Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  “The peeper caught you again?”

  “That’s right. An adolescent boy, quite likely crippled or paralyzed. I want to see who was awake on the wards at three-forty-three this morning.”

  “The last thing you need tonight is some pimple-faced nerd rousing you.”

  “On the contrary, Bud, I think that’s exactly what I did need. A youngster able to go out of body? He’s got to have fantastic potential.”

  “For what?” Budworth wanted to know.

  “That,” Rhyssa said with a surge of hope, “is what we’ll have to find out.”

  As she climbed back into bed, she had a lot to think about before she could compose herself for sleep. How long had it been since a new Talent that strong had been identified? And what sort of a Talent was it? Even strong telepathy did not leave an image, however transparent. A new type of kinesis? Very few kinetics could move themselves! Inanimate objects, yes, but animate ones, no. Most out-of-body experiences were the results of traumas and useless in a commercial sense—and theorists still argued over whether the out-of-body phenomenon was a kinetic manifestation or a strong telepathic projection.

  Just remember, she told herself that it was the commercial applications of Talents that provided us with legal immunities, good jobs, and special status for the past four score years . . . and let us get marvelously complacent. Maybe it wasn’t really “noise” that even kinetics heard in space but some other form of interstellar communication, a multilingual garble that they were picking up. Open your mind up, gal. Look around you. Look at Dave Lehardt. He has to be Talented, even if it won’t register on a Goosegg graph.

  Why, Rhyssa Owen, she asked herself, does Dave Lehardt have to be Talented?

  And that was the quandary she fussed over as she finally slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  “I discovered some interesting new facets of employment on the platform,” Dave Lehardt told Rhyssa in her office two days later. “Came out in further talks with my platform contact, Samjan, and a few judicious inquiries.” He gave her a humorless grin. “The casualties.”

  “Yes, the total is horrific.” Rhyssa shuddered. “But working in space there were bound to be some.”

  “Some?” Dave raised his eyebrows. “Some, yes, but when I checked with Johnny Greene in Altenbach’s office, we found several different sets of figures on the casualty rate.”

  Rhyssa straightened. When Dave had arrived unexpectedly, she had been busy reshuffling the rotas of the Center’s kinetics, steeling herself to endure their understandable reproaches and arguments. Any interruption was welcome.

  “Then I got JG and Samjan together, and they both did a bit of research,” he went on, “and, using their security clearances, they came up with what we think are the real statistics.” His expression was bleak, and there was a stillness about his body that forewarned her. “You know how the unemployed are terrified to be conscripted to Padrugoi? They may not be Talented, but they’ve got an instinct about baaaaaad situations. They have good reason not to want to get conscripted. She loses grunts at a frightening rate, far beyond the allowable. The major reason is because Barchenka’s so bloody-minded about keeping her Sacred Schedules, she won’t interrupt a shift to retrieve drifters!”

  To be sure she understood his meaning, Rhyssa unconsciously tried to read his mind. It was like stubbing her toe on a stair raiser, and she blinked. “Run that past me again, please, Dave,” she asked, struggling with confusion at her inability to read him the way she was used to reading most of her friends.

  “Surely you’ve seen the promotional footage,” he said, “with the grunts suited up and pushing gi-ormous sections of a spoke with the tips of their fingers or a spare foot?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “In the real working situation, not that mockup they did for recruitment, a worker’ll push too hard, and with every action causing a reaction in space, the poor sod goes spinning off into the dark deeps.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Well, Barchenka doesn’t stop work to rescue them. Oh, no, anyone that stupid has to wait until the shift is over before his buddies are allowed to go after him. That is, if a skiff is available, and if the bod’s been tracked.”

  Appalled at the vivid scene his words evoked, Rhyssa stared at him. “Is this public knowledge?”

  He gave her a cynical look. “Why do you think the grunts never take surface leave? It’s not the fact that they’re paid so little that they can’t afford surface leave, or that there’s no available space on shuttles for mere grunts, or that they’re unlikely to have any family to visit on Earth. It’s that they’re plain not allowed back down to tell anyone what’s happening. The grunts are also segregated so that even the observant among the more elite employees don’t know exactly what’s going on. It took both JG and Samjan and some long program analyses to piece fact out of the publicly available fictions.”

  “But all the recruitment films show safety lines and . . .” Part of Rhyssa crowed with delight at discovering Barchenka resorting to very questionable tactics, while another part balked at the enormity of the crime.

  “That’s promo footage, my dear director. The theory is great. In practice, Barchenka dispensed with safety lines—they kept getting tangled in equipment, slowing down her precious work schedule. So safety lines are a space myth.

  “And Barchenka has such saving ways.” Dave Lehardt perched his lean frame on the edge of her desk. “For instance, we discovered by an analysis of records that a suited grunt is given only enough air in his tanks for that shift and maybe a sniff or two left over. Oh, there’s plenty of safety regs for the engineers and supervisors and skilled technicians—but not the grunts. She doesn’t care what happens to them. There’re plenty more where they came from.”

  Rhyssa was outraged. “You just validated my instincts about that woman. Law be damned, I won’t ask my kinetics to face such risks!”

  Dave gave a snort. “They’re far too valuable to be risked. There’d be too much of a stink kicked up if a drifting Talent wasn’t retrieved right then. Overworked, yes. Samjan confirmed the notion that eight-hour shifts are another platform fallacy.

  “On top of that conspicuous savings of consumables, I uncovered several other little anomalies: grunt suits have limited-range com units. They can’t be heard shrieking for help! Might disturb their fellow workers.”

  Rhyssa stared at him aghast.

  “There’s also a high incidence of agoraphobia among the grunts and genuine space cafard. But ailing grunts are never transferred down. They just disappear! Accidental death! Never suicide! Always accidental. After all,” he said, taking on a mock Russian accent, “everyone knows how dangerous it is to ignore safety warnings and procedures. And then there appears to be a neat little system which causes unexpected casualties during the routine drills they so conspicuously hold from time to time on Padrugoi.” Dave paused again. “Checking through medical records, it becomes apparent that the unfortunate victims of those drill ‘accidents’ are always either the injured or the headcases.”

  “Oh, my God, Dave!” Rhyssa propelled herself from her chair to pace agitatedly up and down the tower room. “Why haven’t any of the precogs caught this?”

  “According to your brief summary on Talents’ capabilities, precogs usually latch onto large numbers, Rhyssa. There are never enough—”

  “Numerics is no excuse!” Rhyssa was surprised by a vehemence that answered the despair in his voice. She wondered if his mind, too, was filled with faceless forms, twisting and turning in space, drifting farther and farther from the network of lights that was the oasis of air and warmth in the blackness, and a violent shudder seized her.

  A warm hand cupped her shoulder. “Easy! Talent spreads itself thin enough as it is. You’re not God, or gods, to mark each sparrow’s fall.”

  She blinked and looked up at him. Though his mind was as closed to her as ever, the sympathy and understanding in his warm blue eyes was obvious. She would not tell him that Tal
ents generally disliked tactile contact—surprisingly enough, she had discovered that she liked him touching her.

  “Armed with this information, however, you can spread Barchenka over a barrel.” His voice was soft and teasing. “If you see what I mean. Or, maybe you Talents are too simon-pure to lower yourselves to outright blackmail.”

  “Not when the lives and safety of my Talents are at risk, I’m not,” Rhyssa declared stoutly. “Not to mention those poor sods who’ve not even been given half a chance to survive. I’ll insist on short shifts and shields, and we’ll increase that ante to safety lines for everyone working on the platform and the deployment of rescue skiffs. Or do skiffs have limited power and air on them, too, so as to save costs?”

  He crossed his arms on his chest, grinning at her.

  “Your Talents wouldn’t be at risk anyway, unless I’ve misunderstood their capabilities. There’s no way Barchenka can pull the same tricks on them that she does with the poor grunts. And unless your response is unique among your ilk, I can’t see your folk standing by for some of her tricks, once they know what to look for. Some of the kinetics are telepaths, aren’t they?”

  “Quite a few.” Rhyssa gave a sardonic chuckle. “A fact we haven’t actually mentioned to Barchenka, whose understanding of Talent is severely limited.”

  Dave let out a bark of laugh. “Not the whole truth nor even half the truth, huh? Good girl, Rhyssa!” He playfully knuckled her chin. “Is distance a problem? Or the vacuum of space?” When Rhyssa shook her head, he went on. “Well, you guys could sure be popular with the grunts because you”—he waggled his finger at her—“could be their insurance. A Talent could haul back a drifter, couldn’t he? Without asking for permission during his shift, or waiting for a skiff?” He gave her a broad smile. “That’ll help a lot of ways. Damned good PR, too. The best, because it proves that the Talents will help the ordinary grunt where Barchenka just simply hasn’t!”

  Rhyssa suddenly turned away, not wanting Dave to see her expression. Sascha? she called. I’ve just found the perfect job for Madlyn! Tell you later!

  I can read your evil mind, Sascha said, and she’s not even on the list for the platform.

  She is, as of right now, Rhyssa replied. How often have you said that Madlyn could be heard at the space platform? We’ll just put it to the test! She smoothed her expression and looked up at Dave Lehardt, who was eyeing her keenly.

  “Who were you talking to just then? And don’t hold out on me. I’m getting used to your ways, woman!” His voice rippled with an odd emotion, and the gleam in his eyes intensified.

  Rhyssa’s grin was half embarrassment at his scrutiny and half delight with her inspiration. “We’ve got a telepath with an extraordinarily loud voice. We’ll send her up in an administrative capacity. Put her on a radar scope, and she’ll locate and reassure any drifters for the nearest kinetic to haul back to safety.”

  “Lady, you don’t realize what a difference that could make to morale up at the platform.” Dave’s grin was so infectious that Rhyssa had to grin back. “Not only is Barchenka unaware that she’s her own worst enemy, but her ignorance about Talent in general will prevent her from realizing that she’s just hired a battalion of undercover agents.”

  “That’s the beauty part!” Rhyssa said, grinning more broadly. “Does Duoml? Or Prince Phanibal?”

  Dave Lehardt considered briefly. “Prince Phanibal might, but he’s not on the platform as much lately—some crisis in Malaysia that occupies a lot of his time. Besides, I read him as being just ornery enough not to tell her something as crucial at this time for the sheer pleasure of watching her squirm. Now what’s this emergency clause Lance Baden wants added to the contracts?”

  “In case of a major emergency, we must be able to bring Talents back down. You remember the floods last monsoon on the Indian continent and that major shake in Azerbaijan? We knew about each of them ten days before, so we were able to muster help and reduce the effect of the catastrophe. Sending her a hundred and forty-four kinetics has wiped out our disaster-squad organization. We want a twenty-four-hour clause—to bring key personnel back to Earth in time to cope here.”

  “Can’t you teleport ’em down?”

  Rhyssa laughed. “No, more’s the pity. Our Talents are finite, definite, and nowhere near such a fantasy application as instantaneous transmissions. That takes more power than a human brain can generate.”

  “I thought the Moral Code on legitimate bioengineering permitted—”

  “Hold it right there, Dave.” Rhyssa held up a warding hand. “Read the Code: congenital defects, yes—manipulations, no. And I doubt any genetic engineer would monkey with the brain yet—even a monkey’s brain.”

  “If you can find one. Though don’t you think it’s likely that someone has been doing illicit experimentation, the world being what it is these days?”

  “That’s cynical of you, Dave.”

  “Sometimes saying no is registering a challenge,” he replied with a shrug. “I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.”

  “Meanwhile,” Rhyssa said, bringing the discussion firmly back to relevant matters, “I’d very much like to see a full report on what JG and Samjan have been discovering about platform personnel problems.”

  Dave grinned, taking three diskettes from a breast pocket. “I thought you might. Gives you a stronger bargaining position for shields, short shift—”

  “Safety lines and skiffs,” Rhyssa finished, taking the diskettes but letting her fingers linger on his a little longer than the transactions required. “I thank you, sir.” What on earth was happening to her in Dave Lehardt’s presence? She felt as giddy as—as Madlyn could be in Sascha’s company.

  When Per Duoml, Prince Phanibal Shimaz, and two other minor officials, one of them the accommodations officer, arrived to settle the minor details, Dave Lehardt had another presentation that altered the proceedings. Rhyssa, sitting with Max Perigeaux, Gordie Havers, and Lance Baden, found the meeting eminently satisfying.

  Showing the accurate fatality statistics—figures that bleached all color from the faces of Duoml and the prince—Dave Lehardt talked knowledgeably of some of the “minor” problems that the Talents would be willing to undertake, such as the retrieval of any suited workers experiencing “malfunction of suit jets,” and telepathic contact “with those using short-range com units,” plus monitoring systems; they would also include among the Talents two with broad diagnostic capabilities. Dave pointed out that the savings on skiff fuel and man-hours required for retrieval would more than compensate for the cost of shielding required in Talent accommodations.

  Nor was there any discussion about the emergency clause. Lance Baden announced that he was to be Talent liaison with the engineering staff and that was that.

  And what were they saying about cowardly capitulations? Lance commented.

  Rhyssa was so weary from accumulated stresses that she experienced no elation at having forced every single concession out of the Padrugoi officials. She wanted nothing more than a quiet supper and some mental peace. Per Duoml had a natural shield, but the other project representatives at the meeting had not, and when their initial euphoria at coercing Talents onto the work force was burst by hard facts and figures and compromises, their emotional responses of anger, horror, and embarrassment had been hard to deflect.

  Sascha: I’ve cleared everyone out of the first floor. Relax!

  Rhyssa: Oh, you are a pet!

  Sascha: Lot of good it does me! But she knew he was only teasing.

  Rhyssa entered the Henner house, appreciative of the deep silence in the elegantly appointed rooms. Very little had been altered from the days of George Henner, the parapsychics’ first benefactor: all had been lovingly preserved in his memory. The subterranean offices, the annexes, and her tower were modern, with state-of-the-art technology, but the main reception rooms were reminders of more leisurely times. The kitchen, where modern appointments were hidden behind old-fashioned cupboards, exuded an aura of
comfort—it was spacious, with an archaic but working fireplace, a huge table, and comfortable chairs. The dining portion faced onto the gardens at the rear of the main house, bright with blooms and bushes.

  Some thoughtful kinetic had activated the kettle. She made herself a cup of tea, found sandwiches in the crisper, and kicking off her shoes, curled up in one of the wing chairs.

  There was something amazingly restorative about looking out onto the garden, watching the flowers move in the light breeze. She set her mind adrift, savoring the quiet, despite the deep-seated nagging presentiment.

  “I’m not a precog,” she told herself and sipped her tea. “What I am feeling is just reaction to the last few hectic days. A quite natural depression.”

  Then she felt the touch, once again colored with wistfulness and a deep sadness that pierced her to the heart, making her own malaise seem insignificant.

  She dared not reach out for fear of startling the boy. Boy he was, and despairing. Had her transitory unease triggered a response from him midday? Or was it his need seeking consolation? What could so desolate a young person? One could endure detached misery—tragedy happening at a distance to people one had never met—but to feel the palpitating misery of another person was an intense experience.

  Delicately she impinged on the boy’s mind, hoping to gain some clue to his whereabouts. He was dreading something, and the yearning for trees and lawn and flowers and someplace that was not hospital had precipitated the nebulous contact. And her mind, less controlled than usual in its weariness, had attracted his. Dreading what? She inserted the question.

  The body brace!

  Rhyssa had not expected an answer. She tried to keep the lightest of contacts, though, oddly enough, he felt very close at that moment. Isn’t it meant to help? she asked cautiously.

  It doesn’t. It hurts. It’s artificial, it’s awful. It’s a cage. The bed is bad enough. I don’t want to. I—don’t—want—to!