel and ordered a meal

from his private stores. No sooner had he turned, smil-

ing, toward the Investigator, than the corn unit beeped

urgently.

His hand hovered over the unit to silence it. Then

he saw it was Hangar calling. The dolts hadn't man-

aged to damage the Investigator's ship, had they?

"Well, what is it?"

"Drone K-Star is back. Or rather, what's left of it

is back," the hangarmaster reported.

"Who was that one assigned to?"

"Murv."

"Are all the other drones back?" he asked, inad-

vertently glancing at the waterfall that covered his plas-

glas wall.

"No, sir!"

"What? Who could still be afloat in this?"

"Odis."

"Odis? But he ... Get off the line. I must talk to

the harbormaster."

Angrily, he jabbed the new call. "Okker, has Murv

got in yet?"

"No, nor Odis either. Just like that new-worlder to

try and send his drone back through a storm," old

Okker said.

"What were their destinations?"

"You ordered 'em out yourself. Told 'em to milk

anything they could catch."

"Well, you knew a storm was coming up. Didn't you

call them back?" It was difficult for Tallav to restrain

his irritation with the old fool. No respect for status.

Just because he had been one of the original fishmen

of Welladay, he thought he knew more about every-

thing than a trained Planetary Administrator.

"What do you think, Tallav? I know my job as

harbormaster. Besides, Odis is smart enough to run

submerged for the eye and drift back with it till it

disperses."

Tallav shuddered inwardly, trying hard not to notice

129

the half-smile on the Investigator's lips at the impu-

dence of his subordinate.

"And Murv?" Tallav was compelled to ask. He dis-

trusted the new-worlder and would like nothing better

than for him to turn out to be their pirate. He looked

the part and he was obviously opting to go off-planet

as soon as he could. That was the trouble with the

Debt Contractees—men forced to accept undesirable-

world employment never took any real interest in their

work.

"I can't speak for him."

"Why didn't you report their absence when the storm

broke?"

"Did. You weren't in. Down meeting that snooper

you sent for so long ago."

"Investigator Brack is present in my office."

"Good for him," Okker replied, ignoring the frost in

Tallav's voice. "Now let me get back to my Eye. That

damned fool Sharkey's out, too."

Brack was suddenly very alert.

"The Chief?" Tallav was now fully alarmed. Losing

Sharkey was unthinkable. The man was a sheer gen-

ius with the fishboats, able to repair absolute wrecks.

If he lost the engineer, he might just as well resign.

He would never get a replacement at the price he could

force Sharkey to take.

"You can't test a patched hull in dry dock, you

know," Okker was reminding him needlessly.

"Yes, yes. Keep me posted."

"Don't I always?" The connection was broken at the

harbormaster's end and the meal arrived at the same

instant.

"And you say there's not a drop of the radioactive

iodine in store at the moment?" Brack asked as he

attacked his food with more speed than manners.

"Not a drop. In an attempt to fill these . . . these

demands," Tallav gestured toward the message capsule

shells, "I sent out my two best fishmen."

"Into that?"

There was no doubt of the Investigator's disapproval.

"No, not into that. That storm developed some hours

after they had cleared port. Even with weather satel-

lites keeping constant guard, storms can come up with

130

frightening speed. You see, when there are two or more

moons in conjunction, particularly with one of the other

planetary masses in the system .. ."

"Agreed, agreed. I know my meteorology. So that

means that the only iodine is either still in your whales

or preferably riding out a storm."

"And hidden somewhere in the possession of those

pirates."

"You have proof of piracy?"

"Proof? Of course. Take, for example, the rotting

hulks of whales who have been deliberately and wan-

tonly milked to death."

"No more than that?"

"What more is necessary?" Tallav was appalled at

the man's obtuseness.

"You've got. . . how many fishmen?" The Investiga-

tor's smile was condescending.

"No Welladan fishman would milk a whale to

death!" Tallav sat up stiffly to protest that possibility.

"You're sure?"

"Very sure. And just to prevent such a ridiculous

accusation being leveled against my subordinates, I

took precautionary steps. You heard my hangarmaster

report a drone's return? When it became apparent that

someone was tapping the whales to death, I initiated

a drone-escort for every fishboat. The drone is pro-

grammed to hover while tapping is in process, taking

careful note of the quantity taken from the glands and

making a record of the number of the mature whale.

They all receive a tattoo, you see. There could be no

way to escape such vigilance."

The Investigator shrugged. "But didn't I understand

that two ships are still out, and only one drone back

in? Murv, wasn't that the name? If there's no drone

watching him right now . . ."

"In this weather? The turbulence covers the entire

northern hemisphere. You couldn't possibly tap in this

weather. Besides, the whales have undoubtedly sounded

for protection."

"Northern hemisphere, you said? What about down

south?"

"No whales in any great number. The sea is shallow

131

there except for the Great Longitudinal Trench, and

that's too deep for fishboats anyway."

"Who's this Sharkey?"

"Our Chief Engineer. Marvelous talent with any

kind of engine or vehicle. Keeps our boats afloat and

our drones aloft. In fact, he helped rig the control de-

vice so that the drone hovers the instant its linked fish-

boat comes to a stop.

"Sharkey, huh? Appropriate name for a water

worlder."

"Beg pardon? Oh, yes, I see. Ha ha."

"He's out without a drone."

"Oh yes, just checking a hull. You can't do that in

dry dock, you know. And we're very low on vital ma-

terials until Central Credit releases our long-overdue

shipment. Besides, he may be a genius with an engine

but he couldn't tap a whale to save his life, even if

the weather were calm enough to do so."

"How so?"

Tallav leaned back. These were questions he could

answer. "Came here originally as a contractee. Whales

didn't take to him. Couldn't even get near enough to

them to do a tap. They got to the point of being able

to identify the pulse of his fishboat, and they scattered

whenever he approached." Tallav didn't believe that

himself, but the other fishmen did and swore to it.

"The whales didn't take to him?" Brack echoed

Tallav's skepticism.

"Oh, they've as much rudimentary intelligence as

other forms of mammalian sea life. They evidently

develop an affection—or dislike—for certain fishmen.

Odis, for instance, and old Okker when he still tapped

and even Murv, the contractee, have had no difficulty

going deep into schools—until recently, that is."

"Very interesting." The investigator squinted

thoughtfully at the watery plas-glas. "I'm sure you

won't mind if I take a walk about."

"No, no," Tallav was on his feet too.

"On my own, Tallav. I'd like to talk to the harbor-

master. Take a look at the docks and quarters. You

know."

Tallav did know and, though he disliked the notion

that a Central Worlds Investigator would be ... snoop-

1'32

ing—there was no other word for it—if such activity

resulted in the apprehension of the pirates, he must

ignore his feelings.

"And have you a counter?" Brack added, smiling

slightly, his hand outstretched.

"Counter? Whatever for?" Tallav was shocked. The

very idea that he, the Planetary Administrator, might

not have conducted the most extensive search for any

radioactive iodine illegally hidden anywhere in Shoul-

der, that his estimation of the fishmen might be erro-

neous, that . . . Fumbling with indignation, he turned

his own handcounter over to Brack.

"Now announce my presence," Brack pointed toward

the corn-unit.

Rather stunned, Tallav depressed the All-stations

switch and informed Shoulder Blade that Investigator

Brack was to be given aid and assistance in his efforts

to uncover the pirates.

Shahanna stirred in her sleep, became aware first of

the rough surface on which she was bedded and then

of the closeness of the ragged walls. Other senses also

registered information—the freshness of the air com-

bined with moist rock, the curious yellow light that fil-

tered in and the assault of complete silence. She sat up,

then painfully aware of muscular discomfort and stiff-

ness, crawled out of the shallow cave and looked

around.

To the right and forward, massive black and gray

clouds, their churning innards clearly visible, scudded

beyond the outer rim of the old volcano. All around

she saw the diffused vibrant yellow of cloud-strained

light—bathing the surrounding area with a strange

clarity that made the view of this archipelago and its

lagoon crystal clear.

Far off on the left, Shahanna discerned the ap-

proaching rim of the other half of this storm. She

looked back at the receding section, trying to estimate

the extent of the eye and to figure out how much time

she might have before the onslaught of the rest of the

storm.

She shrugged. She had few options. Her shallow

cave had sheltered her well enough up to now. If only

133

it would protect her just a while longer. Suddenly some-

thing bobbed up on the waters of the mirror-sleek la-

goon below her. Instinctively, Shahanna ducked down

and peered cautiously over the obscuring rock.

"The size of it!" she gasped. The sea life of her home

world boasted no monster like this whale of Welladay.

Quickly, she reviewed what she knew of the crea-

tures. The ashmen of the planet milked their glands

for precious radioactive iodine, by inserting a surgical

tap into the gland-sac. Therefore, they must be used to

humans. So, perhaps she could figure out a way to ac-

tivate the tap herself. Her hand went to her belt and

then fell. Even if she could tap the whale, with her

ship a wreck on the bottom of the sea, how would she

get the iodine off-world?

She stared at the floating monster, blinked as a piece

of its head appeared to lift. "A fishboat." She watched

as a man's figure became outlined blackly against the

reflecting water.

She grabbed her hand weapon and dropped three

'shots forward of the fish snout, waving her arms in a

broad semaphore to attract the Welladan's attention.

To her amazement, he dove back into his ship. Within

seconds the craft submerged.

Cursing her bad luck, wondering how else she could

have attracted his attention, and annoyed at such a

cowardly retreat, Shahanna began to pick her way

down the basaltic rocks. She couldn't imagine that he

would rather brave the storm than face one lone oc-

cupant of the volcano. Surely he'd surface again.

Of all the rotten luck, Murv was growling to him-

self. The air in the fishboat was rank with human and

machine stenches. He was weary and sore from the

rough transit of the old channel. The boat was leaking

from half a dozen seams which he had better seal be-

fore the second half of the storm hit. Of course the la-

goon would be quieter than the open sea and he had

figured on having the chance both to air the boat and

to patch it while the eye of the mach-storm passed

Crown Lagoon.

His sonar indicated an overhang along the south

coast of the lagoon: Good. He would be undetectable

134

there and could find out who that trigger-happy ape

was. And if it just so happened that he was the pirate

—stranded?

Pirate? He was jumping to conclusions. Flads, who

else would be on Crown Lagoon in the middle of a

storm. Tallav had only ordered two fishboats out, and

the figure on the rocks was too rangy to be Odis!

Murv's irritation quickly dissolved. He found himself

eagerly scrambling into his gear. What luck! What

sheer unadulterated luck! To find that passage into the

lagoon itself and to spot the pickup. Flads, where had

the pirate hid his ship? Crown Lagoon was one

fardling big place.

The unmistakable triple cracks of a hand weapon

had echoed around the lagoon, unnaturally amplified

by the volcanic rock hollows, the water, and the cu-

rious flat calm of the storm's eye. The shots were dis-

tinctly audible to Odis, busy mooring his fishboat on

the outer rim of the Crown. He tapped the outboard

instrumentation button. Odis quickly called the drone

down from its circling security above the stormy mass.

If only he could actually catch the pirates in the act of

transferring the stolen iodine! Even at speeds no human

could tolerate, the distance was still too great for the

drone to descend in time. So he slowed its descent.

It wouldn't do for the drone to be observed from the

ground.

Three shots, he reflected. A signal? He glanced up-

ward at the yellow-clouded skies. There was plenty of

time for them to make a transfer before the winds

picked up again. And he would have plenty of time to

find that space shuttle. There was more than one way

to milk a whale!

He secured the outboard gear and went below for

his suit and water-aids. He snapped a remote-control

drone unit to his belt, a knife to his calf sheath and a

buckle-and-line sphere to his shoulder harness. He

carefully checked the assist-tanks before he strapped

them on. Then, jumping into the water, he began to

swim with rapid and powerful strokes around the

southern edge of the outer Crown. He knew that he

13?

would find better mooring for a space shuttle on the

lower south edge of the island.

When she finally reached the shores of the lagoon,

Shahanna kicked impotently at the coarse black sands.

Nowhere was there any trace of that fishboat—nary a

wake nor a ripple, bubble or slag.

"Slimy coward. Twice coward! What were you run-

ning from?"

She paused. Maybe Welladans were under attack

from the same ship that had fired on her. Maybe that's

why the repeated demands for the iodine had been ig-

nored. Perhaps that coward had merely acted with sen-

sible caution. Oh ho, that put a new light on the

fishman's retreat. And, if he thought she was one of the

invaders, she'd never see him again. That was certain!

Disgusted, she sank down to the beach and leaned

wearily against a convenient rock. She forced herself

to rest, to drain off the poisons of fatigue caused by

her difficult descent. Even though this planet did have

a lighter gravity than her own, her efforts had been

tiring.

Displacing enough water to inundate the narrow

beach and half drown Shahanna, the fishboat suddenly

surfaced alarmingly close to the shore. Choking from

the unexpected drenching, the girl staggered to her feet,

too furious to be frightened by the grotesque pseudo-

fisheyes that glared at her from the boat's snout.

"That's the last, remember," a rough voice yelled at

her. "And remember, if I'm not off this fardling world

in five revolutions, I set the Investigators on you when

they get here. And they're coming."

Shahanna jumped back as a large plas-foamed cube

landed heavily at her feet.

"Wait," she cried as the fish-snout began turning

away from her.

"Can't wait, you fool. And neither can you if you

want to get off this fardling planet before the storm

socks us in again. Grab that stuff and get off-world."

Shahanna watched as the hatch slammed down and

water foamed over the fins of the fishboat. She looked

back at the plas-foamed cube and saw its shock web-

bing—black triangles against the gray stuff. Was that

136

the kind of protection given valuable space shipments?

She dropped to her knees, her arms involuntarily

starting to grab up the cube. My God! She pulled back.

It just had to be—a cubeful of radioactive iodine! Li-

ters of it, just thrown at her feet. She threw back her

head and laughed: "Well, I got what I came for, cer-

tainly. They've got to give me marks for that!"

She rose to her feet, absently brushed the clinging

dark sands from her legs. Her ship had already sent

out the death knell. That would eventually connect

with a civilized agency which would be compelled to

report it to the authorities, and then a search would be

inaugurated. She had supplies in her belt for several

weeks, in addition to what the sea could provide. Per-

haps, and her chuckle was one of pure amusement

now, she had only five revolutions to wait until the

error in delivery was discovered.

Suddenly she felt much better. With a deft twist, she

yanked the heavy cube to her back and began to re-

trace her steps to the shallow cave. That would be a

difficult hole to find, but there she'd be safe from the

storm. Her ascent was slower and far more treacherous

than her descent because the cube was an unbalanc-

ing burden, its weight a strain even on her heavy-world

strength. Shahanna had been chosen for this mission for

many reasons, not the least of which was her often-

demonstrated tenacity. She continued her climb up-

ward.

Murv watched the delivery take place with a mix-

ture of satisfaction and irritation. He was too far away

to make out the features of either party, or the code

letters of the fishboat fins. He took careful note of the

odd gait of the receiver—definitely an off-worlder,

someone used to a heavier gravitational pull. Murv

knew to a kilogram how heavy that iodine cube was,

yet the off-worlder had shouldered it with ease.

Muscles or not, Murv decided, that was going to be

a fardling hard climb. The pirate must have ducked

into the lagoon at the onset of the storm, probably in a

small shuttlecraft. Must be a fladding good pilot, too,

Murv grudgingly admitted, to land on a stormy

Welladan sea, ride out a mach-storm and then trip

137

along like that. Murv glanced over his shoulder toward

the west. The black and ochre clouds were still low on

the horizon but coming in fast. He grinned to himself.

He could, of course, shoot the pirate now, take the

radioactive iodine back to Shoulder, and get off this

fardling world for good. Everything legal and above-

board; no need to blow his cover. But that did not solve

the second part of the puzzle: Who was the illegal tap-

per?

So a dead pirate informed on no one. But tackling

an off-worlder presented other problems, even to a man

adept at rough fighting from combats on a dozen outer

planets. Well, there was more than one way to milk a

whale, Murv decided, and started after the pirate.

Flads! Why hadn't the fishboat swung just slightly

port or starboard so he could see at least one letter of

the code? And why hadn't the fishman emerged further

from the hatch? Murv could have identified him with

one clear glimpse of profile. Murv cursed again, re-

membering that the only other man out when the storm

broke was Odis. He was cynic enough to believe any

man capable of any deed, given the right combination

of pressure and opportunity. But Odis? His love for the

great whales was exceeded only by his love of this

drenched world. He was the last man Murv would have

suspected of treachery. Still, you never knew what went

on inside a man's head: everyone had a price.

That settled it for Murv. He could not kill the out-

worlder until he had discovered the identity of both

traitor and pirate—and learned, to his own satisfaction,

why Odis tapped whales to death.

To Shahanna, time was shortened to the span in-

volved in a simple physical effort. First one foot must

lift, its toes finding a hold, somehow, on the treacher-

ous rock. The toes must then grip long enough to tense

the calf muscles which must inform the long thigh mus-

cles of the effort required of them. Arms must, some-

how, manage to retain their grip on the shock-webbing

on the unquestionably valuable and impossibly heavy

cube.

She was only vaguely aware of other pressures: the

wind beginning to rise, gustily plucking at the over-

138

balancing burden on her back now and then, or lightly

cooling the sweat that trickled down her face and into

her suit. The light was changing, darkening as the other

side of the storm neared the island. She was completely

unaware of being under observation or that her tenacity

implied far greater familiarity with the terrain than she

actually possessed. An innate sense of direction was

another of her assets. Once she had been to any place

on any world, she was able to retrace her steps to it,

just as she was now heading toward the anonymous

caim hidden.

She dragged herself and her burden into the cave

and then, with a sigh of complete fatigue, curled around

the cube, one hand seemingly welded to the shock web.

That protective reflex as well as the darkening skies

prevented Murv from locating her when he finally real-

ized that she was no longer climbing ahead of him.

He had followed cautiously, therefore slowly, and

was not unduly alarmed when he could no longer see

the straining figure with its awkward load. At first, he

wondered how the pirate could have gotten so far

ahead of him. Then he reached the highest ridge of the

southern escarpment and realized that the pirate must

have taken cover. From here, the island jutted outward

and downward.

At that moment Murv caught sight of the half-

submerged craft. "Pladding stupid fool. He isn't going

anywhere." He laughed. "But then is he?"

Carefully Murv worked over to the ship, using the

tumbled rockscape to cover his advance, keeping close

watch on the open hatch lest the pirate discover him

prematurely. He agilely reached the open lock, listen-

ing for any sounds of activity within. It wasn't a large

vessel but a single cabin job. He gave the deserted in-

terior one sweeping look. So, the guy hadn't made it

back. He'd gone to ground somewhere up in the crags.

Murv began to pick his way up again, following

Shahanna's original route so, his back to the sea, he

was unaware that he was being observed.

Odis had allowed the tides to pull him back under

water, deep enough so that his progress could not be

seen. He surfaced again, twice, in fact, looking for a

way up the rock face so that he could outflank Murv.

139

He was annoyed that it was Murv up there on the

rocks. Annoyed but puzzled. Murv gave every appear-

ance of a man hiding. But why should he hide if he

were the pirate's contact? And where was the iodine?

Where, too, was Murv's fishboat?

Glancing up at the clouds scudding and boiling on

the horizon, Odis considered his next move. He had

kept the drone just above the cloud cover, but now he

directed it down to the northern part of the island to

take a skimming run, hopefully to detect Murv's

craft. The wind was rising enough to cover the whis-

tling sound of a drone. Odis flipped on the visor and

blinked at the rushing ocean picture on the tiny screen.

He sent it twice over the northern arc of the island and

it spotted his own boat moored to the east. But he

found no trace of another fishboat, either visually or

sonically. So he sent the drone aloft, remembering to

check the wind velocity to be sure the drone was at a

safe altitude. Then he sat down to think.

No ship. Had Murv lost his fishboat in the storm?

Murv had a tendency to be too quick. After all, he

wasn't all that accustomed to Welladan storm condi-

tions. Of course, Murv might have discovered a ledge

and moored the boat under that. One thing was cer-

tain, the pirate was going no place.

But who had blown off the after-section of the pi-

rate's vessel? Had the Investigator arrived, spotted the

pirate ship, and blasted it? If so, the Investigator must

surely be at Shoulder now, so all Odis need do was

wait until the storm lifted enough to get a message back

there. He settled down to wait, keeping a weather eye

on the approaching storm front. He had no intention of

cutting it too close back to the safety of his own boat.

So why was Murv hiding? Had those three space

shots been hostile rather than for identification?

The rain-laden wind began to keen in the darken-

ing sky. Gouts of lightning spat through the bilious

clouds. Warm air masses were moving in, Odis thought

with pleasure. Storm is breaking up a little. Weather

was capricious: a real mach-storm like this one, despite

the pull of two moons and the conjunction of another

planetary mass, could break up with a crustal shift up

north.

140

Murv was moving, not merely shifting position but

moving forward, darting to cover as he worked his

way back up the slope. The rising wind was bothering

him, Odis decided, and followed him obliquely. A flash

of a head beam and Odis saw that Murv was defi-

nitely searching among the hollows and crevices of the

cliff. Odis climbed faster.

He arrived in time to hear raised voices echoing in

an argument. But the sounds were so diffuse and the

rising wind so noisy that he could not pinpoint their

location. Odis cursed softly under his breath as he

jumped from crag to block, flashing his own beam in

and out the darker hollows.

The next thing he knew, Murv had emerged from a

low ledge, his arms wrapped around a foam-cask.

Since there was no chance for Murv to reach his hand

weapon, Odis stunned him with a full charge, neatly

catching the cube as Murv folded.

Keeping one hand on the cube, Odis knelt and

flashed his beam into the cavern. He caught sight of a

dark lump that was a prostrate body. He turned it over

and was reassured by a groan.

Rain began to spray across his back as he crouched

between the two unconscious forms. He could just leave

them here; they'd both be out a while. No. He didn't

know where Murv's boat was and he couldn't permit

the man to escape. Resigned, Odis settled down to wait.

"I don't know what you expected to find here,"

Okker said, his seamed face flushed with anger, "but

are you satisfied now?"

"I really don't understand, Investigator," Tallav put

in with understandable anxiety as he picked his way

across the debris. "You certainly cannot have suspected

Okker here, and he is absolutely the only one permitted

in the Eye."

Brack was sweating from his exertions. He had

pulled out every drawer, shelf, and movable fixture in

the rock chamber, rapped on every inch of the rock

walls, trying to find a hollow. He had moved his geiger

counter over everything without a crackle for his pains.

He didn't mind alienating Tallav or the ancient, but he

was furious over the fruitlessness of his search. He

141

glanced at the two men, somehow now allied against

him. That wouldn't do.

"This is the only installation known as the Eye on

Welladay, isn't it?" he demanded curtly.

"What's left of it," Okker replied.

"Unavoidable. I ... I intercepted a message, ob-

viously from the pirates, setting up a contact point. I

caught only part of it due to the storm's interference.

Southern edge of the lagoon where the eye is centered."

Brack pointed to the lagoon harbor which the single

big window of the harbormaster's control room over-

looked. "Your control room is on the southern edge of

the lagoon. This place is called the Eye. What other

eyes are there on this fladding planet?"

Okker regarded him with a deep scowl, then slapped

his thigh, and burst out into a cackle.

"You sure you heard where, and not when?" He

pointed an accusing finger at the Investigator as he

danced about in an excess of amusement.

"You fladding idiot, stop that!"

"I believe I can answer you, Investigator," Tallav

said, his manner stiff as he waved Okker to be still.

"Logical topical references are deceptive to a new-

comer." He smiled at the Investigator. "You see, this

is not the only lagoon on Welladay. It is therefore

possible that the message, which you say you heard

imperfectly due to faulty transmission, said when, not

where. Therefore, I presume the contact point meant

the southern edge of the Crown Lagoon, when the eye

of the storm was centered on it. Really, most ingenious.

With proper timing, the pirate could make contact, pick

up the radioactive iodine, and be off without ever be-

ing detected through the storm."

Brack swung around toward the exit. "Let's go then!"

"To Crown?" Okker cackled, reinfected with ill-

timed amusement. "Not now. Eye's over Crown right

now so they've made contact and the radioactive io-

dine is no doubt off-world. You blew it, Investigator!"

Brack seemed about to explode. Then, with a mas-

sive effort, he controlled himself and began to smile

ominously. "No, that's where you're wrong, Okker.

There can have been no contact because I disabled a

small spaceship just after I picked up the message. Got

142

a direct hit and saw it tumbling out of control. So that

iodine is still on this world, waiting to be picked up.

And I intend to do just that!"

"Not till the storm has cleared Crown, you aren't.

Drones can't handle that kind of turbulence, not unless

they go above it; and that's got to be too high for non-

pressurized cabins," Okker told him.

"I hadn't planned to use local transport." Brack's

smile broadened.

"Couldn't. Ain't even a fishboat left with sound

seams. And," Okker pointed a nobby finger at the In-

vestigator, "you just forget trying to make it in your

spacecraft between now and the time the rest of the

storm hits Crown. You couldn't do it on the trajectory

you'd need."

"If only Sharkey were back with the boat he was

testing," Tallav muttered, "that vessel could stand the

trip. We have to get that iodine." Tallav turned to

Okker. "Hasn't that squall along the coast lifted enough

for us to find Sharkey? Where could he be?"

Okker shrugged. "That squall came up sudden. He

probably had the good sense to head for the open sea

to avoid getting smashed. He doesn't like to go sea-

ward though," he contradicted himself, "so it won't hurt

to look for him, before the whales do."

"Before the whales do?" Brack queried.

"Like I said, the whales don't like Sharkey. I'll get

a weather picture. We're clear enough to receive . . ."

A bleep made the rest of his sentence inaudible.

"Odis to Eye, Odis to Eye: Drone-relay transmission.

Proceeding Crown Lagoon at 1930 hours. Checking out

spacecraft trajectory plotted toward Crown." A second

raucous bleep.

"Of all the nerve," gasped Tallav, the first to re-

cover.

"Must be that ship you shot up," Okker said to Brack

with more respect than he had previously shown.

"He ought not to take such risks," Tallay muttered.

"Then he should be at Crown by now?" Brack asked

in a tight voice, glancing up at the main chrono.

"Contact that drone, Okker," Tallav ordered.

"Maybe we can relay a message to Odis to search

for the iodine."

143

"Not if the eye's passed Crown," Okker grumbled,

but his gnarled fingers sped with unexpected agility

across the communications board. "Crown's a mighty

good place to hide something on—it's full of hollows,

caverns, and boulders."

"Get him to search the southern edge," Brack

snapped.

"Yeah, that's right, isn't it," Okker said, glancing

sideways at the Investigator.

Another unit began to chatter and a sheet of relay

paper extruded from a slot.

"Weather relay from a satellite," Okker said, and

grabbed the print before Tallav or Brack could.

"Hmmm. Weather's closed in again over Crown, but

see here," his stubby forefinger following the wispy

leading edge of the mach-storm, "it's breaking up." He

moved his finger to the right. "And we got some of the

bonuses. If you want to find Sharkey, you'd better git.

I'll transmit to Odis's drone. This weather looks like

it'll clear in another couple of hours and he can look

for the iodine. Can't do more'n that now."

"Be sure to tell him to search diligently for the io-

dine," Tallav was saying as Brack urged him out.

Another alert blasted and Tallav hesitated, his eyes

widening at the distinctive sound.

"C'mon," Brack snapped.

"A sublight message?" Tallav moved back into the

eye. "Now what?"

"Come!" Brack insisted.

"This is Federation Cruiser DLT-85F, Based Mirfak.

A d-k has been received from your planet, Welladay.

Coordinates Frame BE-27|186. Search and recover.

Search and recover. D-k assigned to Mercy Ship

Seginus X. Advise!"

"That pirate ship you shot down was a mercy boat.

And it is now on Crown Lagoon," Okker snapped in a

hard voice.

Tallav turned slowly to Brack, his face pale.

"Your pirates are more ingenious than we've given

them credit for. Using a mercy boat as a contact ves-

sel. Very clever. We must outsmart them. Catch them

red-handed. Let's go, Tallav!"

Then Brack pulled the stunned Planetary Adminis-

144

trator down the corridor. Okker stared after them, his

expression bleak, his eyes thoughtful. He turned back

to his board then, and began to broadcast a message

for Odis's drone to transmit. Then he warmed up the

sublight generator. If he was right, Tallav wouldn't

scream at the power use.

"I'm glad it wasn't you, Murv," Odis shouted, trying

to make himself heard above the storm.

Murv nodded, grinning at Shahanna, who was unself-

consciously taping her orders back to her bare ribs. A

bit heavy-boned, Murv thought, but no more flesh on

them than was needed to make her a soft handful.

"Who is it?"

Even with Odis's lips tickling his ear, Murv could

barely hear above the keening wind. He shrugged, then

put his mouth to Odis's ear. "Someone stealing a fish-

boat, sneaking out under cover of the squall at Shoul-

der?" He had to repeat his words twice before Odis

caught the entire sentence.

"Not past Okker. Only two boats seaworthy, any-

how. No parts!"

"Okker might be in it!"

Odis stared at Murv for a long moment, then shook

his head vehemently, denying that possibility. So Murv

shrugged and patted the cube of iodine significantly.

Odis grinned in comprehension.

Shahanna prodded Murv's possessive hand, then

jerked her thumb backward toward herself, rubbing the

place where her orders from Federation for a top-

priority requisition of radioactive iodine were taped.

She emphatically pantomimed the quantity of iodine

needed. Odis continued to nod and patted her hand re-

assuringly. She glared at Murv, who just grinned back

with sheer deviltry in his eyes. When she realized he

wouldn't give her the satisfaction of an acknowledg-

ment, she reached across and gripped Odis firmly on

the shoulder in an ostentatious gesture of friendship.

She almost wished Murv had been the pirate, instead of

the agent. She wondered if the ID plate, indisputable

evidence of his authenticity, ever ached the arm-bone

in which it had been implanted. He needn't have wal-

loped her so hard when he snatched the iodine. But

:14?

then, she mused, he had acted within the scope of the

information he possessed at that tune. Just as Odis had

when he knocked Murv out. She was sorry that she

couldn't describe the fishman who had thrown the cube

at her feet. She had gotten the most fleeting glimpse of

him but she was sure she would be able to recognize

him. However, that time was long off, judging by the

siren winds. Shahanna arranged herself into as com-

fortable a position as she could and closed her eyes.

"There's something over to starboard," Brack said,

raising his eyes from the screen to squint through the

plas-glas snout bubble of the drone.

Tallav flipped up the call switch. "Must be Odis.

We're halfway to Crown. Tallav calling fishboat. Tallav

here. Fishboat. Answer!"

"You're in the ship?" Surprise and relief colored the

voice of the respondent.

"Sharkey? What are you doing midocean?"

"Between the storms and the whales, I'm lucky to

be anywhere," the man snapped. "You don't see them

on your screen, do you?"

"We've spent hours scanning the coast for you,"

Tallav interrupted, angry but relieved at finding his

mechanical genius. "You've got the only seaworthy boat

and the Investigator and I—"

"Investigator?" Sharkey's voice was sharp.

Brack elbowed Tallav back from the speaker.

"Brack here. I have reason to believe that the pi-

rated radioactive iodine is still on this Crown Lagoon

the P.A. has been telling me about. I intercepted a

message arranging a contact point on the southern shore

of a lagoon, only the reception was faulty and I missed

the entire message. Do you read me?"

"Yeah, I read you, Investigator Brack."

"Good. Now, can that fishboat of yours make it back

to Crown Lagoon. You realize, of course, that we must

pick up the iodine before the pirate can retrieve it. An-

other fishman, named Odis, is presently believed to be

in the vicinity of the lagoon."

"Odis, but. . ."

"Can your fishboat accompany us?"

146

"Yeah, if you can keep those fardling whales off my

back."

"We cannot permit that iodine to fall into the wrong

hands, now can we?" Brack cut across Sharkey's com-

plaints, more threatening than suggesting, Tallav

thought.

"No, we can't," Sharkey agreed flatly.

"Good man. Now, how fast can that fishboat go?"

"Long as those squalls don't hit us, as fast as that

air bubble you're in." And, as they watched, they could

see the fishboat rise slightly from the water on its hy-

drofoils, then take off in the plume of spray that ar-

rowed northeast by east.

Before Brack could speak, Tallav banked the drone

and poured on power to follow.

"Would they send another Investigator?" Odis asked

Murv when Okker's transmission was completed.

Murv shrugged, grimacing. "It's possible. This has

taken a lot longer than predicted. And, with the credit

embargo and no ships touching down at Shoulder, I

haven't been able to send in a report. They might think

I'd been drowned here. Now, with Shahanna to identify

the Welladan contact, we can finish this up in no time.

First we've got to get this treasure safely to Shoulder."

He patted the iodine cube.

"The traitor is Sharkey," Odis said gloomily.

Murv laughed. "I'm not sure of anything. Remem-

ber, I thought it was you and you thought it was me,

and then we both suspected Shahanna of being the

pirate."

"Yes, but your Okker said Sharkey was still missing,"

Shahanna reminded the men, "and when he'd last

heard from the P.A., they'd given him up for lost and

were heading here."

"Try Okker again, direct, Odis," Murv urged, glanc-

ing up at the clearing skies.

"Another squall between here and Shoulder," Odis

reported after several minutes of fruitless calling.

"This planet's fardling weather is ... is ..." Murv

broke off.

"Don't mind me," Shahanna suggested with a grin,

"but shouldn't we leave here while we have a chance?"

147

She pointed to the fringe of dark clouds on the western

horizon.

"Okay. I'll check my boat," Murv said.

"I'll wrestle this down the hill again," Shahanna vol-

unteered with mock forbearance.

"I'll see if there's anything left of my ship, but I

doubt it," Odis said with resignation as he started south

down the rocks.

"I can give you a hand part of the way," Murv of-

fered, grinning at Shahanna.

"If you think you can keep up with me." She grinned

back.

"Sharkey! The cube's on the rocks on the lagoon

shore. Just where the contact said it would be!" Brack

roared through the speaker.

"Oh, oh," Tallav gasped feebly. "However did it sur-

vive the storm, unprotected like that!"

"You're seeing things. Brack!" Sharkey roared back.

"You're seeing things, I tell you."

"Like your whales, I'm seeing things. You fladding

fool, it's clearly visible. Are you through that passage

yet?"

"How'n hell could I be beaming to you if I weren't.

I'm surfacing!"

"We're landing," Brack countered.

"I'm not sure I can land on that," Tallav said, un-

able to see any likely surface on the tumbled rockscape.

"You'd better. I don't think I altogether trust this

chief engineer of yours," Brack muttered betweeen

clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving the cube, white

against the black lava on which it sat. "In fact, I find

it definitely suspicious that he knew such a convenient

channel into this lagoon which even you, as Planetary

Administrator, didn't know existed."

"Yes, but . . . how could he possibly ... I

mean ... ."

"There's a flat space big enough for this thing."

"ltd be so much easier for Sharkey. After all . . ."

"Land!"

"Good heavens, he's here already," Tallav exclaimed

as he set the drone down on the flat-topped slab that

was scarcely larger than the drone's landing feet.

148

"What do you mean?" Brack followed Tallav's ges-

ticulations and saw the figure emerging from the water,

heading toward the cube. "How'dya get out of this

thing?" he demanded, fumbling with his tunic.

Tallav reached across him and flipped up the hatch

release. Brack, his eyes on the figure, suddenly froze.

"That's not Sharkey!"

Tallav looked. "No, it isn't, is it. But who . . .

and—" Tallav broke off, staring at the Investigator.

"How would you know what Sharkey looks like?"

"Get out, Tallav," Brack ordered and turned his

hand weapon on the startled man.

As the two men emerged from the drone, the figure

on the shore reached for the cube and grabbed it, then

started off, up the slopes with more speed than either

observer thought possible.

"Halt!" Brack shouted and lobbed off a shot after

the fleeing figure.

A fishboat broke surface, its hatch flipping open for

the flying exit of a man. He also began to shoot, three

short cracks, splitting rocks just ahead of the fugitive.

The man turned and began to descend as fast as he

had climbed in the direction of the fishboat, heading

obliquely away from the men by the drone.

"You see," Brack shouted at Tallav, "there's the pi-

rate! We must intercept."

Tallav's previous doubts were swept aside by the

urgency in Brack's voice, and he didn't hesitate to fol-

low the man down the torturous escarpment to the

beach. Brack paused, whipping off a few shots in the

hope of slowing the pirate, but he was closing the dis-

tance to the fishboat faster than they could jump down

the rocks.

"Be careful of the iodine," Tallav jabbered when the

pirate started to use it as a shield.

The man flung the cube into the water and dove in

after it, pushing it ahead of him toward the fishboat.

He was urged on by Sharkey, who was running down

the ventral fin to assist.

When Shahanna, winded and half-blinded with wa-

tery eyes, grabbed the shock-webbing for a final heave

into the waiting man, she got her first look at his face.

"You're not Murv. You're . . ." and she grabbed the

149

cube back, frantically kicking out and away from the

fishboat.

"Give me that thing or I'll blow you out of the wa-

ter," Sharkey snarled.

"Shoot and you'll destroy the iodine."

Shots whistled over Shahanna's head, and Sharkey

backed behind the flaring dorsal fin. Shahanna heaved

herself away from the fishboat and began treading wa-

ter halfway between both contenders. She used the

buoyant cube as a head shield.

"I'm Tallav, Planetary Administrator of Welladay,"

the shorter of the two men on the shore yelled at her.

"Come ashore. If you turn yourself in, I promise you

immunity."

Shahanna felt intense relief. They had probably mis-

taken her for the pirate; that was why they'd shot at

her. She struck out to the beach with strong sweeps of

her free arm and long legs.

Tallav jumped about in the shallows, splashing wa-

ter in her face as he vacillated between grabbing the

iodine or her hand until she finally shook him off.

"I'm not a pirate. I'm from Seginus. My ship . . ."

"You survived?" Tallav gasped. "We got the d-k re-

layed from Fleet."

"Your pirate shot my engine away," Shahanna said

as Brack joined them, lobbing another shot at Sharkey,

who was trapped behind the dorsal fin of the bobbing

fishboat.

"Investigator Brack mistook you for a pirate," Tallav

explained nervously. "Why didn't you identify?"

"I never had the chance," Shahanna protested. "I

was checking coordinates . . ." she trailed off when she

caught the look on Tallav's face. She whirled to see

that Brack's weapon was trained on them.

"I'll take that iodine. Now," Brack said, smiling

slightly. He grabbed it by the shock-webbing, then care-

fully stepped backward and moved up the rocks, his

gun covering Shahanna, Tallav and Sharkey.

Suddenly they were distracted by violent whoshing

splashing sounds from the lagoon and a whining whistle

from above. Shahanna took the opportunity to launch

herself, her body taking every bit of advantage from

muscles that had been trained on a heavy-gravity

150

planet as she leaped at Brack. He could not keep track

of three attackers at once so his shots went wild. Sha-

hanna ripped the valuable iodine from his hand, then

rolled sideways and down. She ripped her suit against

the jagged rocks, but managed to scramble away with

the cube.

When she came to rest against a huge black fist of

a rock, she dazedly saw Sharkey running up the ledge

of his fishboat toward the hatch. Then she heard his

despairing scream as half a dozen fishboats closed in

on him and he was tumbled into the water to be ground

against the converging hulls. A bolt lanced past her ear

and she wrenched around, trying to put the rock fist

between her and Brack.

Somewhere Tallav was shrieking. "They've got him.

They got him. He's getting away. Stop him!" Then

abruptly the sounds of the struggles ended and Tallav's

exhortations ceased.

Battered and shaking with pain, Shahanna drew her-

self up. She saw Brack, spread across the rocks just be-

low the drone. Odis was climbing down, hand over

hand on the line which Shahanna could see had tangled

Brack's feet and brought him down. In the lagoon,

where roiling waters lapped around Tallav's knees,

only two fishboats remained—one lay unbelievably

sideways on the rocks; its belly was barnacle-covered,

exposed to glisten in the sun. The second was cruising

slowly in to shore near Tallav.

With a sigh Shahanna sagged and laid her scratched

cheek against the cool cube.

"I really don't credit what I saw," Tallav protested

as he watched Murv and Odis bandage the Seginan girl.

"When I reached my ship under the ledge," Murv

said patiently, "I saw the school on sonar, flooding in

through the passage after him."

"Then he was kept from Shoulder by the whales?"

Tallav asked.

"Hardly matters," Murv remarked. "We've got to get

you back to the hospital at Shoulder, Shahanna."

"And the iodine," Tallav said.

"Better get, then," Odis suggested, pointing toward

the squall brewing in the west.

1?1

"This fardling planet and its fladding storms!" Murv

growled.

"I've got to get iodine to Seginus," Shahanna in-

sisted, struggling to rise.

"We will. Just as soon as we fix you up at Shoulder."

"But my ship's—" Shahanna began, looking over

her shoulder.

"Brack won't require his spaceship anymore," Murv

assured her, helping her up and then swinging the cube

to his back.

"Now, wait a minute, Murv," Tallav ordered, block-

ing his path.

"Fair's fair, Tallav. Brack blew her mercy ship up,"

Murv said, "and considering her help today, that's the

least you can do."

"Of course, of course," Tallav replied.

"And to be sure, you can return the iodine to Shoul-

der," Murv went on, dumping the cube into Tallav's

arms, "in Odis's drone."

"I'm left with your fishboat?" Odis asked, slightly

amused.

"You're the sailor, friend," Murv laughed, thinking

of the rough passage out of the lagoon.

"And that's the only fishboat we've got left until the

embargo's lifted," Tallav added. "You be careful with

it."

By the time Odis had clambered into the fishboat,

the drones were circling above him. He tapped on the

outboard panel release, plotted a course across the la-

goon. The drones were approaching him now as he cut

across the lagoon toward the passage out. They wag-

gled farewell. Odis responded and then began to read

his gauges. A man had to keep an eye on the weather

of Welladay.

1?2

The three stories which follow are basically humor'

ous—or at least they exhibit my own notions of whimsy

and proportion. Humor is one of the hardest things to

carry off in a story or a novel and especially in sf. But

there are many humorous incidents in every life, so I've

included such episodes in all my books.

"The Thorns of Barevi" was an attempt to cash

in on the lucrative market for soft- and hard-core

pornography in the 60's. The market paid well for such

stories and many sf writers earned their monthly rent

from such submissions. I thought I'd give it a try. I

didn't really succeed there. But there were seeds in the

short story that could eventually germinate a full novel

about the modus operand! of the Catteni in subjugating

a planet and its inhabitants. But I haven't written that

one yet, either.

"Horse from a Different Sea" was written after my

three years as a Cub Scout Den Mother. In my youth

I was a Girl Scout; my brothers were Boy Scouts. So

I have nothing but respect for the work done by scout

leaders, and for any woman brave enough to be a

den mother. Furthermore, the scouting programs have

helped train many responsible and marvelous adults.

We're still in my Wilmington years with "The

Great Canine Chorus." Actually, we acquired Wizard

in New Jersey. He became one of the first K-9's to

serve the Wilmington Police Force. He was an unusu-

ally intelligent beast, about eighty-five pounds' worth

and so fast on his feet that he never had to bite, even

when it was all legal. He never needed to, his handler

told me: he'd trip up the guy he was chasing. Wizard

was honorably retired after three years of service when

15-3

it was discovered that he had displacia of the hip. He

lived another five years in comfort before the condi-

tion worsened enough to cause him constant pain.

He sired one litter of pups, and Chet kindly gave me

one. Merlin, who is the hero of a novel. The Ma.r\

of Merlin.

Wilmington is often maligned by its residents as

being a one-horse town because of the equestrian statue

of Caesar Rodney (one of the signers of the Declara-

tion of Independence), which inhabits the park in the

center of town.

Although there's a lot of good music in Wilmington,

and many fine semiprofessional singers, there never was

a canine chorus . . . that I heard about it, at any rate!

Who knows what's happened since I left?

The Thorns of Barevi

CHRISTIN BJORNSEN WONDERED IF SUMMER

on the planet Barevi could possible be the only sea-

son. There had been remarkably little variation in

temperature in the nine months since she'd arrived

here. She'd been four months in what appeared to

be the single, sprawling city of the planet when she'd

been a slave, and now had racked up five months of

comparative freedom—tooth-and-nail survival—in this

jungle, after her escape from the city in a stolen

flitter.

Her sleeveless, one-piece tunic was made of an

indestructible material, but it would not be very

warm in cold weather. The scooped neckline was

indecently low and the skirt ended midway down her

long thighs. It was closely modeled, in fact, after the

miniskirted sheath she had been wearing to class that

spring morning the Catteni ships had descended on

Denver. One moment she was on her way to the col-

lege campus; the next, she was one of thousands of

astonished and terrified Denverites being driven by

forcewhips up the ramp of a spaceship that made

the Queen Mary look like a bathtub float. Once past

the black maw of the ship, Chris, with all the others,

swiftly succumbed to the odorless gas. When she and

her fellow prisoners had awakened, they were in the

slave compounds of Barevi, waiting to be sold.

Chris aimed the avocado-sized pit of the gorupear

she was eating at the central stalk of a nearby thicket

of purple-branched thom-bushes. The bush instantly

rained tiny darts in all directions. Chris laughed.

She had bet it would take less than five minutes for

the young bush to rearm itself. And it had. The larger

ones took longer to position new missiles. She'd had

reason to find out.

Absently, she reached above her head for another

gorupear. Nothing from good old Terra rivaled them

for taste. She bit appreciatively into the firm reddish

flesh of the fruit and its succulent juices dribbled

down her chin on to her tanned breasts. Tugging at

the strap of her slip-tight tunic, she brushed the juice

away. The outfit was great for tanning, but when

winter comes? And shouldn't she concentrate on

gathering nuts and drying gorupears on the rocks by

the river for the cold season? She wrinkled her nose

at the half-eaten pear. They were mighty tasty, but

a steady diet of them ...

A low-pitched buzz attracted her attention. She

got to her feet, balanced carefully on the high limb of

the tree. Parting the branches, she peered up at the

cloudless sky. Two of the umpteen moons that cir-

cled Barevi were visible in the west. Below them, dots

that gave off sparkles of reflected sunlight were

swooping and diving.

The boys have called another hunt, she mused to

herself and, still standing, leaned against the tree

trunk to take advantage of her grandstand seat.

Before her chance to escape had presented itself,

Chris had picked up a good bit of the lingua Barevi,

a bastardization of the six or seven languages spoken

by the slaves. She had gleaned some information

about her captors, the Catteni. They were not, for

one thing, indigenous to this world but came from a

much heavier planet nearer galactic center. They

were one of the mercenary-explorer races employed

by a vast federation. They had colonized Barevi, us-

ing it as a clearinghouse for spoils acquired looting

unsuspecting non-federation planets, and as a rest-

and-relaxation center for their great ships' crews.

After years of the free-fall of space and lighter-

gravity planets, Catteni found it difficult to return to

their heavy, depressing home world. During her brief

enslavement, Chris had heard the Catteni boast of

dying everywhere in the galaxy except Catten. The

way they "played," Chris thought to herself, was rough

1?6

r

enough to insure that they died young, as well as far

from Catten.

Huge predators roamed the unspoiled plains of

Barevi, and the Catteni considered it great sport to

stand up to the rhinolike monsters with only a single

spear. That is, Chris remembered with a grim smile,

when they weren't brawling among themselves over

imagined slurs and insults. Two slaves, friends of hers,

had been crushed under the massive bodies of Cat-

teni during a free-for-all.

Since she had come to the valley, she had wit-

nessed half a dozen encounters between rhinos and

Catteni. Used to a much heavier gravity than Barevi,

the Catteni were able to execute incredible maneu-

vers as they softened their prey for the kill. The poor

rhinos had less chance than Spanish bulls and, in all

the fights Chris had seen, only one man was slightly

grazed.

As the flitters neared, she realized that they were

not acting like a hunting party. For one thing, one

dot was considerably ahead of the others. And by

God, she saw the light flashes of the trailing flitters'

forward guns firing at the "leader."

Hunted and hunters were at the foot of her valley

now. Suddenly, black smoke erupted from the rear

of the pursued flitter. It nosed upward. It hovered

reluctantly, then dove, slantingly, to strike the tumble

of boulders along the river's edge, not far from her

refuge.

Chris gasped as she beheld a figure, half-leaping,

half-staggering out of the badly smashed flitter. She

could scarcely believe that even a Catteni had sur-

vived that crash. Wide-eyed, she watched as he strug-

gled to his feet, then reeled from boulder to boulder

to get away from the smoldering wreck.

With a stunningly brilliant flare, the craft ex-

ploded. Fragments whistled into the underbrush as

far up the slope as her retreat, and the idiotic thorn-

bushes She had recently triggered sprayed out their

lethal little darts.

The smoke of the burning flitter obscured her view

now, and Chris lost sight of the man. The other flit-

ters had reached the wreck and were hovering over

157

it, like so many angry King-Kongish bees, swooping,

diving, trying to penetrate the smoke.

An afternoon breeze swirled the black clouds

about and Chris caught glimpses of the man, lurching

still further from the crash. She saw him stumble and

fall, after which he made no move to rise. Above, the

bees buzzed angrily, deprived of their prey.

Catteni don't hunt each other as a rule, she told

herself, surprised to find that she was halfway down

from her perch. They fight like Irishmen, sure, but to

chase a man so far from the city?

The crash had been too far away for Chris to dis-

tinguish the hunted man's features or build. He might

just be an escaped slave, like herself. If not Terran,

he might be from one of the half-dozen other subju-

gated races that lived on Barevi. Someone who had

had the guts to steal a flitter didn't deserve to die un-

der Catteni forcewhips.

Chris made her way down the slope, careful to

avoid the numerous thorn thickets that dominated

these woods. She had once amused herself with the

whimsy that the thorns were the gorupear's protec-

tors, for the two invariably grew close together.

At the top of the sheer precipice above the falls of

the river, she grabbed a long vine which she had hung

there for a speedy descent. On the river bank she

stuck to the dry, flat rocks until she came to the

stepping-stones that allowed her to cross the river

below the wide pool made by the little falls. Down a

gully, across another thom-bush-filled clearing, and

then she was directly above the spot where she had

last seen the man.

Keeping close to the brown rocks so nearly the

shade of her own tanned skin, she crossed the re-

maining distance. She all but tripped over him as the

wind puffed black smoke down among the rocks.

"Catteni!" she cried, furious as she bent to exam-

ine the unconscious man and recognized the gray and

yellow uniform despite its tattered and blackened

condition.

With a disdainful foot, she tried to turn him over.

And couldn't. The man might as well have been a

boulder. She knelt and yanked his bead around by

158

the thick slate-gray hair which, in a Catteni, did not

indicate age. Maybe he was dead?

No such luck. He was breathing. A bruise mark

on his temple showed one reason for his unconscious-

ness. For a Catteni, he was almost good-looking.

Most of them tended to have brutish, coarse features,

but this one had a straight, almost patrician nose,

even if there was a lot more of it than an elephant

would want to claim, and he had a wide, well-shaped

mouth. The Catteni to whom she had been sold had

had thick, blubbery lips, and she'd heard rumors—

never mind about them!

A sizzling crack jerked her head around in the di-

rection of the wreck. The damned fools were firing

on the burning wreck now. Chris looked down at the

unconscious man, wondering what on earth he had

done to provoke such vindictive thoroughness. They

sure wanted him good and dead.

The barrage pulverized the flitter, leaving the fire

no fuel. The wind, laden with coarse dust, blew odor-

ously from the wreckage. The man stirred and vainly

tried to raise himself, only to sink back to the ground

with a groan. Chris saw the flitters circling to land on

the plateau below the wreck.

"Going to case the scene of the crime, huh?"

It was completely illogical, Chris told herself, to

help a Catteni simply because there were others of

his race out to get him. But . . . she backtracked, just

in case he had left any trace for them to follow. She

went back as far as she could on the raw rock. Where

dirt began, ash had settled in a thick layer, obliterat-

ing any tracks he might have made. After all, the

Catteni might stumble on her if they thought their

victim had escaped the crash.

He had got to his feet when she returned. She tried

to lend her support but it was like trying to guide a

mountain.

"Come on, Mahomet," she urged softly. "Just walk

like a nice little boy to the river, and I'll duck you in.

Good cold water'll bring you round."

A sharp, distant gabble of voices made her start

nervously. God, those Catteni had got up that rock

159

face in a hurry. She'd forgotten they could take pro-

digious leaps on this light-gravity planet.

"They're coming. Follow me," she said in lingua

Barevi.

He groaned again, shaking his heavy head to clear

his senses. He turned toward her, his great yellow

eyes still dazed with shock. She would never get used

to such butter-colored irises.

"This way! Quickly!" she said, urgently tugging at

him. If he didn't shake his tree-stump legs, she was

going to leave him. Good Samaritans on Barevi had

better not get caught by Catteni.

She pulled at his arm and he seemed to make a

decision. He lurched forward, one great hand grasp-

ing her shoulder in an incredible viselike grip. They

reached the river bank, still ahead of the searchers.

But Chris groaned as she realized that the barely

conscious man would never be able to navigate the

stepping-stones.

The shouts behind them indicated that the others

were fanning out to search the rocks. Urgently she

grabbed his hand, leading him to the base of the falls.

"If you don't float, it's just too damned bad," she

said grimly, and taking a running start, she knocked

him into the water.

She dove in, right beside him, and when he did

indeed continue to sink, she grabbed and caught him

by his thick hair. Fortunately the water made even a

solid Catteni manageable. Exerting all her strength

and skill as a swimmer, she got his head above water

and held him up with a chin lock.

By sheer good luck, they came up in the space be-

tween the arc of the falls and the cliff, the curtain of

water shielding them from view. As the Catteni began

to struggle in her grasp, the five hunters leapt spectac-

ularly into view in the clearing by the pool. Her

"Mahomet" was instantly alert and, instead of strug-

gling, began to tread water beside her.

The Catteni were arguing with each other, and each

seemed to be issuing conflicting orders.

Mahomet released himself from her chinhold, his

yellow eyes never leaving the party on the bank. They

160

watched, keeping the swimming motions to a mini-

mum, though the falls would hide any ripples.

One Catteni, after a heated argument, decided to

cross the wide pool in a fantastic, to Chris, standing

leap. He and another began to move downstream,

carefully examining both banks and casually sur-

mounting up-ended coffin-sized boulders with no

effort. The other three went charging back the way

they had come, arguing violently.

After an endless interval, during which the icy

water chilled Chris to the bone, the refugee finally

touched her shoulder and nodded toward the shore.

But when she realized that he was going to head back

the way they had come, she shook her head emphat-

ically, pointing to the other side.

"I've a flitter. Over there," she shouted at him over

the noise of the falls. He frowned. "Safer. That way!"

she insisted, jabbing a finger in the direction of her

hidden vehicle. Stunned as she suddenly realized what

she had done, she stared at him. "Oh, God!"

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, and she hoped

for one long moment that he had not understood

what she had said. But he had, and now his yellow

eyes gleamed at her in the gloom with a different sort

of interest.

He's like a great lion, Chris thought, and almost

choked on fear.

"You have aided a Catteni," he said, rumbling in

a deep voice. "You shall not suffer for that."

Chris wasn't so sure when she tried to climb out of

the river and found herself numb with cold, and

strengthless. He, on the other hand, strode easily out

of the water. He looked down at her ineffectual strug-

gles, frowning irritably. Then, with no apparent ef-

fort, he curled the long fingers of one hand around

her upper arm and simply withdrew her from the

water, supporting her until she got her balance.

Shivering, she looked up at him. God, he was big:

the tallest Catteni she had ever seen. She had inher-

ited the height of her Swedish father and stood five

foot ten in her bare feet. She had topped most of the

Catteni she had seen by several inches, but his eyes

161

were level with hers. And his shoulders were as broad

as the scoop of a road-grader.

"Where's the flitter?" he demanded curtly.

She pointed, furious that she obeyed him so in-

stantly, and that she couldn't control the chattering

of her teeth or the trembling of her body. He reached

for her hand, relaxing his grip a little at her involun-

tary gasp of pain.

Replace "grubby paws" with "high-gravity paws,"

she told herself in an effort to keep up her spirits as

she stepped in front of him.

"I'll have to lead the way through the thorns," she

said. "Or maybe thorns don't bother Catteni hides?"

she added pertly.

To her surprise, he grinned at her.

"Catteni are always cautious."

As she turned, she realized that she had never seen

a Catteni smile before. She noticed, too, that he was

following carefully in her footsteps. It was good to

know that he was no more anxious to disturb the

thorn-bushes with their vicious little barbs than she

was.

They were halfway to the hidden flitter when both

heard, off to the right in the valley, the staccato volley

of orders in loud Catteni voices.

Mahomet paused, dropping to a half-crouch, in-

stinctively angling his body so that he did not touch

the close-growing vegetation. He listened, and al-

though the words were too distorted for Chris to

catch, he evidently understood them. A humorless

smile touched his lips and his eyes gleamed with a

light that frightened Chris.

"They have seen movement here. Hurry!" he said

in a low voice.

Chris broke into a jog trot; the twisting path made

a faster pace unwise. When they broke into the dell

just before the extensive thicket, she paused.

"Where? Are you lost?" he asked.

"Through those bushes. Watch. And when I say

move, move!"

He frowned skeptically as she picked up a handful

of small stones. With a practiced ease, she began

casting at the thickets. Gauging carefully, she threw

right and left, watching and counting the thorn sprays

to be sure she had triggered every bush. To be on the

safe side, she scooped up one more handful of peb-

bles and broadcast it. No further thorns showered.

"Move!" His reaction time was so much faster

than hers that he was halfway across the clearing

within seconds after the order escaped her lips. She

rushed in front of him. "We have five minutes to

cross before they rearm."

An expression that was almost respectful crossed

his face. Impatiently, she tugged at him and then

began to weave her way among the bushes, following

no recognizable route. When she made the last turn

and he saw the flitter, its nose cushioned in the heavy

cluster of thom-thicket limbs, he gave what Chris

assumed was a Catteni chuckle.

She waved open the flitter door and bade him to

enter with a regal gesture. He walked straight to the

instrument panel, grunting as he activated the main

switch.

"Half a tank of fuel," he muttered, and then

checked the other dials. He seemed pleased as he

nipped off the switch. He glanced up at the trans-

parent top, camouflaged by the interwining leafy

limbs, at the bed she had made herself on the deck,

at the utensils she had fashioned from spare parts in

the lockers.

"So it was you who stole the commander's per-

sonal car," he remarked, looking intently at her.

Chris jerked her chin up.

"At least I landed it in one piece," she replied.

At that he laughed outright, once.

"You're one of the new species?"

"I'm a Terran," she said with haughty pride, her

stance marred by uncontrollable shivering.

"Thin-skinned species," he remarked. He looked

down at her heaving chest, and slowly started to

stroke her shoulder with one finger. His touch was

feathery—and more. "Soft to the touch," he said

absently. "I haven't bothered to try a Terran yet . . ."

Before she could draw back, his left hand cupped

her breast and the other grabbed her tunic at the

back, ripping the garment from her in one sharp,

163

powerful jerk. The fingers of his right hand pulled

her inexorably toward him.

"I saved your life . . ." she said in protest, her heart

beating in panic.

"And I intend to reward you suitably."

"Not that. .."

"A Catteni's honor is involved," he said, both

hands exerting such pressure on her body that his

caresses were painful.

With no effort at all he picked her up and depos-

ited her on the bed. When she tried to wiggle away,

he laid a hand, like a ton of bricks, on her chest. With

the other, he stripped off his tunic, exposing his im-

mense chest, each well-defined muscle rippling sinu-

ously under slightly olive skin. The rest of his clothing

followed.

"Oh no!" Chris cried in desperation. "You're ... I

can't!"

He glanced down at her wide, curving hips, and

shrugged.

"Catteni have been enjoying your race since you

were discovered," he reassured her calmly.

"Yes, but have we enjoyed it?"

She made a frantic attempt to evade him as he

leaned down. But there was no escape from that im-

placable male. She arched her back, only to realize

that she had made it much easier for him. She con-

tinued to struggle out of pride.

"You enjoy pain?" he asked, a puzzled frown on

his face. His fingers tightened just that much more so

that she felt she'd been caught in a vise and, with a

shuddering moan she relaxed, too exhausted to offer

even token resistance. "Now we will both enjoy," he

said, and proceeded to prove his point.

Just as she was certain she would be split apart,

apprehension was replaced by a surging emotion far

more powerful and overwhelming. Somewhere, in

that flood of intense relief and unexpected ecstasy,

she heard him exclaiming, too, in loud surprise.

A harsh curse broke the silence that had settled

in the hidden flitter. The warm, strong body of the

Catteni stiffened. ,Chris glanced up at him in alarm.

He brushed his hand warningly across her lips, all

his attention focused in the direction of that swear-

ing. The flitter door was still open, and both Chris

and Mahomet heard the vrrh, vrrh as the thorn-bushes

released their darts. There were loud cries of pain and

further curses. Chris saw the Catteni's eyes dance with

malicious amusement.

An authoritative voice uttered a rough command,

and even Chris understood the "Get the hell out of

here, nothing can pass this way."

She and Mahomet lay still, almost breathless, al-

though the flitter was buried a good hundred yards

from the edge of the thickets and could not possibly

be seen. They waited until they heard no sound ex-

cept the brief sighing of the wind.

With a low laugh, the Catteni finally withdrew

from Chris, stretching leisurely, his joints popping

and cracking with startling loudness.

"I'd heard there was a run on Terran women, and

now I can see why. They use their heads as well as

their tails."

Chris slapped at his hand, feeling like a flea at-

tacking a Great Dane, but determined to make a

gesture. He began to stroke her body, gently explor-

ing it rather than attempting to arouse passion. He

was curious, like a small intrigued boy.

"Yes, I can see why," he repeated with a chuckle.

He lay back, glancing about the flitter. "This car has

been gone five months. Why have you stayed so long

alone?" he asked. "Are there others of you here?"

He propped himself up on one huge elbow, looking

suspiciously out the windows.

"Just me."

He relaxed and smiled. Sensing his receptivity, she

dared ask him why he had been chased by his own

people.

"Oh," and he shrugged negligently, "a tactical error.

I was forced to kill their patrol leader. He had insulted

the accomplishments of my squadron. And, as I was

without allies, I withdrew."

"He who fights and runs away, lives to fight an-

other day?"

"The next day," he corrected her, absently.

"The next day?"

"Certainly. It is against the Catteni Law to con-

tinue a quarrel past the same hour of the following

day. I have only to lie hidden," and he grinned at

her, "until tomorrow at sun zenith and then I can

return."

"Won't they be waiting for you?"

He shook his head violently. "Against the Law.

Otherwise, we Catteni would quickly exterminate

each other."

"You honestly mean to say that, if they can't find

you before noon tomorrow, they have to give up?"

He nodded.

"Would that Law apply to slaves, too?"

He looked at her intently. "It can. And I shall per-

sonally see that in your case it does. However, while

we're waiting for tomorrow . . ." And he reached pur-

posefully for her.

Batting at his possessive hands, she squirmed to

free herself.

"What? Was I not tender enough with you?" he

asked, concern flitting across his face. "We Catteni

pride ourselves that we are gentle with our women."

Chris could think of a hundred argumentative re-

plies to that statement, and yet had to admit that he

had been considerate, gentle, and that even at the

height of his passion, he had not forgotten to adjust

his strength. His hands were caressing her now, softly,

and despite herself, she was responding to him, want-

ing more of that strong gentleness.

"It's just . . . well . . . you've had quite a day," she

temporized, aware that her body was already con-

forming itself to his even as she protested, "you've

been in a crash, half-frozen in icy water and . .."

"Like the thom-bushes of Barevi," he said, smil-

ing, "it takes the Catteni little time to rearm."

Horse from a Different Sea

ARE WE BABES-IN-THE-WOODS? OR I SHOULD

say, babes-in-space. I don't mean beating the Russians

to a manned moonbase or setting up a space hospital

or making Mars adaptable to our survival there to ease

the population explosion here. Our problem is more

basic than that: can man survive as Homo sapiens or

a reasonable facsimile thereof. In that department, are

we wetting our spacesuits!

I know what I'm talking about. Only I can't talk.

Not yet, since my evidence hasn't come to light, so

to speak. It's due soon and, as an ambulance chaser

from way back, I've got to be there. I'd rather know

right off what the competition makes out as.

We—that is, mankind, Earth-type—are in for one

helluva jolt and this is one therapeutic pill that has

no sugar coating—unless it's an LSD cube. I'm not

the only one in the medical fraternity to realize that

there's something queer in the conversion chamber.

Some of us tumbled to it six months ago. The re-

search is not the stuff of which AMA citations are

made, but it will be handy when I-told-you-so time

comes.

For me it started when my perennial maternity

case phoned up and asked for an appointment.

"Buzzy-boy says I must be pregnant again," Liz

Lattimore said with understandable grimness in her

voice. She has six under six—well, one set of twins.

Buzz is a guy on a single track, business and mon-

key business. As a kind of moral justice, he has sym-

pathetic reactions to each of Liz's pregnancies in

the form of violent morning nausea. Oh yes, it hap-

167

'166

pens. Liz may develop varicose veins, hemorrhoids,

boils, hot flashes, heartburn, and high blood pressure

during her gestations. Buzz gets the morning sickness.

"How long since you missed a period, Liz?" I

asked her.

"That's just it, Ted. This time he must be sympa-

thetic to someone else because I came regular as

clockwork last week."

"On a possible sixth pregnancy, you'd better see

me."

She did. She wasn't pregnant.

"We had a fight a while ago," she told me after

she'd dressed. "Buzz flounced out of the house like

an injured Cub Scout. When he came home, he wore

that merchandise-better-than-thou expression. Some-

times, Ted, it's a pure relief to me when Buzz cats

around so I don't whinge."

She paused, about to add something more but hes-

itated. Even if she had voiced her suspicion then, I

doubt it would've made much difference.

"Anything I can do, Liz?"

"Outside of helping to suppress a paternity suit if

the case arises, I don't think so. We made up our dif-

ferences." She rolled her eyes with droll expressive-

ness.

"Seriously, Liz, I'm glad you're not freshening

again. You're run ragged now. Send Buzz in for a

checkup. He may need it."

Buzz came in the next day at noon, which proved

that he was now worried about himself.

"How come you said Liz wasn't pregnant?"

"Because she isn't. Praise be!"

"Then how come I got this damned morning nau-

sea? I only get it when she's got buns in the oven."

"Nausea is a symptom not necessarily exclusive

to pregnancy. Especially in the male of the species."

As I mentioned, we're such babes-in-space.

"Off the record, Buzz, could you be sympathetic

to someone else?"

Buzz flushed.

"Ted, I'm nuts about Liz no matter what I do or

say. I only go catting when we've had a fight or she's

too pregnant to screw. Hell, Ted, if I didn't love her

168

so much, d'you think I'd go home every night to a

house full of squalling brats?"

"Well, that was quite an imagination you pro-

jected the other afternoon at Casey's."

"At Casey's?" Buzz swallowed. "I didn't know

you were there."

"Buzz, your voice'd carry to your funeral. Was it

the girl at Lady Linda's?"

A strange look crossed Buzz's face and I could see

him about to evade the question with some Latti-

morian verbal embroidery. "She was the damnedest

woman I ever screwed, Ted. Once was, by God,

enough. But that once . . ." Buzz whistled slowly,

shaking his head.

Something in his attitude inhibited further ques-

tions, so I changed the subject by getting him to strip.

After a thorough physical I found only a little hard

lump near the large intestine, but not situated where

it could cause pressure that might result in nausea. I

sent him to the hospital for a gastrointestinal series

but the results were inconclusive. I saw no cause for

alarm, so I told him that the nausea was caused by

overwork—with a wink—and to give up smoking.

In the next few weeks I examined four more seri-

ously nauseated males with small intestinal lumps. I

also heard of seventeen more around town. Then I

had a visit from the leading local Boy Scout and our

little unprepared Explorer gave me my first definite

lead.

"Doc, can I see you for a minute? I mean, you're

not too tired or anything?"

When six feet two inches and 185 pounds of Ex-

plorer Boy Scout Horace Baker comes sneaking around

after my nurse has left, I'd better not be too tired to

see him.

"Now, what's wrong with you, Hoke? You look

mighty pale for Glen Cove's answer to a maiden's

prayer?"

The boy literally cringed away from my buddy-

type arm.

"Hey, feller, did I strike too close to home?" I led

him to the surgery table.

1'69

"Aw, Doc, I'm in awful trouble." He groaned and

averted his head.

"You mean," and I put on my best Ben Gazzara

pose, "you've got some girl in trouble?"

"Naw," and he was momentarily indignant, "I

wear my pants too tight. No, Doc, it's me. Ever since

I went ... to ... Mrs. Linda's . . ." His voice failed

him.

A kaleidoscope of impressions overwhelmed me

for a moment at this confession. Kids grow up so fast.

A few flashes of the red squally baby I'd delivered

from Mrs. Baker merged into Explorer Hoke com-

plete with merit badge sash, approaching in best In-

dian fashion Lady Linda's modestly situated house

of seven delights. I wasn't sure whether I was glad or

sorry that Hoke had taken his lustiness to Linda's. I

was relieved that his experiments hadn't taken root,

as it were, in any of his peers. Hoke needn't worry

about VD: Linda's girls were clean. I had no remedy

for his conscience, however.

"Well, now, Hoke, I don't think you have anything

more to worry about than overactive sex glands.

Linda's girls are—"

"Oh, it's not that. Doc. It's just that I can't eat.

Nothing stays down. It's worse in the mornings, and

Mom notices that I don't pack it away—hey!"

Past the first sentence I had dropped the TV medic

pose and stretched him out flat. My fingers dug into

his big gut and, sure enough, the precocious Explorer

had joined the Group.

I gave him some dramamine and told him it was

indigestion caused by a guilty conscience and to eat

spaghetti for breakfast. He fortunately didn't argue

because I had no more quick answers. I hurried him

out, locked up, and went on a professional call.

Linda herself opened the door.

"Dr. Martin! You're psychic," she said by way of

greeting. "I hate to mix pleasure with business and

I'll expect your bill. . ."

"You won't get one because I am here on business,

Linda," I said, trying not to be too brusque. "I'd ap-

preciate seeing you? new girl for a brief professional

inquiry."

170

Linda looked stunned, an expression I never thought

to see on her face.

"She's who I was calling you for." And Linda ges-

tured me to follow her up the stairs. "She's been los-

ing weight steadily. She's skin and bones and you know

that doesn't bed easy."

"Nausea?"

"Doesn't mention it. Until three days ago she had

the appetite of an elephant, but you'd never guess it

to look at her." Linda was slightly jealous.

"How long's she been with you?"

"About five weeks. A friend sent her to me from

Chicago. She's got a sister in the business there. She's

good but funny, no one wants her steady. She's ed-

ucated, too: speaks very good English."

"She's foreign?"

"Must be, but I can't place her accent and I never

ask too many personal questions."

The room Linda gestured me to enter was dark

and rank with a heavy, musty, unaired-attic odor. A

dim light shone on the gaunt face of the dying girl.

She was dying. It's an indescribable but recognizable

look which I've seen too often in my years of prac-

tice. The pulse in her spider-thin wrist was barely

discernible; her heartbeat mumed and erratic. She

opened her eyes at my touch, then smiled wanly at

Linda standing behind me.

"Too much at once. Now too little, too late. But

thanks, Linda. I won't be much trouble, I promise."

She spoke in a raspy voice, but her phrases were

oddly inflected. "You see, Doctor, I'm dying and

there's no cure for my ailment."

"No, you just rest easy," I began, but her knowing

eyes mocked me for the specious words.

"A cigarette, please?"

I offered my case, tacitly admitting my helpless-

ness. She was sinking so visibly that it would have

been heartless to bother her. An autopsy would give

me more specifics anyhow.

"Thanks. Now, would you please go? Both of

you." This one was different all right. No last-minute

confessions of inadequacy, no wailing for repentance

171

and salvation, and no real bravura. She just wanted

to be left alone. I guided Linda out.

"Hell, Doc. Someone should stay with the poor

kid," Linda said.

"You see too much TV."

"So does she," Linda replied with an irritated

snort. "She's never smoked before."

The hall was suddenly flooded with a very bright

light and an acrid formic acid stench like burning

ants. I threw the door open but it was too late. The

bed was a blazing funeral pyre.

I know now why, but at the moment I was aghast

with remorse at this mystifying incineration. I couldn't

understand how a cigarette, no matter how carelessly

held by a novice smoker, could have caused as violent

a combustion as this. I didn't have much time to think

about it because it was all we could do to keep the

blaze from spreading until the fire department got

there. Neither Linda nor I mentioned that we'd only

been out of the room three seconds when the fire

started. No one would have believed us.

So my primary clue went up spectacularly in

smoke. A little judicious inquiry uncovered a verita-

ble epidemic of smoking-in-bed fire deaths in fifteen

cities. One incident got a lot of publicity because the

victim was a call girl. She was to have appeared be-

fore a board of inquiry the next day so her death was

considered a grisly form of suicide. Seventeen such

incidents on the East Coast scared me sufficiently

not to want to know the odds against us in the rest of

the world.

Linda gave me the names of all the men who had

patronized the girl. If the others of her ilk had got

around as much as she had . . . wow! Five of the

men were patients of mine. Buzz was the furthest

along—as far as I could tell—but then, it had been

his tale in Casey's that had prompted others to visit

the girl. The chief of police shouldn't have accepted

payola in trade but that's his lookout. I almost wish I

could morally allow the old fool to carry to "term."

Jerry Striker's a 'poor enough character, but it'd

serve his wife right. Martin Tippers? I hadn't guessed

172

him for the type. Must have been drunk. And our

precocious Explorer.

What a queer collection of males to be chosen to

propagate an unknown race on a new world. That's

what I mean about adapting to survive. Those gals,

if females they were, used equipment to hand, not

fancy life-support systems.

Now that I know the game, I can't just ingenu-

ously suggest to any one of my equally puzzled col-

leagues that their patients got invited into a lady

spider's nest. Or maybe they had a hurry call from a

passing sea mare? The least bizarre examples of

male incubation on this planet are spiders and sea

horses, and those comparisons are quite enough to

inhibit further speculation. Give the imagination full

rein and there are endless possibilities. You pays

your money and you takes your choice. Of course, if

I let one of the men carry to term, I'd find out more.

But, hell, neither my conscience nor my professional

integrity will permit me.

The most I can do is spread out the curious un-

orthodox operations on my five pregnant males so

that I'll have some interesting embryos for my babes-

in-space theory. Even then I might goof. I don't

know how long gestation takes, what would serve as

a birth canal or, if you know what spiders do ... well,

you can see my problem. What form will the

progency ultimately assume? That of their hosts?

The two foeti I've removed show different stages of

freak-out evolution. I'm letting Hoke Baker go long-

est because he's adjusted best to the changes in his

physiology. But I've got to arrange for his abortion

soon—before he becomes eligible for an Explorer's

Maternity Badge.

The Great Canine Chorus

PETE ROBERTS OF THE WILMINGTON, DELA-

ware, K-9 Corps has as his partner a German shep-

herd named Wizard. One night, just after they took

the beat, Wizard started acting itchy, nervous, whiny.

He was snappish, not like himself at all. He kept try-

ing to pull Pete toward Seventh Street.

That wasn't the beat, as Wiz well knew. But Pete

decided there might be a good reason. Wizard was a

canny dog; he could pick a culprit out of a crowd by

the smell of fear the man exuded. And he'd saved

Pete from two muggings already this year. So, pro-

testing, Pete let Wizard lead him to a block of build-

ings being torn down as part of an urban renewal

program.

Wizard became more and more impatient with

Pete's apprehensive, measured pace, and tried to tug

him into a jog. Pete began to feel worried, kind of

sickly scared. Suddenly the dog mounted the worn

stairs of one of the buildings about to be demolished.

He pawed at the door, whining.

Who's that? a voice asked, high and quavering like

an old lady's. Pa? It couldn't be too old a female,

then.

Wizard barked sharply three times in the negative

signal he'd been taught.

Hi, dog. Do you see my pa?

Wiz got down from the steps, looked up and down

the street, then barked again three times.

Pa's so late, and I'm so hungry, the voice said.

Pete, who had eaten well an hour earlier, was sud-

denly overwhelmed with hunger—a sullen kind of

174

stomach cramp that he'd experienced in Korea when

his unit was cut off for four days. The kind of grip-

ping pangs you get when you're hungry all the time.

"Lady, I'm going down to the deli on the corner.

I'll be right back with something to tide you over till

your pa gets back." Pete made the announcement

before he realized it. He left Wizard to guard the

door.

He ordered a sub with no onions (somehow he knew

she wouldn't want them), two cokes and a banana.

I'm in the back room, said the voice when he and

Wizard entered the hall.

Pete had had the distinct impression the voice had

come from the front of the building. It was too thin

to have carried far. The stench in the filthy hall

sickened Pete. No matter how many years he might

spend on the force, he'd never get used to the odor of

poverty. Maybe it was the stink that brought a growl

from Wizard.

Pete pushed open the back door and entered the

pitifully furnished room. On an old armchair by the

window was a wasted little figure, like a broken doll

thrown down by a careless child, limbs askew. By

now he expected a girl, a child, but this was such a

little girl!

Wizard got down on his belly, licking his lips nerv-

ously. He crawled carefully across the dirty floor. He

sniffed at the tiny hand on the shabby arm of the

chair, whined softly. The little band did not move

away, nor toward him, either.

What kind of a father, Pete fumed to himself,

would leave a kid, a mere baby, alone in a place like

this?

I'm no baby, mister. I'm nine years old, she in-

formed him indignantly.

Pete apologized contritely, blaming his error on

the glare from the single window. He wouldn't have

thought her more than five, six at the outside. She

was so pitifully underdeveloped. She was clean, as

were her shred of a dress and the old blanket on

which she lay, but the rest of the room was filthy.

Her pinched face had a curious, calm beauty to it.

When Pete knelt beside her, he saw her eyes were

17?

filmed and sightless. And when she spoke, her mouth

did not move.

He found himself breaking off small pieces of the

sub and feeding them to her. She sipped the Coke

through a straw and a look of intense pleasure crossed

her face.

/ knew I remembered how wonderful it tasted, she

said. But not with her lips.

The truth dawned on Pete; this child was a tele-

path. Impossible? He hadn't actually believed any

of that crap. But there was no other explanation.

"You aren't talking," he said. "You don't make a

sound."

/ am too talking, answered the child soundlessly.

And you're answering.

Pete gulped, hastily trying to mend matters. "You

just don't speak the usual way."

7 do everything kind of different. At least my pa's

always complaining I do. Her head turned slowly to-

ward him. You don't suppose something's happened to

Pa, do you? I can't hear very far away when I'm hun-

gry.

Guiltily, Pete fed her another bite. "When did

you eat last?"

Pa was home this morning. But all we had was

bread.

Pete vowed passionately to himself that he was

going to see Welfare immediately.

Oh, you mustn't! pleaded .the soundless voice.

Wizard, ears flattened, growled menacingly at Pete.

She was clearly frightened of Welfare. They'd take

me away, like they took my sister, and put me in a

barred place and I'd never hear any birds or see Pa.

They might cut me up 'cause my body doesn't work

right. She still spoke without sound.

"Aw, honey . . ."

My name's Maria, not honey.

"Maria, you got it all wrong. Wizard, you tell her.

Welfare helps people. You'd have a clean bed and

birds right outside the window."

It'd be a hospital. My ma died in a hospital be-

cause no one cared. Pa said so. They just let her die.

Wizard whimpered. Pete felt frightened himself.

176

He soothed Maria as best he could with promises of

no hospitals, no cutting, plenty of birds. What she

didn't finish of the sandwich, he wrapped up and put

beside her. He started to peel the banana for her but

she refused it.

It's a treat for Wiz for bringing you here. She

laughed. He listens to people.

Pete grinned.

"How on earth did you know that fool dog loves

bananas?"

Nothing could have been funnier to Maria, and

her laughter was so contagious Pete grinned foolishly.

Even Wizard laughed in his canine way, his tongue

lolling out of one side of his mouth. Suddenly the at-

mosphere changed.

I hear Pa coming. You'd better leave. He wouldn't

like having the fuzz in here.

"Then why did you let me in?"

Wizard. Dogs always know. I talk to dogs all the

time. But I've never talked to one as smart as Wizard

before. You get out now. Quick.

Pete felt a violent compulsion to take to his heels.

Once they were around the corner the impulse van-

ished, so he waited a few moments and then peered

out at the building. He saw a shambling figure go into

the house where they had found Maria.

Pete was shaken by his encounter with the girl:

shaken, confused, and frightened. She had taken

him over, used him to suit her needs, and then cut

him off in fear when all he wanted to do was help her.

He worried about her all the way to the hospital: her

pitiful life in those awful surroundings . . . and that

strange talent.

He had a friend, a drinking buddy, who was in-

terning at Delaware Hospital. Finding Joe Lavclle

on duty in the emergency ward that night, Pete told

him a little about the girl. "And what's going to be-

come of her, living like that?"

"I'd say she was dead already and didn't know it,"

Joe snorted.

The thought of Maria dead choked Pete up. Her

fragile laugh, her curious calm beauty gone? No!

"Hey, Pete!" The intern watched the cop's gut

177

reaction with amazement. "I was only kidding. Why,

I couldn't even guess what was wrong with her with-

out an examination. She could have had polio, men-

ingitis, m.s., any variety of paralysis. But I'd say she

needed treatment, fast. And I'd certainly like to see

this kid who can make a stalwart defender of this one-

horse town quake in his boots like this."

Pete growled and Wizard seconded it.

Laughing, Joe warded off an imaginary attack

with his arm, just as his phone rang. Pete resumed

his patrol.

The next morning, resolved to help Maria in spite

of herself, he bought a frilly dress, bundled it and

food and Wizard into his car, and went back to the

house. He "talked" to let her know he was coming.

There was no answer. The back room was de-

serted. Except for the de-stuffed armchair by the

window and two Coke bottles on the floor under it,

Pete could have sworn no one had been in the house

for months.

"Find Maria, Wiz," Pete ordered.

Wizard sniffed around and, with a yelp, raced out

the door. He sniffed around outside and seemed to

find a trace. Pete followed him in the car. Wizard

acted just as if he knew exactly where he was going.

He got halfway down the next block, then stopped

as if he had run into an invisible wall. He lay down

on the sidewalk, put his head on his paws, and

whined. Then he slunk back to Pete at the curb.

"Find her. Wizard!" The dog crouched down and

laid his ears back. It was the first time he had ever

disobeyed that tone of voice.

"Maria! We're your friends! We want to help!"

Pete called, oblivious to the stares. He was sure she

could hear him. He waited, apprehensive, unsure.

No/ came the one disembodied word, filling his

skull till his head rang. There was no arguing with it.

"At least tell Wiz if you're hungry, Maria. He can

bring you food. I promise I won't follow."

Twice in the next three weeks, Wizard darted into

a deli, whining pathetically. The first time, it took

Pete a minute or so to grasp what the big dog wanted.

178

Then he'd get a sandwich and a Coke to go, put it in

a bag, roll the top into a handle for Wizard to carry.

Then he'd wait till the dog returned. He was deter-

mined to prove to Maria that he'd keep his promise.

He didn't want to lose contact with her.

In the meantime, he did a little library research on

telepathy, but the textbooks were too much for him.

When he asked the librarian for something a guy

could understand, he was shown the science fiction

shelves.

Maria didn't act like fictional telepaths. According

to the stories, she should be able to get food when

she wanted it, commit robberies undetected, start

fires, transport herself and anyone else anywhere, aid

society, and perform minor miracles. Like heal her-

self, even. The prospects were magnificently endless.

Yet she was stuck in some hideous, hot horrible back

room, half-starved and slowly dying of neglect.

The one thing Pete had to accept was the fact that

Maria kept in touch with Wizard but excluded him.

Since Pete considered Wizard every bit as smart as

most men, he wasn't offended; but he felt powerless

to help her as only another human could.

The next set of inexplicable incidents began about

four weeks after Pete and Wizard first encountered

Maria. They were pacing the beat on the hotel side

of Rodney Square when the dog got restless. He

strained against the leash until Pete let him go to see

where he'd head. At a dead run, Wizard streaked

down Eleventh Street, right over into Harry West's

beat.

Harry walked with Pirate, the biggest dog on the

force. Pete couldn't figure Harry in trouble. But he

was wrong. He heard the sullen rumble of an angry

crowd by the time he reached French Street. Wiz

was already around that corner and in the middle of

a fight. Pete whistled for squad cars as he broke into

the edge of the crowd, swinging his nightstick. He

could hear Wizard growling angrily. He heard a yelp

and then the growling of a second dog. He stumbled

over Harry, bleeding from a head wound. Pete got

Harry clear of the stampede just as the squad cars

arrived.

Both dogs were at work, snapping, snarling, dart-

ing around, and the crowd thinned rapidly. In a mat-

ter of minutes, all but the bitten, bruised, and brained

had evaporated into the hot night.

"How'd you get here so fast?" Harry demanded as

he came to. "I heard Wiz just as some kook pelted

me with a bottle."

"Well, Wizard just took off," was Pete's unen-

lightened reply.

"Glad he did. We came down on a Code One, but

when Pirate and I got to the edge of the mob to get

them moving, they closed in like we was Christmas

in July. Somebody got Pirate in the head and I couldn't

turn anywhere without getting clobbered." Harry

dabbed at the cuts on his hands. "I'd sure like to know

what set them off."

Wizard and the bigger dog were wandering around

the street, nervously sniffing. The paddy wagon ar-

rived, and Wiz and Pirate assisted in rounding up the

incidentals, just begging for one legal bite. Then they

started whiffling around again.

"What's with the dogs?" Harry asked Pete as he

helped him into a car. "Look at old Wiz pumping."

Wizard's tail was wagging like he was on his way

to a steak fry.

"Maria!" Pete gasped and called Wizard to heel.

The dog came bounding over, wriggling with delight.

"Find Maria!" But Wizard barked three times,

sneezed, and shook his head. Pirate came up, nuz-

zled Harry, sniffed Wizard, and then he barked three

times.

"I got a girl that only talks to dogs yet," Pete said

in bitter disgust.

Back on their own beat, Pete tried to figure out

why Maria would have called Wizard. Harry and

Pirate weren't in trouble at the time Wiz took off.

Maria must have been worried . . . yeah, that was it!

Worried about her old man! She'd called Wizard be-

cause her old man had been in that crowd.

And that explained why Wizard was so happy-

acting. He'd found Maria's father's trail leading away

from the rumble. '

Pete left a note for Harry to keep an ear and an

180

eye open for any crippled kids on his beat and to let

him know if Pirate ever acted . . . strange. She might

keep in touch with Pirate, too, since the big dog had

been involved in getting her father out of a tough

scrape.

Two of the men picked up that day were known

numbers runners. They stuck to they story that the

cop had come busting in where he wasn't wanted and

his damn dog had spooked the crowd into the rumble.

They just "happened" to be there.

For the next few weeks Pete got no signs from Wiz-

ard that Maria was in any distress. This bothered him

almost as much as hearing from her when she was

hungry. At headquarters they were hearing nasty

rumors about a new numbers racket. Certain hoods

were being seen in new cars, in new quarters, acting

up. Two runners were picked up on suspicion, in the

hope of cracking them. They had to be released

twenty-four hours later, clean, but one of them had

bragged a little. Pete heard one of the detective lieu-

tenants complaining bitterly about it.

"Yeah, the punk says, 'You gotta have evidence,

Lootenant, and this time there ain't any, Lootenant.

Not unless ya can read minds.' That's what he says,

s'belp me."

Mariaf Pete thought with a sense of shock.

What was it Maria had said? When she was hun-

gry, she didn't have the strength to hear far away. If

she were well fed, how far could she hear? All the

way to Chicago? To grab the numbers?

The conclusion just couldn't be dodged. Maria and

her pa were involved. But how would she know she

was doing something wrong? Whoever had latched

onto her would be jubilant over the fact they were

able to put something over on the cops. To Maria,

cops were just the fuzz. Cops spelt trouble for her

father. Cops meant Welfare, and hospitals, and she

didn't know which one scared her the most.

"At least," Pete said to Wizard, "she's not in that

crummy room. She's cared for. That was all I wanted,

wasn't it? And she is a minor, so even when the gangs

gets pulled in, she wouldn't be booked. Why, those

181

hoods might even get a doctor to try and fix her up."

He groaned. "And I sure as hell can't go to the Chief

and say, 'Look, there's a kid telepath running the

numbers.' Not even if I knew where to find her."

Wizard nuzzled his hand.

"Now what would Al Finch be wanting with a

high-priced specialist from Minneapolis?" the desk

sergeant asked Pete when he came on duty the next

night. "He's got medics and nurses hopping in and

out of his pad like he had the Asian crud."

"Better him than you," said Pete, automatically

laughing. But he was thinking Maria!

Pete found out where Al Finch was living. Outside

the building, Pete saw a truck from a pet shop deliver

a triple cage of singing birds, and he knew his hunch

was right. Finch was making book with Maria's mind-

reading ability.

"Maria," Pete called in his head, "Maria, answer

me. I know you're there. What you're doing, reading

numbers, is wrong. It's causing a lot of trouble. It'll

get you in trouble, too."

Pete, came Maria's voice in his head, sweetly, hap-

pily, Pete, I'm not hungry anymore and I have so

many pretty birds. And you should see how nice Pa

looks now he's got a good job. I'm clean, and my

•whole room is clean. I've got pretty dresses.

Her giggle was light and tinkling. Smelly men come

and poke me around. They say they want to fix me.

They can't, of course. Some of them say it out loud

and some tell Al they can. Then they say inside they

can't, that I'm a hopeless case. She giggled again, as

if this were the funniest thing she'd ever said.

"Maria, I won't say Al isn't trying to help you and

make you happy. But he gets more out of you than

you get out of him. He's just using you. You miss get-

ting the numbers through once and he'll hurt you."

Maria's laugh bubbled up. / don't let myself get

hurt. And Al's all right. He thinks the damnedest

things sometimes. She giggled naughtily. He says he's

my sugar daddy.

"Maria, you shouldn't use such words."

Maria's incredible laugh chimed through his head.

182

Al says it's cute the way I talk. And he really does

like me.

"I'll bet," Pete said in a harsh tone. "Look, Maria,

you can have the birds, and the good food, and a

good job for your father, but get them from the right

sort of people. Al Finch is dangerous! He's got a rec-

ord for assault, attempted homcide, you name it. I'm

afraid he'll hurt you."

He wouldn't dare, Maria replied with complete

self-assurance. I'm very important to him, and I

know he means it. Do you know I have my own Coke

machine?

"Maria, Maria," Pete said with a groan. Oh God,

how do I explain? How, please, do I have the nerve

to try? "Maria," he called as loud as he could in his

mind, "Maria, promise me one thing. You get scared

of Al, or worried, just call Wizard or Pirate. Any of

the dogs. They'll protect you. Just call the dogs!"

Wizard barked twice, paused, barked twice again.

So did three stray dogs across the street. And a cat

walking on a nearby fence meowed in the same se-

quence.

Pete tried not to worry. But she was so frail; well-

fed or not, she couldn't have great reserves of energy.

Finch might kill her without meaning to. He'd have

to find a way to stop Finch using her.

On his day off, following a strong hunch, Pete

hung around the betting windows at the Brandywine

Raceway. Sure enough, Maria's father shuffled up to

the ten-dollar window, just before the second race.

Pete sidled up to him.

"You tell Al to be careful with Maria," he said.

"He can use her too much, you know. He could kill

her. And the cops'll tumble to Finch soon enough.

They got a lead."

"Who're you?" the little man asked nervously, his

face twitching as his red-rimmed eyes slid over Pete's

face. "Fuzz?" He scurried away.

Pete had had a good look at his face, though, and

was able to identify him in the rogue's gallery as Hec-

tor Barres. He had a record; vagrancy, drunk and

disorderly, petty larceny.

No appeal based on Maria's frailty would reach

183

Barres. Right now he had all he wanted from life.

Barres' thoughts were only for the money rolling in

today. Tomorrow, and Maria's welfare, were far from

his mind.

Now that he had Maria's last name, Pete checked

hospital records and found her date of birth. Her

mother had been picked up unconscious, already in

active labor, and brought into the emergency ward.

The intern who had delivered Maria had expressed

doubts that the infant would survive, due to prenatal

malnutrition.

Maria's mother had died in the same hospital two

years later. The cause was neglect. Not on the part of

the hospital. She had had tuberculosis, diabetes, and

a coronary condition. She had been severely beaten

about the abdomen and died of internal hemmor-

rhaging before they could operate.

Pete took to talking to Wizard on the beat at night,

hoping that Maria would overhear him. He told Wiz-

ard all about Maria's mother, about her father's

record, about how Maria could use her great gift to

help people. He told her all he knew about paranor-

mal powers, his feeling that she must conserve her

energies; and he repeatedly cautioned her to call

Wizard or Pirate if she felt endangered. Sometimes

he had the feeling she listened to him. He knew she

often talked to Wizard.

Then Al Finch stepped up his operations to in-

clude narcotics, apparently having approached and

reached an agreement with the local drug pushers in

an unprecedented crossover in vice. Pete and the

police went quietly berserk. No known pushers were

suddenly in evidence. There was no direct contact

with or indirect approach to Finch. All known pushers

were clean when they were picked up on routine

searches. Not a sniff on them. But the stuff was circu-

lating in greater quantities than had ever reached Wil-

mington before.

"Maria," Pete called resolutely to her from the

corner opposite Al's apartment. "Do you know what

drugs do to people?"

Sure. They have the coolest dreams to read.

184

"Do you take it?" He gasped, frightened.

/ don't need to, Maria laughed with a mirth that

no longer chimed. Her voice—the essence of the

voice she sent—was hard and brassy. I dig it from

others. It's boss, man.

"Then dig what happens when they can't pay to

get it, Maria. When they have withdrawal. Dig that

and see how boss it is!"

But, Pete honey: you gave me the idea ysurself.

It's much easier to grab the stuff from . . . well, never

mind where. Her voice was sickeningly smug. Easier

than reading numbers out of Chicago. You said I

was to take care of myself. I am.

"I don't know why I bother with you. You know

you're doing wrong, Maria. And when you get hurt,

it'll be your own fault." Then . . .

He didn't know what hit him. When he came to,

he was in the emergency ward with Joe bending

over him anxiously.

"Brother, you've been out three hours and there

isn't a mark on you."

Pete carefully touched his sore head with explor-

atory fingers. He hurt all over, every nerve felt twisted,

his head half unscrewed.

"I got clobbered." The phrase had never seemed

so apt.

"Yeah, I know," Joe replied drily. "But with what?"

"Would you believe a girl telepath?" Pete asked

in a plaintive voice.

"Right now," Joe said wearily, "I'd believe an in-

vasion of little green men."

Pete looked up at him, startled by the credulous

bitterness in the young doctor's voice.

"What'd you mean, Joe?"

Annoyed with himself, Joe grimaced, then swore

under his breath. He stepped to the door, looked up

and down the hall. Closing the door tightly, with one

final cautious look through the small glass insert, he

asked, "Do you know where Al Finch is getting nar-

cotics, Pete?"

The policeman groaned. "From the locked pharmacy

cabinets of the hospitals."

18?

Joe's eyes widened in stunned amazement. "How

in hell did you know? Hahlgren didn't report it until

noon and you've been in dreamland since then."

It was a relief to Pete to be able to tell someone his

secret. When he finished, Joe shook his head slowly

from side to side.

"Believe you, I must. The drug cupboard was bare

at eight this morning. The question is, what do we do

now?"

A few days later. Hector Barres was admitted to

the hospital, stricken with a paralysis of the spine.

Some of the drugs Maria had lifted from the hospital

shelves were not pure opium. One was a thebaine

compound which acted like strychnine and com-

monly caused spinal paralysis. Her father died of a

heart attack shortly after his admission.

Suddenly all the dogs began to howl. Every dog in

Wilmington added his note to the clamor. The dogs

howled for a full ear-splitting hour despite every at-

tempt to silence them. The SPCA and the Humane

Association, police and firemen were called in—un-

successfully—to disband a huge pack of hysterical

dogs, cats, and tree beasts congregated in Maria's

neighborhood.

Only when Maria released them, did the animals

disband, melting away in a matter of moments. Pete

and Joe took up a position across from her windows.

"Maria," Pete said. "I brought Joe with me. He

did everything he could to save your father. But

you've been stealing the wrong kind of drugs. It was

one of those that killed your father."

/ know, Maria said in a flat, hard tone. There was

an odd blur to her projected voice that had always

rung so clear and true in Pete's mind. I've been . . .

experimenting a little.

There was a long pause. Pete suddenly experi-

enced wild grief, a sense of terrified guilt which was

quickly overlaid by a sullen resentment; and, finally,

an irrational feeling of satisfaction.

He was a nasty old man. He was mean to me. He

killed my mother.

'186

Joe caught Pete's arm, his eyes wide with repug-

nance and dread.

You go away, Pete, Maria said. Or I'll set my

friends on you.

"Maria, I don't care how much you threaten me,"

Pete said stolidly. "I have to tell you you're doing

wrong."

Bug off, fuzz, Maria snapped. I'm having fun. I

never had fun before in my life. I'm living it up good

now. You go away.

"Pete," Joe cautioned urgently.

"Damn it, Maria ..."

This time when Pete woke up in the emergency

ward, Joe was in the next bed. They managed to talk

the intern on duty into entering "heat prostration"

on their charts as the cause of collapse. They prom-

ised faithfully to go to their respective homes and

rest for the next twenty-four hours. Out on the hot

street, Pete suggested that a couple of beers would

start their unexpected holiday the right way, so they

adjourned to the nearest air-conditioned bar.

The dogs began to howl again as they crossed the

street.

"If we'd told anyone why the dogs howled," Pete

said, moodily doodling in the moisture on the beer

glass, "they would send us to the funny farm."

"Would you believe a hopped up preadolescent

telepath?" Joe asked wistfully, and raised his glass

in a mock toast.

"I only told her the truth."                         !

"For truth she puts holes in our heads."

"All right, wise guy, what should I have done?"

"How do I know?" Joe asked with a helpless ges-

ture of his hands. "My specialty's going to be internal

medicine, not head-shrinking or pediatrics. I'm as

lousy at this sort of work as you are." He thought for

a while, holding his head. "The trouble, Pete, lies in

neither you nor me . . . nor Maria. The trouble is the

situation and the circumstances. If she'd had the

sense to get born a Dupont instead of a Barres . . ."

And he made a slicing motion with one hand.

They got drunker and drunker, somehow agreeing

on only one thing: they were both so sensitive in the

1'87

head bone that they couldn't give a j.d. brat the

spanking she so richly deserved.

Or rescue her from hell.

Success on a small scene went to Al Finch's head.

He decided that Wilmington offered too little scope

for his operation's potential. Pete got the word from

the desk sergeant that Finch had hired a private

plane and a private ambulance.

Pete called Joe Lavelle, told him to meet him

across from Maria's at once. Joe arrived in time to

watch Maria being carried from the apartment on a

stretcher.

"God Almighty, look," Pete cried. "Al Finch,

framed by canaries."

Executing an intricate shuffle step, the gang leader

was maneuvering the elaborate five-foot cylindrical

triple birdcage through the door, all the while bellow-

ing conflicting orders at his subordinates. That kept

them bobbing so solicitously between Al and Maria

that they all got royally in each other's way.

Then the rear stretcher-bearer tripped on the un-

even sidewalk. He went down on one knee, losing

his grip on the handles. Maria, her tiny body

strapped to the stretcher, was jolted. The forward

bearer, unaware for a moment of the accident, con-

tinued on and pulled the handles out of his compan-

ion's grip so that Maria, head downward, was

dragged jouncingly along the sidewalk. With a yelp,

Al leaped forward, unceremoniously depositing the

canary cage on the lawn, where it rested at a danger-

ous tilt. He collided with one of his cohorts who had

also jumped to the rescue. The two of them suc-

ceeded in startling the forward bearer and the front

end of Maria's stretcher dropped with a second jar-

ring jolt.

Like the incredible noise that issues from a cy-

phering organ played full through faulty stops, a

chorus of strident howls arose. Starting with the

piercing yelps of nearby dogs, it grew in intensity and

volume as Maria, battered and pain-racked, sum-

moned aid. It came bounding in answer to her call.

With uncharacteristic ferocity, three poodles and a

,188

terrier launched themselves at the stretcher men.

Before Finch could touch Maria, a collie and two

boxers cut him off, snapping and snarling. The in-

dignant doorman was tripped by a frantic cocker,

who plunged at him from the lobby.

"Christ Almighty, she's called all the dogs," Joe

cried.

A yelping, yapping, yipping vortex of sound with

a rumbling, roaring ground-bass enveloped the area.

The street soon became a seething mass of dogs, from

ragged Scotties to leaping Dalmatians. More kept

arriving on the scene, many dragging snapped ropes

and chains, towing stakes, one even hauling a dog-

house.

"She's called too many! She'll get hurt," Pete

groaned.

As one, Pete and Joe started across the street, step-

ping on and over dog bodies. Pete caught a glimpse of

a protective ring forming around Maria's man-

abandoned stretcher.

"Maria! Maria!" he shouted over the tumult. "Call

off the dogs. Call them off!"

The sheer press of numbers would overrun her.

Kicking, flailing, Pete waded on. A cat, leaping from

a stopped car roof, raked him with her claws. Joe

reached the curb and fell, momentarily lost under

the bounding bodies.

Suddenly, as if cut off by an invisible conductor,

all sound ceased. The silence was as terrifying as the

noise, but now the momentum of the charging animals

faltered. Pete made it to the sidewalk in that hiatus.

Neither Maria nor stretcher nor sidewalk was visible

under the smooth and brindled, spotted, mottled,

rough and smooth blanket of dogs and occasional

cats.

Cursing wildly, Pete and Joe labored, throwing the

stunned animals out of the way until a space was

cleared around the overturned stretcher. The upset

bird cage rolled down to the sidewalk, coming to rest

with the bent door uppermost. A flurry of orange and

yellow feathers, frightened canaries flew hysterically

aloft, their frantic chirps ominous and shrill.

Unable to move, Pete watched as Joe carefully

189

r

turned the stretcher over. The two men stood looking

down at Maria's crushed and bloodied body, trampled

by the zeal of her would-be protectors. Then, moved

by some obscure impulse, Pete joined her hands.

At this point, the dogs, released from the weird

control that had summoned and then immobilized

them, remembered ancient enmities. The abortive

rescue mission turned into a thousand private battles.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Pete saw Wizard

coming hell-for-leather down the street. Finch stag-

gered to his feet, clawing his way up, using the bird

cage as a support. With a howl, Wizard knocked him

down again. Pete grabbed the man and arrested him

for disturbing the peace. Wizard stood guard, in

much better shape than any of Maria's other pro-

tectors, thanks to his late arrival.

The news story never mentioned that a human

had been killed in the great dog riot. But it was noted

that the unearthly canine choruses that had been

plaguing Wilmington ended with that unscheduled

concert.

But sometimes now when Pete Roberts is walking

the beat with his K-9 partner. Wizard will suddenly

start acting itchy and nervous. He whines and pulls,

straining against the lead.

"Heel," Pete says stolidly, pretending nothing's

happened.

One of these days I'll really put on the pressure.

"Finder's Keeper," "A Proper Santa Claus," and

"Smallest Dragon-boy" were written at Roger El-

wood's behest. He wanted short stories by McCafFrey.

My estimable agent, Virginia Kidd, said that it was

best not to limit McCafFrey, so I had to. The original

ending of "A Proper Santa Claus" did not suit its

intended market. I have reinstated my downbeat end-

ing because it is logical.

190                                                   I9f

Finder's Keeper

PETER TURNED IN FOUR DOZEN GOLF BALLS

including the monogrammed ones that Mr. Roche had

been yelling about. The course manager was almost

cheerful as he counted out Peter's finder's fee.

"You've got a positive genius for scrounging balls,

Pete. Don't know how you do it."

"My mother says everyone's got something they're

good at," Peter replied, and began to edge out the door

of the stuffy office. Comments like that made him nerv-

ous: he half-expected he'd given away his secret, and

that he and his mother would be forced to run away

again.

The manager only grunted and muttered about keep-

ing the members happy. Peter ducked out, running

home with his pocketful of dollars. Mother would be

pleased, although she didn't like him using his trick of

"finding" for "material gain," as she put it. But since

she'd been too sick to work at the diner, they had

precious little choice. Peter had wanted to get a full-

time job as a caddy but his mother had resisted.

"You can't be like me, Peter. You got to have edu-

cation and training. Your father was a smart man, but

he didn't have enough education." Dedication made

her eyes bum in her thin face. "It's education that

matters in this world, Peter. You got to go to school."

She emphasized her last statement by stringing the

words out and enunciating them clearly.

Peter adored his mother but he hated her attempts

to imitate a "country club" accent: her habit of quoting

country clich6s'only ruined the effect she wanted to

produce.

192

Seven dollars he was bringing home today. Not bad,

added to the twenty-two he'd made caddying over the

weekend. This week's rent, food, and some of the med-

icine were now paid for. If he could just talk Mother

into letting him take a week off school now that the

rains had stopped and spring sun was drying the greens,

he'd really make some money! Mr. Roche always

tipped a fiver, especially when Peter kept track of those

monogrammed balls of his that he always swatted into

the rough.

"Son, if you could patent that ball-homing instinct of

yours," Mr. Roche had said more often than Peter

liked, "you'd be a millionaire!"

It had made Peter almost scared to continue caddy-

ing for Mr. Roche, but the money was too tempting.

He came around the comer of their house trailer

and skidded to an abrupt stop in the mud. Ken Far-

go's green Mustang was parked on the concrete apron.

The only good thing about his mother being sick, in

Peter's estimation, was that she didn't have to be pleas-

ant to creeps like Ken Fargo.

"He's pleasant enough and all that," his mother had

said and then shuddered, smiling quickly to reassure

Peter. "There's just something . . . slippery about

him." She sighed. "I suppose he can't help being sour

and suspicious. People do and say the most awful things

to collect insurance! And he's lonely."

His mother would understand being lonely. And

she'd understand the awful things people do and say

—particularly if you're different in any way. But the

knowledge hadn't made her sour, just more lonely, and

sad, and cautious. Why she called Peter's knack of

finding things a "gift," he didn't know. He felt it was

a curse. It had brought them more grief, kept them

moving around in the period before he'd learned not

to "find" everything lost...

And why did Ken Fargo have to get unlost? They

had thought him well gone when the insurance com-

pany that used him as an investigator had called off

the search for the hijacked furs. There had been a re-

ward of $15,000 for the return of those coats. Try as

he would, Peter hadn't been able to figure out a legiti-

mate way to "find" those furs. He hadn't been with

193

the searchers when they'd looked in the old lead mine,

or he'd have "found" the furs under the concealing

layer of rubble in the ore carts. He couldn't go there

alone now. That old shaft was dangerous, the supports

worm-ridden and damp-rotted. Every kid in town had

been warned, on pain of a strapping, to stay away.

Peter paused at the front of the house. He didn't

want to go in. He didn't like the way Ken Fargo

looked at his mother, and there wasn't much a thirteen-

year-old boy could do to a six-foot man who'd fought

his way out of some nasty comers (Fargo's words),

and looked it from the scars on his face and knuckles.

Peter took a deep breath and stomped up the two

boxes that made steps into the trailer.

Peter knew the moment he walked in that Fargo had

been badgering his mother. She was flushed and wring-

ing her hands.

"Peter!" She all but swooped down on him. "Did

you have a good day?" She was terribly relieved to see

him.

"Sure did, Mother." He held out the seven dollar

bills. "Hello, Mr. Fargo." He had to acknowledge the

man's presence or his mother would chew him out for

bad manners no matter how much she disliked Fargo.

"Long time no see," the man replied, jerking his

shoulders to settle a flashy gold sports jacket. He saun-

tered toward the back of the caravan. "Sorry your ma's

been ill. Should've let me know."

Peter blinked at him in surprise.

"Seven dollars," his mother was saying, her voice

more natural now. "Oh, Peter, that's wonderful. Were

you caddying?"

"That's just for scrounging golf balls."

Something happened in the room, some indefinable

change in the an: that registered against Peter's senses.

When he looked at Ken Fargo, the man was occupied

in lighting a cigarette. Peter glanced at his mother but

she was proudly smoothing out the bills and arranging

them all face up before she put them in her handbag.

"Peter's such a help," she said to Fargo, an artificial

heartiness in her soft voice. "We've been just fine. I'll

be back at work this week, but it was very nice of you

194

to drop by and see us." She took two steps toward

Fargo, her hand extended.

Fargo ignored the hand and sat down as if he meant

to make a long visit. The knock at the door was a

welcome diversion and Peter nearly collided with his

mother as they both answered the summons.

"Oh, Mrs. Kieman, have you seen my Victor?" It

was Mrs. Anderson from two trailers down. Her three-

year-old had such a perverse habit of straying that the

distraught mother had taken to tying him to an old dog

run. "I told Henry the rope was frayed. I was doing

the wash and I just didn't notice. I suppose I should've

checked when I didn't hear him fretting, but I wanted

to finish ... so I don't know how long he's been gone.

Have you seen him? What with being home and all?"

Peter bristled at the implied insult, but his mother

shot him a look, for she'd often let him "find" Victor.

Mrs. Anderson was a nice woman, his mother had said,

and had more than a wayward child to burden her.

"No, Mrs. Anderson, I haven't seen Victor this

morning," his mother replied.

"Which way is he likely to go, Mrs. Anderson?"

Ken Fargo asked.

"Oh, I just dunno. He could be halfway to town by

now." The woman twisted back the lock of lank

bleached hair that had escaped its pins. She swiveled

her body slightly, looking pointedly at the green Mus-

tang.

"Well, that's no problem. C'mon, Pete, you and me

will take a little spin and see if we can locate the

lady's wandering boy."

Peter gave his mother a swift look, and she gave him

a barely perceptible nod.

"Shouldn't be no time at all before we have him

safely back in your arms, Mrs. Anderson. Now don't

worry. For one thing I'm an insurance investigator,

and finding lost things is my business."

Again that electric feeling charged the air, but be-

fore Peter could appeal to his mother, Ken Fargo had

hustled him out the door and into the car, all the time

driveling reassurances to Mrs. Anderson.

"Roll down that window, Petey boy," the man said,

and Peter set his teeth against the irritating familiarity.

19?

"Keep a sharp eye out on your side. I'll take care of

mine."

Fargo's tone, smugly confident, gave Peter fair

warning. Somehow Fargo thought that Peter could

"find" things. Somehow Peter had to discourage him.

"You just sing out when you see that brat, Pete. This

car'll stop on a dime and hand you back six cents—

inflation, you know, ha ha ha." Fargo deftly turned

the Mustang into the road to town. Peter didn't protest

although he knew that Victor Anderson was moving

steadily in the opposite direction. "And I've got a bone

to pick with you."

Startled, Peter looked around, but the man's frown

was bogus.

"You should've let me know your mother was ill.

She's a fine woman, your ma, and deserves the best.

She could've had it if you'd let me know."

"We got along all right."

"Yeah, but she'd be much better now with the kind

of food and care I could've provided. And I'd like to

provide for her; you get what I mean?" An elbow

prodded Peter in the ribs.

"We prefer to do for ourselves, thank you."

"You're a good kid, Peter, but there're things a man

can do that a boy can't."

Peter wanted to wipe that look from Fargo's face.

"Hey, you keep your eyes peeled for that kid. Let's

find him in a hurry and get back. I got something to

ask your ma and you might as well hear it, too."

Peter obediently faced the window, but they reached

the middle of the town without a sight of any child.

"How about that? We gotta search the whole town.

I thought you said the kid went into town."

"No, sir. Mrs. Anderson said she thought he'd be

halfway to town by now.

"Well, goddammit, where is he?"

Peter looked Ken Fargo straight in the eyes. "I don't

know."

The man's face turned grim, then as suddenly as-

sumed a forced good humor. "All right, kid. If he didn't

go into town, maybe he went out of town?"

"Maybe someone's found him already. There's Of-

ficer Scordus."

196

The policeman was not the least bit pleased to hear

that the Anderson kid was missing again, and his re-

marks confirmed Peter's private opinion that Mrs. An-

derson was a prime nuisance in the tiny community of

Jennings, Colorado. Fargo brandished his investigator's

credentials, an additional irritant to Scortius, who'd

been forced to muck around the countryside trying to

find the lost shipment of furs "alleged" to have been

stashed somewhere near Jennings.

"Well, I'll see who we can find to help track the

brat."

"I'll do the main road out of town."

Officer Scortius grunted and waddled off.

As they drew alongside her trailer, Mrs. Anderson

was hanging over the bottom half of her door, the pic-

ture of maternal anxiety. Clearly Victor had not been

recovered, but Fargo assured her heartily that it was

only a matter of moments, and gunned the Mustang

countryward.

"Okay, Pete, let's find that kid and end this soap

opera," Fargo said between his teeth. "How far up the

road is he?"

"Gee, how would I know?"

"How would you know? Because you'd know!" The

man's tone emphasized his certainty and Peter felt sick

fear curl up from the pit of his belly. "I get around

the country, Petey boy. And I hear things, interesting

things." He paused and his voice took on a conciliatory

tone. "Look, Petey boy, I like your mother. I want to

take care of her the way a man can. She shouldn't have

to work herself sick to give you a decent place to live

and a good education. I know how set she is to see you

educated. But you don't need much book learning to

get ahead. Not you. You know, with your trick, we

could be a team, you and me. In fact, we would be a

top-drawer unbeatable team of private investigators."

That insistent, persuasive voice was bad enough; the

arguments were worse. Fargo knew exactly how to get

to Peter.

"Wouldn't that be great? Your ma not having to

work anymore? And you, kid, you've been handi-

capped. You've made mistakes. It was foolish, you

know, to find Lyie Grauber's missing stocks! To say

197

nothing of that Cadillac in Colorado Springs!" Fargo's

laugh was unpleasant and Peter cringed. That Cadil-

lac business had meant they'd had to leave one of the

nicest apartments they'd ever had. That was when they

had decided that Peter better check with his mother

before he "found" anything. There'd been a fortune in

old five-dollar bills hidden in that Cadillac—and he

couldn't tell the authorities how he'd known where it

had been hidden.

"Yes," Fargo was saying in an ominously casual

way, "the police are still looking for the kid who told

them where to find that Caddy—and skipped. They

want him bad."

The Mustang, like the Cadillac, had become a trap.

"You're mistaking me for someone else, Mr. Fargo,"

Peter managed to say in a steady, apologetic voice.

"Oh, no, I'm not. I'm a top-flight investigator be-

cause I'm smart. I put isolated clues together and come

up with open-and-shut convictions."

If you looked adults in the face, they tended to think

you couldn't be lying; but it took every ounce of self-

control that Peter had learned in thirteen years to look

Ken Fargo squarely in the eyes.

"You are wrong, Mr. Fargo. I've never been in

Colorado Springs. And gee, if I could find things like

you do and get reward money, I sure would have tried

to for my mother's sake."

"How do you know about reward money, kid?"

"Mother told me that your company gives you ten

percent of the value of anything you recover for them."

Fargo grunted at that, but just on the other side of

the town limit sign, he braked, swearing with impa-

tience.

"Where's that brat? C'mon, kid, where is he? You

know!"

And Peter did. Victor was cutting across the Omers'

meadow, out of sight of the road, and heading toward

the old mines. Peter knew he'd better find the kid soon,

but he'd have to get rid of Ken Fargo first and how

was he going to manage to do that?

"No, Mr. Fargo, I don't know." Peter stared the man

straight in the eyes; "I wish I did because Mrs. Ander-

198

son always tips fifty cents when someone brings Victor

home."

"You made seven bucks today finding golf balls.

What about that?"

Peter forced himself to grin. "All you have to do is

watch where Mr. Roche slices his balls and then go

bring 'em in when he isn't looking. Half the ones I

brought in today were in the pond anyway."

Doubt flickered across Ken Fargo's face.

"Honest, Mr. Fargo, you're wrong about me."

A big Olds came piling down the road toward town.

Cursing under his breath, Fargo pushed himself out of

the Mustang and nagged the big car down.

"Yeah? What's the trouble, fella? No gas?" asked

the driver, sticking his head out the window. Peter saw,

with sinking heart, that it was Mr. Roche. He tried to

squinch down in the seat. "Hi there, Peter. Find any

more of my balls for me?" He flicked his cigarette to

the roadside and gave Fargo his attention. "Kid's a

genius finding m'balls in the grass. Like he could home

in on them or something. Caddy for me, Saturday,

Peter? Ten sharp?"

Limp with defeat, Peter nodded and sank down in

the bucket seat, swallowing fiercely against the lump in

his throat.

"Seen anything of a kid, too young to be off on his

own?" Fargo asked.

"Kid? No. Nothing on the road from here to Hiber-

nia."

Mr. Roche drove off in the Olds, leaving Peter at

Fargo's mercy.

" 'Kid homes in on them or something,' hutT? 'No,

Mr. Fargo, you're wrong about me.'" Fargo's voice

was savage as he slid into the driver's seat. "All

right, Peter me lad. Now, unless you want some trou-

ble, real trouble, with the cops in Colorado Springs,

because they're looking for you, you'd better tell me

where those furs are!"

"Furs?"

Fargo grabbed Peter by the wrist. He was as strong

as he'd boasted, and the bones in Peter's arm rubbed

together painfully in his grip. Blunt fingers gouged into

199

the tendons until Peter had all he could do not to cry

out.

"You know, don't you?"

The pain had caught Peter off guard and his face

must have given away his secret knowledge, for Fargo

swore.

"How long have you known?" Each word was punc-

tuated by a flexing of those implacable fingers on his

wrist. "D'you realize you done me out of fifteen thou-

sand dollars?" Just as Peter was certain Fargo would

break his arm, the man's attitude altered. "Okay, kid.

I understand. You and your mother got scared after

that Cadillac caper. Well, you don't have to be scared

anymore. I said we'd be a team and we will. No one

will think it funny if I find things. I'm a first-rate in-

vestigator to begin with. But with you . . . okay,

where're the furs?"

"In the old lead mine." Peter pointed toward the

hills. And Victor.

"We searched there already." Fargo's expression was

suspicious and menacing. "You lead me on, kid . . ."

and he raised his hand warningly.

"The furs are hidden under the rubble in the old

ore carts."

"How do you know? You seen *em?"

"No, but that's where they are."

"You mean, we walked up and down past that loot?"

If they were mice, they would've bit you, Peter re-

cited one of his mother's off-quoted phrases to him-

self. Thinking of his mother gave him a second hold

on his courage. Pargo knew, but if his knowledge went

no further than an old mine shaft ...

"The road to that mine's around here, isn't it?"

Peter told Fargo the way.

"Now you're using the old noggin, Petey boy." Co-

operation made Fargo good-natured. "Say, kid, how

do you do it?"

"What?"

"No more of the innocent act." Fargo's voice took

on its dangerous edge. "How do you find things you've

never seen?"

"I can't always," Peter replied, trying to sound du-

bious. "It's just when things are on people's minds a

200

lot, like that Cadillac or the furs, I sort of get a pic-

ture where they are. Sometimes the picture is clearer

than other times, and I know the location."

"What's with the golf balls? You must've found hun-

dreds of stupid golf balls these past coupla months.

Penny-ante stuff—when I think of the lists of lost, or

strayed, items on the company's records ... I can

make a fortune!"

Peter swallowed. "I", not the more diplomatic "we."

The Mustang swerved up the last bend to the mine.

"It's getting dark, Mr. Fargo," Peter said. "We should

get Victor. He's up there. We can come back tomor-

row for the..."

"Forget that stupid brat! I want those furs . .. now!"

Fargo pulled a huge handlight from under his seat

and gestured with it for Peter to lead the way.

"The mine's dangerous, Mr. Fargo. And the ore

carts are pretty far down..."

There was no reprieve in Fargo's eyes. Peter turned

toward the shaft and started walking.

The walls were dripping with the recent spring thaws,

and the tunnel had a clammy chill as they penetrated

slowly down, turning the gentle bend that led into the

bowels of the mine.

"That's a new fall," Peter said nervously as they

scrambled over a soggy pile of mud.

Fargo shined the spotlight at the sagging supports.

"Yeah, so let's get this business over with. Fifteen thou-

sand will do a lot for us, Petey boy. For you, your

mother, and me."

"Why don't you just take the furs and leave us alone,

Mr. Fargo? It's not right for me to find things for

money."

"Who says?" Fargo snorted at his altruism. "Like the

old saying, Petey, 'Finders keepers, losers weepers.'

And, Petey boy, I'm the finder's keeper from now on."

The smile on Fargo's face chilled Peter worse than

the tunnel's cold. But the smile disappeared when they

both heard the groaning of wood and the dribbling

sound of dirt falling from a height.

"How much further?" Fargo asked. "This place isn't

safe."

The ore carts were right up against the old fall which

201

had closed the mine. Fargo hoisted Peter into the

first cart. The boy dug into the loose earth layering

the cart, and Fargo swore as Peter unearthed the first

of the plastic sacks. "They all that big? Christ, we can't

pack those up that tunnel. Take all night." He heaved

the plastic bags to the ground and the air puffed them

up. He glanced up the tunnel, measuring its width. "I

bet I can just get the Mustang down here." And he

started off.

"Mr. Fargo, would you leave me the light?"

With the torch pointed forward, Fargo's smile was

malevolent in the dim tunnel. "What? A big kid like

you afraid of the dark? What could find you here?"

He laughed. "Just think of all the things fifteen thou-

sand will buy!"

Peter watched with a rapidly increasing anxiety as

the gleam of the spot disappeared around the bend,

leaving him in a total blackout.

"Afraid of the dark?" The taunt frightened him not

half as much as the life looming with grim certainty

before him. Not all the warmth of the pelts on which

he crouched could have thawed the fear in Peter's

heart.

An ominous creak, almost overhead, startled him

further. "The finder's keeper," Fargo had said. There

were darker death traps than an old mine shaft, and

bleaker lightless vistas.

Nonetheless Peter cried aloud when he saw the re-

turn of light and heard the sound of the Mustang bump-

ing along the cart tracks.

"Okay, move your butt and haul these furs into the

car, Petey. On the double."

Another warning rumbled overhead and a gout of

water spewed from the support directly above the ore

carts. Peter grabbed the plastic bags, tripping over the

trailing length of them.

"Keep 'em off the wet ground, you stupid jerk.

They're worth a fortune."

Peter mumbled an apology as he crammed the bags

into the car trunk. The plastic refused to give up its

supply of air, and Fargo was cursing as he helped.

Then he storme^ down the tunnel for more furs, drag-

ging Peter with him. The light from the Mustang's

202

headlights helped relieve the gloom, although its ex-

haust was a blue plume in the cul-de-sac of the rockfall.

Two loads and the trunk was full. Peter stood with an

armful of plastic sacks wondering how they could pos-

sibly get them all in the sports car.

"Don't stand there, stupid. Dump 'em on the back

seat."

That, too, was full shortly, so Peter heaved his next

load onto the passenger seat, falling over it as he lost

his balance. Accidentally he hit the wheel, and the

horn. The noise startled Fargo into dropping his load,

but his curses were covered by a long low rumble. Mud

and ooze rained down.

Peter screamed, gesturing frantically to the bulging

overhead beam. Then, suddenly he found himself

stumbling over plastic bags, desperately pulling at Far-

go's arm to get the man to move. Peter remembered

scrambling and clawing through wet heavy mud. Then

something struck him across the head.

His skull was on fire, his body rigid. Certain he was

buried in the tunnel, he tried to move but his arms

were held to his side. His fingers clawed but met

fluffy soft warm blanketing. There was noise and

confusion around him. He was aware of breathing

fresh air, and yet. . . there was thudding and rumbling

underneath him which echoed through his pain-filled

head.

The mine had collapsed! But he was wrapped in a

blanket. He was safe.

"Yeah, you wouldn't believe how fast that Mustang

went into reverse. The surprising thing is I made it out

in one piece at all. 'Course the company will see to the

body work. All in the line of duty, Scortius! And I got

what I went after. I found the furs."

"I" found the furs? Peter cringed at Fargo's arro-

gance.

"Considering you were out looking for the Anderson

kid, you got double luck," the officer was saying en-

viously.

Fargo chuckled. "Two finds in one day. Not bad,

huh? Say, Doc, how long does it take that ambulance

to get here? I want Petey boy given the best of care.

203

I'll foot the bill myself. And, of course, we should get

the little feller back to Mrs. Anderson, too."

"The ambulance's coming," Dr. Wingard said, and

there was something in his voice that made Peter think

that the doctor didn't much like Ken Fargo. "I'm just

as anxious as you are about Peter's condition. I want

an x ray of that skull. .."

"I thought you said he had just a flesh wound?"

"There's a possibility of concussion—"

"Concussion?" Fargo was startled.

"Yes, it was a wound caused by a falling object.

Sufficient force to crack the skull. And I want to run

an EKG on Peter. I don't like the sound of that

heart.. ."

"Heart?"

A fierce pounding in Peter's chest echoed the panic

in Fargo's voice.

"Yes. Molly Kieman's got enough on her mind,

but I spotted an irregularity in Peter's heartbeat when

I gave him a physical in school. Might be nothing at

all. No mention of rheumatic fever on his school rec-

ord."

"Rheumatic fever?"

"I'm the cautious type. I'd just like to check."

"Oh."

Peter was somewhat encouraged by the dubious

sound of Fargo's rejoinder. Then he remembered Jorie

Grant. She'd had a rheumatic heart and couldn't take

gym; stayed out of school in hard weather, in general

was a real twerp. Be like her? Peter groaned.

"Hey, he's coming to," Fargo cried.

The air about Peter seemed to press in on him and

he had a sense of suffocation. A hand grabbed his chin

and shook him.

"Hey, Petey. Speak to me!"

There was a scuffle and an exclamation of surprise

from Fargo.

"H you don't mind, Mr. Fargo," Dr. Wingate said

in a hard icy voice. "I'm the doctor here." A firm

hand turned back the blanket and found Peter's wrist.

"And for your information, you don't shake concussion

cases." Boy, was Dr. Wingard angry! "Peter? Peter?

Can you hear me?" His voice was gentle again.

204

"Concussion." That word again. It triggered a series

of associations in Peter's mind and eventually made

him think of TV shows he'd seen. Maybe ... as his

mother used to say, there were more ways to kill a cat

than choking him with butter.

"Where am I?" He fluttered his eyelids like patients

did on "Dr. Kildare." The act became real for the

searchlights of the police cars were trained in his direc-

tion, bright enough to stun his eyes.

"Peter, it's Dr. Wingard. How're you feeling?"

"My head hurts."

"I know, boy. We'll soon fix that. Can you open

your eyes again? And tell me how many fingers I'm

holding up?"

Peter blinked. He could see that the doctor was hold-

ing up three fingers. He blinked again, made his eyes

stay wide with fear.

"Who are you?" he asked, looking directly at the

doctor as if he'd never seen him. Then he looked un-

seeingly at Fargo. "Where am I?"

"How many fingers, Peter?"

"Fingers? Fingers?" Peter couldn't think how many

he ought to see if he didn't see the right number. But

he could see the dawning of disappointed frustration

and the fury of loss in Ken Fargo's face.

Losers weepers. Peter essayed a sob. After all, his

head hurt—and he wasn't supposed to be as brave

as Peter Kieman.

"Who are you? Where am I? My head hurts." But

the first sob was abruptly followed by deep hurtful ones

which Peter hadn't ordered.

"There, there, boy. Take it easy. You'll be all

right," the doctor said. He stood up, pulling Fargo

aside. Peter strained his ears. "That head injury seems

to be causing a little amnesia."

"Amnesia?"

"Oh, I don't think it's anything to worry about. A

few weeks' rest in the hospital, a careful regime for a

few months, and he'll be right as rain."

"Amnesia? And a bum heart?" Fargo glanced sourly

at Peter, who gave a weak groaning sob. "Look, Doc,

I've got to report to my company about finding those

20?

furs. You just send the bills for the kid to Midwestern.

Least we can do for him!"

"You'll be looking in on Peter?"

Peter kept his eyes tightly shut, but he was thinking

with all his strength: Go away. Ken Fargo!

Fargo cleared his throat and began to move away.

"Well, now, I'll certainly try to. You let me know

when he's completely recovered. If he gets his memory

back. And check out that bad heart, too."

Well now, Peter thought, Petey boy just wouldn't

ever recover from his amnesia. Not completely. And

not that part of his mind that made him valuable to

Fargo. Finder's keeper indeed!

Weariness settled in along with pain and Peter

closed his eyes tightly. It was reassuring to hear little

Victor Anderson blubbering somewhere. But what did

he have to cry about? He was found, wasn't he?

Peter would have to stop "finding" anything for a

while. Even Mr. Roche's golf balls. But he could blame

that on the crack on the head, too. He could still caddy.

Then, when he grew up, and without Mr. Ken Fargo

interfering with him and his mother, why he'd become

the toppest-fiight insurance investigator. And nobody

would consider it odd that he could find anything he

needed to.

As his mother often said, it was an ill wind that blew

nobody any good.

A Proper Santa Claus

JEREMY WAS PAINTING. HE USED HIS FINGERS

instead of the brush because he liked the feel of paint.

Blue was soothing to the touch, red was silky, and

orange had a gritty texture. Also he could tell when

a color was "proper" if he mixed it with his fingers. He

could hear his mother singing to herself, not quite on

pitch, but it was a pleasant background noise. It went

with the rhythm of his fingers stroking color onto the

paper.

He shaped a cookie and put raisins on it, big, plump

raisins. He attempted a sugar frosting but the white

kind of disappeared into the orange of the cookie. So

he globbed up chocolate brown and made an icing.

Then he picked the cookie out of the paper and ate it.

That left a hole in the center of the paper. It was an

excellent cookie, though it made his throat very dry.

Critically he eyed the remaining unused space. Yes,

there was room enough, so he painted a glass of Coke.

He had trouble representing the bubbles that're sup-

posed to bounce up from the bottom of the glass.

That's why the Coke tasted flat when he drank it.

It was disappointing. He'd been able to make the

cookie taste so good, why couldn't he succeed with the

Coke? Maybe if he drew the bubbles in first ... he

was running out of paper.

"Momma, Momma?"

"What is it, honey?"

"Can I have more paper? Please?"

"Honest, Jeremy, you use up more paper . . . Still,

it does keep you quiet and out of my hair . . . why,

207

whatever have you done with your paper? What are

those holes?"

Jeremy pointed to the round one. "That was a cookie

with raisins and choc'late icing. And that was a Coke

only I couldn't make the bubbles bounce."

His mother gave him "the look," so he subsided.

"Jeremy North, you use more paper than—than

a..."

"Newspaperman?" he suggested, grinning up at her.

Momma liked happy faces best.

"Than a newspaperman."

"Can you paint on newspaper?"

His mother blinked. "I don't see why not. And there's

pictures already. You can color them in." She oblig-

ingly rummaged in the trash and came up with several

discarded papers. "There you are, love. Enough sup-

plies to keep you in business a while. I hope."

Well, Jeremy hadn't planned on any business,

and newsprint proved less than satisfactory. There

wasn't enough white spaces to draw his paintings on,

and the newspaper soaked up his paints when he tried

to follow the already-pictures. So he carefully put the

paints away, washed his hands, and went outside to

play.

For his sixth birthday Jeremy North got a real

school-type easel with a huge pad of paper that fas-

tened onto it at the top and could be torn off, sheet by

sheet. There was a rack of holes for his poster paint

pots and a rack for his crayons and chalk and eraser.

It was exactly what he wanted. He nearly cried for joy.

He hugged his mother, and he climbed into his fa-

ther's lap and kissed him despite his prickly beard.

"Okay, okay, da Vinci," his father laughed. "Go

paint us a masterpiece."

Jeremy did. But he was so eager that he couldn't

wait until the paint had completely dried. It smeared

and blurred, brushing against his body as he hurried to

find his dad. So the effect wasn't quite what Jeremy in-

tended.

"Say, that's pretty good," said his father, casting a

judicious eye on the profferred artwork. "What's it

supposed to be?"

208

"Just what you wanted." Jeremy couldn't keep the

disappointment out of his voice.

"I guess you're beyond me, young feller me lad. I

can dig Andy Warhol when he paints tomato soup, but

you're in Picasso's school." His father tousled his hair

affectionately and even swung him up high so that, de-

spite his disappointment, Jeremy was obliged to giggle

and squeal in delight.

Then his father told him to take his painting back

to his room.

"But it's your masterpiece, Daddy. I can fix it . . ."

"No, son. You painted it. You understand it." And

his father went about some Sunday errand or other.

Jeremy did understand his painting. Even with the

smears he could plainly see the car, just like the Ad-

monsens', which Daddy had admired the previous

week. It had been a proper car. If only Daddy had

seen it...

His grandmother came, around lunchtime, and

brought him a set of pastel crayons with special pastel

paper and a simply superior picture book of North

American animals and birds.

"Of course, he'll break every one of the pastels in

the next hour," he heard his grandmother saying to his

mother, "but you said he wants only drawing things."

"I like the book, too, Gramma," Jeremy said po-

litely, but his fingers closed possessively around the

pastels.

Gramma glanced at him and then went right on

talking. "But I think it's about time he found out what

animals really look like instead of those monstrosities

he's forever drawing. His teacher's going to wonder

about his home life when she sees those nightmares."

"Oh, c'mon, Mother. There's nothing abnormal

about Jeremy. I'd far rather he daubed himself all over

with paint than ran around like the Reckons' kids,

slinging mud and sand everywhere."

"If you'd only make Jeremy . . ."

"Mother, you can't make Jeremy do anything. He

slides away from you like . . . like a squeeze of paint."

Jeremy lost interest in the adults. As usual, they ig-

nored his presence, despite the fact that he was the

subject of their conversation. He began to leaf through

209

the book of birds and animals. The pictures weren't

proper. That brown wasn't a bird-brown. And the red

of the robin had too much orange, not enough gray.

He kept his criticism to himself, but by the time he'd

catalogued the anatomical faults in the sketch of the

mustang, he was thoroughly bored with the book. His

animals might look like nightmares, but they were

proper ones for all of that. They worked.

His mother and grandmother were engrossed in dis-

cussing the fixative that would have made the pictures

"permanent." Gramma said she hadn't bought it be-

cause it would be dangerous for him to breathe the

fumes. They continued to ignore him. Which was as

well. He picked up the pastels and began to experiment.

A green horse with pink mane and tail, however ana-

tomically perfect, would arouse considerable contro-

versy.

He didn't break a single one of the precious pastels.

He even blew away the rainbow dust from the tray.

But he didn't let the horse off the pad until after

Gramma and his mother had wandered into the

kitchen for lunch.

"I wish ..."

The horse was lovely.

"I wish I had some ..." Jeremy said.

The horse went cantering around the room, pink tail

streaming out behind him and pink mane flying.

". . . Fixative, Green Horse!" But it didn't work.

Jeremy knew it took more than just wishing to do it

proper.

He watched regretfully as Green Horse pranced too

close to a wall and brushed himself out of existence.

Miss Bradley, his first-grade teacher, evidently didn't

find anything untoward about his drawings, for she

constantly displayed them on the bulletin boards. She

had a habit of pouncing on him when he had just

about finished a drawing so that after all his effort,

he hadn't much chance to see if he'd done it "proper"

after all. Once or twice he managed to reclaim one

from the board and use it, but Miss Bradley created

so much fuss about the missing artwork that he diplo-

matically ceased to repossess his efforts.

On the whole he liked Miss Bradley, but about the

first week in October she developed the distressing

habit of making him draw to order: "class assign-

ments," she called it. Well, that was all right for the

ones who never knew what to draw anyhow, but "as-

signments" just did not suit Jeremy. While part of

him wanted to do hobgoblins, and witches, and pump-

kin moons, the other part obstinately refused.

"I'd really looked forward to your interpretations of

Hallowe'en, Jeremy," Miss Bradley said sadly when

he proffered another pedantic landscape with nothing

but ticky-tacky houses. "This is very beautiful, Jeremy,

but it isn't the assigned project. Now, look at Cynthia's

witch and Mark's hobgoblin. I'm certain you could do

something just as original."

Jeremy dutifully regarded Cynthia's elongated witch

on an outsized broomstick apparently made from 2 x

4s instead of broom reeds, and the hobgoblin Mark

had created by splashing paint on the paper and fold-

ing, thus blotting the wet paint. Neither creation had

any chance of working properly; surely Miss Bradley

could see that. So he was obliged to tell her that his

landscape was original, particularly if she would look

at it properly.

"You're not getting the point, Jeremy," Miss Bradley

said with unaccustomed sternness.

She wasn't either, but Jeremy thought he might

better not say that. So he was the only student in the

class who had no Hallowe'en picture for parents to

admire on Back-to-School Night.

His parents were a bit miffed since they'd heard that

Jeremy's paintings were usually prominently displayed.

"The assignment was Hallowe'en and Jeremy simply

refused to produce something acceptable," Miss Brad-

ley said with a slightly forced smile.

"Perhaps that's just as well," his mother said, a

trifle sourly. "He used to draw the most frightening

nightmares and say he 'saw' them."

"He's got a definite talent. Are either of you or Mr.

North artistically inclined?"

"Not like he is," Mr. North replied, thinking that

if he himself were artistically inclined he would use

211

Miss Bradley as a model. "Probably he's used up all

his Hallowe'en inspiration."

"Probably," Miss Bradley said with a laugh.

Actually Jeremy hadn't. Although he dutifully set

out trick-or-treating, he came home early. His mother

made him sort out his candy, apples, and money for

UNICEF, and permitted him to stay up long past his

regular bedtime to answer the door for other beggars.

But, once safely in his room, he dove for his easel

and drew frenetically, slathering black and blue poster

paint across clean paper, dashing globs of lumines-

cence for horrific accents. The proper ones took off or

crawled obscenely around the room, squeaking and

groaning until he released them into the night air for

such gambols and aerial maneuvers as they were ca-

pable of. Jeremy was impressed. He hung over the

windowsill, cheering them on by moonlight. (Around

three o'clock there was a sudden shower. All the water

solubles melted into the ground.)

For a while after that, Jeremy was not tempted to

approach the easel at all, either in school or at home.

At first. Miss Bradley was sincerely concerned lest she

had inhibited her budding artist by arbitrary assign-

ments. But he was only busy with a chemical garden,

lumps of coal and bluing and ammonia and all that.

Then she got the class involved in making candles out

of plastic milk cartons for Thanksgiving, and Jeremy

entered into the project with such enthusiasm that she

was reassured.

She ought not to have been.

Three-dimensionality and a malleable substance fas-

cinated Jeremy. He went in search of anything re-

motely pliable. He started with butter (his mother had

a fit about a whole pound melted on his furry rug;

he'd left the creature he'd created prancing around his

room, but then the heat came up in the radiators.)

Then he tried mud (which set his mother screaming at

him). She surrendered to the inevitable by supplying

Kirn with Play-Doh. However, now his creations

thwarted him because as soon as the substance out of

which the proper ones had been created hardened, they

lost their mobility. He hadn't minded the ephemeral

quality of his drawings, but he'd begun to count on

the fact that sculpture lasted a while.

Miss Bradley introduced him to plasticine. And

Christmas.

Success with three-dimensional figures, the avail-

ability of plasticine, and the sudden influx of all sorts

of Christmas mail order catalogues spurred Jeremy to

unusual efforts. This time he did not resist the class as-

signment of a centerpiece to deck the Christmas festive

tables. Actually, Jeremy scarcely heard what Miss

Bradley was saying past her opening words.

"Here's a chance for you to create your very own

Santa Claus and reindeer, or a sleigh full of pres-

ents ..."

Dancer, Prancer, Donner, Blitzen, and Dasher and

Comet and Rudolph of the red nose, took form under

his flying fingers. Santa's sack was crammed with full-

color advertisements clipped from mail order wish-

books. Indeed, the sleigh threatened to crumble on its

runners from paper weight. He saved Santa Claus till

the last. And once he had the fat and jolly gentleman

seated in his sleigh, whip in hand, ready to urge his

harnessed team, Jeremy was good and ready to make

them proper.

Only they weren't; they remained obdurately im-

mobile. Disconsolate, Jeremy moped for nearly a

week, examining and re-examining his handiwork for

the inhibiting flaw.

Miss Bradley had been enthusiastically complimen-

tary and the other children sullenly envious of his suc-

cess when the finished group was displayed on a special

table, all red and white, with Ivory Snow snow and little

evergreens in proportion to the size of the figures.

There was even a convenient chimney for the good

Santa to descend. Only Jeremy knew that that was

not his Santa's goal.

In fact Jeremy quite lost interest in the whole Christ-

mas routine. He refused to visit the Santa on tap at the

big shopping center, although his mother suspected

that his heart had been set on the Masterpiece Oil

Painting Set with its enticing assortment of brushes and

every known pigment in life-long-lasting color.

Miss Bradley, too, lost all patience with him and be-

came quite stem with his inattentiveness, to the delight

of his classmates.

As so often happens when people concentrate too

hard on a problem, Jeremy almost missed the solution,

inadvertently provided by the pert Cynthia, now bask-

ing in Miss Bradley's favor.

"He's naked, that's what. He's naked and ugly. Ev-

eryone knows Santa is red and white. And reindeers

aren't gray-yecht. They're brown and soft and have

fuzzy tails."

Jeremy had, of course, meticulously detailed the

clothing on Santa and the harness on the animals, but

they were still plasticine. It hadn't mattered with his

other creations that they were the dull gray-brown of

plasticene because that's how he'd envisaged them,

being products of his imagination. But Santa wasn't,

or so he thought.

To conform to a necessary convention was obviously,

to Jeremy, the requirement that had prevented his

Santa from being a proper one. He fabricated harness

of string for the reindeer. And a new sleigh of balsa

wood with runners of laboriously straightened bobby

pins took some time and looked real tough. A judicious

coat of paint smartened both reindeer and sleigh. How-

ever, the design and manufacture of the red Santa suit

proved far more difficult and occupied every spare

moment of Jeremy's time. He had to do it in the pri-

vacy of his room at home because, when Cynthia

saw him putting harness on the reindeer, she twitted

him so unmercifully that he couldn't work in peace at

school.

He had had little practice with needle and thread,

so he actually had to perfect a new skill in order to

complete his project. Christmas was only a few days

away before he was satisfied with his Santa suit.

He raced to school so he could dress Santa and make

him proper. He was just as startled as Miss Bradley

when he slithered to a stop inside his classroom door,

and found her tying small gifts to the branches of the

class tree. They stared at each other for a long mo-

ment, and then Miss Bradley smiled. She'd been so

hard on poor Jeremy lately.

"You're awfully early, Jeremy. Would you like to

214

help me ... Oh! How adorable!" She spotted the

Santa suit which he hadn't had the presence of mind

to hide from her. "And you did them yourself? Jeremy,

you never cease to amaze me." She took the jacket and

pants and little hat from his unresisting hand, and

examined them carefully. "They are simply beautiful.

Just beautiful. But honestly, Jeremy, your Santa is

lovely just as he is. No need to gild the lily."

"He isn't a proper Santa without a proper Santa

suit."

Miss Bradley looked at him gravely, and then put

her hands on his shoulders, making him look up at

her.

"A proper Santa Claus is the one we have in our

own hearts at this time of year, Jeremy. Not the ones

in the department stores or on the street corners or on

TV. They're just his helpers." You never knew which

of your first-graders still did believe in Santa Claus in

this cynical age. Miss Bradley thought. "A proper Santa

Claus is the spirit of giving and sharing, of good fellow-

ship. Don't let anyone tell you that there isn't a Santa

Claus. The proper Santa Claus belongs to all of us."

Then, pleased with her eloquence and restraint,

she handed him back the Santa suit and patted his

shoulder encouragingly.

Jeremy was thunderstruck. His Santa Claus had only

been made for Jeremy. But poor Miss Bradley's words

rang in his ears. Miss Bradley couldn't know that she

had improperly understood Jeremy's dilemma. Once

again the blight of high-minded interpretation and lady-

like good intentions withered primitive magic.

The little reindeer in their shrinking coats of paint

would have pulled the sleigh only to Jeremy's house so

that Santa could descend only Jeremy's chimney with

the little gifts all bearing Jeremy's name.

There was no one there to tell him that it's proper

for little boys and girls of his age to be selfish and ac-

quisitive, to regard Santa as an exclusive property.

Jeremy took the garments and let Miss Bradley push

him gently toward the table on which his figures were

displayed.

She'd put tinsel about the scene, and glitter, but they

didn't shine or glisten in the dull gray light filtering

215

through the classroom windows. They weren't proper

snow and icicles anyway.

Critically, he saw only string and the silver cake

ornaments instead of harness and sleigh bells. He could

see the ripples now in the unbent bobby pins which

wouldn't ever draw the sleigh smoothly, even over

Ivory Snow snow. Dully, he reached for the figure of

his Santa Claus.

Getting on the clothes, he dented the plasticene a

bit, but it scarcely mattered now. After he'd clasped

Santa's malleable paw around the whip, the toothpick

with a bright, thick, nylon thread attached to the top

with glue, he stood back and stared.

A proper Santa Claus is the spirit of giving and

sharing.

So overwhelming was Jeremy's sense of failure, so

crushing his remorse for making a selfish Santa Claus

instead of the one that belonged to everyone, that he

couldn't imagine ever creating anything properly again.

The Smallest Dragonboy

ALTHOUGH KEEVAN LENGTHENED HIS WALK-

ing stride as far as his legs would stretch, he couldn't

quite keep up with the other candidates. He knew he

would be teased again.

Just as he knew many other things that his foster

mother told him he ought not to know, Keevan knew

that Beterii, the most senior of the boys, set that spank-

ing pace just to embarrass him, the smallest dragonboy.

Keevan would arrive, tail fork-end of the group,

breathless, chest heaving, and maybe get a stem look

from the instructing wing-second.

Dragonriders, even if they were still only hopeful

candidates for the glowing eggs which were hardening

on the hot sands of the Hatching Ground cavern, were

expected to be punctual and prepared. Sloth was not

tolerated by the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr. A good

record was especially important now. It was very near

hatching time, when the baby dragons would crack

their mottled shells, and stagger forth to choose their

lifetime companions. The very thought of that glorious

moment made Keevan's breath catch in his throat.

To be chosen—to be a dragonrider! To sit astride the

neck of a winged beast with jeweled eyes: to be his

friend, in telepathic communion with him for life; to be

his companion in good times and fighting extremes;

to fly effortlessly over the lands of Pem! Or, thrillingly,

between to any point anywhere on the world! Flying

between was done on dragonback or not at all, and it

was dangerous.

Keevan glanced upward, past the black mouths of

the weyr caves in which grown dragons and their chosen

riders lived, toward the Star Stones that crowned the

ridge of the old volcano that was Benden Weyr. On

the height, the blue watch dragon, his rider mounted

on his neck, stretched the great transparent pinions that

carried him on the winds of Pern to fight the evil

Thread that fell at certain times from the skies. The

many-faceted rainbow jewels of his eyes glistened fleet-

ingly in the greeny sun. He folded his great wings to

his back, and the watch pair resumed their statuelike

pose of alertness.

Then the enticing view was obscured as Keevan

passed into the Hatching Ground cavern. The sands

underfoot were hot, even through heavy wher-hide

boots. How the bootmaker had protested having to sew

so small! Keeven was forced to wonder why being

small was reprehensible. People were always calling

him "babe" and shooing him away as being "too small"

or "too young" for this or that. Keevan was constantly

working, twice as hard as any other boy his age, to

prove himself capable. What if his muscles weren't as

big as Beterli's? They were just as hard. And if he

couldn't overpower anyone in a wrestling match, he

could outdistance everyone in a footrace.

"Maybe if you run fast enough," Beterii had jeered

on the occasion when Keevan had been goaded to

boast of his swiftness, "you could catch a dragon.

That's the only way you'll make a dragonrider!"

"You just wait and see, Beterii, you just wait," Kee-

van had replied. He would have liked to wipe the con-

temptuous smile from Beterli's face, but the guy didn't

fight fair even when a wingsecond was watching. "No

one knows what Impresses a dragon!"

"They've got to be able to find you first, babe!"

Yes, being the smallest candidate was not an en-

viable position. It was therefore imperative that Kee-

van Impress a dragon in his first hatching. That would

wipe the smile off every face in the cavern, and accord

him the respect due any dragonrider, even the small-

est one.

Besides, no one knew exactly what Impressed the

baby dragons as they struggled from their shells in

search of their lifetime partners.

"I like to believe that dragons see into a man's

218

heart," Keevan's foster mother, Mende, told him. "If

they find goodness, honesty, a flexible mind, patience,

courage—and you've got that in quantity, dear Keevan

—that's what dragons look for. I've seen many a

well-grown lad left standing on the sands. Hatching

Day, in favor of someone not so strong or tall or hand-

some. And if my memory serves me"—which it

usually did: Mende knew every word of every Harper's

tale worth telling, although Keevan did not interrupt

her to say so—"I don't believe that F'lar, our Weyr-

leader, was all that tall when bronze Mnementh chose

him. And Mnementh was the only bronze dragon of

that hatching."

Dreams of Impressing a bronze were beyond Kee-

van's boldest reflections, although that goal dominated

the thoughts of every other hopeful candidate. Green

dragons were small and fast and more numerous.

There was more prestige to Impressing a blue or brown

than a green. Being practical, Keevan seldom dreamed

as high as a big fighting brown, like Canth, F'nor's fine

fellow, the biggest brown on all Pem. But to fly a

bronze? Bronzes were almost as big as the queen, and

only they took the air when a queen flew at mating

time. A bronze rider could aspire to become Weyr-

leader! Well, Keevan would console himself, brown rid-

ers could aspire to become wingseconds, and that

wasn't bad. He'd even settle for a green dragon: they

were small, but so was he. No matter! He simply had to

Impress a dragon his first time in the Hatching Ground.

Then no one in the Weyr would taunt him anymore

for being so small.

Shells, Keevan thought now, but the sands are

hot!

"Impression time is imminent, candidates," the wing-

second was saying as everyone crowded respectfully

close to him. "See the extent of the striations on this

promising egg." The stretch marks were larger than

yesterday.

Everyone leaned forward and nodded thoughtfully.

That particular egg was the one Beterii had marked

as his own, and no other candidate dared, on pain of

being beaten by Beterii at his first opportunity, to ap-

proach it. The egg was marked by a large yellowish

219

splotch in the shape of a dragon backwinging to land,

talons outstretched to grasp rock. Everyone knew that

bronze eggs bore distinctive markings. And naturally,

Beterii, who'd been presented at eight Impressions al-

ready and was the biggest of the candidates, had

chosen it.

"I'd say that the great opening day is almost upon

us," the wingsecond went on, and then his face assumed

a grave expression. "As we well know, there are only

forty eggs and seventy-two candidates. Some of you

may be disappointed on the great day. That doesn't

necessarily mean you aren't dragonrider material, just

that the dragon for you hasn't been shelled. You'll

have other hatchings, and it's no disgrace to be left

behind an Impression or two. Or more."

Keevan was positive that the wingsecond's eyes

rested on Beterii, who'd been stood off at so many

Impressions already. Keevan tried to squinch down so

the wingsecond wouldn't notice him. Keevan had been

reminded too often that he was eligible to be a candi-

date by one day only. He, of all the hopefuls, was

most likely to be left standing on the great day. One

more reason why he simply had to Impress at his first

hatching.

"Now move about among the eggs," the wingsecond

said. "Touch them. We don't know that it does any

good, but it certainly doesn't do any harm."

Some of the boys laughed nervously, but everyone

immediately began to circulate among the eggs. Be-

terii stepped up officiously to "his" egg, daring anyone

to come near it. Keevan smiled, because he had al-

ready touched it—every inspection day, when the oth-

ers were leaving the Hatching Ground and no one

could see him crouch to stroke it.

Keevan had an egg he concentrated on, too, one

drawn slightly to the far side of the others. The shell

had a soft greenish-blue tinge with a faint creamy

swirl design. The consensus was that this egg contained

a mere green, so Keevan was rarely bothered by rivals.

He was somewhat perturbed then to see Beterii wan-

dering over to him.

"I don't know why you're allowed in this Impression,

220

Keevan. There are enough of us without a babe," Be-

terii said, shaking his head.

"I'm of age." Keevan kept his voice level, telling

himself not to be bothered by mere words.

"Yah!" Beterii made a show of standing in his toe-

tips. "You can't even see over an egg; Hatching Day,

you better get in front or the dragons won't see you

at all. 'Course, you could get run down that way in the

mad scramble. Oh, I forget, you can run fast, can't

you?"

"You'd better make sure a dragon sees you, this

time, Beterii," Keevan replied. "You're almost overage,

aren't you?"

Beterii flushed and took a step forward, hand half-

raised. Keevan stood his ground, but if Beterii ad-

vanced one more step, he would call the wingsecond.

No one fought on the Hatching Ground. Surely Beterii

knew that much.

Fortunately, at that moment, the wingsecond called

the boys together and led them from the Hatching

Ground to start on evening chores. There were "glows"

to be replenished in the main kitchen caverns and

sleeping cubicles, the major hallways, and the queen's

apartment. Firestone sacks had to be filled against

Thread attack, and black rock brought to the kitchen

hearths. The boys fell to their chores, tantalized by the

odors of roasting meat. The population of the Weyr

began to assemble for the evening meal, and the drag-

onriders came in from the Feeding Ground on their

sweep checks.

It was the time of day Keevan liked best: once the

chores were done but before dinner was served, a fel-

low could often get close enough to the dragonriders

to hear their talk. Tonight, Keevan's father, K'last, was

at the main dragonrider table. It puzzled Keevan how

his father, a brown rider and a tall man, could be his

father—because he, Keevan, was so small. It obviously

puzzled K'last, too, when he deigned to notice his small

son: "In a few more Turns, you'll be as tall as I am

—or taller!"

K'last was pouring Benden wine all around the table.

The dragonriders were relaxing. There'd be no Thread

attack for three more days, and they'd be in the mood

221

to tell tall tales, better than Harper yams, about im-

possible maneuvers they'd done a-dragonback. When

Thread attack was closer, their talk would change to

a discussion of tactics of evasion, of going between,

how long to suspend there until the burning but fragile

Thread would freeze and crack and fall harmlessly off

dragon and man. They would dispute the exact moment

to feed firestone to the dragon so he'd have the best

flame ready to sear Thread midair and render it

harmless to ground—and man—below. There was

such a lot to know and understand about being a drag-

onrider that sometimes Keevan was overwhelmed. How

would he ever be able to remember everything he

ought to know at the right moment? He couldn't dare

ask such a question; this would only have given ad-

ditional weight to the notion that he was too young yet

to be a dragonrider.

"Having older candidates makes good sense," L'vel

was saying, as Keevan settled down near the table.

"Why waste four to five years of a dragon's fighting

prime until his rider grows up enough to stand the

rigors?" L'vel had Impressed a blue of Ramoth's first

clutch. Most of the candidates thought L'vel was mar-

velous because he spoke up in front of the older riders,

who awed them. "That was well enough in the Interval

when you didn't need to mount the full Weyr comple-

ment to fight Thread. But not now. Not with more

eligible candidates than ever. Let the babes wait."

"Any boy who is over twelve Turns has the right to

stand in the Hatching Ground," K'last replied, a slight

smile on his face. He never argued or got angry. Kee-

van wished he were more like his father. And oh,

how he wished he were a brown rider! "Only a dragon

—each particular dragon—knows what he wants in

a rider. We certainly can't tell. Time and again the

theorists," K'last's smile deepened as his eyes swept

those at the table, "are surprised by dragon choice.

They never seem to make mistakes, however."

"Now, K'last, just look at the roster this Impression.

Seventy-two boys and only forty eggs. Drop off the

twelve youngest, and there's still a good field for the

hatchlings to choose from. Shells! There are a couple of

222

weyrlings unable to see over a wher egg much less a

dragon! And years before they can ride Thread."

"True enough, but the Weyr is scarcely under fight-

ing strength, and if the youngest Impress, they'll be old

enough to fight when the oldest of our current dragons

go between from senility."

"Half the Weyr-bred lads have already been through

several Impressions," one of the bronze riders said

then. "I'd say drop some of them off this time. Give

the untried a chance."

"There's nothing wrong in presenting a clutch with

as wide a choice as possible," said the Weyrleader,

who had joined the table with Lessa, the Weyrwoman.

"Has there ever been a case," she said, smiling in her

odd way at the riders, "where a hatchling didn't

choose?"

Her suggestion was almost heretical and drew as-

tonished gasps from everyone, including the boys.

F'lar laughed. "You say the most outrageous things,

Lessa."

"Well, has there ever been a case where a dragon

didn't choose?"

"Can't say as I recall one," K'last replied.

"Then we continue in this tradition," Lessa said

firmly, as if that ended the matter.

But it didn't. The argument ranged from one table

to the other all through dinner, with some favoring

a weeding out of the candidates to the most likely,

lopping off those who were very young or who had

had multiple opportunities to Impress. All the candi-

dates were in a swivet, though such a departure from

tradition would be to the advantage of many. As the

evening progressed, more riders were favoring elimi-

nating the youngest and those who'd passed four or

more Impressions unchosen. Keevan felt he could bear

such a dictum only if Beterii were also eliminated. But

this seemed less likely than that Keevan would be

turfed out, since the Weyr's need was for fighting

dragons and riders.

By the time the evening meal was over, no decision

had been reached, although the Weyrleader had prom-

ised to give the matter due consideration.

He might have slept on the problem, but few of the

223

candidates did. Tempers were uncertain in the sleeping

caverns next morning as the boys were routed out of

their beds to carry water and black rock and cover the

"glows." Twice Mende had to call Keevan to order for

clumsiness.

"Whatever is the matter with you, boy?" she de-

manded in exasperation when he tipped blackrock

short of the bin and sooted up the hearth.

"They're going to keep me from this Impression."

"What?" Mende stared at him. "Who?"

"You heard them talking at dinner last night. They're

going to turf the babes from the hatching."

Mende regarded him a moment longer before touch-

ing his arm gently. "There's lots of talk around a sup-

per table, Keevan. And it cools as soon as the supper.

I've heard the same nonsense before every hatching,

but nothing is ever changed."

"There's always a first time," Keevan answered,

copying one of her own phrases.

"That'll be enough of that, Keevan. Finish your

job. If the clutch does hatch today, we'll need full rock

bins for the feast, and you won't be around to do the

filling. All my fosterlings make dragonriders."

"The first time?" Keevan was bold enough to ask as

he scooted off with the rockbarrow.

Perhaps, Keevan thought later, if he hadn't been on

that chore just when Beterii was also fetching black

rock, things might have turned out differently. But he

had dutifully trundled the barrow to the outdoor

bunker for another load just as Beterii arrived on a

similar errand.

"Heard the news, babe?" Beterii asked. He was

grinning from ear to ear, and he put an unnecessary

emphasis on the final insulting word.

"The eggs are cracking?" Keevan all but dropped

the loaded shovel. Several anxieties flicked through his

mind then: he was black with rock dust—would he

have time to wash before donning the white tunic of

candidacy? And if the eggs were hatching, why hadn't

the candidates been recalled by the wingsecond?

"Naw! Guess again!" Beterii was much too pleased

with himself.

With a sinking heart, Keevan knew what the news

224

must be, and he could only stare with intense desola-

tion at the older boy.

"C'mon! Guess, babe!"

"I've no time for guessing games," Keevan managed

to say with indifference. He began to shovel black rock

into the barrow as fast as he could.

"I said, guess." Beterii grabbed the shovel.

"And I said I have no time for guessing games."

Beterii wrenched the shovel from Keevan's hands.

"Guess!"

"I'll have that shovel back, Beterii." Keevan straight-

ened up, but he didn't come to Beterii's bulky shoulder.

From somewhere, other boys appeared, some with

barrows, some mysteriously alerted to the prospect of

a confrontation among their numbers.

"Babes don't give orders to candidates around here,

babe!"

Someone sniggered and Keevan, incredulous, knew

that he must've been dropped from the candidacy.

He yanked the shovel from Beterii's loosened grasp.

Snarling, the older boy tried to regain possession, but

Keevan clung with all his strength to the handle,

dragged back and forth as the stronger boy jerked the

shovel about.

With a sudden, unexpected movement, Beterii

rammed the handle into Keevan's chest, knocking

him over the barrow handles. Keevan felt a sharp,

painful jab behind his left ear, an unbearable pain in

his left shin, and then a painless nothingness.

Mende's angry voice roused him, and startled, he

tried to throw back the covers, thinking he'd over-

slept. But he couldn't move, so firmly was he tucked

into his bed. And then the constriction of a bandage on

his head and the dull sickishness in his leg brought back

recent occurrences.

"Hatching?" he cried.

"No, lovey," Mende said in a kind voice. Her hand

was cool and gentle on his forehead. "Though there's

some as won't be at any hatching again." Her voice

took on a stern edge.

Keevan looked beyond her to see the Weyrwoman,

who was frowning with irritation.

22?

"Keevan, will you tell me what occurred at the

black-rock bunker?" asked Lessa in an even voice.

He remembered BeterU now and the quarrel over

the shovel and . . . what had Mende said about some

not being at any hatching? Much as he hated BeterU,

he couldn't bring himself to tattle on BeterU and force

him out of candidacy.

"Come, lad," and a note of impatience crept into

the Weyrwoman's voice. "I merely want to know what

happened from you, too. Mende said she sent you for

black rock. BeterU—and every WeyrUng in the

cavern—seems to have been on the same errand. What

happened?"

"BeterU took my shovel. I hadn't finished with it."

"There's more than one shovel. What did he say to

you?"

"He'd heard the news."

"What news?" The Weyrwoman was suddenly

amused.

"That... that... there'd been changes."

"Is that what he said?"

"Not exactly"

"What did he say? C'mon, lad, I've heard from

everyone else, you know."

"He said for me to guess the news."

"And you fell for that old gag?" The Weyrwoman's

irritation returned.

"Consider all the talk last night at supper, Lessa,"

Mende said. "Of course the boy would think he'd been

eUminated."

"In effect, he is, with a broken skull and leg." Lessa

touched his arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. "Be

that as it may, Keevan, you'll have other Impressions.

BeterU wiU not. There are certain rules that must be

observed by all candidates, and his conduct proves him

unacceptable to the Weyr."

She smiled at Mende and then left.

"I'm still a candidate?" Keevan asked urgently.

"Well, you are and you aren't, lovey," his foster

mother said. "Is the numbweed working?" she asked,

and when he nodded, she said, "You just rest. I'll bring

you some nice broth."

At any other time in his Ufe, Keevan would have

226

relished such cosseting, but now he just lay there wor-

rying. BeterU had been dismissed. Would the others

think it was his fault? But everyone was there! BeterU

provoked that fight. His worry increased, because al-

though he heard excited comings and goings in the

passageway, no one tweaked back the curtain across

the sleeping alcove he shared with five other boys.

Surely one of them would have to come in sometime.

No, they were all avoiding him. And something else

was wrong. Only he didn't know what.

Mende returned with broth and beachberry bread.

"Why doesn't anyone come see me, Mende? I haven't

done anything wrong, have I? I didn't ask to have

BeterU turfed out."

Mende soothed him, saying everyone was busy with

noontime chores and no one was angry with him. They

were giving him a chance to rest in quiet. The

numbweed made him drowsy, and her words were

fair enough. He permitted his fears to dissipate. Until

he heard a hum. Actually, he felt it first, in the broken

shin bone and his sore head. The hum began to grow.

Two things registered suddenly in Keevan's groggy

mind: the only white candidate's robe still on the

pegs in the chamber was his; and the dragons hummed

when a clutch was being laid or being hatched. Impres-

sion! And he was flat abed.

Bitter, bitter disappointment turned the warm broth

sour in his belly. Even the small voice telling him that

he'd have other opportunities failed to alleviate his

crushing depression. This was the Impression that mat-

tered! This was his chance to show everyone, from

Mende to K'last to L'vel and even the Weyrieader that

he, Keevan, was worthy of being a dragonrider.

He twisted in bed, fighting against the tears that

threatened to choke him. Dragonmen don't cry! Drag-

onmen learn to live with pain.

Pain? The leg didn't actually pain him as he rolled

about on his bedding. His head felt sort of stiff from

the tightness of the bandage. He sat up, an effort in

itself since the numbweed made exertion difficult. He

touched the splinted leg; the knee was unhampered.

He had no feeling in his bone, really. He swung him-

self carefully to the side of his bed and stood slowly.

227

The room wanted to swim about him. He closed his

eyes, which made the dizziness worse, and he had to

clutch the wall.

Gingerly, he took a step. The broken leg dragged. It

hurt in spite of the numbweed, but what was pain to a

dragonman?

No one had said he couldn't go to the Impression.

"You are and you aren't," were Mende's exact words.

Clinging to the wall, he jerked off his bedshirt.

Stretching his arm to the utmost, he jerked his white

candidate's tunic from the peg. Jamming first one arm

and then the other into the holes, he pulled it over his

head. Too bad about the belt. He couldn't wait. He

hobbled to the door, hung on to the curtain to steady

himself. The weight on his leg was unwieldy. He

wouldn't get very far without something to lean on.

Down by the bathing pool was one of the long crook-

necked poles used to retrieve clothes from the hot wash-

ing troughs. But it was down there, and he was on the

level above. And there was no one nearby to come to

his aid: everyone would be in the Hatching Ground

right now, eagerly waiting for the first egg to crack.

The humming increased in volume and tempo, an

urgency to which Keevan responded, knowing that his

time was all too limited if he was to join the ranks of

the hopeful boys standing around the cracking eggs.

But if he hurried down the ramp, he'd fall flat on his

face.

He could, of course, go flat on his rear end, the way

crawling children did. He sat down, sending a jarring

stab of pain through his leg and up to the wound on

the back of his head. Gritting his teeth and blinking

away tears, Keevan scrabbled down the ramp. He had

to wait a moment at the bottom to catch his breath.

He got to one knee, the injured leg straight out in front

of him. Somehow, he managed to push himself erect,

though the room seemed about to tip over his ears. It

wasn't far to the crooked stick, but it seemed an age

before he had it in his hand.

Then the humming stopped!

Keevan cried out and began to hobble frantically

across the cavern, out to the bowl of the Weyr. Never

had the distance between living caverns and the Hatch-

228

ing Ground seemed so great. Never had the Weyr been

so breathlessly silent. It was as if the multitude of peo-

ple and dragons watching the hatching held every

breath in suspense. Not even the wind muttered down

the steep sides of the bowl. The only sounds to break

the stillness were Keevan's ragged gasps and the

thump-thud of his stick on the hard-packed ground.

Sometimes he had to hop twice on his good leg to

maintain his balance. Twice he fell into the sand and

had to pull himself up on the stick, his white tunic no

longer spotless. Once he jarred himself so badly he

couldn't get up immediately.

Then he heard the first exhalation of the crowd, the

oohs, the muted cheer, the susurrus of excited whispers.

An egg had cracked, and the dragon had chosen his

rider. Desperation increased Keevan's hobble. Would

he never reach the arching mouth of the Hatching

Ground?

Another cheer and an excited spate of applause

spurred Keevan to greater effort. If he didn't get there

in moments, there'd be no unpaired hatchling left.

Then he was actually staggering into the Hatchling

Ground, the sands hot on his bare feet.

No one noticed his entrance or his halting progress.

And Keevan could see nothing but the backs of the

white-robed candidates, seventy of them ringing the

area around the eggs. Then one side would surge for-

ward or back and there'd be a cheer. Another dragon

had been Impressed. Suddenly a large gap appeared in

the white human wall, and Keevan had his first sight

of the eggs. There didn't seem to be any left uncracked,

and he could see the lucky boys standing beside

wobble-legged dragons. He could hear the unmistak-

able plaintive crooning of hatchlings and their squawks

of protest as they'd fall awkwardly in the sand.

Suddenly he wished that he hadn't left his bed, that

he'd stayed away from the Hatching Ground. Now

everyone would see his ignominious failure. So he

scrambled as desperately to reach the shadowy walls of

the Hatching Ground as he had struggled to cross the

bowl. He mustn't be seen.

He didn't notice, therefore, that the shifting group

of boys remaining had begun to drift in his direction.

229

The hard pace he had set himself and his cruel disap-

pointment took their double toll of Keevan. He tripped

and collapsed sobbing to the warm sands. He didn't

see the consternation in the watching Weyrfolk above

the Hatching Ground, nor did he hear the excited whis-

pers of speculation. He didn't know that the Weyr-

leader and Weyrwoman had dropped to the arena and

were making their way toward the knot of boys slowly

moving in the direction of the entrance.

"Never seen anything like it," the Weyrleader was

saying. "Only thirty-nine riders chosen. And the

bronze trying to leave the Hatching Ground without

making Impression."

"A case in point of what I said last night," the

Weyrwoman replied, "where a hatchling makes no

choice because the right boy isn't there."

"There's only Beterii and K'last's young one missing.

And there's a full wing of likely boys to choose

from. . ."

"None acceptable, apparently. Where is the creature

going? He's not heading for the entrance after all.

Oh, what have we there, in the shadows?"

Keevan heard with dismay the sound of voices near-

ing him. He tried to burrow into the sand. The mere

thought of how he would be teased and taunted now

was unbearable.

Don't worry! Please don't worry! The thought was

urgent, but not his own.

Someone kicked sand over Keevan and butted

roughly against him.

"Go away. Leave me alone!" he cried.

Why? was the injured-sounding question inserted

into his mind. There was no voice, no tone, but the

question was there, perfectly clear, in his head.

Incredulous, Keevan lifted his head and stared into

the glowing jeweled eyes of a small bronze dragon. His

wings were wet, the tips drooping in the sand. And

he sagged in the middle on his unsteady legs, al-

though he was making a great effort to keep erect.

Keevan dragged himself to his knees, oblivious of

the pain in his leg. He wasn't even aware that he was

ringed by the boys passed over, while thirty-one pairs

of resentful eyes watched him Impress the dragon.

The Weynnen looked on, amused, and surprised at

the draconic choice, which could not be forced. Could

not be questioned. Could not be changed.

Why? asked the dragon again. Don't you like me?

His eyes whirled with anxiety, and his tone was so

piteous that Keevan staggered forward and threw his

arms around the dragon's neck, stroking his eye ridges,

patting the damp, soft hide, opening the fragile-looking

wings to dry them, and wordlessly assuring the hatch-

ling over and over again that he was the most perfect,

most beautiful, most beloved dragon in the Weyr, in

all the Weyrs of Pem.

"What's his name, K'van?" asked Lessa, smiling

warmly at the new dragonrider. K'van stared up at her

for a long moment. Lessa would know as soon as he

did. Lessa was the only person who could "receive"

from all dragons, not only her own Ramoth. Then he

gave her a radiant smile, recognizing the traditional

shortening of his name that raised him forever to the

rank of dragonrider.

My name is Heth, the dragon thought mildly, then

hiccuped in sudden urgency. I'm hungry.

"Dragons are bom hungry," said Lessa, laughing.

"F'lar, give the boy a hand. He can barely manage his

own legs, much less a dragon's."

K'van remembered his stick and drew himself up.

"We'll be Just fine, thank you."

"You may be the smallest dragonrider ever, young

K'van," Flar said, "but you're one of the bravest!"

And Heth agreed! Pride and joy so leaped in both

chests that K'van wondered if his heart would burst

right out of his body. He looped an arm around Heth's

neck and the pair, the smallest dragonboy and the

hatchling who wouldn't choose anybody else, walked

out of the Hatching Ground together forever.

Apple

The late Hans Stefan Santesson approached me at

a party to see if I could contribute to his proposed

Walker Anthology on crime prevention in the future.

I had nothing completed but I'd just finished "A

Womanly Talent," in which parapsychics got made

respectable. I'd proposed that there'd be such talents

as 'finders' employed by law enforcement officers to

locate lost persons and objects. Happily, that back'

ground generated this story, almost in one sitting . . .

rewarding me in many ways. Authors dream yearn'

ingly of stories that'll write themselves. It happens

infrequently and is regarded, at least by me, as a minor

miracle—the good apple in the barrel of imagination,

Juicy, tart, memorable.

THE THEFT WAS THE LEAD MORNING 'CAST

and ruined Daffyd op Owen's appetite. As he listened

to the description of the priceless sable coat, the

sapphire necklace, the couture-model gown, and the

jewel-strap slippers, he felt as if he were congealing

in his chair as his breakfast cooled and hardened on

the plate. He waited, numbed, for the commentator to

make the obvious conclusion: a conclusion which would

destroy all that the North American Parapsychic Cen-

ter had achieved so slowly, so delicately. For the only

way in which such valuable items could have been re-

moved from a store dummy in a scanned, warded, very

public display window in the five-minute period be-

tween the fixed TV frames was by kinetic energy.

"The police have several leads and expect to have a

solution by evening. Commissioner Frank Gillings is

taking charge of the investigation.

" 'I keep my contractual obligations to the City,'

Gillings is reported to have told the press early this

morning as he personally supervised the examination

of the display window at Coles, Michaels' and Chamy

Department Store. 'I have reduced street and consen-

sual crimes and contained riot activity. Jerhattan is a

safe place for the law-abiding. Unsafe for law-

breakers.' "

The back-shot of Gillings' stem face was sufficient

to break op Owen's stasis. He rose and strode toward

the corn-unit just as it beeped.

"Dafiyd, you heard that 'cast?" The long, unusually

grim face of Lester Welch appeared on the screen.

"Goddammit, they promised no premature announce-

ment. Mediamen!" His expression boded ill for the first

unwary reporter to approach him. Over Les's shoul-

der, op Owen could see the equally savage face of

Charlie Moorfield, duty officer of the control room of

the Center.

"How long have you known about the theft?" Op

Owen couldn't quite keep the reprimand from his voice.

Les had a habit of trying to spare his superior, par-

ticularly these days when he knew op Owen had been

spreading himself very thin in the intensive public edu-

cational campaign.

"Ted Lewis snuck in a cautious advice as soon as

Headquarters scanned the disappearance. He also can't

'find' a thing. And, Dave, there wasn't a wrinkle or a

peak between 7:03 and 7:08 on any graph that

shouldn't be there, with every single Talent accounted

for!"

"That's right, boss," Charlie added. "Not a single

Incident to account for the kinetic 'lift' needed for the

heist."

"Gillings is on his way here," said Les, screwing his

face up with indignation.

"Why?" Daffyd op Owen exploded. "Didn't Ted

clear us?"

"Christ, yes, but Gillings has been at Coles and his

initial investigation proves conclusively to him that

one of our people is a larcenist. One of our women,

to be precise, with a secret yen for sable, silk, and

sapphires."

Daffyd forced himself to nullify the boiling anger he

felt. He could not afford to cloud reason with emo-

tion. Not with so much at stake. Not with the Bill

which would provide legal protection for Talents only

two weeks away from passing.

"You'll never believe me, will you, Dave," Les said,

"that the Talented will always be suspect?"

"Gillings has never caviled at the use of Talents,

Lester."

"He'd be a goddamned fool if he did." Lester's eyes

sparkled angrily. He jabbed at his chest. "We've

kept street and consensual crime low. Talent did his

job for him. And now he's out to nail us. With pub-

licity like this, we'll never get that Bill through. Christ,

234

what luck! Two bloody weeks away from protection."

"If there's no Incident on the graphs, Les, even Gill-

ings must admit to our innocence."

Welch rolled his eyes heavenward. "How can you

be so naive, Dave? No matter what our remotes prove,

that heist was done by a Talent."

"Not one of ours." Daffyd op Owen could be dog-

matic, too.

"Great. Prove it to Gillings. He's on his way here

now and he's out to get us. We've all but ruined his

spotless record of enforcement and protection. That hits

his credit, monetary and personal." Lester paused for

a quick breath. "I told you that public education pro-

gram would cause more trouble than it's worth. Let

me cancel the morning 'cast."

"No." Daffyd closed his eyes wearily. He didn't need

to resume that battle with Les now. In spite of this

disastrous development, he was convinced of the neces-

sity of the campaign. The general public must leam

that they had nothing to fear from those gifted with a

parapsychic Talent. The series of public information

programs, so carefully planned, served several vital

purposes: to show how the many facets of Talent

served the community's best interests; to identify those

peculiar traits that indicated the possession of a Talent;

and, most important, to gain public support for the

Bill in the Senate which would give Talents professional

immunity in the exercise of then- various duties.

"I haven't a vestige of Talent, Dave," Les went on

urgently, "but I don't need it to guess some dissident

in the common mass of have-nots listened to every word

of those 'casts and put what you should never have

aired to good use . . . for him. And don't comfort me

with how many happy clods have obediently tripped

up to the Clinic to have they minor Talents identified.

One renegade apple's all you need to sour the barrel!"

"Switch the 'cast to the standard recruiting tape. To

pull the whole series would be worse. I'm coming right

over."

Daffyd op Owen looked down at the blank screen

for a long moment, gathering strength. It was no pre-

cog that this would be a very difficult day. Strange, he

mused, that no pre-cog had foreseen this. No. That

23?

very omission indicated a wild Talent, acting on the

spur of impulse. What was it Les had said? 'The com-

mon mass of have-nots'? Even with the basic dignities

of food, shelter, clothing, and education guaranteed,

the appetite of the have-not was continually whetted

by the abundance that was not his. In this case, hers.

Daffyd op Owen groaned. If only such a Talent had

been moved to come to the Center where she could be

trained and used. (Where had their so carefully worded

programming slipped up?) She could have had the furs,

the jewels, the dresses on overt purchase . . . and

enjoyed them openly. The Center was well enough

endowed to satisfy any material yearning of its mem-

bers. Surely Gillings would admit that.

Op Owen took a deep breath and exhaled regret

and supposition. He must keep his mind clear, his

sensitivities honed for any nuance that would point a

direction toward success.

As he left his shielded quarters at the back of the

Center's extensive grounds, he was instantly aware of

tension in the atmosphere. Most Talented persons pre-

ferred to live in the Center, in the specially shielded

buildings that reduced the "noise" of constant psychic

agitation. The Center perferred to have them here, as

much to protect as to help their members. Talent was

a double-edged sword; it could excise evil but it neatly

divided its wielder from his fellow man. That was why

these broadcasts were so vital. To prove to the general

public that the psychically gifted were by no means

supermen, able to pierce minds, play ball with massive

weights, or rearrange the world to suit themselves. The

"Talented" person who could predict events might be

limited to Incidents involving fire, or water. He might

have an affinity for metals or a kinetic skill enabling

him to assemble the components of a microscopic gyro,

to be used in space exploration. He might be able to

"find" things by studying a replica, or people by hold-

ing a possession of the missing person. He might be

able to receive thoughts sent from another sensitive or

those around him. Or he might be able to broadcast

only. A true telepath, sender and receiver—Daffyd op

Owen was only one of ten throughout the world—

was still rare. Research had indicated there were more

236

people with the ability than would admit it. There

were, however, definite limitations to most Talents.

The Parapsychic had been raised, in Daffyd's life-

time, to the level of a science with the development of

ultra-sensitive electroencephalographs which could re-

cord and identify the type of "Talent" by the minute

electrical impulses generated in the cortex during the

application of psychic powers. Daffyd op Owen some-

times thought the word "power" was the villain in per-

petuating the public misconceptions. Power means

"possession of control" but such synonyms as "domina-

tion", "sway," "command" lept readily to the average

mind and distorted the true definition.

Daffyd op Owen was roused from his thoughts by

the heavy beat of a copter. He turned onto the path

leading directly to the main administration building

and had a clear view of the Commissioner's marked

copter landing on the flight roof, to the left of the con-

trol tower with its forest of antennal decorations.

Immediately he perceived a reaction of surprise, in-

dignation, and anxiety. Surely every Talent who'd heard

the news on the morning 'cast and realized its signifi-

cance could not be surprised by Gillings' arrival. Op

Owen quickened his pace.

Orley's loose! The thought was as loud as a shout.

People paused, turned unerringly toward the long

low building of the Clinic where applicants were tested

for sensitivity and trained to understand and use what

Talent they possessed; and where the Center conducted

its basic research in psionics.

A tall, heavy figure flung itself from the Clinic's

broad entrance and charged down the lawn, in a direct

line to the tower. The man leaped the ornamental

garden, plunged through the hedges, swung over the

hood of a parked lawn-truck, straight-armed the over-

hanging branches of trees, brushed aside several men

who tried to stop him.

"Reassure Orley! Project reassurance!" the bullhorn

from the tower advised. "Project reassurance!"

Get those cops in my office! Daffyd projected on his

own as he began to run toward the building. He hoped

that Charlie Moorfield or Lester had already done so.

Orley didn't look as if anything short of a tranquilizer

237

bullet would stop him. Who had been dim-witted

enough to let the telempath out of his shielded room

at a time like this? The moron was the most sensitive

barometer to emotion Daffyd had ever encountered

and he was physically dangerous if aroused. By the

speed of that berserker-charge, he had soaked up

enough fear/anxiety/anger to dismember the objects

he was homing in on.

The only sounds now in the grounds were those of

op Owen's shoes hitting the permaplast of the walk and

the thud-thud of Orley's progress on the thick lawn.

One advantage of being Talented is efficient communi-

cation and total comprehension of terse orders. But the

wave of serenity/reassurance was not penetrating Or-

ley's blind fury; the openness dissipated the mass

effect.

Three men walked purposefully out of the adminis-

tration building and down the broad apron of steps.

Each carried slim-barreled hand weapons. The man on

the left raised and aimed his at the audibly panting,

fast-approaching moron. The shot took Orley in the

right arm but did not cause him to falter. Instantly the

second man aimed and fired. Orley lost stride for two

paces from the leg shot but recovered incredibly. The

third man—op Owen recognized Charlie Moorfield

—waited calmly as Orley rapidly closed the interven-

ing distance. In a few more steps Orley would crash

into him. Charlie was swinging out of the way, his gun

slightly raised for a chest shot, when the moron

staggered and, with a horrible groan, fell to his knees.

He tried to rise, one clenched fist straining toward the

building.

Instantly Charlie moved to prevent Orley from

gouging his face on the course-textured permaplast.

"He took two double-strength doses, Dave," Moor-

field exclaimed with some awe as he cradled the

moron's head in his arms.

"He would. How'n'ell did he get such an exposure?"

Charlie made a grimace. "Sally was feeding him on

the terrace. She hadn't heard the 'cast. Said she was

concentrating on keeping him clean and didn't 'read'

his growing restlessness as more than response to her

until he burst wide open."

238

"Too much to hope that our unexpected guests didn't

see this?"

Charlie gave a sour grin. "They caused it, boss.

Stood there on the roof, giving Les a hard time, broad-

casting basic hate and distrust. You should've seen the

dial on the psychic atmosphere gauge. No wonder Or-

ley responded." Charlie's face softened as he glanced

down at the unconscious man. "Poor damned soul.

Where is that med-team? I 'called' them when we got

outside."

Daffyd glanced up at the broad third floor windows

that marked his office. Six men stared back. He put an

instant damper on his thoughts and emotions, and

mounted the steps.

The visitors were still at the window, watching the

med-team as they lifted the huge limp body onto the

stretcher.

"Orley acts as a human barometer, gentlemen, re-

acting instantly to the emotional aura around him,"

Les was saying in his driest, down-eastest tone. To op

Owen's wide-open mind, he emanated a raging anger

that almost masked the aura projected by the visitors.

"He has an intelligence factor of less than fifty on the

New Scale which makes him uneducable. He is, how-

ever, invaluable in helping identify the dominating

emotion in seriously disturbed mental and hallucino-

genic patients which could overcome a rational tele-

path."

Police Commissioner Frank Gillings was the prime

source of the fury which had set Harold Orley off. Op

Owen felt sorry for Orley, having to bear such anger,

and sorrier for himself and his optimistic hopes. He

was momentarily at a loss to explain such a violent

reaction from Gillings, even granting the validity of

Lester Welch's assumption that Gillings was losing face,

financial and personal, on account of this affair.

He tried a "push" at Gillings' mind to discover the

covert reasons and found the man had a tight natural

shield, not uncommon for a person in high position,

privy to sensitive facts. The burly Commissioner

gave every outward appearance of being completely at

ease, as if this were no more than a routine visit, and

239

not one hint of his surface thoughts leaked. Deep-set

eyes, barely visible under heavy brows, above fleshy

cheeks in a swarthy face missed nothing, flicking from

Daffyd to Lester and back.

Op Owen nodded to Ted Lewis, the top police

"finder" who had accompanied the official group. He

stood a little to one side of the others. Of all the visi-

tors, his mind was wide open. Foremost was the

thought that he hoped Daffyd would read him, so that

he could pass the warning that Gillings considered Or-

ley's exhibition another indication that Talents could

not control or discipline their own members.

"Good morning. Commissioner. I regret such circum-

stances bring you on your first visit to the Center. This

morning's newscast has made us all extremely anxious

to clear our profession."

Gillings' perfunctory smile did not acknowledge the

tacit explanation of Orley's behavior.

"I'll come to the point, then, Owen. We have con-

clusively ascertained that there was no break in store

security measures when the theft occurred. The 'lectric

wards and spy-scanner were not tampered with nor

was there any evidence of breaking or entering. There

is only one method in which sable, necklace, dress, and

shoes could have been taken from that window in the

five minutes between TV scans.

"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 repesentative

from Coles." He indicated the portly man in a con-

servative but expensive gray fitted.

Op Owen nodded and looked expectantly toward

Ted Lewis.

"Lewis can't 'find' a trace anywhere so it's obvious

the items are being shielded." A suggestion of impa-

tience crept into Gillings' 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' eyes snapped and his Ups thinned with ob-

stinacy.

240

"I've told you I can read on these grounds, Com-

missioner," Ted Lewis said with understandable indig-

nation. "The stolen..."

A wave of the Commissioner's hand cut off the rest

of Lewis's statement. Op Owen fought anger at the in-

sult.

"You're a damned fool, Gillings," said Welch, not

bothering to control his rage, "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 para-

psychic center." Op Owen did not miss the sparkle of

Gillings' 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 re-

sponsible. You haven't been here before. Commis-

sioner, 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 the period—between 7:03 and 7:08

was the time given by the 'cast—has not yet wound

out of sight on the storage drums."

Gillings was not looking at the graphs. He was star-

ing 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 col-

ored and stepped toward him.

Op Owen quickly intervened. "You dislike, distrust,

and hate us, Commissioner," he said, keeping his own

voice neutral. "You and your staff have 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' attention with that phrase). That isn't

necessary. You're triggering responses in the most con-

trolled of us—not to mention that poor witless tel-

empath 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 of 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, obe-

dience. "That registers—as Harold Orley does—the

psychic intensity of the atmosphere. The mind gives on

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 spaceships make oxcarts. We

have ultra-delicate equipment which can measure the

minutest electrical impulses of varying frequencies

and duration. And this p.a. 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 has never been so much as a civil misde-

meanor by any of our people. No breach of confidence,

242

nor integrity. No crime could be shielded from fellow

Talents.

"And can you rationally believe that we would jeop-

ardize 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 Coles

man wince.

"Now get out of here, Gillings. Discipline your emo-

tions 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 ever be, no matter what your per-

sonal 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 be-

tray himself. He gestured jerkily toward 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 ac-

tivity of the needle on the p.a. 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 pal-

pable 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 or physical. It was,

however, undeniably unanimous. It prevailed in forty-

four seconds.

"My firm will wish to know what steps are being

taken," the Coles man said in a squeaky voice as he

began to walk, with erratic but ever quickening steps,

toward the elevator.

Gillings' 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

243

copter was no longer audible. Then they turned for

assignments from their director.

City Manager Julian Pennstrak, with a metropolis

of some four millions 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 cer-

tainly has used your people to their fullest capabilities

since he became L E and P 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 the same

opinion still," Lester chanted.

"Les!" Op Owen didn't need our sour cynicism from

any quarter, even one dedicated to Talent. "No regis-

tered 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 Coles."

"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 god-

damned lousy, Dave. Your campaign bore down heavy

on the integrity and good citizenship of the Talented."

244

"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 ex-

posures 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 tamper-

ing 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

Gilling'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 tune 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 speechwriter.

"I have, however," Pennstrak continued, "used my

official prerogative to supervise the hunt. There're

enough sympathetic people on the public media chan-

nels 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 percep-

tive out on the off chance that this—ah, renegade

happens to be broadcasting joy and elation over her

heist."

"Her?"

"The consensus is that while a man might lift furs

and jewels, possibly the dress, only a woman would

245

take the shoes, too. Top finders are coming in from

other Centers ..."

"A 'find' is reported, boss," Charlie said over the

intercom. "Block Q."

As Pennstrak and op Owen reached the map, Welch

announced with a groan, "Gawd, that's a multilayer

apartment zone."

"A have-not," op Owen added.

"Gil Gracie made the find, boss," Charlie continued.

"And the fur is not all he's found but he's got a prob-

lem."

"You just bet he has," Les muttered 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?" Pennstrak asked.

"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 percep-

tive is aware of certain particular spatial relationships

between the object sought and its immediate surround-

ings. 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 be-

fore, 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,

246

boss," Les Welch said slowly, "and there are forty-eight

levels, ten units per floor."

Pennstrak regarded op Owen with awe.

"Nonsense, this office is thoroughly shielded and

I'm not a pre-cog!"

"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 IE, deep in the

center of Q Block. No one had entered nor left it—

by normal means—since Gil 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, 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."

"Gillings is going to have to work with you on this,

Dave," Pennstrak said reluctantly as he reached for

the intercom at his belt. "But first he's going to have

to apologize"

Op Owen shook his head vigorously. "I want his

cooperation, Julian, grudged or willing. When he really

believes in Talent, then he will apologize voluntarily

... and obliquely," he couldn't resist adding.

To op Owen's consternation, Gillings arrived noisily

in the cowlike lab copter, sirens going, lights flashing.

"Don't bother now," op Owen advised Pennstrak, for

he could see the City Manager forming a furious repri-

mand. "She might have been warned by the finders'

activity anyhow."

"Well, she's certainly been warned off now," Penn-

strak stalked off, to confer with one of his aides just as

Gillings strode into the corridor with his technicians.

According op Owen and Grade the merest nod,

Gillings began issuing crisp orders. He knew his busi-

ness, op Owen thought, and he evidently trusted these

technicians, for he didn't bother to crowd into the tiny

apartment to oversee them.

"As soon as your men have prints and a physical

profile. Commissioner, we'd like to run the data through

our computer. There's the chance that the girl did take

advantage of the open Talent test the Center has been

advertising."

"You mean you don't know who it is yet?"

"I found the coat since I knew what it looked like,"

Gil Gracie said, bristling at Gillings' manner.

"Then where is it?" Gillings gestured peremptorily

to the sable-less apartment.

"These are the shoes. Commissioner," said one of

his team, presenting the fragile jeweled footwear, now

neatly sealed in clear plastic. "Traces of dirt, dust,

fleck of nail enamel and from the 'scope imprint, I'd

say they were too big for her."

Gillings stared at the shoes disinterestedly. "No

sign of the dress?"                                    :

"Still looking."

"Odd that you people can't locate a girl with bare

feet in a sable coat and a bright blue silk gown?"

"No odder than it is for your hundreds of patrolmen

throughout the city, Commissioner, to overlook a girl

so bizarrely dressed," op Owen said with firm good

humor. "When you 'saw' the coat, Gil, where was it?"

"Thrown across the loveseat, one arm hanging down

to the floor. I distinguished the edge of the sill and the

tree outside, the first folds of the curtain, and the

wall heating unit. I called in, you sent over enough

248

finders so that we were able to eliminate the similarities.

It took us nearly an hour ..."

"Were you keeping an 'eye' on the coat all the

time?" Gillings demanded in a voice so devoid of ex-

pression that his contempt was all the more obvious.

Gil flushed, bit his lip, and only partially inhibited

by op Owen's subtle warning, snapped back, "Try

keeping your physical eye on an object for an hour!"

"Get some rest, Gil," op Owen suggested gently. He

waited until the finder had turned the corner. "If you

are as determined to find this criminal as you say you

are, Commissioner Gillings, then do not destroy the

efficiency of my staff by such gratuitous criticism. In

less than four hours, on the basis of photographs of

the stolen objects, we located this apartment. . ."

"But not the criminal, who is still in possession of

a sable coat which you found once but have now un-

accountably lost."

"That's enough, Gillings," said Pennstrak, who had

rejoined them. "Thanks to your arrival, the girl must

know she's being sought and is shielding."

Pennstrak gestured toward the dingy windows of the

flat, through which the vanes of the big copter were

visible. A group of children, abandoning the known

objects of the development play-yard, had gathered at

a respectful but curiosity-satisfying distance.

"Considering the variety of her accomplishments,"

op Owen said, not above using Pennstrak's irritation

with his Commissioner to advantage, "I'm sure she

knew of the search before the Commissioner's arrival,

Julian. Have any of these items been reported. Com-

missioner?"

"That console was. Two days ago. It was on 'find,'

too."

"She has been growing steadily bolder, then," op

Owen went on, depressed by Gillings' attitude. And

depressed that such a Talent had emerged twisted,

perverted, selfish. Why? Why? "If your department

ever gets the chronology of the various thefts, we'd

appreciate the copy."

"Why?" Gillings turned to stare at op Owen, sur-

prised and irritated.

"Talent takes time to develop—in ordinary persons.

249

It does not, like the ancient goddess Athena, spring

full-grown from the forehead. This girl could not, for

instance, have lifted that portable set the first time she

used her Talent. The more data we have on ... the

lecture is ill-timed."

Gillings' unspoken "you said it" did reach op Owen,

whose turn it was to stare in surprise.

"Well, your 'finders' are not novices," the Commis-

sioner said aloud. "If they traced the coat once, why

not again?"

"Every perceptive we have is searching," op Owen

assured him. "But, if she was able to leave this apart-

ment after Gil found the coat, taking it with her be-

cause it obviously is not here, she also is capable of

shielding herself and that coat. And, until she slips

that guard, I doubt we'll find it or her."

The report on the laboratory findings was exhaus-

tive. There was a full set of prints, foot and finger.

None matched those on file in the city records, or Fed-

eral or Immigration. She had not been tested at the

Center. Long coarse black hah- had been found. Skin

flakes analyzed suggested an olive complexion.

Thermo-photography placed her last appearance in

the room at approximately the time the four "finders"

fixed on her apartment, thus substantiating op Owen's

guess. The thermal prints also revealed that she was of

slender build, approximately five-four, weighing 105

pounds. Stains on a kitchen knife proved her to possess

blood type 0. No one else had occupied the apartment

within the eight-day range of the thermography used.

From such records, the police extrapolator made a

rough sketch of Maggie 0 as she was called for want

of a better name. The sketch was taken around the

neighborhood with no success. People living in Block

Q didn't bother people who didn't bother them.

It was Daffyd op Owen who remembered the chil-

dren crowding the police copter. From them he elicited

the information that she was new in the building. (The

records indicated that the apartment should be va-

cant.) She was always singing, dancing to the wall-

'caster, and changing her clothes. Occasionally she'd

play with them and bring out rich food to eat, prom-

ising they could have such good things if they'd think

hard about them. While the children talked, Daffyd

"saw" Maggie's face reflected in their minds. The po-

lice extrapolator had been far short of the reality. She

was not much older than the children she had played

with. She had not been pretty by ordinary standards

but she had been so "different" that her image had

registered sharply. The narrow face, the brilliant eyes,

slightly slanted above sharp cheekbones, the thin,

small mouth, and the pointed chin were unusual even

in an area of ethnic variety.

This likeness and a physical description were circu-

lated quickly to be used at all exits to the city and all

transportation facilities. It was likely she'd try to slip

out during the day-end exodus.

The south and west airstrips had been under a per-

ceptive surveillance since the search had been inaugu-

rated. Now every facility was guarded.

Gil Gracie "found" the coat again.

"She must have it in a suitcase," he reported on the

police-provided hand unit from his position in the

main railroad concourse. "It's folded and surrounded

by dark. It's moving up and down. But there're so

many people. So many suitcases. I'll circulate. Maybe

the find'U fix itself."

Gillings gave orders to his teams on the master unit

which had been set up in the Center's control room to

coordinate the operations.

"You better test Gil for pre-cog," Charlie muttered

to op Owen after they'd contacted all the sensitives.

"He asked for the station."

"You should've told me sooner, Charlie. I'd've

teamed him with a sensitive."

"Lookit that," Charlie exclaimed, pointing to a wildly

moving needle on one of the remotes.

Les was beside it even as the audio for the Incident

went on.

"Not that track! Oh! Watch out! Baggage. On the

handcart! Watch out. Move, man. Move! To the right.

The right! Ahhhh." The woman's voice choked off in

an agonized cry.

Daffyd pushed Charlie out of the way, to get to

the speaker.

251

"Gil this is op Owen. Do not pursue. Do not pursue

that girl! She's aware of you. Gil, come in. Answer me,

Gil. . . . Charlie, keep trying to raise him. Gillings,

contact your men at the station. Make them stop Gil

Gracie."

"Stop him? Why?"

"The pre-cog. The baggage on the handcart," shouted

Daffyd, signaling frantically to Lester to explain in

detail. He raced for the emergency stairs, up the two

flights, and slammed out onto the roof. Gasping for

breath, he clung to the high retaining wall and pro-

jected his mind to Gil's.

He knew the man so well, trained Gil when an em-

ployer brought in the kid who had a knack for locating

things. Op Owen could see him ducking and dodging

through the trainward crowds, touching suitcases, ig-

noring irate or astonished carriers; every nerve, every

ounce, of him receptive to the "feel" of a dense, dark

sable fur. And so single-minded that Daffyd could not

"reach" him.

But op Owen knew the instant the loaded baggage

cart swerved and crushed the blindly intent Talent

against an I-beam. He bowed his head, too fully cog-

nizant that a double tragedy had occurred. Gil was

lost... and so now was the girl.

There was no peace from his thoughts even when

he returned to the shielded control room. Lester and

Charlie pretended to be very busy. Gillings was. He

directed the search of the railway station, arguing

with the stationmaster that the trains were to be held

and that was that! The drone of his voice began to

penetrate op Owen's remorse.

"All right, then, if the Talents have cleared it and

there's no female of the same height and weight, re-

lease that train. Someone tried the Johns, didn't they?

No, Sam, you can detain anyone remotely suspicious.

That girl is clever, strong, and dangerous. There's

no telling what else she could do. But she damn well

can't change her height, weight, and blood type!"

"Daffyd. Daffyd." Lester had to touch him to get his

attention. He motioned op Owen toward Charlie, who

was holding out the hand unit.

252

"It's Coles, sir."

Daffyd listened to the effusively grateful store man-

ager. He made the proper responses, but it wasn't until

he had relinquished the hand unit to Charlie that the

man's excited monologue made sense.

"The coat, the dress, and the necklace have reap-

peared on the store dummy," op Owen said. He cleared

his throat and repeated it loud enough to be heard.

"Returned?" Gillings echoed. "Just like that? Why,

the little bitch! Sam, check the ladies' rooms in that

station. Wait, isn't there a discount dress store in that

station? Have them check for missing apparel. I want an

itemized list of what's gone, and an exact duplicate

from their stock shown to the sensitives. We've got her

scared and running now."

"Scared and running now." Gillings' smug assess-

ment rang ominously in Daffyd's mind. He had a sud-

den flash. Superimposed over a projection of Maggie's

thin face was the image of the lifeless store dummy,

elegantly reclad in the purloined blue gown and dark

fur. "Here, take them back. I don't want them any-

more. I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't mean to. See,

I gave back what you wanted. Now leave me alone!"

Daffyd shook his head. Wishful thinking. Just as

futile as the girl's belated gesture of penance. Too much

too soon. Too little too late.

"We don't want her scared," he said out loud. "She

was scared when she toppled that baggage cart."

"She killed a man when she toppled that baggage

cart, op Owen!" Gillings was all but shouting.

"And if we're not very careful, she'll kill others."

"If you think I'm going to velvet glove a homicidal

maniac. .."

A shrill tone issuing from the remote unit forced

Gillings to answer. He was about to reprimand the

caller but the message got his stunned attention.

"We can forget the paternal bit, Owen. She knocked

down every one of your people and mine at the Oriole

Street entrance. Your men are unconscious. Mine and

about twenty or more innocent commuters are afflicted

with blinding headaches. Got any practical ideas, Owen,

on catching this monster you created?"

2?3

"Oriole? Was she heading east or west?"

"Does it matter?"

"If we're to catch her it does. And we must catch

her. She's operating at a psychic high. There's no tell-

ing what she's capable of now. Such Talent has only

been a theoretic possibility . . ."

Gillings lost all control of himself. The fear and

hatred burst out in such a wave that Charlie Moorfield,

caught unaware, erupted out of his chair toward Gill-

ings in an instinctive defense reaction.

"Gillings!" "Charlie!" Les and Daffyd shouted to-

gether, each grabbing the whilom combatants. But

Charlie, his face white with shock at his own reaction,

had himself in hand. Sinking weakly back into his

chair, he gasped out an apology.

"You mean, you want to have more monsters like

her and him?" Gillings demanded. Between his voice

and the violent emotions, Daffyd's head rang with pain

and confusion.

"Don't be a fool," Lester said, grabbing the Com-

missioner by the arm. "You can't spew emotions like

that around a telepath and not get a reaction. Look at

Daffyd! Look at Charlie! Christ, man, you're as bad as

the scared, mixed up kid ..." Then Les dropped

Gillings' arm and stared at him in amazement. "Christ,

you're a telepath yourself!"

"Quiet, everybody," Daffyd said with such urgency

he had their instant attention. "I've the solution. And

there's no time to waste. Charlie, I want Harold Orley

airbound in the Clinic's copter heading south to the

Central Station in nothing flat. We'll correct course en

route. Gillings, I want two of the strongest, most stable

patrolmen on your roster. I want them armed with

fast-acting, double-strength trank guns and airborne to

rendezvous near Central Station."

"Harold?" Les echoed in blank astonishment and

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.

2?4

"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-southeast on an intercept," Gil-

lings 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 an-

swered, 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 would ever

plague Daffyd op Owen: that they must 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 ren-

dezvous at the small park, there were no more visible

signs of Maggie 0'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 corn-unit.

"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 pos-

25?

sessed the natural shielding of the untemperamental

which made them less susceptible to emotional storms.

Neither Webster nor Heis was stupid, however, and

they had been briefed on developments.

"Oriey has no useful intelligence. He is a human

barometer, measuring the intensity and type of emo-

tions which surround him and reacting instinctively.

He does not broadcast. He only receives. Therefore

he cannot be harmed or identified by ... by Maggie

0. He is the only Talent she cannot 'hear' approach-

ing."

"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 prob-

ably 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 hand units. I'll be air-

borne; 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. His being out

of step was 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

2?6

west amid other air traffic, op Owen looked sadly down

at the people on the streets. At kids playing on the

sidewalks. At a flow of men and women with brief-

cases 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," Heis reported 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' under-

tone, op Owen knew that the men hadn't believed his

caution about Oriey 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 bet-

ter."

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, Oriey. 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 ordered as he saw Gillings move

a hand towards the bullhorn. "There's nothing wrong

with her hearing."

Oriey began to move faster now that he had reached

the farther side. He wanted to go right through inter-

vening buildings.

"Guide him left to the sidewalk, Heis," op Owen

advised. "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 phenomena of watching the blankness of

Orley's face take on the classic mask of whatever emo-

257

tions he was receiving. It would be a particularly un-

nerving transition under these conditions.

"What does he show?"

"I'd say ... hatred." Heis' voice dropped on the

last word. Then he added in his usual tone, "He's

smiling, too, and it isn't nice."

They had eased Oriey to the sidewalk heading west.

He kept pushing Webster to the right and his pace in-

creased 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 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 Heis were hard

put to keep him to the sidewalk.

"What's in the next block?" op Owen asked Gill-

ings.

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 inter-

state trucking." Gillings turned to op Owen now, his

heavy eyebrows raised in question.

"No, she's still there because Oriey is homing in on

her projection."

"Look at his face! My God!" Heis exclaimed over

the hand-unit. 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 un-

nerved him.

Orley broke from his guides. He was running,

slowly at first but gathering speed steadily, mindlessly

brushing aside anything that stood in his way. Heis and

Webster were after him but both men were shaking

their heads as if something were bothering them. Oriey

tried to plunge through a brick store wall. He bounced

off it, saw the 'unimpeded view of his objective, and

2?8

charged forward. Webster had darted ahead of him,

blowing his whistle to stop the oncoming traffic. Heis

alternately yelled into the hand unit 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. "Gill-

ings, get men to cover every entrance and exit to

that parking lot. Get the copters to hover by the open

levels. The men'U 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 im-

minent danger.

"Close your mind," he yelled at the pilot and Gill-

ings. "Don't think."

"My head, my head." It was Heis groaning.

"Concentrate on Orley," op Owen advised, his hands

going to his temples in reaction to the knotting pres-

sure. Heis's figure on the scanner staggered after Orley,

who had now entered the parking facility.

Op Owen caught the mental pressure and dis-

persed 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 Centers would protect her from the legal

aspects of her act. Only surrender now.

Someone screamed. Another man echoed that pierc-

ing 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 atten-

tion of that overcharged mind . . . hold it long enough

. . . pain/fear/black/red/moiled-orange/purples . . .

breathing . . . shock. Utter disbelief/fear/loss of confi-

dence. 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 pound-

ing that became audible.

2?9

Then he saw her, fingers clawing for leverage on the

stab-post, foot poised for the step from the landing. A

too thin, adolescent figure, frozen for a second with in-

decision 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 des-

perate striving for escape, looked into his.

She knew him for what he was; and her hatred

crackled in his mind. Those words—after Gil Grade'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   j

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, de-

pressed the lock bar, and threw the door wide.

Orley was after the slender figure fleeing across the

dimly lit, low-ceilinged concrete floor. She was head-

ing toward 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 accen-

tuated by her choked gasp.

"Not her. Shoot Orley. Shoot the man," op Owen

cried, but it1 was too late.

260

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 as she had assaulted him.

Orley's body jerked as tranks hit him from several

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' 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 Or-

ley's unconscious body.

"The door would have stopped Orley, but he," 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 be-

ginning to shudder uncontrollably. "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 broad-

casting 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. Gyp-

sies 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 inter-

view with Bill Jones, the cousin the social worker lo-

cated after Solange had recovered from the bronchial

261

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," 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 sub-

stantiates 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."

"Now, just a minute, Gillings," Lester began, bris-

tling. He subsided when he saw that his boss and the

Commissioner were grinning at each other.

"So . . . just as you suspected, op Owen, she was a

freak Talent. We know from the ward nurses that she

watched your propaganda broadcasts during her hos-

pitalization. We can assume that she was aware of the

search either when Gil Gracie 'found' the coat, or

when the definite fix was made. It's not hard to guess

her motivation in making the heist in the first place

nor her instinctive desire to hide." Gillings gave his

head an abrupt violent jerk and stood up. He started

to hold out his hand, remembered, and raised it in a

farewell gesture. "You are continuing those broadcasts,

aren't you?"

Lester Welch glared so balefully at the Commissioner

that op Owen had to chuckle.

"With certain deletions, yes."

"Good. Talent must be identified and trained.

Trained young and well if they are to use their

Talent properly." Gillings stared op Owen in the eye.

"The Boshe girl was bad, op Owen, bad clear through.

Listen to what Jones said about her and you won't re-

gret Tuesday too much. Sometimes the young are in-

flexible, too."

"I agree, Commissioner," Daffyd said, escorting the

man to the door as calmly as if he hadn't heard what

Gillings was thinking so clearly. "And we appreciate

your help in the cover yarns that explained Tuesday's

odd occurrences."

262

"A case of mutual understanding," Gillings said, his

eyes glinting. "Oh, no need to see me out. / can open

this door."

That door was no sooner firmly shut behind him

than Lester Welch turned on his superior.

"And just who was scratching whose back then?"

he demanded. "Don't you dare come over innocent,

either, Daffyd op Owen. Two days ago that man was

your enemy, bristling with enough hate and distrust to

antagonize me."

"Remember what you said about Gillings Tuesday?"

"There's been an awful lot of idle comment around

here lately."

"Frank Gillings is telepathic." Then he added as

Lester was choking on the news. "And he doesn't want

to be. So he's suppressed it. Naturally he'd be antag-

onistic."

"Hah!"

"He's not too old, but he's not flexible enough to

adapt to Talent, having denied it so long."

"I'll buy that. But what was that parting shot—7

can open this door'?" Lester mimicked the Commis-

sioner's deep voice.

"I'm too old to leam new tricks, too, Les. I tele-

ported through the roof door of that parking facility.

He saw me do it. And she saw the memory of it in my

mind. If she'd lived, she'd've picked my mind clean.

And I didn't want her to die."

Op Owen turned abruptly to the window, trying to

let the tranquility of the scene restore his equilibrium.

It did—until he saw Harold Orley plodding along the

path with his guide. Instantly a white, wide-eyed, hair-

streaked face was superimposed over the view.

The intercom beeped and he depressed the key for

his sanity's sake.

"We've got a live one, boss," and Sally Iselin's gay

voice restored him. "A strong pre-cog with kinetic

possibilities. And guess what?" Sally's excitement made

her voice breathless. "He said the cop on his beat told

him to come in. He doesn't want any more trouble

with the cops so he . .."

"Would his name be Bill Jones?"

263

"However did you know?"

"And that's no pre-cog, Sally," op Owen said with

a ghost of a laugh, aware he was beginning to look

forward again. "A sure thing's no pre-cog, is it, Les?"

264

For those of you who have consistently asked for

more Helva stories, here is "Honeymoon." Only it's

an un'story. I call it that because it cannot stand with-

out a lot of explanation which really makes the minor

incident that is the meat of the story much too top'

heavy. You really ought to have read at least "The

Ship Who Sang," the story, if not the full novel, to

understand what is left out.

I have often called Helva my alter ego. "The Ship

Who Sang" is my favorite story; I still cannot reread

it without weeping, for I wrote it in an unconscious

attempt to ease my grief over the death of my father,

the Colonel. The other yams in the novel were therapy

for other personal problems, none of which actually

figure in the plots. So, although this tale should have

been the starting point of a new volume about Niall

Parollan and Helva, I don't really yet know if Helva

will sing again. "Honeymoon" does tie up the one loose

end which the majority of my readers have complained

to me about.

26?

well, that young

Honeymoon

"MAY I COME ABOARD, HELVA?"

Helva said yes without thinking because the traffic

in technicians and Base officials attending to her re-

fitting was constant. Then, she checked identity be-

cause while the voice was familiar, no technician would

have couched such a formal request.

Rocco, Regulus representative for Mutant Minori-

ties, was her unexpected caller. With the easy manner

of one used to the protocol of brain-brawn ships, the

Double M man saluted her behind the central column

and sauntered into the lounge, looking about him with

interest at the choice artifacts Niall had introduced,

the circuit prints and cables draped about the control

console, the pattern of dust and grit leading toward her

engineering and cargo compartments.

"I've stopped apologizing for the mess," Helva said,

"but the galley's intact if you don't mind serving your-

self while Niall's not here ..."

"I'm here because he isn't, Helva," Rocco said,

refusing her hospitality with a courteous gesture and

seating himself facing her panel.

"In which capacity? Double M, or Rocco?"

"Unofficially, but Rocco is always willing." Then

he hesitated, biting the comer of his lip while Helva

waited, amused that the suave, fashionably attired

troubleshooter for Double M was at a loss for words.

He'd had no block a scant seven days ago when he'd

been needling Chief Railly before she'd extended her

Central Worlds contract. "Let's just say that I had an

interesting conversation yesterday which leads me to

266

beg the indulgence of a chat—an unofficial chat-

with you."

"On what subject?"

"Coercion?"

"Whose?" Helva was amused.

"Yours, primarily. Parollan's . .

man can take care of himself."

Helva chuckled. "Now, Mr. Rocco, you were in

Chief Railly's office that day."

Rocco impatiently brushed that side. "Yes, I heard

the official line. They got you to extend your original

contract with them . .. which was almost legal."

"Very legal, Rocco. I did some surreptitious check-

ing myself. And I got them . . ."

Rocco held up his hand, peremptorily cutting her

off. "Did or did not Railly deploy a detachment around

you, effectively preventing you from lifting off if you'd

so desired? And did or did not Parollan have to short

out a perimeter fence to get to you?"

"There was a little misunderstanding ..."

"Little?" Rocco's swarthy face darkened to empha-

size that single explosion. "My dear Helva, I have my

sources, too. Railly had the entire planetary security

force, civilian and service, looking for Parollan."

"I had Broley on my side." Helva chuckled for the

city shell person's cooperation had been involuntary.

Broley still wasn't speaking to her because she hadn't

opted for independent status and taken on one of the

clients he bad lined up for her.

"So you did. Do you now?"

"Oh, he'll sulk a while longer, I expect."

Rocco hitched himself to the edge of the couch.

"Now, look, Helva, I know what it says on paper but

I also know that Parollan's resignation from the Service

is still in effect. Oh, he's brawning you to Beta Corvi,

but there isn't anything contractual after that."

"So?"

"Helva, I don't mean for you to be left high and

dry. Especially with an incredible extension of debt

which you must work off. And with Chief Railly overtly

your enemy because of Parollan. Now that guy may

have been a brawn-brain ship supervisor for the last

twelve years, and bloody good at it from what I hear,

267

but that doesn't mean he's going to be a good brawn.

By anything left holy, Helva, it's a long way from tell-

ing to doing."

"Do you remember my last brawn, Teron of Acthion,

that well-trained, physically stalwart twithead?"

Rocco gave a long sigh that ended with a grudging

grin. "Okay, so he was a dud that BB School turned

out by mistake. You can go too far in the opposite

direction." Obviously Rocco felt she had with Parol-

lan. "Seriously, Helva, that contract extension makes

my skin crawl. You're committed to repaying almost

600,000 credits ... by the latest figuring."

"You do have good sources, Rocco."

He grinned again, maliciously. "In Double M, I've

got to. Look, there's a lot more to this whole affair

than the fact that in a scant ten years you paid off

your original indebtedness to Central Worlds for your

early childhood care, the initial shell, education, the

surgery needed to fit you into this ship, maintenance,

and so forth."

"I paid off partly due to Niall Parollan, remember?"

"Granted, granted."

"And when this cycle-variant drive we're taking

back to Beta Corvi gets approved, we'll be out of debt

in next to no time."

"Not when, Helva. //. If wishes were horses, beggars

would ride. I saw the reports on that cycle-variant

drive, Helva. I heard what happened to the manned

test ship."

Helva snorted with contempt. "Ham-handed fools."

Rocco would not be diverted. "I don't mean the fact

that they inadvertently cycled the power source too

high, Helva, I mean that curious discharge that is

worrying the nuclear boys juiceless."

"Why do you think we're taking it back to Beta

Corvi?"

"And thank the gods that you are." Rocco recrossed

his neatly booted legs in a nervous fashion. "Whatever

that particular force is, it's bloody dangerous. And no

one seems to know why or how."

"They'll tell me." At least, she amended privately,

she thought they would. If only because the use to

which humans put their minor form of stabilized energy

268

amused them. (And what did you do on Beta Corvi

for an encore, Helva?) She was far from happy about

having to go back to Beta Corvi, but the ends justified

the means ... she hoped.

To have a warp drive in her bowels! To soar when

she'd been forced to plod in a plebeian fashion. And

the hell with Rocco's "if" . . . although the if was a

valid consideration. Still, she trusted the Corviki: she'd

been a Corviki.

"Look, Rocco, that drive is worth a great deal of

hassling and stress. Niall knows it. I know it."

"Why?"

"The cycle-variant is faster than light drive, it's

warp. By being able to stabilize an unstable isotope at

just the moment it is releasing its tremendous quantity

of energy, the cycle-variant drive captures all that

energy because the isotope doesn't dwindle downscale

to a useless half-life. It remains at the constant high-

energy peak. That output is controlled in its cycle of

peak energy, and the rate of thrust—the speed of the

ship powered that way—is determined by the ratio of

cycles used at any given time. True, you can't lift off-

planet on c-v drive, and a ship has to be structurally

reinforced."

"And that odd trail of particles?" Rocco asked

sardonically. "Those unknown thingies that have

thrown communications haywire, loused up astroga-

tional equipment, not to mention the solar phenomena

recorded in the systems through which that test ship

ran?"

Helva was silent. She was less certain of how the

Beta Corviki could cope with those emissions. Unless

there'd been a simple perversion of the data?

"Then there's the old philosophical question: Is this

trip really necessary? Is man ready for this sort of

progress?"

"Rocco! I'd thought better of you." Helva was sur-

prised as well as scornful. " 'If man were meant to

fly, he'd've been given wings.' "

Rocco regarded Helva with great tolerance and some

sadness. "Helva, in my job, I become painfully aware

that some progress costs too much in terms of human

269

adjustment, or emotional, psychological, or even phys-

iological stress."

"On the pro side, look at the exploration potential

for a hundred different minorities."

Rocco sighed. "I suppose we're committed to prog-

ress at any cost. Onward and upward for bigger, better,

faster, smaller, tougher. However, back to my original

topic, your coercion."

"There isn't any, Rocco."

"Oh? Have you any idea, Helva, how many circuits

lead into this?"

"I know of a few, but I think you're going to tell

me."

"Setting aside your understandable yearning to be

the fastest virgin in the Galaxy—and you'll need the

speed with Parollan aboard ..."

"Tsk, tsk, jealous?"

"Or Parollan's wish to prove himself a better brawn

than the prototype, we have dear Chief Railly, all set

for that jump onto Central Worlds Council."

"Is that why he's been on our backs like a leech?"

"You didn't know? Tsk! Tsk on you, Helva. Yesiree

ma'am! Since the civilian branch has blown it with

their manned ship, think of all the glory accruing to

one Chief Railly for getting the drive approved, of get-

ting you, the very valuable and very well known 834

to extend her contract, thanks to his masterful hand-

ling of the negotiations."

Helva made a rude noise. "Parollan masterminded

it."

"Undoubtedly he did, but Railly gets the official

credit. Not only does Railly have a finger in your pie

to be gold-plated; Dobrinon has first whack at the big-

gest Xeno plum in psychological history; Breslaw is

frankly starry-eyed with visions of commanding the

warp-drive squadrons."

"Rocco? What's in it for you?"

"Me?" Rocco made his eyes innocently wide.

"I'd've thought you'd be flogging me, too, to rescue

the four I left behind me. —Oh, so that's it. Yes, they

would be classed as mutant minorities."

"That's the kindest designation." Rocco cleared his

throat.

270

"Yes, there was a lot of unfavorable publicity about

them. I'd've thought the news value long since ex-

hausted."

"It wasn't so much publicity, Helva," said Rocco,

again biting the corner of his lip thoughtfully. One

booted toe swung up and down. "No, society just

doesn't like its members opting out of its grasp, par-

ticularly into a total alien form."

"Not to mention leaving their bodies behind." Helva

had always wondered what had happened to the empty

husks of Kuria Ster, Solar Prane, Chaddress of Turo,

and . . . Ansra Colmer. But not so much that she

could bring herself to ask. When she and the rest of

the dramatic troupe had presented Romeo and Juliet

to the Beta Corvi—in exchange for the stabilization

of isotopes—they had had to use "envelopes" suitable

to the methane-ammonia atmosphere of the planet. A

timer had been rigged in the transfer helmets to insure

that that consciousness returned to its proper environ-

ment. After the final performance, four people had

not returned and were encapsuled in the Beta Corvi

envelope. For very good and understandable reasons,

or so Xenologist Dobrinon would like her to believe.

"There has been considerable pressure, you know,"

Rocco was saying, "on both SPRIM and Double M

to investigate their defection/emigration/tempta-

tion . . ." He shrugged at the euphemisms employed.

"Or at least to bring back conclusive evidence that they

are happy in their new lives."

"I know two who are—three. Solar Prane has a new

body; Kuria couldn't care less about hers so long as it

was near his; Chaddress had nothing to look forward

to in retirement, and Ansra Colmer ..."

Rocco eyed Helva keenly, expectantly. "And Ansra

Colmer. . ."

"Oh, the Corviki knew how to handle her."

"Hmmm."

"But aren't you slightly in conflict with yourself,

Rocco? I mean, you class shell people as mutant mi-

norities, though strictly speaking I'm a cyborg—"

"Yes, Helva," Rocco sounded purposefully pathetic,

"the boot does pinch." His foot in fact was swinging,

which was an unconscious gesture that would intrigue

271

the good Dobrinon. "I cannot reconcile coercing you

to find out if the . . . flitting four were in any way

coerced."

"I quite appreciate your dilemma, so I'll lift you off

one horn. I do not, not even after all your interesting

disclosures, consider myself coerced. Ah ah," for Rocco

began to protest. "Pressured? Possibly, but I've been

conditioned to a fine sense of responsibility, you see.

I brought the equations for that nardy drive back to

Regulus, and I inadvertently misplaced four passengers

who were, you must admit, essentially my responsibility

to convey thither and hither safely. I'd like some peace

of mind on both counts."

"I'll forego knowing about our lost souls if you'll

forego that drive."

"No way. I want that drive. How else can we pay

oS my indebtedness?"

"I'll call foul for you?"

"Rocco, I'm surprised. Shocked! This cannot be the

incorruptible ..."

"Damn it, Helva, I want you out of that contract

and out away from Parollan. He's dangerous!" Rocco

was on his feet and pacing.

"Good heavens! Why?"

"He's got a fixation on you, a brawn fixation."

"Who told you that? Broley? Oh, fardles, Rocco!

Because he had the Asurans extrapolate a solido of me

from my genetic background?"

"You knew?"

"He had a set made of every BB ship he super-

vised."

Rocco pointed a finger at her. "You're different."

"Quite likely. He's my brawn. Bluntly, Rocco, you're

making a tempest in a teacup."

"A fixation could be dangerous to you in space,

Helva, in a man of Parollan's sexual appetite."

"That fixation reached critical . . . and passed.

That's why Niall became my brawn. He's far more

aware of the inherent dangers of a brawn fixation than

you are, Rocco. Or Broley."

Rocco affected a shrug, but Helva suspected he was

unconvinced.

"All right, Helva, we're back to Square One and I'll

272

rephrase my initial question: Do you want what you

now have, or were you mods to want it?"

"Hey, Helva," Niall said into the corn-unit, "let the

lift down."

"Think on it, Helva, and remember that you can

count on my support if you feel that you have ac-

tually been constrained against your own best interests."

Niall's hearty "Helva, I got 'em," as he waved the

grapelike cluster of circuit guards, dwindled off in

surprise at seeing their guest. "Well, we're honored,

Rocco?"

"My congratulations on your appointment, Parollan.

I'll be following the exploits of the NH-834 with re-

newed interest."

"I'll just bet you will." Niall's smile took the sting

out of his slightly aggressive words.

"Fair enough," replied the Double M official, his own

expression sardonic. He moved toward the airlock.

"You are, you realize, very definitely in a minority."

"How so?" asked Niall, amused, as he neatly ar-

ranged the circuit guards on the gutted console and

turned to face Rocco.

"My good Parollan, you are the only man who

ever resigned from BB ship service to become a

brawn."

"I'm no mutant."

Helva could hear the edge in Niall's voice, although

generally his small stature didn't bother him.

"What is the definition of a mutant?" That was

Rocco's exit line as the lift took him down, looking

entirely too pleased with himself.

"Well, hump me, what was he after?" Niall asked.

"I gather he's been listening to Broley's gossip."

"And what is the gospel according to City Manager

Shell Person Broley?"

"We're being coerced."

Niall scratched his ear, screwed up his face, and

gazed out of the open airlock. Helva was situated by

the immense Engineering sheds of the Regulus Base

Complex. Niall had a clear view of the distant admin-

istration buildings at the opposite end of the plain.

There were, as always, tremendous comings and goings

273

of small ground vehicles and light helis. as well as slim

BB ships.

Niall looked away from the airlock, toward her.

Reetingly Helva wondered if Niall Parollan "saw" the

titanium column behind which her encapsulating shell

rested, or the solido the Asurans had made, extrapo-

lating a mature human body from her genetic back-

ground.

"You should have asked Rocco what's the definition

of 'coercion,' " he said.

Helva gave a snort. "Well, you've never been re-

strained, either morally or physically."

"Balls," Niall replied in disgust. "And I don't need

Rocco on my tail, too."

"Speaking of tails," Helva said gently because she

caught the pulse of the comset about to light up, "here's

our daily Railly now."

"Fardles! He's two minutes late. Railly," said Niall

before the Chief could speak, "I'm up to my crotch in

circuit guards that I should have had two days ago. Go

way now and I'll call you back when I've finished."

"Parollan, there's isn't a Guild on this Base that

isn't . . . Come out from under that console while I'm

addressing you!"

Helva realized that all Railly could see of Parollan

was his rear end.

"As you're constantly addressing me, and I know

what you look like, my position provides no impedi-

ment to hearing every word you say. Besides which,

I'm busy."

"Parollan, I'm warning you . .."

"Which you do hourly. But I thought you wanted

this expensive ship to lift ass and cease to offend your

eyes, so what are you complaining about now?"

"You are not, I repeat, you are not to walk into any

other section of this Base and badger, bully, or beat

any other section leader or supervisor into giving

your request top priority!"

"And if I don't comply, what'll you do? Throw me

off Base?" Niall suddenly reversed his position and

glared up at the comscreen. "Good, then Helva does

not have to complete this mission if I am not her

brawn." He made as if to quit his task.

274

"Parollan! You get on with the job! But I'm warning

you . . ."

"Let's see, that's the fourth warning today, isn't it,

Helva?"

"I don't keep track, Niall," she said gently, hoping

her tone would warn him to be a shade more diplo-

matic. They'd be completely at Railly's mercy if the

c-v drive weren't approved by the Corviki.

Fortunately Railly broke the connection. Chuckling,

Niall ducked back under the panel.

"You know, Niall, if ..."

"Helva!" His tone was slightly exasperated but re-

assuring. "The Raillys of this world can take a lot

more backtalk than you think. Particularly, my girl,

with all he stands to gain with you . .."

Helva would rather he'd said "us."

"Even without that drive vetted, you're twice the

ship. And with me to keep you from going soft with

the likes of Railly, we'll make out one way or the

other."

Helva was grateful for the plural pronoun. Now why

had Rocco come to disturb her with his questions?

While it was flattering to think she had so many friends,

willing to do battle for her, she'd prefer to rely on her

brawn.

Just then Supply arrived with an order of emergency

rations to be stowed away.

"Why the fardles get in 'fortified coffee'? Yecht!"

Niall was disgusted when the invoice was screened in.

"// we try that drive and can't manage it, or the

particular emissions disqualify that application ..."

"Think positively, my dear, and besides you're not

ham-handed, gal, like those cloddies on the manned

test ship."

"You might need concentrated supplies ..."

"That coffee bubka is for—"

"It's better than no coffee. And half the supply hold

is coffee. I wish I could figure out why everyone

wants that stuff."

"Which reminds me," said Niall, crawling out from

under the console and heading for the galley.

"Ah yes, you haven't had a cup in the last fifteen

minutes."

27?

"Longer. I had to extrude these things myself, you

know. And we're having a party tonight."

"We've had a party every night."

Niall shot an overly innocent glance at her. "All

•work and no play . . ."

"What'll you do when we're aspace?" The question

slipped out of her, probably due to Rocco's crack about

enforced celibacy and Niall Parollan.

"The modern man is not dominated by his gonads,

love. Think of the memories I'll have to sustain me."

He cracked the seal on the coffee container as neat

emphasis.

The lift buzzer rang. "If that isn't Breslaw, I'll have

him arrested on board."

It was indeed the engineering officer, panting from

the run across the huge engineering field. Helva was

certain that Commander Breslaw had never, since he

reached that rank, worked as hard as he was in over-

seeing each detail of her refitting, his computer cas-

sette overheating from his constant demands. He

was losing weight, too, Helva noticed with a critical

eye. Do him good; make him look better in uniforms

if he won his gamble on Helva's future.

"Do you two appreciate me?" asked Breslaw, lean-

ing against the lock bulkhead to catch his breath.

"Anyway, the ceramic coating is scheduled for tomor-

row at 0900."

"About bloody time."

"Parollan . . ." And there was a slight edge to

Breslaw's mock animosity. "One of these days I'm go-

ing to— "

"Get that final stripe for doing some work for a

change," Niall finished. "You've only been promising

that ceramic coating for the past three days. Fardles,

how do you guys run this Base at all?"

"Look, Parollan, I want to run a final check on

those tolerances in the drive room."

"Bloody right. I don't want something coming adrift

at the speeds we'll be traveling."

"You hope," Breslaw amended gloomily.

Niall ignored him but the Commander's pessimism

did not reassure Helva, not after Rocco's disturbing

visit.

276

"Helva," her brawn said, "when those electricians

appear—"

"I'll assemble them."

"Make 'em do it right the first time."

No sooner had he and Breslaw disappeared down

the hatch to the drive room than the four tech ratings

arrived, tremendously relieved that Parollan was not

in evidence.

"He's a bugger to work for," muttered one of the

men as he surveyed the console.

"Then use the luck," said another, "and let's get

cracking before he does come back or we'll have to do

the job over to prove we did it properly."

"Then do it right the first time," said Helva.

"Fardles," exclaimed the first man, looking nerv-

ously around him. "I forgot she was here."

"Where else did you think Helva would be?" asked

the oldest of the quarter. "Sorry, ma'am. Now these

green circuits have to be laid in first. Get with it,

Sewel."

Helva turned on microvision, focusing it on Sewel's

hands. Once she was certain he knew what he was

about, she scanned the others. That panel had to be

wired with the utmost precision or a cross-circuit could

short out the entire panel at a crucial time. Further,

the work was done with a minimum of waste motion.

Niall Parollan may have been a bugger to work for,

but work for him, and her, was well and expeditiously

completed.

When they'd finished, she broached some of the

party spirits for them in appreciation.

"Sun's over the yardarm for you, too, Commander,"

said Niall, returning with a dusty but pleased Breslaw.

"Well worth it," he said after he'd inspected the console

wiring. "I appreciate it, men," he said, toasting them:

"my partner appreciates it," and he raised the glass to

Helva's column: "Commander Breslaw appreciates

it, and the Service will undoubtedly not bother to ap-

preciate this unusual and prompt performance of your

duties."

Sewel and the others were not certain that they

should appreciate his toast, but the spicy Vegan liquor

was far too palatable to resist.

277

After a third round from the bottle, Breslaw sud-

denly remembered that he was the supervisor of the

Engineering Section of Regulus Base and that there

were other matters for his attention as urgent as re-

fitting the NH-834.

"But not as rewarding," Niall said, and restrained

Breslaw.

When Sewel tried to leave, he and his men were all

told to stay until the party had begun.

"Hell, your work day's over. We can't do anything

more to Helva until tomorrow when she gets her

unbreakable, unbeatable, unwarpable, fusion-resistant

coat, so let's have some fun."

The tech ratings were far too nattered to think of

going and Helva was certain that the next time Niall

Parollan needed an urgent electrical systems job done,

these same men would leap at the chance to work on

it.

The lift signal went just then as the duly invited

members of the party began to arrive.

As usual during one of NialTs parties, the lounges,

the cabins, the galley, the passageways soon filled with

people prepared to enjoy and give enjoyment. Several

brawns arrived, two of whom Helva knew were

awaiting assignment and very envious of Niall's luck,

but the majority of visitors were not service personnel.

Therefore Helva was not only pleased but flattered

that every new arrival first directed attention to the

hostess, coming to her panel and either introducing

themselves if this were their first appearance, or re-

newing their acquaintance with a chat. They tended to

treat her as if she were visible and as mobile as them-

selves. She would have expected such courtesy from

service-trained people, but in her travels Helva had

regrettably discovered that the average person found it

hard to cope with the concept, much less the reality,

of a shell person. She'd used that to her advantage,

but it was a welcome change to be considered a real

person. How much of this was Niall's pre-party in-

struction or the good manners of intelligent, well-

traveled men and women, she didn't know. But she

enjoyed it.

A youngish art dealer, Permut Capiam from Ophiu-

chus Minor, gave her one explanation.

"Actually, I met Niall when he commissioned those

Asuran solidos he used to get done for his BB ships.

He used to complain that he had to spend a fortune

keeping solidos of your partners because you changed

so often. Seen yours?" Permut frowned. "No, I don't

suppose that'd be good or rather . . ." he giggled, "a

bit too good for your old ego." He waggled a finger at

her exact position behind the panel. "Can't blame old

Parollan for having a fix on you, Helva. You 'strapo-

lated out the best of the lot. Must say, though, that it

makes it easier to think of your solido than all this

tinplating."

So, Niall's emotional attachment to her was public

knowledge? Was this a good sign or a bad one?

Permut rattled on knowledgeably about Asuran

extrapolations as he'd handled quite a few commis-

sions. "Prehistory Roman and Greek statues are the

rage right now. The Asurans merely need a fragment

to do the whole sculpture, you know. They do it up in

whatever material the client wishes—anything inani-

mate. There's a law now against low-life constructs."

He became very serious. "That way lay madness . . .

ugh! Zombie things. I was ever so relieved when the

whole business was interdicted by CWC. The sort of

low-life restoration is very dangerous." He stressed the

syllables of the last two words.

"Have you tri-ds of the work you've handled?"

Helva asked, curiously.

"You mean of the realities?" Permut was startled.

"No, tri-ds of, say, your latest showing. I don't fit

in most galleries .. ."

"Oh my word, my gallery'd fit in you."

"And lately I've been so busy I've not had tune to

revise my library."

"My dear Helva, what an appalling omission. What's

wrong with Parollan? It's the least he could do for you.

Man doesn't live by bread alone, nor exist on a diet of

pure physical sensation. Really. Say, I know just the

person to give you. —Abu, honey girl, don't you have

some spares of those marvelous tapes you did of the

Ceta tour? You do like ET dance forms, don't you,

Helva? I mean, you've done your stint on the boards,

so to speak. Abu has some perfectly magnificent free-

fall performers."

Abu was an incredibly lithe albino who had capital-

ized on her genetic inheritance. She did wear remedial

contacts for light sensitivity and, Helva noticed on fine

vision, the girl also utilized a skin film so artfully ap-

plied that only magnification detected it.

Abu spoke with the lilt of one whose first language

was pitched. The gently musical voice and her extreme

grace fascinated Helva. Abu was equally entranced

by Helva and the three of them chatted about new

dance and art forms.

Suddenly Niall exploded back into the main lounge,

carrying two long flaming skewers with bits of meat and

vegetables. Behind him danced triplet girls, a dance

team from Betelgeuse now the rage of Regulus City,

dangerously brandishing their lighted skewers.

"Ancient earth recipe," Niall announced. "Shish

kebabs. Have 'em while they're hot. There're plenty

more where these came from. Don't burn your tongue."

Helva had wondered where he'd gone.

"Three of them?" Permut said with a rueful laugh.

"No wonder he declared the galley out of bounds."

Helva caught the implication that more than culinary

arts had been practiced there.

"With three of them?" asked Abu, taking the same

interpretation. The gleam of regret in her eyes was not

completely masked by her protective lenses.

"You know Parollan, my dear."

"Not as well as I'd like."

Then Niall was proffering them the still smoking

meats.

"Oooh, this is good," Abu said, nibbling delicately

and then rolling her eyes with appreciation. "This can't

be mutton?"

"Regulan mutton!" Niall replied.

"It can't be," protested Permut, licking his fingers

and grabbing more.

"All in the marinade, all in the marinade."

"Is that a new position?" Permut asked archly.

Niall laughed tolerantly and moved on to serve

280

other guests, but the ambiguous ribaldry disturbed

Helva.

"Do you have olfactory senses, Helva?" Abu asked.

"It seems rude to be so ... so ... rapacious in

front of you."

"I don't smell as you do but I am able to sense

fairly minute alterations in the composition of the

air within and about me that would indicate odor."

"That's not quite what Abu meant," Permut said.

"I know but it's all I got."

"And you can't taste either?"

"No."

Abu's sensitive face registered dismay at this lack.

"I thought you shell people could do everything we

could."

"Not . . . everything," Permut said, and then some

unuttered thought convulsed him with laughter.

Abu regarded him blankly for a moment and then

with growing impatience and disgust.

"Everything comes back to sex with you, Permut."

"Not . . . not everything," he managed to say be-

tween gasps of laughter.

"Actually, Abu, the programming of the olfactory

sensors does give me an indication of a human's re-

ception of smells. If there's sulfur in the air, I'd know

it, I assure you, as something distinctly unpleasant. As

for taste, I can't miss what I haven't had," Helva said,

hoping that Permut would stop being so prurient. He'd

been good company up till now. "I would like to know

how coffee tastes. Everyone seems to fancy it so above

all other beverages."

Abu laughed. "I think it smells better than it tastes.

Especially if you've got roasted beans and grind them

fresh," her tone of voice dripped with gustatory

pleasure.

"You know, I'd forgot that coffee is brewed from

beans. I've only the container-type aboard."

"The best beans come from Ipomena in the Alphe-

can sector. I've a small supply given me by an admirer

that I keep for special occasions."

"You do?" Permut asked, abruptly recovering his

composure. "You do?" he repeated, sidling up to Abu

and making such absurd expressions that she began to

281

laugh. "I tell you what, Abu, purely to aid in Helva's

education, I will partake of your Ipomenan brew and

give her a critical opinion of the quality, aroma,

flavor, savor. .."

"Oh, you!"

Suddenly Niall's voice rang out in happy surprise.

"Davo Fillaneser? But of course, twice welcome. Come

on up, Davo. Helva!"

Niall's clarion greeting had effectively silenced the

babble and all eyes were on the newcomer appearing

from the air lock. Davo smiled and so played up his

entrance, bowing with such elaborate flourishes of

nonexistent cape and hat, that everyone applauded.

"Fillaneser played Beta Corvi with Helva. Only he

came back," Niall said by way of introduction, and the

actor was quickly surrounded. Davo cast a humorously

despairing glance toward Helva, mouthing "I want to

talk to you later," as he was borne away.

It wasn't until after Niall mendaciously declared that

Railly'd imposed a one o'clock curfew on his parties

and started shoving people out the hatch as quick as

the lift could make the trip, that Davo had a chance

to approach Helva.

"Any chance of speaking to you, Helva?"

"You mean, privily?"

Davo nodded with a mirthless smile for her Shakes-

pearean language.

"That is, if Niall can clear the deck ..."

"Preferably of himself as well. Or is that too much

to ask?"

Circumstances, in the persons of the triplets who

helped to clean up the party debris, abetted Davo's

wish. Niall found himself, or so he said, obliged to be

sure the girls had transport into the City.

"It is past pumpkin time for Cinderellas," she said,

and Niall commended her to Davo's company, and dis-

appeared with his giggling trio.

"Does he mean to take on all three of them, Helva?"

Davo asked.

"I'm under the impression that they've got something

cooked up,"'she replied, and then chuckled over her

phrasing. How would Dobrinon interpret that Freudian

282

slip? Davo guffawed, so Helva decided he'd been told

about the shish kebab episode.

The actor's laughter faded though, and he took to

pacing around the lounge. Helva waited. The next line

was all his.

"I'd heard you'd paid off, Helva."

"Great heavens to Betsy, does everyone in the Gal-

axy know that?"

"You don't know how many friends you have,

Helva, who make it their business to keep track of

you."

"I'd heard you'd volunteered to go back to Beta

Corvi for Dobrinon," she said, starting her own offen-

sive.

Davo winced. "That's when they were sending that

manned test ship with the c-v drive."

Helva laughed. "Just as well you didn't go, Davo,

you'd be coming back for the next nine years."

"That wasn't why I didn't go, Helva. I copped out

at the last moment. Did Dobrinon tell you that?" Davo

looked directly at her now, and she could see the ex-

cited glitter in his eyes, the tenseness of his jaw mus-

cles. "I turned coward. I couldn't go through that

again. As much as I wanted to find out how Kuria

and Prane . . . and Chaddress were. Helva . . ."

Davo's voice shook with barely contained emotion, "is

it true? That you're being forced to go back?" The

question tumbled out of his mouth and his tone was

distraught. "How can they let you put yourself in

jeopardy like that again? I mean, Helva, you have

many important friends, powerful ones. All you have

to do is let us know . . ."

Helva was so flabbergasted at Davo's concern, at his

suggestion that she almost laughed.

"Davo, my very good friend, I am in no jeopardy."

"Now, look, Helva," Davo assumed a man-to-man

stance, "I don't care how many circuits are being

tapped, who I have to buy or suborn, you—"

"Davo, where are you getting this notion from?

Broley?"

"Broley?" Davo's surprise suggested that the City

Shell Manager was not his informant.

283

"No, I don't guess you'd have any contact with the

City Manager."

"I have spoken with him. He goes to all the plays,"

Davo admitted, "but not this trip."

"Well, then, where did you get this wild notion that

I'm in any danger?"

"It's all over," and Davo made an expansive gesture.

"You can't want to go back to Beta Corvi?" His con-

vulsive shudder was not feigned; nor was the glint of

terror in his eyes.

"Truthfully, no. But it's the only way I'll find out."

"Find out what, for the love of reason?"

"Oh, if the c-v drive works or will blow the cosmos

to bits with the particular emissions, if our friends

. . . exist. Take it easy, Davo," she added gently as

she saw the man working himself up to another explo-

sion. "Let's say I'm willing to take a gamble . . . with

my eyes wide open to the probabilities. Which do,

after all, favor me. The stakes are high, and when you

get right down to the welded seam, there's more than

that c-v drive to be vetted and lost souls accounted for.

Tell me, in all this wild talk, what's the gen on Niall

Parollan?"

Davo looked uncomfortable for a split second, and

then only hesitant. He took a sharp deep breath and

regarded her frowningly.

"I tell you, Helva, Parollan had a lot to do with our

debriefing when we got back here after Beta Corvi. I

liked what I saw of the man then. He had real sym-

pathy for all of us—and he was very worried about

the effects of the mission on you. Get right down to it,

most of his questions during his interview with me had

to do with you."

Helva fondly remembered Niall's abrasively divert-

ing and restorative presence the night she'd come back

... an empathy utterly shattered days later when

he made known his opinion of her choice of Teron

of Acthion as brawn: a well-substantiated opinion.

"What I hear about Regulus City now . . ." Davo

summarized that in a long low whistle.

"Tell me, what's the betting on our length of partner-

ship? On the success of our mission? On Railly's mak-

284

ing CW Council? And Breslaw hitting Chief?" With

each of her questions, Davo's eyes opened wider.

"Damn it, Helva, the whole tone about you and

Parollan, not to mention those others, is so ... so

disgustingly commercial, so sordid, that I had to

see you. What I heard doesn't jibe with the Helva I

know."

"Or the Parollan you've met."

"Right!"

"Do you agree that people under stress react more

honestly than people in a party or gossip situation?"

"Certainly."

"So. Don't think I'm not highly flattered and touched

by your concern, Davo. I am. But I think we, Niall

and I, the NH-834, are a winning combination."

"I certainly hope so, Helva. I certainly hope so."

Amusement bubbled up in Helva. "I wish you'd read

that line with more convincing sincerity, Davo."

"I wish I felt it myself. I don't favor this part for

you, Helva. And I'm not alone. Remember, gal, all

you gotta do is shout."

"Shout in an ammonia-methane atmosphere?"

"Don't tell me you want to play a return engagement

there, Fillaneser?" Niall asked from the lock.

"No entrance cues, Helva?" asked Davo, annoyed.

"This team can't operate on two levels, Davo, not

and succeed."

The actor nodded. He extended his hand to Niall.

"I'll wish goodspeed and a safe trip home, Helva,

Parollan."

That line did have the ring of sincerity.

"You weren't long about it," Helva said, relieved by

Niall's return for several reasons she didn't care to

probe.

Niall was peering out at the night, at Davo's descent,

so Helva left the lock open until he gave a snort and

turned back to the lounge, frowning as he surveyed it.

"No, when I got to the gate, the Yerries had been

refueling so I let them take the girls on in. Besides," he

stretched and yawned mightily, "I need my beauty

sleep." He bent down to scoop up a container tucked

against the end of a couch, lobbed it toward the disposal

chute, dusting his hands as his shot hit dead center.

"And tomorrow, we skin you, m'love. And then . . ."

He rubbed his hands with anticipation as he moved

toward his quarters.

"Up, up, and away?"

"Yup!"

He stripped and washed with his usual neat despatch

and then lay on his bunk, hands clasped behind his

head.

"That was a real good bash," he murmured, eyes

closed, a happy smile on his face. "Good night."

"Good night, sweet prince, and may . .."

Niall's eyes flew open and he made a mock-

exasperated noise in his throat. "Will you never rid me

of your Shakespeare saws? When I think of a perfectly

good, well-behaved ship consorting with ribald, rowdy

actors ... I cringe." But he yawned again and was

asleep before his jaw closed.

Helva chuckled as she secured the lock, lowered all

but her safety lights, and began her habitual nightly

check. Suddenly it was too silent; too empty of Niall

and his energy. He was sort of like having one's own

private hurricane and he probably expended as much

energy as the nardy c-v drive could.

Would that thing work? And what accounted for

Breslaw's pessimism? Had he rechecked some factor to

a lower probability? Or was it the particle emission that

troubled everyone? Even if the c-v drive were fea-

sible, the emissions could make it highly impractical

in settled space, which would rule out its use as far as

Helva was concerned. Unless of course they detached

her to Search and Survey. But would that kind of

long-distance lonely travel suit Niall Parollan?

Why had she been plagued with both Rocco and

Davo today? And why had Abu asked about her two

missing senses? She'd had them in the Beta Corvi en-

velope. Not that "coffee" would be anything tastable

by a Corvikan. Did they have its equivalent, Helva

wondered?

Had Niall really overcome that brawn fixation? More

corrosive to her peace of mind, if ruthlessly suppressed,

was her own disquieting wish to see that Asuran solido.

Shell people were conditioned not to think about physi-

cal appearance. They were told that their bodies were

286

physically stunted to fit in the shells. They knew that

they were necessarily immersed in nutrient fluids, that

there were masses of wires connecting the various sec-

tions of their brains to the sensors that allowed them

to operate their particular vehicle or mechanisms. It

was tacitly understood that a shell person was a gro-

tesque in a civilization that could ensure physical per-

fection and pleasing looks.

Only now had it become important to Helva to know

that, but for the birth defect that had destined her to

be a shell person, she would have been beautiful. She

wanted to be, she could have been, but she wasn't.

And it was possible that Niall, deprived of all feminine

companionship on long trips, might succumb to the

temptation to open her shell. Illegally he had obtained

the release words, a sequence and pitch unique and

supposedly known only to one person, which would

open the panel and give access to her titanium shell

beyond. As Rocco had said, a brawn fixation was

dangerous.

The unbidden thought of Niall sporting with the

three nubile girls in the galley exacerbated her mind.

Had he suggested to Permut and Abu that they keep

her occupied while he was . . . ?

You . . . are a jealous bitch! Helva told herself in

measured tones of surprise and self-repugnance. A

shell person jealous of a mobile? For a sexual reason?

Ridiculous and yet, she'd all the symptoms of sheer

flaming jealousy.

She'd loved Jennan, but there'd been no trace of that

utterly human vice in their relationship.

Well, Helva thought sternly, you didn't have to

worry about sharing Jennan with half the female popu-

lation of the Galaxy. And you didn't love him this

way: you loved Jennan with a purity equal to Juliet's,

with not a care as to things-as-they-are. You'd've

changed your tune if Jennan had lived.

Or would I?

Jennan, at least, had been discreet. Unlike the stud

she'd aboard her now.

Had Niall passed the danger point of his fixation? Or,

when his libido reached the unendurable in space,

would the temptation to open her panel return?

287

How much did Niall count on the Corvikis approv-

ing the drive? How long would he stay her brawn if

they didn't?

It was scant consolation to realize that the cycle-

variant drive wasn't the only one undergoing a test

run.

By the time the immense crane had swung her back

on her tail fins, Helva was evaluating her new suit of

superfine superskin.

"You gleam, baby, you glisten, you shine in the sun

like a jewel," Niall said into his combutton. In the

company of Breslaw and Railly and several of the

ceramicists, he was standing at a distance from her on

the apron of the kiln building. "By god, you're blue in

some lights. Is that stuff iridescent, Breslaw?"

Helva increased the magnification of her scanner on

the group. Breslaw was beaming fatuously, for the

process was a new application of old techniques and

the coating had been accomplished with relatively no

halts or snags. Certainly the finished product was im-

pressive.

"How d'you feel, Helva," Niall asked.

"How's one supposed to feel after a face-lifting?"

"Bruised. Stop being so eternally female, woman.

Are all your systems go? We don't need a clogged pore

where we're going."

Helva'd been doing a rapid check of her exterior

installations. Everything was in operating order, but she

felt differently. Not uncomfortable, merely altered.

"So," Railly was saying to Niall in a steely, teeth-

clenched voice, "now how soon can you lift?"

"Why, Chief, we'd've been away two days ago if I

could've got any decent cooperation from servicing

personnel." Blithely unaware of Railly's pop-eyed re-

action, Niall turned to the startled ceramicists. "Do we

need to wait until her skin cools?"

The senior technician stammered out something

about temperature variations and tolerances, and then

shrugged assent.

"Great. Good-bye all. See you sometime yesterday!"

With art insolent salute, Niall strode across the per-

matarm toward Helva. She let down the lift for a quick

288

getaway, keeping one eye on Railly, who was apoplec-

tic at the calculated insolence. Breslaw began speaking

to his superior, though Helva couldn't tell if he were

pacifying Railly or diverting him with other matters.

The ceramicists had certainly departed quickly.

No sooner was Niall within than he brusquely sig-

naled her to secure for lift-off. She started to get clear-

ance from the Control Tower before she remembered

a minor detail.

"We've no supervisor."

"Oh yes, we have. Railly!" The name came out as

a growled curse. Niall bounced into the pilot's seat,

strapped down. "Let's get off this fardling base. Now!"

She began lift-off, sluggish because of the extra

weight in drive chamber, strut, and skin.

"It's heavy going, Niall," she warned him and then

piled on thrust.

Once clear of Regulus's service satellites, Niall

spun himself away from the console.

"One more moment down there listening to Railly

and I'd've done my nut!" He heaved himself out of

the pilot chair and floated across the lounge, his ex-

pression bleak and weary.

As she felt rather elated to be finally away, she was

momentarily dumbfounded by the transformation in

her private whirlwind. She was even more surprised

when he bypassed the galley and hand-pulled himself

into his cabin.

"Wake me, girl, if anything startling occurs."

He kicked off his boots, stripped off the shipsuit,

rolled under the cover, pulling the free-fall strap across

him, and was asleep before his arm dropped slowly

back.

And so he slept and slept and slept. Which was no

consolation to Helva.

She occupied herself at first by space-testing all her

functions, did a bit of jockeying on thrusters to get

the feel of how the modifications in her hull affected

her maneuverability. She felt like a scow, and won-

dered if the now inert mass of the c-v drive would

lighten once it was operative.

Asleep, Niall Parollan did not resemble his waking

self; there was a curious vulnerability about his

289

mouth, the sweep of rather long eyelashes on wide

cheekbones. He looked altogether too young to be his

chronological age and rather defenseless. He did not

twitch, toss, or snore, moving less than usual in what

she understood were normal sleep patterns. Economi-

cal that. She watched him for quite a long time, as if

memorizing the very pores of his rather coarse skin,

the way his hair pattern took an abrupt turn at the

back of his head.

She firmly closed off that scanner and searched

about her for sleeptime occupation. She dialed for

Abu's dance tapes and viewed the first five minutes of

one before it occurred to her that the dance forms were

highly erotic and far too suggestive for her present

state of mind. She nipped over to Permut's latest

showing and, although she tried to be completely ob-

jective, discovered phallic symbols of one flagrant sort

or another were the themes of all the art forms he

was currently exhibiting. Exhibition indeed!

Rather appalled at the prominence of sexual motifs,

she sought refuge in the good Solar Prane's nighttime

occupation, but she had scarcely got into Julius Caesar,

a play that ought to have been safe, when the tone of

jealousy began to make itself obvious. King Lear was

not much better, nor Coriolanus. She switched to

comedy and got a good way into The Comedy of Errors

before the stupidity of the lovers became too ironic.

The Tempest was no good: she felt akin to poor Cali-

ban and that did her morale no good.

She decided that the only safe subject was the specs

of the c-v drive, and tried to imagine that she were a

Corviki examining the data and how it/she/they/he

would react. The exercise was not felicitous because

she began to think the c-v drive wouldn't work: it was

an appallingly wasteful use of energy because the

thrust had to be directed away from the goal to protect

frail human bodies. Her conclusion depressed her so

she turned back to Abu's tapes. There must be some

dances that did not depict love-erotic or love-denied

or ...

Yes, the fifth tape was of a formal insect dance from

the Lyrae IV system: color, motion, almost mesmeriz-

ing, very soothing certainly to Helva's distressed sen-

290

sibilities. Gratefully, she gave herself up to the play of

form and color. Halfway through the tape and much

calmer, she wondered idly if it were Niall's sex drive

she'd have to worry about.

Sixteen hours later Niall Parollan awoke, stretched,

catapulted out of the bunk in one movement, and sang

merrily away in the shower.

"What's our running time to Beta Corvi?" he asked

as he was dressing. "And let's put on a bit of grav,

love."

"Fourteen standard days, twelve hours, and nine

minutes. How much grav, three-quarters?" She began

to apply gravity as he settled himself in the galley.

"That's it exactly," he said, holding up his hand,

and making a cut-off gesture. He bounced a little as

he made for the coffee cupboard. With a warming con-

tainer in one hand, he prepared a staggering protein

meal.

"What? No shish kebabs?"

"That junk's for show." He took a long swig of the

now hot coffee. "Ah, that's the stuff. Gotta keep up the

image." He snorted as if repudiating that same image.

"I think what recommends you most to me, dear girl,

is that I don't have to be anyone but Niall Parollan

within your stately walls." He stretched again until his

shoulder bones cracked. "God, I'm still tired, riding

those ship monkeys to get us out of there. Say, how's

your nutrient balance?"

"Just great."

"What'd you do to amuse yourself last night?"

"Actually, I settled on some tapes Abu sent on

board .. . formal insect dances from Lyrae."

Niall stared at her. "Great jumping puddles of

fardle! Couldn't you find anything more exciting?"

"Quite likely," and Helva giggled without explana-

tion. "But you know, the dances were very soothing."

"Do you always do something like that?" The no-

tion evidently distressed Niall, as if she'd suddenly

sprouted facial hair.

"Oh no. If I'm near enough, I can chat up an-

other ship."

He chuckled. "Yeah, you BB ships are diwils for

knowing gossip before groundstaff."

291

They talked amiably about other inconsequentialities

while he consumed his enormous meal. He stretched

out on the couch, then patted the bulge of stomach.

"Do you eat like that often?"

"Fardles, no. I'd be fat. That'll last me a long

while." He yawned. "Did you get any new music

on board? Abu was talking about some new reels . . ."

He was asleep within half an hour. At first con-

cerned, Helva came to the decision that one of the

reasons Niall Parollan seemed indefatigable around

people was because he could conserve energy at other

times. He woke up refreshed several hours later, ate

lightly, did isometrics "to get rid of some breakfast,"

and then settled down to browsing through the tech-

nical journals he'd had her collect from Regulus Cen-

tral Information. They discussed the article on polymer

extrusions from alien silicates, he studied the c-v drive

specs yet another time, relaxed over a coffee while the

two worked a crossword puzzle in Deltan symbology,

and then he bade her a fond goodnight and went to

bed again.

That set the pattern for their trip as far as activity

was concerned, exactly in accord with what could be

expected from any trained brawn. Two evenings from

Beta Corvi, it dawned on Helva that she had allowed

herself to be influenced too much by people who did

not know Niall Parollan at all ... who knew of him

and about his reputation. She, Helva the 834, knew

another side of the man "himself," without image or

affectation, and that personality was very likable, too

likable. She sighed as she watched, for the twelfth

time, the Lyraen dances and let herself be soothed.

She could carry her true love through the stars and

never touch him. But she could be more to Parollan

than any other female in the entire galaxy, and woe

unto her who tried to part them now!

Beta Corvi pulsed a vivid orange-red on the view-

screen as Helva picked up the first Corviki space

buoy on her scanners. Instantly it colored, a microsun

in the carpet of blackness.

She roused'Niall, who was sleeping in eagle-spread

abandon. Simultaneously the psyche-transfer circuit in

292

her mind was activated and she felt the query of the

alien mind.

In the time it took Niall to rise from his bunk, the

Corviki had established the identity of their visitors,

the reason for their return, the alterations in her hull

and the inactive core of the new drive, and issued her

orbital instructions.

"Hey," Niall protested as a surge of power, unini-

tiated by Helva, sent him lurching into the door frame.

"Sorry, pal, they just took over."

"Took over?" Niall padded into the main cabin,

rubbing his right arm. "I thought you'd wake me when

we reached their first buoy."

"I did." She turned on the rear screen, focused on

the fast-receding marker. "The Corviki don't waste

time, which they consider another form of energy."

"Hmmm. An interesting concept."

"We're approaching orbit," she told him.

He blinked in astonishment. "One thing sure:

those modifications of yours can sure take speed."

"A point."

"Hey, will they give me time to eat? A cup of coffee,

at least?" He gestured at his nakedness. "The head?

Clothes?"

"We should have a few moments to spare," Helva

said with a laugh. His expression was small-boy-

embarrassed.

"Ever the courteous hosts."

He had managed to get himself assembled by the

time the glowing luminosity that was Beta Corvi's third

planet filled the viewscreen. Somewhere down in that

moiling envelope of methane, ammonia, and hydrogen

were the Corviki. Or were Solar Prane and Kuria Ster,

Chaddress or a vengeful Ansra Colmer rising in those

spectacular flares to greet the visitors? If anything re-

mained of those personalities. Helva preferred to share

Dobrinon's optimistic view that those immigrants re-

tained something of their former personalities.

Helva felt the change in the ship before it registered

on the console before Niall.

"We're in orbit? We can transfer?"

The eagerness in his voice produced a perverse

reluctance in Helva. Niall couldn't know, despite all

293

she and Davo and the others had told him, how devas-

tating that experience could be, how insidious. Now

a new fear threatened her: what could that experience

do to the fragile bond they'd been contriving?

"Yes, we can transfer," she said, trying to keep the

growing apprehension out of her voice. And she'd

thought, Dobrinon had assured her, that she'd made

a good adjustment to this return. She'd fooled only

herself.

Niall swung the chair round, helmet half-raised to

his head.

"Is it still that bad, Helva? I can go alone if it's that

hard."

"This we have to do together."

"That's the operative phrase, m'girl, together."

"Let's go—together."

"That's my Helva." The helmet masked his eyes but

not the eager confident smile.

Helva fought/released herself to the experience,

knowing an instant of fleeting terror at being outside

her safe shell. But as the transfer occurred, she re-

minded herself that she bad survived a worse terror

of complete sense deprivation on Borealis, survived it

only because of the Corviki episode.

And Niall was with her this time!

The pressure enveloped her in a deceptive comfort.

She shuddered and the streamers floated up from be-

neath her.

"Niall!" she exuded, anxious lest in that instant

she might have transferred at a distance from him.

"I'm a bloody sea monster." Niall's reassuring domi-

nance was just beyond the large frond. "There you

are!" And he emerged, a creature like herself, already

coloring the shell with his own personal intensity.

A creature like herself!

"Helva! You're . . ." And they spun toward each

other.

"Do not express energy in such a sequence!" A new

dominance, dark, dense, powerful, overwhelmed them

with its authority. "You have imperfect control of

your shells."

By a force more potent than their pent-up frustra-

tions, they were held apart. The energies which they

294

yearned intensely to combine were dampened by the

dominance.

Deliberately, Helva now sought to bury her all-too-

human reactions into the Corviki ethos. "Conserve

energy. Reduce spin. Lock suborbital speeds."

Niall's shell pulsed and shook with his effort to

control his emotions in an alien context and because

of the totally unfamiliar, for him, subjection to a

supra-authority.

"The emanations are unusually rich," the Corviki

emitted, withdrawing some of the repressive authority.

"No similar wastage has been observed despite the

variety now available for analysis." There was approval

in the comment, but also a reinforcement of the initial

warning.

With dark and awful despair, Helva forced her at-

tention to the dominance, anything to distract her-

self from Niall's proximity. In doing so, she recognized

a familiar aura in the dominance.

"Manager?"

"Of the same thermal core. There have been re-

combinations within the mutual group," and the entity

turned such a lavender-purple of Corvikian pleasure

that Helva interpreted "smugness" in his tone.

Taking cowardly refuge in the mission, Helva im-

mediately explained the purpose of their unsolicited

return. As she got to the point, she recognized approval

in the Manager's density.

"From such an extrapolation of the data for use in

the parameters of your race's limitations, undesirable

factors might indeed result from exposing irreconcil-

ables to stability forms," the Manager commented,

rippling with muddy blues. "The multiple interaction

shows commendable concern for the proper conser-

vation of mass energies. The hypothesis is being ex-

amined. Improper equations cause ineffectual results

and perverse conclusions. Matter must be expended

only in constructive quantities."

Simultaneously a host of other dominances was felt,

compounding the authority about her and Niall. The

newcomers were, to Helva's mind, dense with experi-

ential energies, held in lease by immense controls.

29?

Helva had not encountered similar energy groupings

in the first Beta Corvi mission, and began to emit tiny

distressful losses which she was unable to contain.

"Why are you so afraid, Helva?" Niall asked. She

came close to resenting his self-control.

"These entities are so gross with power," she said.

"But fear is not a component in my energy loss. On

Corvi, we have nothing to fear . . ."

"But ourselves," Niall finished for her, his trailing

tendrils floating gently beneath him.

She kept hers tightly entwined lest they stray with-

out her volition . . . and touch him.

"Do not waste energy so," she was advised by one

of the new power group. But the directive held no

censure and Helva let the suborbitals begin to spin

gently so that her tendrils drifted easily, if inevitably

toward Niall's. The Corviki would protect her from

herself.

She was distracted by a series of condensations and

dissipations, expansions and contractions, darting, it

sometimes seemed, through both her shell and Niall's,

as their interrogators fused momentarily or attenuated

in the discussion of the problem presented by the visi-

tors. Apparently such a use of stabilized isotopes had

never occurred to the Corviki. Helva thought that

amusement dominated their discreet emissions. Dense

as these ancient entities were, they had never consid-

ered the possibility of such a direction for familiar

energies.

One entity reasoned that, of all the handicaps

through which life forms must evolve, the adolescent

vigor of this particular species was, at least, divertingly

resourceful.

Helva and Niall drifted in this limbo, amused by an

occasional storm of colorful discussion.

Suddenly the aura changed. With paternal forbear-

ance, the Corviki approved the c-v drive. However,

there were modifications which would reduce the cuy

particles imprudently released by such a clumsy pro-

cess. An inhibiting feedback was required. Otherwise,

although the envelope was unbelievably awkward

and totally unnecessary, dictated as it was by the

exigencies of protecting frail protein matter, they

296

could deduce no annihilative perversion of the applied

data.

They did stipulate that any further application must

be accompanied by a similar inhibitor. They would

know, by virtue of cuy particles in the galaxy, if

that restriction had been ignored. Punitive action would

instantly result.

As abruptly as the dominances had assembled, they

dispersed, leaving Helva, Niall, and the Manager in a

welter of loose fronds and burping ochre eruptions.

Distant novae of emissions drifted back like the light

laughter of the godly, seen and felt, rather than heard.

"Has the drive really been approved?" asked Niall,

bewilderment apparent in the action of his tendrils.

"The emissions were favorable," Helva and the

Manager agreed in chorus.

"Who are you now? Helva?" he demanded, swinging

from one to the other, confusion making his tendrils

rigid.

"I am Helva, here," she said, fighting with the

desire to remain Helva for his sake and the need to

remain Corvikan enough to control precarious excita-

tions.

"Let's find out about the others and leave."

"I have," Helva said.

"Did you not feel that thermal group near you?"

asked the Manager of Niall, shading to ochre neutral-

ity.

"He had not previously encountered their domi-

nances, Manager."

The Manager assumed more color and then, bleed-

ing a little blue, he disappeared.

"You .did have a chance to speak to Prane and—"

"I encountered them in one of the thermal groups.

I'll tell you later when we're back on the ship."

"Then the mission's completed?" The triumph in

Niall's tone colored his shell a brilliant orange-red and

he pressed toward her eagerly.

From behind a frond, first one, then another Cor-

vikan appeared, but Helva was diverted from their ar-

rival by Niall's rapidly changing color.

"We cannot combine!" she cried, and tried to keep

her distance from him.

297

One of the Corviki brushed against her, pushing her

back toward Niall.

"Don't play the professional virgin with me now,

Helva!" His furiously human response was emphasized

by the fiery glow of his shell as every particle became

excited. The Corviki who had pushed her was now

throwing power toward Niall, exciting him further. It

flashed through Helva's awareness on two levels that

the Corviki was familiar to her. She'd no time to iden-

tify it; she had to avoid Niall.

"You don't understand! Don't, Nialll We've got to

get back to the ship!"

"Helva!"

"It's not safe for us. The energy levels are too hot

... Integrity will be violated and—"

The outer edge of his shell touched hers. Sane

thought, Corvikan or human, was impossible. Explo-

sively they began to excite one another, each level in

her seeking its equal in him, slowing, speeding, deli-

cately adjusting, seeking the merger that would be the

imposition of one pattern over the other, all levels

matched, all energies mutual, all...

Other thermal groups were attracted by the emis-

sions, attracted and held, transferring power so that

Helva felt her Corvikan envelope engorge to incredible

dimensions, giving her unlimited mass to energize at

an even higher excitation level. Faster the particular

forces spun, faster, to match speeds, to combine, neu-

tronic shifts of dazzling force ...

Fission ... an incredible stoking of the available

energy . . . the atmosphere splitting with thunder as

immeasurable positive forces began to recombine . . .

Distance was where she was, some black, sense-

deprived consciousness, some tiny flicker of ego, lost,

lost, lost. Unwilling to resume. A slow return to aware-

ness. Exhaustion, death-deep in an overstressed mind.

A shuddering violent release to fall with an endless

spinning grace into unawareness, comforting and kind.

Offensive odor, acrid, strong, staining the lungs, re-

viving the senses that must escape that burden.

To be aware and wish for deprivation! How strange!

Reality came into focus. And, sadly, identity.

298

Niall's body was sprawled by the console, the helmet

upturned on the deck, his grasping hand a scant inch

from it. His shipsuit was dark and damp with stain.

Though he seemed motionless, she never questioned

that he lived. She knew that, knew it as deeply as she

knew her own vitality, low as it was.

It was comforting to look at him: the fatigue-lined

face unguarded and boy-young, the dark hair tousled,

the wiry body limp. Soon he would rouse and then

that dear form would change, would vary and not be

wholly hers.

No ... Helva hesitated. No, an intangible difference

impinged on her growing awareness. She was not

wholly herself. There was a subtle alteration.

Curious, she began to explore her ship self. The

critical difference was not in her systems or hull. She

had full command of every area.

The steady vibration of power in her idling drive,

however, resonated at a new frequency.

A long groan was wrenched from her, reverberating

in the cabin and down the quiet corridors, humming

through the deck plates to rouse Niall.

The c-v drive was functioning. Beta Corvi! Helva's

mind reeled, fighting to deny/accept the experience

that surged back over her in a tsunami of emotions,

abrading stunned sensibilities.

Niall crawled on his hands and knees, staggered to

his feet, swaying as he took the two steps to the pilot's

chair.

But they were here. They had been . . .

She hadn't the energy to transfer back. She hadn't

the strength to tell Niall, who wouldn't have been

strong enough to pick up the dislodged helmet anyway.

Instinct marshaled a response. She must break this

disaster orbit, flee from Beta Corvi. Strange the Cor-

vikans were silent. Humans must interdict that system

to prevent the unwary from ever encountering those

devastating sentients. Some progress was too costly in

terms of human emotions. Who'd suggested that?

She'd remember later. Right now, instinct and con-

ditioning prevailed. She had to escape. She began to

compute a flight pattern, and stopped. The ship was

299

not in orbit around an invidious planet. They were

drifting in space, far from the light of Beta Corvi.

Startled, Helva examined and identified star magni-

tudes, was relieved to find familiar ones about her,

comfortable light-years from Beta Corvi. Safe!

She'd already escaped. How? She couldn't remem-

ber. She scanned the recording banks and realized

that three days. Galactic standard, had elapsed since

they had initiated that fantastic transfer to Corviki III.

And, judging by the distance they'd come, she must

have used the c-v drive. What had the Corvikans said

about an inhibitor? Had they left a trail of cuy par-

ticles? Punitive action?

Niall was stirring, groggily seeking his face with

hands that trembled. He leaned forward, elbows jab-

bing with awkward force into his knees as he held an

aching head. His wiry body shook with an uncon-

trollable paroxysm and an oily sweat exuded from his

pores.

"Drink something, Niall. It's partly lack of food,"

she heard herself say in a voice she scarcely recognized.

"It's three days since we made that transfer."

As he lurched to his feet and stumbled to the galley,

she checked her nutrients and adjusted the acid bal-

ance hastily. Niall clutched at the counter for support

and fumbled for a restorative spray, gave himself a

massive dose. He pulled open the first container he

could reach, gulping its contents before they'd heated.

He knocked down several more cans in an attempt to

close his fingers around one. He finally opened a con-

tainer of soup, drank it, and the shaking subsided. Still

holding the restorative spray, he half staggered to his

cabin, into the shower. He fumbled to turn the water

on, alternating hot and cold sprays, unconcerned that

he was still dressed. The treatment and liquid began to

revive him and he stripped, carefully washing away

the accumulated filth of three lost days.

Freshly dressed, he returned to the galley and found

coffee. As the container was warming, he carried it in-

to the lounge, dropping to the couch that faced Helva.

"Did you check yourself?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes. Acid!."

"Not surprising. What was that about an inhibitor?

How did we get away from Beta Corvi? No, don't ex-

plain how. I know. Fardles! Did we leave a trail of

those cuy particles?"

"I'm not certain I'd know a cuy particle if I met it,"

Helva replied drily. "But they've done something to

the shielding about the drive. To the alloy itself. It's

denser and light. And I feel light, if that makes sense."

"Nothing they do makes sense or no sense." Niall

gave a rueful snort.

"We did use that drive. D'you realize how far we

went in three days?"

"Not far enough." Niall spaced the words out. "And

let us not speed home, c-v drive operative or not. I'm

in no shape to face debriefing. In fact, I'm going to

avoid it if at all possible." But his grin was Niall-

normal as he raised the hot coffee in a toast.

"That is good!" Helva said with mild surprise at the

taste.

Niall blinked. "What did you say?" He leaned for-

ward. "You tasted that?"

Inexplicably, she had savored the coffee taste in his

mouth.

"Yes, that coffee tastes good," she said again after

a very long thoughtful silence.

"Well!" Niall scratched his nose. "How d'you like

them apples?"

"You haven't tasted me apples yet."

Niall took a deep breath that he exhaled in a long

chuckle, all the while regarding the tendril of steam

writhing up from the coffee container.

"Helva, we didn't complete the recombination?"

"I think," Helva spoke slowly, trying her thought

out loud, "that the time limit flipped us back right at

the critical moment." She felt reluctant to examine

her reaction to that interference. She knew with that

part of her which was Niall, just as he knew with his

fractions of her how perilously close they'd come.

"I wonder—would we have withdrawn at all from

Beta Corvi had the fusion been complete?" Niall

laughed softly, his eyes brimming with amusement.

"Hey gal, into which one of us would we both go?

Hell, you're pint-sized and so am I, but who'd've been

us? Or would we have been stuck in the shell? Say,

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what was going on down there with that character who

kept pushing you? And pulling me? Oh, that was

them? Fardles, did we damned near get stuck with that

Colmer bitch?" His dismay dissolved in a weak laugh

of relief, and then he sat, a long time, while the coffee

cooled, just staring contentedly at her panel. She knew

that he, too, was mentally probing to estimate the ex-

tent of their meshing.

"I suspect it will take all our lifetimes to figure it

out."

"Quite likely."

The prospect daunted neither.

"Hell, we can't wander off like this," Niall said after

a long, long period of mutual introspection. He shoved

himself out of the couch, lobbed the old coffee into

the disposal chute, and went for another.

"So they altered the shielding?" he asked, leaning

against the counter. "Is there a separate inhibitor? Or

is that the alternation in the shielding? And did you

grasp what the crot are cuy particles? Breslaw is going

to want to know something more specific than that

they're dangerous."

"He suspects that. . ."

"And inconvenient if the Corviki catch us making/

exhaling them?"

"I think their warning should be deterrent enough.

There is a black core within the drive-isotope that

didn't previously exist. There is more of that same

black stuff in a specially shielded container in the sup-

ply bay. It's radiating a purple shade."

"Hey, Helva, did you actually sort out the person-

alities of Kuria, Prane, and Chaddress. What'n'ell do

we tell Dobrinon?"

"As little as possible. No, they were there. At least

I was aware of a Kurla-Prane core, but only because

it was a strong combination."

She saw Niall wince with a regret that she shared.

"We don't, do we, tell him about that in us?"

"Never! I shouldn't like to have to explain some-

thing that is so personally subjective."

"Like tasting coffee?"

"Among other things. Dobrinon would take us apart

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to find out which facets of you got into me in the re-

assembly."

"Gal, we are together!" He enunciated each syllable

with a jab of his finger. "But no one, not any one,

gets any chance to dissect our feelings. Right?"

"Right!"

Then his face dissolved into a smile, part malice,

part pure self-delight, part utter triumph.

"Yeah, gal, have we got a thing going together!"

He shook his head and slapped his thigh. "Hell, yes!

By anything that's been left holy, Helva, there's noth-

ing we can't do now. C'mon, gal, pour on that power.

Cycle that crotty drive to get us back to Regulus yes-

terday. Scatter us cuy particles where we may. We're

going to buy the body corporate forever free of dear

Railly."

If stars had ears, they'd have heard the vast hale-

lujahs ringing from the partnered ship.