TEXT: "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,
  .301
  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
  302
  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.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/M/Mccaffrey, Anne/Anne McCaffrey - Pegasus 1 - Get Off The Unicorn.pdf