Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  A wail from the depth of a forlorn and comfortless mind reached her—then it was abruptly cut off.

  “We got another one of those surges this afternoon—usually we get ’em at night,” the hospital’s maintenance man said as he held up the printout to the consultant engineer whom the concerned hospital administration had finally called in.

  The engineer peered at the peak, a sudden sharp deviation lasting seventy-two seconds. He asked for the other anomalies and was presented with further examples.

  “Shouldn’t be any drain on the systems at three-forty-three, three-oh-three, three-fifty-two, or three-thirteen. You’ve checked all the equipment?”

  “I put meters on several floors. Got a blip on PedOrth Ward Twelve when I was installing it. So I took everything apart on that ward and there wasn’t nothing malfunctioning. Craziest thing I’ve ever seen. And you know how Admin is when you got outages and anomalies with all them life-support systems hooked up. Funny though, nothing in the ICUs.”

  “Okay, screen me your schematics for all the equipment on PedOrth and se what’s being used there.” The engineer sighed heavily—he could see it was going to be one of those days.

  A stir around the beds in the circular ward alerted Peter Reidinger, and he blinked away the screen that blocked his view. A very old lady stood in the doorway, Miz Allen hovering with her “you’d-better-behave” look on her face as she glanced around the ward to be sure everything was in order for the visitor.

  Instantly Peter’s attention was riveted on the lady. She was different. That became more apparent to him as Miz Allen began to introduce her to the kids in the ward. Cecily even smiled and answered the lady. Cecily was a spina bifida case who “ought” to have been corrected in utero but had not been. Osteomyeitis had caused her to have one leg amputated, and her recovery from that operation was very slow. She rarely opened up to other people—and particularly not to strangers—so her response to the old lady was a minor miracle. Peter was in a sweat of anticipation by the time the lady reached him.

  “This is Peter Reidinger, Ms. Horvath.” The way Miz Allen cocked her right eyebrow told Peter that he had better behave himself.

  Ms. Horvath just smiled down at him, her eyes twinking, and they were not at all old, or rheumy, or hard. He wondered she let herself look so old.

  I promised my husband that I would grow old gracefully, she startled him by saying. That way I wouldn’t surprise people so much when I don’t act my age.

  Peter goggled at her. She had not moved her lips—and yet he had heard her voice clearly in his mind.

  “Peter . . .” Miz Allen prompted him.

  “Pleased ta meetcha!” Peter managed to get out. Miz Allen cleared her throat warningly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Allen, I’ll just chat a bit with Peter,” Dorotea Horvath said, pulling a chair to Peter’s bedside and dismissing Miz Allen in a manner that astounded the boy. Miz Allen doesn’t really believe in telepathy and Talents. And we just haven’t had the chance to go around the pediatric wards lately. So we missed you.

  “Missed me?”

  Dorotea smiled again, a smile that was magical because it seemed to envelop Peter with warmth and caring. The hard knot of self-pity and resentment that had been building up at the thought of another body-brace session dispersed.

  “That is, until you started visiting Rhyssa.”

  “Rhyssa?”

  Into his mind came a new touch. I’m Rhyssa. I sent Dorotea to you because you run away from me. Dorotea says you can’t run away from her right now, Peter Reidinger. Please come live with us where I know you long to be.

  “Now that you’ve had an official invitation, will you accept?” Dorotea asked, brimming over with amusement at his stunned reaction.

  “But I can’t. I’m crippled. I can’t go anywhere . . .”

  Ahahahaha! Dorotea chided him, still smiling. A boy who can go out of body on tours of Jerhattan at three in the morning is no cripple!

  “But I can’t use the body brace!” Peter was horrified to hear himself blubbering and to feel tears streaming down his face. He had not cried in months.

  Crying’s a natural release for emotional pressures, Dorotea said as she blotted his cheeks matter-of-factly. All that manly repression has also been blocking Talent. I do believe that the brace also posed an inhibition. I think it short-circuited natural ability. We’ll sort it out. Of that I’m positive.

  And suddenly Peter had no doubt at all.

  “First, of course, we have to get your parents’ permission.” Dorotea was always practical. “Do you think they’ll mind?”

  “Mind?” Peter nearly shouted. He knew that the hospital fees, even with the huge compensation the city was forced to pay since he had been injured on city-owned property, had been a terrible financial drain on his parents. His mother came to see him regularly, but his father’s visits grew fewer and shorter. His mother always had some plausible explanation for Dad’s absence, but Peter had not been fooled.

  Suddenly Dorotea’s eyes widened in pleased surprise. “I don’t think you’ll need much training after all,” she said, pointing at him.

  “What?” And at that moment Peter realized that he was hovering above his bed—and that an alarm just beneath it had gone off.

  Rhyssa! Dorotea’s mental shout was a very welcome diversion for Rhyssa.

  The Eastern director had not been able to make that first contact for several reasons, the foremost one being the Padrugoi priority. The other reason was that Dorotea was still the most accurate Talent diviner in the entire world, with the deftest touch to allay fear and suspicion.

  Rhyssa, Peter Reidinger reeks of Talent. I can’t imagine why the resident didn’t tumble to it a long time ago, despite the fact that Peter’s been suppressing his natural feelings to be considered a brave boy. Being in a hospital situation, he’d have to blank out all peripheral static or get wound up in everyone else’s pain. Though he’s not your garden-variety kinetic or telepath. In fact, I’ve never touched anyone quite like him. One thing’s sure, he no more needed a body brace than you need a videophone.

  Can you expedite his release to us? Rhyssa asked.

  In my best granny mode! I don’t anticipate any trouble with the family—they’ve been struggling under the medical costs. I gather the father has trouble visiting his “crippled” son. They should regain some perspective now that Peter’ll be able to pay his own way.

  How medical is he?

  Dorotea gave a mental snort. With a little help from his friends, he won’t be medical past the gate of the Center. Whoops! We’ve just been charged by an irate electrician and a stupefied consultant, and—my God!

  Dorotea broke off contact, startling Rhyssa—Dorotea usually had no trouble double-talking. Rhyssa waited for the old woman to come back and explain her abrupt disappearance. After three minutes with no further word from her, Rhyssa reluctantly resumed her immediate task.

  Worried about Dorotea and the boy, it was difficult for her to keep her mind on the reassignment of kinetic Talents, but the matter had to be cleared up as soon as possible. The Eastern Center would be left with just ten to do the work of thirty, along with five trainees who could be slotted into some of the less exacting hoist work. Airshuttle clients, passengers or commercial, were just going to have to wait longer to collect their luggage; all construction firms would lose kinetics, save those on two nearly completed projects where kinesis was the only way to safely install heavy equipment on the uppermost stories.

  She and Miklos Horvath, Dorotea’s grandson on the West Coast, also had to arrange “fetch and carry” teams, telepaths and kinetics who could work in tandem and at long distance. But such skills were exhausting and would have to be reserved for emergencies.

  Dave Lehardt had come up with yet another valid suggestion that might not improve relations with Barchenka and Duoml but would certainly make more effective use of the four-hour shift of each kinetic.

  “I looked at some of the motion stud
ies,” he had told her, “and some videos of an actual working day. Samjan mentioned that he spent a good portion of every shift on Padrugoi doing nothing—waiting until materiel was organized from the storage yard or bins, or while the engineers sorted out minor discrepancies. So I got Samjan and Bela Rondomanski, who was Space Lab designer, together with Lance Baden, who’s a trained engineer. Bela said a lot of the delays on Space Lab were caused by a chronic disorganization in Supply. Lance said that the problems hadn’t been completely solved when he did two tours at Padrugoi, but one of Barchenka’s strengths is her organizational skills. Take them one more step forward, and, in a four-hour shift, a kinetic can get everything in a spoke section lined up so that all the grunts need to do during the next twenty hours of shift time is give a tiny shove and the elements will fall into place.

  “Of course, it’ll mean a good deal of reorganization in the stores and matériel already up at Padrugoi, and maybe some shipment rearranging, lighting a fire under the tardy suppliers, but the time spent doing that will cut down on the man-hours upstairs.”

  “Duoml’s returned to the station,” Rhyssa said.

  “We’ll just borrow Hangar Q again for another handy little demonstration. I’ll work out the details. Hey, you’re looking mighty good today. New hairstyle? Sure shows off your skunk streak.” Her screen diffused on another of his famous confidence-inspiring grins.

  Skunk streak indeed, she thought, her fingers smoothing it back. At least he had noticed. With a sigh, she went back to her analyses, until she realized that she had not heard another squeak from Dorotea.

  Then, as abruptly as the contact had been broken, Dorotea returned.

  Well, I said I’d come back as soon as I could. It’s too soon to be sure what he does do, Rhyssa, but he apparently taps into electrical sources. He’s been glitching the hospital circuits fit to drive the electrician and a high-priced consultant barmy. And it also explains why he couldn’t cope with the body brace: the impulses which were fed directly into his synapses were short-circuiting inherent abilities, so the poor lad was trying to cope with an overload. Sue Romero is in bits thinking of all she’s been doing to Peter, and he’s in a state because he had no way of explaining why the body brace was all wrong for him . . . and the head nurse, Miz Allen, is one of those by-the-bookers and compounded the problem. Oh, his family are delighted, especially to know that Peter will not be “handicapped”—but their heads read “crippled, useless, financial drain.” It’ll be standard contract until he’s eighteen and fully trained. Here’s one kinetic Barchenka won’t get her space gloves on!

  When can you bring him home?

  We’re on our way! Dorotea replied triumphantly. Get Roddy’s room in my house ready. She shot Rhyssa a mental glimpse of Space-Force posters on every wall, models of space shuttles, mass passenger hotols, stealths, space labs, and generation ships descending from the ceiling, and a bunk bed with desk space below. Nothing could be more distant from the antiseptic environment he’s been living in for months.

  The physical meeting between Rhyssa Owen and Peter Reidinger was not quite an anticlimax. Dorotea had warned her that Peter’s mother and older sister were accompanying him in the heli-amb, excited but slightly apprehensive at his new circumstances.

  Ilsa Reidinger was a pleasant enough woman, terribly concerned for and certainly extremely proud of her Petey. She struggled with a less than congenial job in order to help meet the medical bills. The sixteen-year-old sister, Katya, was what Dorotea called “pushy,” trying to figure out how her brother’s good fortune might spill over on her and disgruntled that Peter had Talent and she had none. Dorotea said that Katya resented Peter because the cost of his hospitalization had kept her from having many of the things that she, the elder child, ought to have been able to enjoy. Perfectly understandable reaction, Dorotea told Rhyssa as the women deftly maneuvered Peter’s gurney into Dorotea’s house and on through into Roddy’s room.

  Both telepaths could feel Peter’s spirit lifting as he saw the unmedical furnishings and artifacts.

  “But how’ll you do all that has to be done for him all the time?” Ilsa Reidinger began in surprise.

  “Oh, Peter’ll only need a little help in the beginning, Mrs. Reidinger,” Dorotea said. Her mental Alley oop was the signal for Rick Hobson to “lift” Peter up into the bunk bed. “Now, let’s all clear out and let him settle himself in. And,” Dorotea added as she shooed everyone before her, “the heli-amb is waiting to take you and your daughter home. Here’s the vid number. As you saw, Peter has a set in the room. Call him any time. Unlike the hospital, here you can see what mischief he’s getting into. All right?”

  Dorotea’s positive manner made refusal impossible, and soon the heli-amb was thunking its way up out of the Center’s grounds.

  Rick, hook me up a line from the 4.5-kpm generator in the garden shed and bring it right into the room with Peter, Dorotea requested.

  What is this all about? Rhyssa demanded.

  I told you, Dorotea said, then added aloud since they were now alone, “he seems to tap into the electrical system and use that for power. Some sort of a gestalt. I want some of our engineer Talents to link with me when he’s rested enough for us to do some testing. But it’ll have to be you and me for a while, Rhyssa. He’s had such a terrible time.”

  Dorotea’s eyes welled with tears, and automatically Rhyssa gathered the older woman into her arms, smothering her with love, affection, and admiration.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” Dorotea said with a little sniff, pulling herself away. “You’ve had a lot to cope with now, and you don’t need me turning into a watering pot, but—” She poured into Rhyssa’s mind the jumble of pain/despondency/anguish/guilt, the self-accusation, and the soul-destroying terror that Peter had been enduring.

  Easing Dorotea to the couch, Rhyssa sat beside her, shaken by that accounting despite years of dealing with the bizarre mental states of emergent Talents.

  “I think a spot of tea would go down well right now,” Dorotea said, and Rhyssa gave a weak little laugh at Dorotea’s ever practical mind. Peter? A cup of tea? Lemon, milk, sugar?

  Yes, please, was Peter’s answer, surprising Rhyssa.

  You see? He needed only a little help to project his thoughts instead of squashing them down. Dorotea’s face wore an exaggeratedly smug smile.

  They were all enjoying a cup of tea when Rick Hobson bounced in, festooned with an electrician’s belt and heavy-duty cable.

  “I don’t know what kind of an outlet or receptacle you need, Dorotea,” he said, winking at her, nodding to Rhyssa, and then waving a hand at Peter, who was watching it all from his bunk.

  “Well, Peter, what do you think you need?” Dorotea asked. “He’d just been sort of hooking in to the electronic gadgets of the bed,” she told Rick.

  Both women caught Peter’s hesitation and concern.

  “Oh, well, it’s as easy to sort the specifics out later,” Rick said easily, catching Rhyssa’s warning look. “At any rate, the generator’s right outside and powered up. Any time you need it, it’s there.” With a cheery wave to all, he left.

  “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it, Peter?” Rhyssa said gently.

  “I don’t know what I did that makes you think I’m any good at all,” Peter said in a voice as pale as his complexion just then.

  “Dorotea thinks you used available electrical power to assist those dawn visits you made to me,” Rhyssa told him. She gave him a mischievous smile to reassure him. “I’m honored that it was my mind you linked with to bring you where you wanted to be.”

  “You are?” Peter turned his head away from the drinking straw in his teacup so that he could look down at Rhyssa.

  “I don’t get many men invading my bedroom, I assure you.”

  Subtly Dorotea was supporting her, increasing for Peter the sense that his intrusion had been clever and original. Both women generated subliminal thoughts to bolster his perception of himself, reversing the low self-esteem that wa
s currently inhibiting any forward progress.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “You will soon understand that among telepaths a midnight knock on the door isn’t considered an intrusion.”

  “But all those lights . . .”

  Rhyssa let her thoughts echo the annoyance she had felt at that proprietary supervision. “You didn’t hear me chewing them out for scaring you off, either.”

  “Ooooh, Rhyssa was angry,” Dorotea added.

  “You were doing what many have tried and failed at miserably,” Rhyssa went on.

  “I was?”

  “It’s what we call an out-of-body experience,” Rhyssa went on. “Very few people ever achieve that degree of mental control.”

  “They don’t?” Peter was wide-eyed in awe. “But it’s not hard.”

  Dorotea and Rhyssa exchanged amused glances.

  “Nothing’s hard when you know exactly how to do it, Peter,” Rhyssa said, “and you’ve apparently mastered the art. Dorotea and I are both hoping you can teach us. I don’t have much kinetic ability . . .”

  Sascha: And aren’t you glad of that right now? He sent an image of a space-suited Rhyssa whirling about Padrugoi chased by a whip-wielding Barchenka.

  Rhyssa: Don’t you dare interfere, Bearman! This is tricky enough as it is without you in my mind! Oh, my God! And suddenly Rhyssa began to fathom the potential of the boy. Give young Peter Reidinger access to sufficiently powerful electronic sources, and his kinetic Talent might boggle the mind of the most optimistic theorist. Why, his Talent was as far from spoon bending as modern precognition was from priestly auguries divined from ox intestines!

  There was an instant response from Sascha, Dorotea, Sirikit, Rick, and Madlyn. Damp it down, Rhyssa. Have a heart!

  Dorotea: Well, you’ve all got the picture now, so leave us alone with the boy. We can’t mess this one up.

  Rhyssa had to take a deep breath, hoping that the sudden revelation she had been unable to keep from other strong telepaths in the Center had not also been picked up by Peter Reidinger’s still-emerging skill. He was certainly not reacting.