Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  Dorotea: I blocked him, Rhyssa. Get ahold of yourself.

  “So, Peter,” Rhyssa managed to go on, “if I could get the hang of what you’re doing with the generators, it could be an extremely valuable added whammy.”

  Dorotea: I couldn’t have put it more discreetly myself.

  Rhyssa: Thanks.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Peter said sadly.

  “It’s the sort of thing you don’t think about doing, Peter. You just do it—because you want to, because you need to. And Dorotea and I will help.” Rhyssa grinned at him. “Communication is where telepathy excels. The spoken word sometimes isn’t as clear as it should be: words can be misused, inappropriately assigned muddy meanings. You’re accustomed to a word meaning one thing; someone else will think it means something else entirely and misunderstand what you just said. Speaking mind-to-mind clears up a lot of such confusions. Or have I just confused you more?”

  Peter began to smile suddenly. “Like how I couldn’t explain to Miz Romero just why I hated the body brace.”

  “That’s a very apt example, Peter. You just didn’t have the words for the concept of that sort of interference.”

  “But how’ll I move without a brace?”

  “By the power of your mind alone, which is exactly what you did when you were going out of body. Only we’ll teach you how to take your body along with you! And manage most of your daily care. You won’t be dependent on nurses or orderlies or anyone. In one sense it was what Sue was trying to get you to do—make your mind motivate your body to remember what it once could do. Only you took it one step beyond that, and neither of you knew you had latent kinetic ability. So, of course you couldn’t do what she wanted. You were a good jump ahead of her.”

  He was still skeptical. “I’m kinetic?”

  “Do you know what the word means?”

  “Sure. But I didn’t think I was.”

  Rhyssa rose. “Well, you are. So think about it.”

  Dorotea retrieved his cup. “You take a rest now, dear. Then I’ll show you about the house so you’ll know where everything is when you want it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Although Sascha usually handled training, the affinity established between Peter and Rhyssa made it sensible for her to guide his initiation.

  “I’ll help as much as I can,” Dorotea told Rhyssa, a look of resigned disappointment on her face, “but I am eighty-four, and I’ve slowed down a lot.” Then she smiled with bright mischief. “Of course, I’ve always liked cooking for a male appetite. And he’ll be able to do most things for himself in short order. I’m sure of it. I know a strong Talent when I bump minds with it.”

  So Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Sascha made a little ceremony of adding Peter Reidinger’s name to the Registry of Talents at the Eastern Center. Peter was still not quite certain of his great good fortune. Rick Hobson, who was empathic as well as kinetic, monitored the kinetic aspects; Don Usenik, the Center’s versatile medic, kept a close check on the boy’s physical condition; and the boy resided in Dorotea’s house.

  “I can still handle the mothering bits,” the old woman said staunchly, “especially since Rhyssa has enough to administer.”

  By the end of the first week, Peter was able to handle all his intimate problems, a success of immeasurable proportion for a sensitive boy. The morning he managed to take a shower all by himself was celebrated by his mentors as the achievement it was. The first time he had attempted a shower, he had nearly scalded himself and then overcontrolled and had to be rescued from icy water by Dorotea.

  It also took time, and finesse, to descend from his bed without hitting the floor in a heap. Or to keep from colliding with furniture as he reeled around the house. Gradually he achieved a delicate control of the gestalt and managed to imitate walking; only the really observant would notice that his feet never quite touched the ground and that the bend of his knees only approximated a normal walk. He could not grasp things, but he arranged his hands in appropriate positions so that he appeared to be carrying objects. With such accomplishments, he was a different boy altogether, and the change astonished his mother on her next visit.

  “There’s never been any Talent in our family, on either side,” she confided in Dorotea at one point. “I just can’t imagine where he got it from.”

  “Necessity, Mrs. Reidinger,” Dorotea said at her most grandmotherly. “The accident has forced him to transfer motor functions to another part of his brain. Even the best of us only utilize about two-fifths of our brain potential.”

  Ilsa Reidinger did not really understand Dorotea’s explanation, but she accepted it because Dorotea spoke with such authority.

  “The human body learns to compensate, Mrs. Reidinger,” Dorotea went on soothingly. “All Peter needed was a chance to train in new ways. Which, I must say, he has done extraordinarily well. We’re very pleased with his progress.” She beamed placidly at her guest.

  “Yes, but what will he do?” Ilsa Reidinger asked plaintively.

  “Why, Peter will do very well here at the Center, helping other youngsters—and adults, too—who have to learn to compensate for drastic handicaps.” Sensing the woman’s reservations on that score, Dorotea added, “Oh, the work pays very well. He’s on a training scholarship right now, of course, but his profession pays very well indeed. He’s all set for a fine career at the Center. You’re going to be very proud of him.”

  Dorotea chose to ignore Ilsa Reidinger’s other dominant thought: that if Peter was Talented, Katya must be, too. The girl was being ever so difficult, wanting to know why Peter got all the luck and she was stuck in a boring school, doing boring studies while Peter was getting everything his way just because he had gotten lucky.

  “Can he read minds?” is what Ilsa Reidinger asked out loud. The idea made her uncomfortable.

  “Peter has a very limited range,” Dorotea replied mendaciously, intimating regret. “He can hear very strong thoughts, but his projections are short-range. His Talent lies in kinetics. Do you understand that word?”

  “Yes, it means people can push things about without having to touch them. Like the ones going up to Padrugoi Station to help get it assembled so we can colonize the stars.” The glib phrasing came from Dave Lehardt’s clever publicity campaign on the tri-d.

  Then Ilsa asked more timorously, “Would Petey go into space?” In her very audible public mind, Ilsa decided that whatever the answer, she would not mention that to Katya.

  “Quite unlikely. The platform will be finished before Peter’s received all his necessary training.” The very thought of Barchenka conscripting Peter Reidinger made Dorotea queasy. Ilsa Reidinger was disappointed, however, suffering from the usual maternal syndrome of wanting her son to be unique, which he was; famous, which the Center would not wish on him; and perhaps rich, which Peter would also be, in that, as a Talent, he could purchase through the Center anything he really desired. “He shows a truly unique Talent.” Let that be a sop to her pride.

  “Yes, but what exactly does Petey do?”

  “Well, you saw him walk and serve us tea quite by himself. That is all accomplished by his kinetic Talent. So you see, he is no longer dependent on mechanical or prosthetic devices to conduct normal activities. When he’s surer of his abilities, we’ll add more complicated tasks.”

  “He’ll be able to hold down a job?”

  Ilsa Reidinger really had not even grasped the basics, Dorotea thought, or comprehended the obvious achievements. She had barely grasped the fact that Peter would no longer be a financial or an emotional burden to his family. She was just a nice woman who had certainly been devoted to Peter during his convalescence, but the strain had taken a toll on her, too. Dorotea ventured to wax more enthusiastic about Peter’s potential.

  It suddenly occurred to Dorotea to wonder if the testing routines, established by Daffyd op Owen, needed to be updated or made more sensitive. Hospitals were usually well staffed with Talents of all descriptions. Why hadn’t someone spotted P
eter? She really ought to discuss that notion with Rhyssa—when the mess with Barchenka was smoothed out.

  “I shouldn’t think there’d be much young Peter can’t do if he sets his mind to it.”

  “Being a kinetic, you mean?”

  “A rather special one, at that, since he’s had to overcome severe physical limitations.”

  Still slightly puzzled by the fuss being made over her Peter but immensely relieved by his future prospects, Ilsa Reidinger departed.

  It never occurred to Dorotea that her remarks, meant to allay a mother’s natural concern, would have unexpected repercussions. Certainly she and Rhyssa were beginning to realize the boy’s immense potential, but even to colleagues they had been discreet.

  “It’s a case of make speed slowly, Lance,” Rhyssa told the Australian director, who seemed to spend more time on a spacehotol and in the Jerhattan area than arranging matters in Canberra for his leave of absence on Padrugoi. He had dropped in to see her on his way from yet another long scheming session with Dave Lehardt and Samjan.

  “I’ve seen some fair dinkums, dealing with the Aborigines and the Maoris, Rhyssa,” Lance replied in his distinctive drawl as he slouched on a chair in her tower office, “but this lad takes the peach. If he’s come on this fast with only a li’l four-point-five kpm generator for him to play with, think what he could do with real power.”

  “All the more reason to make speed slowly. Control is the most vital part of his training.” She projected an image of Peter, head first, zipping around Jerhattan on a whirlwind tour, with a tail of detritus, people, small vehicles, and oddments caught up in the wake of his passage.

  Lance grinned, his teeth very white against his perpetual tan, his sea green eyes glittering. “Too right, mate. I get the drift. But with a Talent like his and a proper generator, we could bleeding near shift drones all the way to the nearest planet.”

  Think that in your most private mind, Lance, she told him sharply. Don’t let a whisper of it escape your shield.

  Lance propped his angular body upright, his expression completely serious. I was funning!

  Rhyssa nodded slowly, and he let out a long whistle.

  Yeah, but just imagine the look on Barchenka’s face if we could tell her that precious Padrugoi project had just turned obsolete.

  “Not quite,” Rhyssa said with a vindictive grin. She had entertained a few very satisfying fantasies on that very theme herself! “A facility like Padrugoi is required for any number of valid reasons apart from a jumping-off point to the stars.”

  How many know about Petey boy?

  About his potential? Mani staff know he’s unusual. I was too excited when I realized the possibilities inherent in his gestalt, but they only know I was excited about the boy. There are just three of us—myself, Dorotea, and Sascha—who realize that the boy might be unusual. I don’t think Sascha’s had the chance to appreciate the potential that Dorotea and I are just beginning to grasp. Rick Hobson thinks the boy is inordinately quick, but we had to have a kinetic in on his initial training. Like you, Rick’s got to go to Padrugoi, so we’re cramming as much technique in as possible. He and Peter mesh well. You are my choice for his more advanced training, so don’t do anything stupid up on Padrugoi, will you?

  No way! That’s a mean carrot to dangle in front of me for six long months! Lance rose. “Pure shame that Dave Lehardt’s not a real Talent. He’s wizard at handling the Finn and that slimy little Neester bloke.”

  Rhyssa gave a little convulsive shudder at the mere mention of Prince Phanibal.

  “You don’t like him either, do you?” Lance asked.

  “No!”

  Lance chuckled. “Always knew you were a woman of good sense, ducks.”

  Rhyssa did worry about Peter—he looked so frail after so long in a hospital bed. So did Dorotea, both keeping their concerns from Peter, whose telempathy was steadily improving along with his kinesis. He was not limited merely to receiving or sending emotions, but was developing a true telepathy, the ability to send and receive both abstract and lingual messages. Nor did Rhyssa or Dorotea call attention to those moments when, in sheer ebullience, Peter did not draw on the generator in kinetic exercises.

  Dorotea enjoyed cooking for his eager appetite, and once Peter was able to perform routine tasks, she fine-tuned his kinesis with food-preparation exercises. He could pare apples and potatoes, scrape carrots, and cut up vegetables, all kinetically. He ate anything and everything, and his body began to fill out with good firm flesh; Rick showed him exercises for muscle tone, and hours spent in Dorotea’s garden tanned his skin to a healthy glow. Peter no longer looked the wasted paralytic with atrophied muscles. Still, extreme care was needed in all his activities, since he continued to have no feeling in his extremities or lower torso and would be unaware of cutting or burning or bruising himself in some of his perambulations.

  When Rick finally had to leave for his tour at Padrugoi, Peter took it hard, moping about the next day.

  “Rick will be back, Peter,” Rhyssa said when she joined them that evening at dinner. “He’s taught you about all he knows. Now, you have to teach yourself, which’ll be hard.”

  “Teach myself?” Peter was so shocked that his good manners briefly deserted him. His fork hovered above his plate. He and Dorotea had an agreement—he could get the food to his mouth however he chose if he was alone, but he was to observe proper etiquette with anyone else.

  “Yes, teach yourself,” Dorotea replied blandly.

  “Rick has given you the basics,” Rhyssa added with a warm smile. “Certainly you’re now able to do everything for yourself and help out in the house and the garden. Now you begin the next step—testing yourself. Don’t worry. Rick left a long list for you to complete by the time his tour of duty is over.”

  “But he didn’t tell me how . . .” Peter was clearly floundering.

  “You know how,” Rhyssa said, acting surprised at his reaction. “All paranormal Talents come from an instinctive level. Sharpen your instinct.” She smiled at him, patting his arm soothingly. “That instinct led you right to the Center, didn’t it? Don’t worry about the ‘how’! Rely on your instinct. Use it by sending different types of inert objects to destinations farther and farther away. First to places you are familiar with. Then by memorizing tri-d visuals and maybe even using mathematical coordinates. For example, that forkful of mashed potato. Where would you like to put it?”

  The fork’s burden of mashed potato disappeared.

  Sascha: What is going on down there?

  Rhyssa: Does it concern a portion of mashed potato?

  Sascha, somewhat disgusted: It does! He sent her an image of a white glob in the middle of his desk.

  “And where did you send it, Peter?” Dorotea asked noncommittally.

  “Sascha’s desk. But on the wood, not on anything important,” Peter assured her.

  “I won’t require you to eat it, but do bring it back!” The well-traveled forkful reappeared on the edge of Peter’s plate.

  Sascha, sarcastically: Thank you!

  You’re welcome! Peter giggled like any youngster succeeding with a practical joke.

  Sascha to Rhyssa and Dorotea: We just get Madlyn house-trained and now we have Peter! Sometimes . . . I suppose, if he’s up to tricks, he’s adjusting to Rick’s departure.

  Peter was also up to work the next day, using the gestalt with the generator to shift various items about the Center. Dorotea started him off moving small objects from one room to another, emphasizing accuracy of placement and picking locations with which Peter was familiar. By the end of the morning he was shifting heavy bales of computer paper from storage to the Control Room, getting his placements from squares crayoned onto the floor until Budworth finally signaled that his aim was perfect.

  “Weight seems to be no object,” Sascha said, reviewing the achievements at lunch with Rhyssa. “How much did he have to rely on the gestalt?”

  “Not much. We’ve got a graph on its usage,”
Rhyssa replied. “His need is verging on the psychological.”

  “Ah, but that doesn’t alter the fact that he does use it,” Sascha said thoughtfully. “Can and does. By damn, Rhyssa, he’s extraordinary! Once he can really lean on generator power, there isn’t anything he can’t shift, is there?” His eyes were shining with excitement. “If only we could figure out just how he achieves the gestalt.”

  Rhyssa shook her head, with a rueful smile.

  “Could Rick?” he asked.

  Rhyssa sighed. “Rick did just the basic kinetic training exercises with him. He didn’t have more time. Damn Barchenka. Wouldn’t you just know that we’d have a promising emergent who’d benefit from training with the very kinetics that she’s yanked out of our reach. Why didn’t we have an earlier precog of this?”

  Sascha leaned back in his chair, regarding his good friend and director with an uncharacteristically solemn expression. “Rhyssa, hon, could you follow his mind?”

  She gave a short laugh. “I’m an adept at telepathy, but Peter’s going where no man has gone before. Maybe another strong kinetic could follow. I’m going to dragoon Lance Baden as his advanced trainer as soon as that wretched Padrugoi is finished.” She blued the mental air with assorted images of her frustration.

  Sascha nodded sympathetically. “Then we’ll just have to continue doing kindergarten stuff with him until Lance is free. And build him up physically. Does Don Usenik see any chance of exercise restimulating those damaged nerves? Now that—”

  “Trouble!” Budworth’s voice rang through the special alarm speaker in Rhyssa’s office.

  What kind? she asked immediately.

  “Goddammit, I want to speak to Director Owen now!” said a voice on the room address system as Budworth patched the call through.

  “You are,” Rhyssa replied coolly. “Please identify yourself.”

  “Dammit, didn’t they tell you? Bob Gaskin, Jerhattan Port Authority. You took our kinetic away from us, and now we’ve a container pinning three men down and no bloody way to lift it quick enough to save their lives. Right now only the safety bar on the forklift is—”