Pegasus In Space

13

Back on Padrugoi, Ranjit Youssef and Shandin Ross were patiently engaged in that most boring of investigative tasks: reviewing the entrance and exit tapes and cards of every visitor to Padrugoi since that security measure had been initiated under Barchenka, when the main stem of the Station had become operational. Thousands were grunts on work duty from the Linears and other overcrowded and underemployed urban areas around the world. Barchenka had not played favorites, at least at that level. Too many of the names the two men checked came up MIS, missing in space. That designation would alter-due to the Talents' vigilance-as they worked their way through to the Inauguration. However, Ranjit and Shandin, sipping quantities of coffee and sugary substances, had not reached that far yet in their survey. They had had, for their purposes, to isolate the various ethnic groups by nationality, trying to find some lead to Shimaz and/or Albert Ponce and/or Barchenka. They had to establish who was still employed by the Station and from which ethnicity. If Flimflam had waited six years to take revenge, others could have been planted, too.

They did have a few leads: relatives of Shimaz-Riz Naztuk, Zehra bint Arrof, and Spaz Zenoun. The first was an uncle, actually ten years younger than the Prince. Riz was a minor embassy official, assigned to Jerhattan after Shimaz's conviction. Zehra was a first cousin and had been implicated in some minor local government fraud but her family connections saved her from conviction. Spaz had a younger brother who had been sentenced to the Lunar Prison for terrorist activities and the massacre of over four hundred people in various bombings. Spaz had also worked on Padrugoi and was, by trade, an electrician. Padrugoi reemployed such technicians for short-term work since they were already familiar with the Station. Spaz was one such. And the Ahmin Duvachek link.

Naztuk, bint Arrof, and Zenoun had been logged on the Station frequently but, as Ranjit discovered, much more frequently in the last year. Duvachek had come only the once, but once might have been enough.

"D'you think Zenoun could have 'arranged' good reasons to return each time he made 'repairs'?" Ranjit asked Shandin.

The telepath gave a long sigh, leaning back in his chair and stretching until his joints popped.

"I get called down to Arrivals to check him and I've never sensed anything in his public mind." Shandin grimaced. "Of course, I'm not allowed to go deeper but I've also had no occasion to. Hello!" he added, jabbing at the hold button to stop the scroll. "Zenoun was here five times last month and only one was for repairs." He spun his chair over to Ranjit's station where the LEO lieutenant was viewing entry tapes. "Show us the passengers on March fifth, Ranjit." Spaz was the third man through the security arch. He carried a pack that he languidly tossed to the security guard who did the usual rummage-through.

"Nothing illegal or the guard would've spread the contents out", Ranjit said.

"Guard knows him," Shandin remarked, for the tape now showed Spaz's mouth moving. There was a pause during which the guard made some remark before waving Spaz through.

"Who was on duty that day?" asked Ranjit, as the guard's face was not visible. The surveillance unit was trained on the full face of arrivals.

Shandin went back to his station and typed in a query. "Corporal Ito Kuwahari." Shandin entered another command. "He's on leave."

Ranjit pinched his lower lip between two fingers. "Let me check." He spoke a low command. "Spaz stayed overnight, and whaddaya know! Look at his pack as he leaves: it's much flatter now."

The two men exchanged smug glances.

"Good thinking, Ranjit. Let's just check Uncle Riz and Zehra and see if they brought anything with them, and maybe left some of it behind. Can we get prints of all three? Just in case they turn up where they oughtn't to have been?"

They smiled again at each other. The painstaking investigation had borne enough fruit to encourage them to look for more.

"Let's also go over the surveillance records at Barchenka's. Be very interesting to see if any of these mugs," and Shandin waved his hand at the glossies of the three suspects, "have ever been to tea with Barchenka."

"Now, is it my office that checks with Corporal Kuwahari on leave, or yours?"

"I don't think we can. Where's Kuwahari's home? Osaka? On the off chance he happens to recall Spaz?" Ranjit asked.

Shandin twitched one shoulder. "Be our guest. Osaka's out of my ballpark. Kuwahari might recall the incident, though I can't fault him if he doesn't. Hundreds have come through since then."

As soon as the rockets of Limo-28 shut down and they were in free fall, Johnny 'pathed to Peter details about the most recent developments at Padrugoi.

Flimflam? Peter was surprised. Anger flared in him as he remembered that Flimflam had beaten Tirla.

Ol'scuzball himself, doing his usual thing. Caught him with his fingerprints all over some MPU components; probably the originals he so kindly replaced for us. And more prints in the epoxy he left behind. Whether or not it'll all be sorted out before we get back is doubtful. Meanwhile, connections are being made and evidence collected. Enjoy the next coupla days. They'll be the last peaceful ones either of us will have for a while.

Peter digested that information. Is Flimflam, he asked a moment later, why we made such a precipitous dawn getaway? He hadn't really had enough sleep last night-this morning.

Bingo! You are beginning to appreciate my devious mind I'd planned this sort of getaway the moment you landed us. Even before Dirk told me about Flimflam's complicity.

But! But!

Never mind Watari. He is basically a good commander, Johnny admitted. Just doesn't like things that ain't according to the book, his book, and we sure as hell ain't according to any book yet written. Xiang went over this bird with every sensor known to man, with a maintenance crew I personally checked. He weighted that word to imply that he had done some not totally "legal" scanning.

Aren't we going from the frying pan into the fire?

There're a lot more 'paths available on Padrugoi than there were on First Base. Lance is getting some well-deserved sleep at last.

WHAT? Look, I don't NEED to be wrapped in cotton wool for the rest of my life, Peter began angrily.

Cool it, Pete. You'll be working your butt off soon enough to pay for this luxury cruise. You'll bitch then, I suppose, about being out in the cold cruel world.

Wanna bet?

Johnny imagined a huge grin on his face.

Then Peter asked, Was Flimflam the only one involved in this sabotage?

Scarcely, Johnny replied with a snort. Although, he added quickly with a puzzled sigh, I'm still trying to figure out who had the most to gain by offing us. Flimflam was just waiting for a chance but he'd've had to have had help. Fraga and Leitao?

Them? Peter was dumbfounded. I thought they were both Space Authority.

I'd never heard of Fraga before. Though I have heard Leitao's name, Johnny mused. He was sure baby-sitting her. Stayed with her in sick bay until I was ready to 'port them down. And that collapse of hers-I'd like to know more about those two.

She was scared stiff. Of me! Peter couldn't quite suppress the note of injured surprise in his voice.

Exactly. She was scared stiff of you, the psychic, although she must have known that you-and I-are teleports when she was drafted to come up to that meeting. 'Pressure of work'? 'Overwork'? I don't think so. What about scared of what she had on her mind? I want some answers from those two. Later. Now you finish the night's sleep I so ruthlessly interrupted, Pete.

It took Peter a while, using limbics, to erase the angry indignation and get to sleep, secured in the netting. He woke to the sound of low voices in the corridor outside the privacy cubicles. He had slept himself out and was much revived by the rest. With a touch of chagrin he thought of his outburst. He shook his head and felt the reaction-reminding himself sternly that he was in free fall and to move accordingly. He was also hungry and needed to empty his appliance.

He gave himself a gentle shove out of his cubicle, using the head to empty his appliance before drifting toward the forward cabin. Xiang was on duty, talking to a man in a smart civilian coverall sitting in the other position. Xiang let one arm drift up as he saw Peter. Peter mimed eating and glided into the galley that was unoccupied, save for the lingering aroma of a savory. Peter twisted the selection dial, stopping at fried chicken with rice and peas, and remembered the lunch he'd eaten with Ceara Scott. He chose that, not really caring if it was time for "lunch" or not. Once again he could sense an odd cramp in his belly. Free fall was affecting him?

Thinking of Ceara made him wonder: had there been any investigation of Mai Leitao or Georg Fraga while they'd been here? He tried not to resent the woman's reaction to him. Had he remembered to tell Johnny about Fraga's unexpectedly opaque mind? How had Flimflam been involved? With Fraga or Leitao? Or Barchenka? She would surely have a crow to pluck with him and Johnny. But how could she be connected to Shimaz, who was very much incommunicado on First Base?

And, if Flimflam could finagle trouble on Padrugoi, was it safe to send such unreformable personalities to the Station to serve their sentences? Or cause the trouble Shimaz did at First Base? Not that it did him any good since Hiroga Watari had a Japanese attitude toward criminals: that they were not to be cosseted.

As standard procedure required all persons eating at any of the mess halls on Padrugoi to run their hands through the ID box at the entrance, a secondary investigation by Commander Bindra was efficiently and expeditiously conducted. Five persons-three were offenders and the other two confessed that they were badly in debt to Flimflam (facts that Kibon corroborated)-were detained in the brig's isolation cells. Their fingerprints and traces of an epoxy on their skin and clothing verified their presence on a prohibited level of Padrugoi. A sixth man also had traces of the damning substance but he was not detained at that point. Commander Bindra had specially chosen crews installing security devices in any ventilation shaft or conduit wider than fifty centimeters. Additional measureswere being contemplated anent a closer supervision of all offenders.

Peter did a lot of thinking on that return voyage, reviewing in his mind what he had seen on the telescopes and the ideas that the sights had generated. He itched to get time at Padrugoi's astronomy workstation. Then he sighed. Undoubtedly he'd have little free time when they got back. Vin Cyberal had passed the remark that Watari was hourly adding to his long list of urgently required items. At least Peter's contract with Space Authority limited the number and mass of 'portations per day. He'd make time for use of the FST and access the updates of astronomy texts from data files. There was so much he had to corroborate before he'd dare mention his notion to anyone, even Johnny. Maybe, especially Johnny.

First he needed more visuals of the existing Mars facility before he'd attempt to 'port something that far. Would it be better to use Padrugoi as his base for such a heave? Or would he have to go back to First Base-when it was in a better conjunction with Mars, of course. Padrugoi constantly upgraded its own astronomy facility and, if he could arrange time on the FSTs-he didn't really need the range and power of a SPOT-he doubted anyonewould much question his request. He could just imagine Watari's outburst if Peter had asked for 'scope time on First Base.

Hearing what was officially being done with asteroids had given him another idea, bizarre to be sure-but was it any more bizarre than what he was able to do in a paralyzed body? One did have to consider that Callisto's surface was icy, had no magnetic field, only wisps of atmosphere, and the crust covered a salty ocean. He regretted now that, once the Galileo program had finished early in this century, priorities had focused on firmly establishing a Lunar base and preparatory work for a manned Mars station. But you wouldn't want to site a facility on an unstable, icy envelope like Callisto's. You'd pick an asteroid that could be terraformed. An M-type asteroid, one about twenty to thirty kilometers in diameter-might as well dream big, Peter-enough iron to mine in situ and sufficient magnetic force to secure the atmosphere dome to the surface.

Would Ganymede or would lo be better for his needs? Those two satellites were "inner" and he wanted as broad a window for telekinetic thrusts as possible. Somehow Callisto appealed to him more. Named after a nymph beloved by Jupiter, if his memory served him. And changed into a bear by Juno. Suddenly the laughing face of Nina Hinojosa crossed his mind. Would she be what the ancients had called a "nymph," small, supple, pretty, dark-eyed? And no Juno would have been able to turn her into a bear! He chuckled at such whimsy. Furthermore Callisto's orbit was farther out from her primary than Ganymede's.

Had he finally found the right place to stand?

Yes! And he must spend 'scope time on Callisto, learning all he could about that satellite. Some stray thought pinged in his head and he tried to hang on to it. He relaxed, trying hard not to think about the fleeting thought he wanted to grasp. He wished he'd been on those dratted sensors when he'd used gestalt on the First Base generators.

They had had an entirely different feel. That was it! He froze. The generators! That's what had been nagging at him since Limo-34 had landed. Suddenly he realized that every single generator he had ever used in gestalt had its own special sort of "noise," or perhaps "feel" would be the better term. Over the past days, he'd gestalted with Padrugoi's solar-powered generators, the ship's fuel-powered one, the exceedingly easy-to-tap CERN generators, the Farside Telescope's solar array, and, most recently, had had just a nibble at the nuclear/solar-power-augmented generators on the Moon. All were different, some subtly so. The generators at Jerhattan Space Port differed from the battery-powered ones he'd had to use in emergencies. How did he do it? He swore silently. He'd always known he "felt" what he 'ported, but unconsciously, when he touched any new generator, he "felt" it, too. And tuned his mind to it. Maybe that's why other people couldn't gestalt; they weren't tuned-or couldn't tune into the generator. Or maybe just not the generator they were trying to use in gestalt!

How would he be able to express the subtlety he had only just realized existed? Ah! All those damned sensor readings, made to show generator use and burned calories! They were good for something after all. He exhaled and realized how tense he had become. Would such readings prove what he wanted them to prove over and above usage and physical effort? First he had to have them to examine with this new interpretation of the data. Data! Data was everything! And he'd need a lot to do what he wanted to do now!

Peter was so excited by these reflections. He could feel his fingers twitching for all those damned printouts. And chagrin that he had ever protested about the nuisance of being wired up to make them. Unable to sleep now, he examined the new premise, wondering exactly which sort of generators he should have on Callisto. What a prospect! His speculations wove between Callisto and the various types of generators as intricately as asteroids tumbled in their orbits.

If Peter was too excited to sleep, Johnny slept a good deal. Whenever Peter heard him snoring, he'd 'port him to his side so his thoughts were not interrupted by that noise.

"To make up for when he didn't sleep on First Base," Xiang commented to Peter when he noticed Johnny's continued absence. "Cameron's my official copilot." Xiang cast a sly sideways look at Peter. "The general said he'd done all the work on the way up." The copilot grinned. "I don't think so." He went back to squeezing his dinner from the food pouch in his hand without waiting for Peter's denial or agreement.

Their unanticipated arrival at Padrugoi was the only problem they had on the trip. Going "down" to Padrugoi struck Peter as an odd if accurate way of describing it: the Moon was sort of "up" from the Station, in an orbit above it. However, getting permission to land at Padrugoi made up for the quiet of the journey.

"Goddamn it, you're early here, too, Liu, and where am I going to put you all of a sudden?" demanded the portmaster, who immediately came on-line when Xiang made contact. Desmond Honeybald was a civilian, formerly the supervisor of Jerhattan International Airport. He'd been taken on to control Padrugoi's airspace when the project first got under way; a flamboyant but exceptionally capable personality.

"How come I wasn't warned? Least you could do. How come you're still supposed to be at First Base? No one bothers to keep me up to date, do they? And how come you're driving the 28 instead of the 34 you went out on? Oxbridge and Auers're supposed to be piloting. Not Liu and Cameron. How am I expected to keep track of this port's traffic when no one tells me anything? And the admiral has to give permission to any ship landing on the Wheel. Like I'd send a pirate in there or sompin. Ha! Now I'm supposed to secure this line." There was a brief pause in the portmaster's diatribe. "All right. Secured. Now you gotta tell me who's onboard. As if we were expecting some minor deity or sompin. At least you know how to dock, Liu. Yes, Liu, that's who's piloting. Now they don't want to know who's onboard. Make up your mind, Admiral. Yes, they're coming in smooth and easy. Like all of 'em should! Sure it can dock at Bay Three. It's a Limo, isn't it?" Another pause. "Yes, sir. Yes indeed, sir," the portmaster said in a far more respectful tone of voice. "I understand, sir. No, I do not need a vacation. I just got back from one. I will, sir. Thank you, sir." In yet another change of voice, gruff rather than aggravated, "Did you hear that, Pilot Liu? Bay Three. Two of your passengers are to find their way immediately to Admiral Coetzer's ready room. The others may disembark in the normal fashion. I'm repeating verbatim, Pilot Liu. Do you read me?"

"Loud and clear, Mr. Honeybald, " Xiang said, grinning fit to split his cheeks. "Bay Three. The two passengers have heard your message. Proceeding to Bay Three as ordered."

"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" Dirk Coetzer said when his yeoman announced the arrival of the wanderers. "We didn't even dare warn Honeybald, though he's a rock of discretion, that you were due in, ETA unknown." The admiral gazed speculatively at Peter. "Did you enjoy your look at First Base?"

"We both did," Peter replied. He was feeling odd. Perhaps it was merely getting adjusted to gravity again. He certainly shouldn't get twitches in his extremities for that!

"So have you any news for us?" Johnny asked, settling himself in his chair.

"Yes, we've been rather busy here," and Dirk turned an almost admonitory glance at the general, implying that they had not. "Boris Roznine is continuing his investigations downside but he left behind two Talents, both of whom have had mental contact with your old friend, Flimflam."

"You haven't arrested him?"

Dirk Coetzer gave an unhumorous grin. "We know exactly where he is at all times. We're waiting to see who will contact him. We have incontestable proof that Flimflam was involved in sabotaging Limo-34. His accomplices are incommunicado. I am reliably informed that he is currently in a state of very high anxiety. As he can't go anywhere that we can't find him, we might as well use him as bait."

"Turnabout's fair play," Johnny agreed. "How long'll you play him?"

The admiral appeared to consider this. "I'd say not long after Peter begins working for us again?" He cocked his head, his blue eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"Really? Hmm." Johnny turned to Peter with a wily expression on his face. "You did take my advice and rest on the way down?"

"As much as you did," Peter replied. "I'm ready to go to work." He grinned amiably at Johnny, wondering how soon he'd have a chance to "work."

"When?" asked Dirk Coetzer with such alacrity that Peter blinked. "We have a very long list."

"I expect so," Peter said before the admiral could elaborate. "I wouldn't mind having a meal."

Dirk immediately flourished a double folded sheet at him. "All the calories you want!"

Johnny intercepted the list. "When did you get this?"

Dirk widened his eyes. "It's what you didn't take with you on the 34."

"Oh!" Johnny's irritated expression faded. "In that case, let's compare it with the list the good colonel gave me just before our precipitous departure."

Dirk chuckled. "Watari didn't like that, I should imagine."

"Not at all according to his book," Johnny said, removing a second strip from his thigh pocket. "Ah, yes." He laid both lists on the table so the others could see. "Well, he is consistent and we should repay his generous hospitality as soon as possible. Dirk, will you join us? It seems to be lunchtime here."

"Nicola, two more for lunch," the admiral said, bending to his intercom.

Over the high carbohydrate meal, Dirk brought them up to speed on other developments.

"We have reason to believe, and may shortly be able to prove, that Flimflam was supplied with tools and the MPU circuits by a contract electrician, Spaz Zenoun, who had worked onstation during Barchenka's time."

"Has she been implicated in the sabotage?" Johnny asked.

"Circumstantially," the admiral admitted. "Boris has a team reviewing the Barchenka surveillance tapes. He's got proof that an uncle of Shimaz's, Riz Naztuk, visited her on three occasions, one not long after you began working up here for Space Authority, Pete," the admiral said.

"Not conclusive enough to do anything, is it?" Johnny said.

"Boris is working on that."

"Okay, how else is Shimaz involved? I can assure you that he's been under increasingly heavy observation at First Base," Johnny said. "For the past six months he hasn't even been allowed to mix with other offenders."

"Boris and I had an interesting conversation about that," Dirk said, using his napkin before continuing. "I believe that, when he was sentenced to incarceration at the Lunar Prison Facility, he made threats. I believe there are fanatics among his associates who would consider it an honor to implement them. Almost a fatwa."

"In this day and age?" Johnny exclaimed scornfully.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," the admiral said. "Boris has discovered a link with the Faithful Brotherhood who attacked you in the restaurant, Peter."

"What?" Both stared at him.

"It was one of those splinter groups. They had attended Religious Interpretive Group meetings led by a certain Very Reverend Ponsit Prosit."

"Flimflam?" Johnny's voice came close to a squeak. Peter stared at the admiral, fork poised on the way to his mouth.

"The very man," Dirk replied with a confirmatory nod of his head. "Once again, inconclusive."

Johnny rattled his fingers on the table, blinking in thought. "Ah, yes, the guys who fell all over you at your birthday party would have finished their sentences by now." He cocked his head significantly at the surprised telekinetic. A valid reason for the cotton wool, Pete?

"That's interesting. However, while offenders can't get down, neither can anyone with a LEO record get up," Dirk said. A thought also occurred to him. "Flimflam gave evidence once before to save his skin."

"You said you were using him as bait?" Johnny said.

"If he attracts anything, that's an entirely separate issue," the admiral replied. "If 'they,' " and he bracketed his fingers around the pronoun to indicate the unknown quantity, "fall for it, it's all to the good. Cass Cutler says he's in a sweat of fearful anticipation. He must be expecting a contact. And," he raised his hand to forestall Johnny's interruption, "we have tripled security measures in the arrivals' hall and on the Mall. Boris sent up two more empaths to listen, supporting Shandin, Ranjit, and Cass. Closing the Station would defeat the purpose." He grimaced. "And we've all those quite legitimate freighter crews."

"Okay, okay, we get the message," Johnny said with a grin at Peter. "Are you stoked up enough, Pete?"

Peter had been eating an excellent meal-finishing with two pieces of a very good apple pie-while the other two were discussing the situation. He was, however, very eager to get to their office and review all those previously detestable use-energy readings to see if all his ambitious reflections on the return trip were in any way valid. Maybe he should also contact CERN and Professor Gadriel. Abruptly then, Peter swallowed the last mouthful of apple pie and got out a question.

"Admiral, I wanted to know if you've heard anything from Professor Gadriel."

"The professor?" Dirk patted his lips with his napkin, concealing a small smile. "Well, yes, Peter, I have."

Peter braced himself.

"Admittedly he was considerably confused-and a trifle irritated-when the latest set of circuits in his gestalt generator fried for no apparent reason." The admiral raised his hand to forestall Peter's chagrin. "When Rhyssa gave him the answer, he was delighted. He said it was proof he was on the right track." Dirk cleared his throat. "He's busy reconstructing them and would like very much to have a chance to talk with you. Good man, Gadriel. I said you'd make time."

"Oh, I will, sir, definitely," Peter said, letting relief wash over him. He put down his fork and then noticed the muscles on the back of his right hand were twitching.

"Pete?"

"Sorry, Johnny."

"Dirk, we can work just as easily from the conference room as CIC and get at least some of this stuff cleared," Johnny rattled the lists, "before we officially return."

"Good notion. Most of the passengers on the 28 are in transit downside right now in the regular shuttle," Dirk said, tapping a code into his wristcom. "Sakai, you will ignore any sudden fluctuations of the generators. Do you read me?" The admiral gave a nod of satisfaction for the immediate and unquestioning confirmation. "Do you need anything else in the conference room? Yeoman Nizukami can supply it."

Johnny gave a sideways grin of mischief. "Nothing we can't get ourselves, I suspect."

"Especially since you made it to First Base."

"Exactly. See you later, Dirk. C'mon, Pete. We'll earn our luxury holiday to the Moon."

They 'ported themselves into the conference room and turned up the lights. When Johnny 'ported in the recording equipment, Peter made his usual grimace. No need to alter his reaction to being recorded until he could prove his point.

"Look, we're doing this according to Mr. Hoyle and with tapes to prove it. I'm not going to have you overloaded," he said as he began placing the sensors on Peter. "I need logged proof of what mass you 'ported and the energy you expended. To give CFO Taddesse the proper corroboration that you're working according to the terms of your contract."

Peter submitted, hoping his suppressed excitement didn't register as an energy reading. Then he spread out the list, beginning to check off the items, which included calculations of mass, descriptions of contents, and the current location in the various cargo corrals. Johnny called up separate windows for each of the locations and gestured for Peter to settle himself comfortably.

"Watari doesn't want much, does he?" he grunted as he checked off individual units and tallied a total of their mass.

"A lot are lightweight," Peter said, keeping his smile to himself. Once again he was diverted by the subcutaneous spasms on the back of his right hand. He didn't feel anything, of course, but he'd never noticed a visible twitching before.

"Okay! This is the first batch. I'll assemble them in a pack." He grinned at Peter. "You can send them all to the main supply depot on First Base now that we both are familiar with it!"

"That's right. We've both seen it." But Peter amended to himself: It isn't that we need to see where we're going to dump shipments, though that's essential, too. It's that we don't put artificial limits on ourselves, like only to and fro between Jerhattan Space Port and Padrugoi Station. That was the distance Johnny had limited himself to. Another requirement was to use the right sort of generator for each individual until he or she could learn to "tune" in to any kind. Like the CERN generators that he had tapped in to save Limo-34 in that critical moment. He was relieved that an official apology, and compensation for the fried circuits, had been given Professor Gadriel.

However, if he was to fool Johnny into an innocent 'port as far as the Moon, where had he been on First Base that Johnny hadn't? Oh, and Peter felt a surge of amusement, the observatory! Were there visuals of that distinctive stain, the southern half of the South American continent? Or, using that as a design, could he render a good digital representation? The voice-address unit in his cabin was stateof-the art.

"I've got the first load assembled, Pete," and Johnny pointed to the lower left-hand window on the monitor. Station lights illuminated the mix of crates.

Peter "felt" them. Then he put his mind to "touching" Padrugoi's generators. They were different; lighter, crisper, easier to deal with than nuclear- or fuel-powered ones. He chuckled. They were tuned to a C major chord, the same as the CERN gestalt generators and the Farside Telescope's solar array. Which would be best for his ultimate purpose? He wondered if his use-energy readings would mirror the light crisp feeling, the C major. Did he have to draw on them less, or more, than other types?

He couldn't see the screen of the recorder from his angle. He could wait until the day's work was dispatched. Back to the matter at hand, sending his bread-and-butter thank-you shipments to First Base.

The mass of the containers was not unwieldy: certainly nothing like the heavy mass of the 34, which he had heaved toward First Base. He "saw" the exact area on the depot floor against the north wall that he and Johnny had designated. He caught up the mass, leaned just the right amount into the generators, and pushed.

"Easy," Peter said, taking a deep and satisfied breath when he'd finished.

"Now, let's see how long it takes them to realize they've got their order. How do you feel, kid?" Johnny cocked an eyebrow.

"Fine," Peter said with a shrug.

"I'll get the next batch ready. Do you need anything?"

"Not yet. Hey, shouldn't we tell Rhyssa that we're back?"

"Not at three A.M." Johnny pointed to the time zone clocks. The face labeled "Jerhattan" displayed the very early morning hour.

Peter now remembered the odd jerks of the muscles on his right hand. The hand was doing nothing right now, relaxed on the tabletop.

They did three more light 'portations in the next two hours. Johnny was separating a larger mass when the conference room comm beeped.

"Yes, sir," Johnny answered without much courtesy. "Oh," and his face brightened. "Took them long enough to notice." He pressed the speaker button and the admiral's query was audible to Peter.

"How many have you sent? How's Pete?"

"Four." Johnny answered the first question.

"I'm fine, Admiral," Peter replied for himself.

"Do you need any calories?" A faint hint of amusement colored the admiral's voice.

"Not yet."

"I had Barney order in some fruit and savories for you." Then the connection was broken.

Peter could not stifle his groan. Did everyone on the Station know exactly what he was supposed to eat? He saw the muscles on the top of his left hand begin to jump. As soon as he could, he wanted to ask Ceara about that! He didn't want any physical problems cropping up right now to postpone his analysis of the use-energy printout data.

"Time, kid," Johnny said and Peter obediently "saw" the mass ready to 'port and dispatched it.

"Now, I'll have some fruit," he said.

At nine A.M., at the end of his shift, he 'pathed to Rhyssa, who would now be in her office. Rhyssa?

Peter! Where are you?

Onstation, earning my keep. Is everyone all right down there?

Of course, and her mental tone implied that nothing ever happened "down there" that he should worry about. But I wasn't notified.

No one was, Rhyssa. Not even the admiral.

You said you were earning your keep? When did you get back to Padrugoi? Why haven't you contacted Madlyn? She said you weren't to be back onstation for another two days from the last report she had.

You know how devious Johnny can be.

Indeed!

We're still not here, which is why we didn't contact Madlyn. Only Dirk.

She paused. Well, I suppose that's advisable with all that's happening. Did he bring you up to date? Barchenka may be implicated as well as that wretched Shimaz… Peter felt her mental revulsion for the man. He had never forgotten the way the man had leered at Rhyssa that day in her office. And Flimflam. I can't believe they're able to pull off such antics when they're supposed to be so closely watched!

Me neither! Peter tried to suppress the rancor he felt.

Peter! Rhyssa, catching it, sounded alarmed and critical.

Then she went on more briskly. We also need to talk about that long-distance call you made me.

Look, Barney's bringing in our order and I'm starved, he said to change the subject. He didn't want to talk about that now. Maybe he could fob Rhyssa off until he had really good news to impart. When I've finished eating, I'm going to bed, tucked in safely by the good general.

Peter! There was now concern in her tone.

I need to eat, Rhyssa, and I need to sleep. I'm real tired. Catchya later, as Johnny would say. He managed to imbue his mental tone with lighthearted amusement to reassure Rhyssa. He really didn't want to lose her good opinion of him. In fact, he was a bit surprised by what he'd said to her.

Rhyssa wasn't naive. Surely she accepted the fact that Barchenka and Shimaz would try to revenge themselves on him and the general. That Flimflam would not have meekly accepted his sentence; that it was in his nature to do all he could to evade restrictions set on him and seek to get back in any way he could at those who had been at all responsible for the curtailment of his preferred lifestyle.

"What'd you say to Rhyssa?" Johnny asked him when Barney had left them alone.

"Why?"

"She says you've got cynical."

Peter shrugged. "I guess you do when you've been the object of a… what did you call it, a fatwa?"

Johnny gave him a long look. "Yeah, I guess."

Peter noticed his left hand muscles jumping. "When are we going to be officially back?"

"About the time someone notices the corrals are being mysteriously emptied."

Ranjit! Cass said urgently, not wanting to use her wristcom in the midst of the crowd of men and women on their way to and from the level's mess hall. Flimflam just went into Kibon's.

Hear ya! He goes several times a day.

Not every hour on the hour like he's done today. Besides, I caught a glimpse of someone else in there with him and Kibon. He never allows two in that room.

Right! Gotcha. Can Suzanne spin off to tail the other guy when he comes out?

The LEO Commissioner had insisted that the girls work paired, considering the fear Cass had reported emanating from Flimflam. If the man was cornered, there was no telling what he could do. Cass was strong and well trained in self-defense but she was glad of Suzanne's company. She was able to get a good night's sleep, too, with Suzanne there to stand a watch on their quarry.

Can do. Wanted to warn you.

Keep on Flimflam's track, the LEO lieutenant replied.

Like epoxy!

I'm sending Chet down to your level. Just in case. Lemme know if you can suss out who's the third man at Kibon's.

Abruptly Suzanne swore an oath, hauled Cass to the side of the corridor, and bent to fix her boot, loudly cursing the cheap junk that was given out as shoes. Cass bent over, pretending to help, able to cock her head sideways to keep Kibon's door in sight. She could "hear" Flimflam's dominant emotions: his mental tone was shrill, like someone close to breaking, and colored with righteous indignation and anger. She could sense Kibon's stillness, as if, by his silence, he would be unnoticed. The third man was in as much control of himself as Kibon, emanating condescension and amusement. Suddenly that evaporated and she felt a stab of pain, Flimflam's, then Kibon's flash of fury. The door wrenched open and a swarthy-skinned man of medium height, wearing the sort of anonymous coverall that would permit him to blend into any group onstation, ducked out, and in one stride was part of the corridor traffic.

Got him, Suzanne said. One real satisfied bastard.

I'll check Flimflam.

Kibon had not even had time to get off his stool to close the door when Cass barged in. Flimflam was pressed against the far wall, dislodging pencil files as he began to slide to the floor, his eyes bulging out with pained incredulity. Foremost in his mind was the betrayal; after all he'd done for them…

Flimflam's down, Cass told Suzanne and Ranjit and, managing to get the door shut before anyone in the hall was aware of what was happening, repeated the Mayday on her wristcom.

"Back on your stool, Kibon"' she ordered the bookie as she reached into a hip pocket for a shock-shot. Crouching down by Flimflam, she sprayed the emergency aid into his arm with one hand and with the other, examined the wound. "You'll live. He missed anything vital. What're you wearing? Deflected the blade. He was aiming to gut you."

A knife would have shown up on any one of the security arches, to keep offies from smuggling weapons into this level. Padrugoi might have to allow the working public to walk freely on the main levels, but that didn't mean precautions were not taken whenever possible.

Cass, Ranjit, he's heading up, said Suzanne. I think he's freighter personnel. They got a certain way of walking when they're back in gravity. You know what I mean?

A stir in the hallway outside and Kibon's door opened again. Kibon groaned at the security and medical team that had materialized there.

"More won't fit," he muttered. "Get him outta here."

"No sweat, Kibon," Cass said so sweetly that Kibon blinked in surprise. Beckoning to the first man to grab Flimflam's shoulders, she hoisted his feet and they hauled him out into a corridor occupied only by the emergency team and the backs of those hurrying from the vicinity.

Flimflam's dimming consciousness was colored by shock, betrayal, fury, blooming pain, and a determination to "make them pay."

"He'll live," said the medic after a cursory examination, and he waved the team to proceed to the nearest elevator.

Where are you, Suzie? Need help?

I got Ranjit and Chet with me.

Then I'll stay with my quarry. He's angry enough to think something useful. Maybe I'll just get him thinking that perhaps confession would be very good for his soul.

He has one? Just get him to talk out loud, Cass. It doesn't count in court if he just thinks it!

Tell me about it.

Commander Ottey, Shandin Ross, and two other security officers Cass didn't know were already in the infirmary two levels up. All the way there, while Cass pumped the injured man with thoughts of "confess," "make 'em pay," "get 'em good," and similar provocative mental directions, she managed to stay out of his direct line of vision as much as possible. Flimflam's thoughts continued to revolve about retaliation and how much pain he was in. That was all he voiced.

"Something for the pain. I'm hurt. I'm in pain. Gimme something for the pain!"

"We did. It'll kick in in a minute," one of the medics snapped to shut him up.

Has he said anything useful, Cass? Shandin asked. He and the others also stayed out of Flimflam's immediate vision.

He's full of revenge. Then she caught the reason. But he's too damned scared of 'them' even to think names or faces.

Maybe he doesn't know any, Shandin Ross suggested.

That's always possible. But today he's been in and out of Kibon's like a yo-yo. So I figure he was expecting to meet someone there. And he did. Has Ranjit caught up with his assailant yet?

Closing. Man doesn't realize he's being followed either. Arrogant bastard. Shandin raised an eyebrow in distaste, then grinned. Got him! In possession of a very sharp plastic, bloody spike.

"Damn!" the medic examining Flimflam exclaimed, reaching for a stimulant.

"He's dying," Cass said telepathically as well as out loud. "Tell them to watch that spike, Shandin. It must have been poisoned. The wound was superficial."

Medics closed in on Flimflam, trying to resuscitate him. Cass stepped back, leaning against the wall, trying to catch something useful from the man's receding consciousness. The need for revenge remained dominant until he was totally mindless.

"Cass? Cass!" Shandin caught her shock at the death and reached her before her knees gave way.

"I hate it. I hate it when minds wink out like that," she whispered, grateful for the lieutenant's support.

"I need help," Shandin began, looking around for a medic.

"I'm here with it," and Cass tried to focus on the red-haired woman pressing a hypospray against her arm. The woman grinned up at Cass. "Let's get you out of here."

Cass felt the surge of sympathy and understanding from her as Shandin carried her out of that cubicle and into the adjacent one where she was lifted onto the narrow bed.

Ceara's an empath, Cass, Shandin said. He, too, was broadcasting reassurance.

That's my job, Cass replied.

Not right now, it isn't, Shandin said as Ceara attached a monitor to Cass's finger.

Cass agreed.

Peter did not feel the least remorse when he and Johnny were informed that Flimflam had died of a poisoned knife thrust. He had more important matters on his mind. He was struggling with his analysis of the data he needed from the reams of use-energy printouts, both for himself and Johnny. He wasn't nearly as tired as he had made out after the second day of scheduled 'ports to First Base. But he used that excuse. He wasn't exactly sure what data he hoped to extract and gave up after two hours. There were two jobs he needed to do; the analysis was only one. Equally important in his mind was re-creating the "South America" discoloration with which he would fool Johnny into 'porting all the way to First Base.

Let's rid him of his self-imposed limitations, Peter muttered to himself as he accessed the draw program on his worktop. Gradually he worked up the sketch, with the corner of the partition window and the control worktop and the cabinets beneath. He got the color tones as well, including the opaque smokiness of the window. The general image resembled facilities that Johnny had probably 'ported to many times, save for that distinctive splotch and the angle of window and worktop. Making the visual wasn't anywhere near as easy as he thought it would be. He could hold a lightpen but he didn't have the fine muscle control needed for minute changes, although he seemed to have finally got the hang of using the device. Possibly he was inspired by this means to the end he desired. He grinned. He stared at the visual, adjusting proportions, adjusting colors, adjusting until his eyes watered. The image had to be perfect so Johnny would see it distinctly enough to 'port to it. After all, there was only one spot in this solar system that was identical: in the observatory office on First Base.

Yawning several times in succession made him check the time and he found that he'd spent nearly three hours on the project. But he was reasonably satisfied with it. He wished he had a visual but the notion of using "South America" had come after he'd been to the astronomy office. He'd check his imaging again in the morning. The muscle between his last two fingers on his right hand was twitching again. It didn't hurt. Of course, it couldn't. He had no feeling in his hands, even if the skin was jumping about from some sort of a tic. Maybe he'd better see a medic. Maybe he could see Ceara. He could call her to his room. No, he couldn't call a woman to his cabin even if she was a qualified doctor. Seeing her in a professional capacity was permissible, wasn't it? He yawned again. And put himself to bed.

He was up, had changed his appliance, showered, and dressed before he felt Johnny's mind touch his.

I'm up, I'm up, he said.

You sound revoltingly chipper.

Peter grinned. Johnny sounded as if he were hung over.

Had breakfast?

Shut up and eat yours now so I don't have to smell it. Barney's waiting for you in the conference room. Tell him I'll need plenty of fresh coffee. And stress the 'fresh.' A pause. Please.

Sure thing!

Johnny arrived well after Peter had finished his meal. Peter had had time to transfer the image of "South America" to the conference room files, securing it with his personal code. The moment Johnny arrived, Barney appeared, ready with the coffee, which he placed before the general as well as hard copy of the day's teleportation list.

"You know," Peter said casually, "we could go into business for ourselves. T and T."

"Huh?"

Peter waited until Johnny had had a few sips of the hot, fresh coffee. It even smelled good to Peter.

"Telepaths and Teleporters, Incorporated, or Limited because there's really only three of us strong kinetics. I include Lance."

"Good of you," Johnny mumbled, both hands on the cup, elbows on the table. He wasn't really hearing anything yet.

Peter "reached" for the day's schedule and unfolded the sheet, laying the hardcopy flat. "Did we hear confirmation of receipt from First Base?"

Johnny nodded and then clutched at his head. "Yeah."

"And they've cleared the telepad?"

"Yeah."

"I wouldn't want to dump some of today's heavy stuff on yesterday's fragile shipments."

"You won't."

Peter checked the items a second time, looking at the mass and descriptions. "Not a bad day's work. I think I'll start with some heavy stuff."

"Be my guest."

"Who did this to you? The admiral?"

"Who else, considering we're not here to anyone else," Johnny said, and took another swallow. "Great coffee, Barney."

"Thank you, sir. If I am no longer required?"

"Bring Pete a high-calorie snack about ten, would you, Barney?"

"Of course, sir. And please secure the door behind me, General," he added apologetically.

"Yeah, s'okay, Barney."

As soon as the door closed behind the quiet steward, Peter threw on the lock.

"I'll just assemble the first stuff," Peter said. "Oh, and there're a few things for us to shift downside, too. Shall I save them for you?" If he set a pattern today, it would be easier to slip in the one he wanted Johnny to do. But not when he had a hangover.

"I'll get to them later, Pete." Johnny cleared his throat and finished that cup of coffee.

"I'll fill, Johnny. You might burn yourself," Peter said kindly. Johnny shot him a caustic glance but held his cup out. Peter 'ported the carafe over and filled the cup.

"Thanks. Don't ever drink, kid. Not really worth it."

"I'll remember that."

Johnny slumped over his coffee while Peter organized the first send. He would have to be patient for his Great Experiment. He wanted Johnny in his full senses as much to do the 'port as to appreciate what was possible! First the Moon, then Mars, and then…? Peter's heart leapt within his chest with excitement.

"Don't forget the sensors, Pete," Johnny had enough presence of mind to say.

As well he hadn't already put them on, Peter thought, or maybe palpitations of anticipation didn't register on monitors. He could attach the pads to himself but it took time. And once again he saw his hand muscles spasm and had an odd sensation in his fingertips. From residual electricity in the pads? He really must resume his Reeve Board exercises. With Flimflam dead, and undoubtedly some sort of confession from the assassin, surely their return could be officially announced! And he could arrange for some telescope time. He had to know if his notion was feasible.

"I'm wired," he announced to Johnny and, setting his mind to the gestalt, made the day's first transfer to the main depot at First Base. "That was almost easy," he added, though it hadn't been all that easy. He just wanted to imply that, preparing the ground for Johnny.

"Don't sound so cheerful."

"Why shouldn't I? Flimflam's dead and they'll find out more from his assassin."

"No, they won't," Johnny said. "Like all well-programmed assassins he suicided."

"Oh!" That was too bad. It also meant that this whole sorry mess of intrigue and revenge wasn't cleared up.

"However, the good admiral's security guys are picking the brains of the freighter crew; not literally. That isn't legal. But the good ship Elise has been moored onstation for the past eight days." Johnny frowned. "Indeed, since our Limo left. So perhaps the late Idi ibn Sorkut-at least that's the name on his papers-might have let drop some tidbits in the Mall while awaiting the news that Limo-34 was MIS."

"You sound better."

"I'm not really."

"Could all this really be a fatwa?"

"More than likely, though a fatwa was a religious punishment, for blasphemy. This is for plain revenge."

"Plain?" Peter exclaimed.

"No, I guess there's nothing plain about this at all." Johnny raised bloodshot eyes and managed a grim smile. He pulled the list over to him. "You've done the first?"

"I'll organize the second, too. You haven't had enough coffee yet." Peter laid his hand on the list to draw it back to him, aware that his fingers were twitching.

Johnny saw it and blinked to clear his eyes. "Is that new?"

"Seems to be. Doesn't hurt. I don't feel it."

"That's nerve action. You're not supposed to have working nerves."

"A fringe benefit of free fall?" Then Peter suggested slyly, "Maybe all the hard work I did landing us?"

Johnny reached for the comunit and gave an address. "Is Dr. Scott available? Good. Will she please report to Admiral Coetzer's conference room. This is not an emergency."

Suddenly Johnny thrust his coffee mug into Peter's left hand, curved where he had laid it to hold down the schedule list. Peter jerked his hand… away from heat?

"I felt that!" Peter stared down at his hand.

Johnny moved the mug to Peter's right hand, slowly pressing the thumb up against it.

"And that?" Johnny's voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Yes."

Slowly, as if he would almost rather not be disappointed, Peter kinetically fitted both hands around the hot coffee mug. He swallowed hard.

"I can feel heat in all my fingers and in the palms of my hands."

He raised his eyes to Johnny's. A slow and incredulous smile spread over the general's face, and his eyes were shining with extra moisture. He slid his hands lightly over Peter's.

"D'you feel that?"

"Just a slight pressure." Peter wanted to cry. For the first time since Dorotea had found him in the hospital, he wanted to cry. He blinked very hard. He couldn't cry in front of Johnny Greene.

"If you do, I will," Johnny murmured, and gently embraced him. Can you feel this?

Peter gave his head a little shake, his head resting against Johnny's broad shoulder. Just a sort of pressure. But, even to have the use of my fingers again! I haven't been able to move them since that damned body brace shorted out, with me in it. He didn't shake with sobs, that was probably beyond his new capability, but he did feel his chest move and let the tears roll down his face. Until they heard the tentative rap on the door.

"Admiral?" The muffled voice was female. Mentally Peter reached out and recognized Ceara Scott.

Johnny opened the lock and, as she pulled the door forward she was startled to see the occupants and hurried inside, her eyes focused on Peter. She closed the door quickly.

"What's wrong?" She hurried to his side and Johnny released his hold.

"I don't think nerves spontaneously regenerate," Johnny said, his lips twisted to one side.

"I feel heat." Peter demonstrated by clasping the coffee mug in both hands.

"But you can't," she exclaimed. Then, shaking her head in a double denial, she altered her remark. "You shouldn't be able to! I saw your medical files, the spinal trauma."

"I can feel heat," Peter repeated, holding the cup up in both hands toward her. Johnny instantly extended the flat of his hand to support the mug.

"That coffee's hot, you know." The general's tone was gruff but his eyes remained very shiny. "I don't want you splattered and burned because you're showing off."

"Let's just see what we've got here," Ceara said, deftly removing the hot cup from Peter's hands and noting its heat. "Undoubtedly hot."

She took Peter's left hand and turned it over, noting the redness. She pressed one fingertip.

"I felt that, too!" There was delighted amazement in Peter's voice. "I didn't quite feel that, " he said with less delight when she pressed the skin of the next knuckle of the finger. She dug her finger nail into his skin and he felt the sharper prod. "That I felt!" He looked at the mark her nail had left on the skin.

Ceara eased herself into the nearest chair. "You should see a proper neurologist as soon as possible. And there isn't one onstation. We've got to find out if you really could have had some regeneration… We do have an MRI in sick bay-" She broke off, eyes blinking in confusion. Peter could feel her mind blazing alternately with optimism and denial. Miracles didn't happen anymore. She gave her head a sharp shake. "I didn't realize you were back on Padrugoi." Her glance took in Johnny.

"I'll see if Dirk will admit we're here. Especially if we have to get Peter down to sick bay. First order of business." Johnny reached for the comunit as briskly as if he were no longer suffering from a hangover.

"Second order of business is this," Peter said, tapping a fingertip-and feeling it-on the day's list.

"Would he be endangering himself?" Johnny asked Ceara anxiously, pausing on the comm keypad.

"How?" Peter demanded. After all that's happened to me in the last two weeks?