Pegasus In Space

14

Upon hearing that Peter needed to go to sick bay, Dirk Coetzer was concerned.

"What has to be done?" Peter asked Ceara warily. He'd had more than enough physical examinations, even if he hadn't felt them.

"We've a good MRI, though an EMG…"

"What's that?" Johnny demanded, far more alarmed than either Coetzer or Peter.

"Electroneuromyograph, but it's done with sensor pads, much like that equipment," and she nodded to the unit to which Peter was already attached. "Used to be much more intrusive. Anyway, sick bay doesn't have one. You'd've had to go downside. I'd recommend Finn Markstein. He's a neurologist. I trained with him at Mountainside Hospital."

"Will the MRI be conclusive?' Johnny asked. "Will we see what's going on?"

Peter turned to regard Johnny with some amusement. Johnny sounded so anxious while Peter was being far more objective. Catching the look, Johnny flushed and gripped Peter's shoulder, then remembered Peter might feel it and threw both hands up in the air in bewilderment.

"General Greene, if I haven't collapsed by now, I won't. But let's just get the second shipment off." He looked at Ceara. "Then I'm all yours." It was his turn to blush.

She covered her mouth with her hand to hide a grin before giving him a more professional look.

"An MRI doesn't take that long but it will reassure everyone about your present condition."

"He's worried about a shipment?" Johnny ignored her reassurance and waved his hands over his head, rolling his eyes. "He's not worried about 'feeling' for the first time in what is it, six years?"

Peter grinned at Johnny's histrionics.

"Look, Peter, don't concern yourself over 'porting," Dirk Coetzer began placatingly on the comlink.

"Admiral, that is my job here. I made it to First Base so I could 'port more efficiently. I'm not about to malinger when General Greene cannot undertake such assignments on his own." Peter swallowed hard, hoping that his agitated response would not put Johnny on guard. Hurriedly he said, "I'll send the second shipment, go down to sick bay, get this MRI, and be back in time to send number three."

Ceara gave him a long look that said clearly "only if the MRI is good."

Johnny had to be persuaded to Peter's return to work after the MRI, but Dirk was clearly pleased at Peter's diligence. Johnny even added his mental push to Peter's on the second shipment. Peter kept his pleasure over that to himself. It would be so easy for him to just duck out at the last moment and leave all the 'port to Johnny. Then he'd tell him the destination and prove to doubting Johnny Greene that his gift did not have limits.

Johnny did suggest that they 'port themselves and Ceara down to sick bay, preferably right into the room with the MRI equipment.

"I also don't want anyone thinking you've got a medical problem," Johnny said to justify that maneuver.

"Assassins just don't fall out of convenient lockers, Johnny," Peter replied but he didn't object.

There was enough space in the MRI chamber to accommodate all three. The main sick bay was more than adequate for normal problems; a special section dealt with anoxia and other space accidents.

Only when Peter levitated himself to the required supine posture on the MRI bed did he feel the least bit apprehensive. He'd had numerous MRIs, but this time it was different.

Ceara took a set of the goggles from the hook near the programmable screen on the wall, which was out of Peter's line of sight.

"These are virtual reality glasses. I can see the anatomic structures of your body, Peter."

The shell of the MRI passed over his body and the results slowly began to scroll down the screen. There was complete silence once the shell was back in the ready position.

"Well, I'd like to have Commander de Aruya verify this," Ceara finally said, removing the glasses.

"Why, what's wrong?" Johnny demanded before Peter could.

"Because the MRI shows me extensive neoneurogenesis."

"What does that mean?" Johnny asked.

Peter smiled. He knew.

"The nerve endings are bonding. There's an apparent reconnection of severed nerve endings, neurofilaments, nerves, and sheaths." Ceara swallowed audibly. "No, I'm wrong. They have bonded! I can see the original insult to the spinal column. The severed microbundles are fused together. In the human body, the individual neuropils grow much like the roots of a plant."

Peter's mind stopped with that explanation. Grow? Like a plant? Amariyah! He was only peripherally aware of Ceara and Johnny discussing his original injury and paralysis, the recent fractures. Ceara was saying she wanted to compare this scan with all previous MRI files. Would the Center release them to her? And bring up a specialist, like Dr. Markstein? Could she now ask Commander de Aruya to give a second opinion?

"Does that mean Peter is no longer-" Johnny stopped, unable to voice a word he had scrupulously avoided using in Peter's presence.

"From this MRI, the original injury has been healed. The nerves have rejoined: the spinal column is no longer severed." She paused, took a deep breath. "Technically, he's whole again. But that doesn't mean it won't take considerable time and effort for him to rehabilitate his muscles." Ceara spoke slowly but with a tinge of awe in her voice. "He's overcome so much already."

"I think," Peter began, unable to curb his irritation at being demoted to a "pronoun"-especially by Ceara-"that I would like to feel again!"

"Oh, Peter, I do apologize," she said, bending down to look into his eyes where he still lay on the MRI pad. Her face was red with embarrassment. "How unprofessional of me. Here. Sit up."

Even through his irritation, he felt her keenly mortified chagrin.

"Do you mind if I ask for Commander de Aruya's opinion? This is out of my area of expertise."

"Yes, of course," Peter said, raising himself to a sitting position. He wondered what it would be like to make such a simple everyday movement physically. The shining fact was that possibly now he would have the choice! But more than that, he added very privately to himself, I would like to pee and crap like any other male. He'd managed to ignore the necessary presence of the waste-bag, but he would be so glad to be rid of the damned appliance forever!

A wiry fit man, Commander de Aruya kept his thick white hair trimmed like a skullcap and his dark eyes dominated a mature countenance. He gave a professional smile that faded the instant he saw the MRI screen. He shot Peter a startled look and another at Ceara. He donned the goggles and peered intently at the MRI image.

"Yes, I see." He regarded the screen intently, an index finger tracing the image of Peter's spinal column until he came to the old damage. "Mr. Reidinger, if you wouldn't mind, may I do a second scan?" When Peter assented and resumed the supine position, he added. "Save this one, Dr. Scott."

Peter, head in the chin rest, closed his eyes and fervently prayed with all his soul that the second reading would mirror the first. Dear, dear Amariyah! He couldn't wait to hold her! Yes, hold her, in his arms and feel her dear body. Rhyssa and Dorotea would be over the moon. And he smiled at the phrase. He'd been there, too.

"Thank you, Mr. Reidinger," said the smooth baritone voice of the commander. "You may sit up now."

Ceara was empathing him very strong positive joyful encouraging thoughts.

Hey, Pete. Looks the same to me! Boy, are Rhyssa and Dorotea going to rejoice! Johnny said triumphantly.

"Have you any idea how this neoneurotropism occurred?" De Aruya's eyes were sparkling in his eagerness to hear Peter's answer. "Somehow-and I'd give a lot to know how-your body has reformed the vast network of nerve tendrils that comprise the nervous system in your spinal column."

"I think," and Peter considered his words, still awed by the miracle, "my friend, Amariyah, is a microkinetic. Only she doesn't know it."

"A microkinetic?" De Aruya was obviously having trouble crediting such a source.

Ceara did not. "Oh, my word, like Ruth Horvath was?"

"I can't think of any other explanation, Commander," Peter said, feeling his heart lift within him as he stared at the second MRI image on the screen. "It is a unique Talent and I know of no other person who is so gifted. She does have an extraordinary skill with plants. Nerves are, as Ceara just mentioned, filaments the way roots in a plant are."

"Hmm," and Commander de Aruya made the appropriate contemplative noise as he stood, left hand supporting his right arm as he rubbed his chin, eyes intent on the MRI.

The buzz of the comunit startled them all.

"Well?" asked Admiral Coetzer.

"He's okay, Dirk. More than okay," Johnny said, the nearest to the unit. "Much more than okay. And," Johnny turned back to Ceara and the commander, "quite able to get on with his job. Aren't you, Pete?"

Peter didn't wait for permission but stood erect. "I am fit to continue the day's schedule, am I not, Commander?"

"Well, yes, ah, I see no reason why not. May I access your records?" The commander recovered his poise sufficiently to be completely professional. "Whom do I ask?"

"Martin McNulty at the Eastern Parapsychic Center," Peter politely supplied. "Coulson was the SA orthopedist who vetted me for my current duties."

"Coulson, yes. Good man," the commander said in an absent tone, obviously still trying to correlate the information on the MRI and his knowledge that Peter Reidinger had been paralyzed for much of his life.

"So, shall we get back to work, Pete?" Johnny asked, laying an affectionate hand on his arm.

Peter did feel that as the slightest pressure, closed his eyes, and smiled.

"You're all right?" Johnny asked, increasing the pressure.

Peter opened his eyes and smiled. "I'll need some calories when we've finished."

"Any damn old thing you want," Johnny said, separating the words in ardent assurance. Let's go and let the good doctor tell the commander all about us unique parapsychics.

They 'ported back to the conference room.

And let us break the great news to Rhyssa and Dorotea before McNulty gives them coronaries by asking what the hell I've done to you. We've got a bit of time-enough for that-before we ship number three.

AMARIYAH! The telepathed shrieks were not only in unison but also in a volume that conveyed the complex emotions of Rhyssa Lehardt and Dorotea Horvath: surprise, astonishment, incredulity, and consummate relief.

That's Amariyah's gift, Dorotea said, moderating her tone. Peter? You're on the Station and able to talk to me directly? Rhyssa, you didn't say anything…

Later, dear heart. Let's digest this momentous news, Rhyssa said.

D'you think it was the massages she gave you, Peter? Dorotea's query was nearly simultaneous.

Can you think of any other agency that would bond-regrow-nerve fibers? Bundles, filaments, sheaths? The whole nervous system? Remember her garden when the basketball smeared it? She regrew those plants, root, stem, branch, and leaf.

That's right. She did, Dorotea said.

So she is, like your mother, a micro-Talent, Rhyssa added.

I don't think we'd better tell her yet, Dorotea said in a very thoughtful tone.

That Peter's healed? Rhyssa was confounded.

Of course not. But if she doesn't know what she does, let's not inhibit her. To which Peter agreed thoroughly. Dorotea went on, She's got to mature into her Talent. And now we know what it is, we can direct and strengthen it. Oh Peter, you'll be able to feel again! There was no doubt about Dorotea's jubilation on that score.

It's going to take time, Johnny reminded them.

You may even wish you hadn't, Dorotea remarked in a very dry tone. But it will be worth the effort, my dear, dear boy! Oh, it will!

Peter could almost visualize Dorotea, standing there, fists raised in triumph over this news.

When will you be downside? she asked.

Unless I'm grounded by a higher authority, Peter replied slyly, I have two more weeks of this contract work period, long enough to make our First Base trip worthwhile.

You'll have no trouble doing that, Peter, Rhyssa said at her drollest. Don't you skimp on calories when you're doing such long 'ports.

Commander de Aruya up here would like my file from Dr McNulty.

Yes, yes, of course.

And Ceara recommended a neurologist, Finn Markstein.

Martin McNulty will undoubtedly know whom to consult, Rhyssa said.

Peter almost resented that tone of "we know best." He reminded himself that Rhyssa did have his best interests at heart. And she might be recovering from the shock of the disclosure.

In Padrugoi's security offices, Ensign Liz Predush was still matching surveillance tapes with the images of those who had visited the Station during the critical time when Limo-34 could have been sabotaged. She was comparing faces of arrivals with those taken at other locations on every level. Suddenly a match sharpened her attention as the two screens blinked out a bingo! A match. One didn't need a fullface image to make a match: the state-of-the-art imaging program analyzed not only the face, but also body type, height, mass, and any unusual characteristics. On arrival, a visitor's image was taken fullface and then in profile as s/he moved through the security section. The program had enough data to provide positive identification.

"Georg Fraga," she murmured to herself, noting the arrival data and then the fact that he had been on the boat deck where Flimflam had had his workshop; where Limo-34 had been moored, awaiting her passengers. The person nearest him had his back to the surveillance lens. Her fingers flew over the pressure sensitive keys, enlarging the figure, hitting the "match" command.

"Well, lookit this," Liz said, and no longer resented the long hours that culminated in this moment. "Commander Bindra? I got something to show you."

"Georg Fraga?" Bindra leaned over her shoulder, eyes bugged out at the double match. "He's Space Authority. He was supposed to be in Mai Leitao's cabin until it was time to board the return shuttle."

"And that's Albert Ponce, sir. Can't see his face but this guy matches him physically." Liz enlarged the figure once again, sharpened the focus. "Him wearing Engineering tabs on his collar. Can just make 'em out. We can check with what was found in 7299A."

Bindra straightened, slowly letting his breath out, feeling sharp triumph.

"Good work, Liz. I'd never have thought it of Fraga, though."

"Everyone has a weakness, sir. Just as you keep telling me."

"Yes, but what is Fraga's?"

Ensign Predush sat back in her chair. It wasn't up to her to comment about people in Fraga's level.

"Document this, Liz, and I think we'd better give the data to Commissioner Roznine. It'll be his baby downside."

Boris Roznine, in his official capacity, was paying a discreet visit to the Jerhattan headquarters of the Space Authority. As he approached the security barrier, he was rehearsing several approaches, so it was a distinct surprise when a large hand stopped him.

"Where might you be going, sir?" said the large muscled man who had halted his progress.

"I'm LEO," Boris began, holding out his wrist.

"You don't look it," was the reply.

"What do you mean by that?" Boris was astonished by the response.

"Well, you don't."

Boris pushed forward, thrusting his wrist toward the reader to establish his identity.

"Oh, you're the LEO Commissioner," the guard said with a slight accent on the LEO, his expression amiable as he read the panel on the narrow decoder screen, steadily green in "identity confirmed" mode.

"I told you that." Could the guard possibly be detaining him on purpose in order to give warning? "What did you think LEO meant?"

"It could be your astrological sign," the guard suggested with an indolent shrug followed by a grin, "but you certainly aren't a Low Earth Orbit."

"Oh." Boris was surprised. He'd never realized that there was an alternate version of the acronym, one that would certainly be in common currency at the Space Authority.

"To each his own," the guard said, blithely waving him through the security arch and into the building.

Without further hindrance, Boris made his way to the elevator banks, cutting through the visitors in the huge, vaulted lobby, glancing only briefly at the model of Padrugoi suspended from the ceiling. He reached the level he required and told the attentive security woman at the desk that he wished to see Secretary Abubakar immediately. Impassively she gestured to the wrist reader inset in the desk and her manner became considerably more cordial as it clarified his rank and identity. She leaned over the comunit and announced his presence. Obviously the answer was positive for she escorted him to the end of the hall and, opening the door, gestured for him to enter.

Secretary Abubakar was on his feet and coming forward to welcome his visitor, however unexpected.

Boris held up a pencil file. "I came straight to you with this information, Secretary."

"Information?" Abubakar accepted the file and put it in the reader. The information came on the screen on his desk. "Georg? But he was with Mai the whole time."

"Notice the time of the encounter, Secretary. There was sufficient time for Fraga to reach the boat bay, speak to the man we have positively identified as Albert Ponce, aka Flimflam, and return to his vigil beside her. As she was sedated, he has no one to vouch for his so exemplary vigil."

"But Georg Fraga? I can't believe it." Abubakar sat down heavily, his handsome face showing sincere disbelief and astonishment. "He passed the highest security checks. His work has been above reproach."

"What is his connection with Mai Leitao?"

"Colleagues. Colleagues only. He's married to a research executive and they have two children. Leitao's never been the least bit interested in men. She's still on holiday. But I can't see any other connection."

"Then let us ask ourselves what might tempt a man like Georg Fraga to liaise with an offender like Ponce, risk his job with SA. Why was Mai Leitao so terrified of Peter Reidinger? Because he's psychic? Is it possible that she's religiously inclined? Might have encountered Ponce in one of his Religious Interpretative Group activities?" Abubakar looked shocked at the questions Boris fired at him. "In strictest confidence, there already has been a totally unexpected connection with Ponce's spurious RIGs. Is there any way that Ponce or Shimaz could have coerced Fraga? Would either of them have had contact with Shimaz? Or been in Malaysia?"

Abubakar spent one more baffled moment. He shook himself and, waving Boris to the comfortable chair beside his workstation, regained his legendary composure.

"We shall certainly find out, Commissioner. We shall certainly find out. We have too much at stake at Space Authority right now, especially now that young Reidinger is on-line." He asked for the confidential personnel files.

Three hours later, they found the connection. Georg Fraga's oldest child had had bladder, liver, and pancreas replacements. The organs had been supplied to the hospital.

"Shimaz!" Boris said, running his fingers through his blond hair in a moment of rare agitation. "He farmed children for organ transplants in the hills of Sabah!"

"But that transplant operation was nine years ago," Abubakar exclaimed.

"Since you have such faith in Fraga's integrity, perhaps you would not object if I ask him a few questions."

Abubakar hesitated only briefly and then nodded. He opened the comlink and requested Georg Fraga to come to his office. "I don't see how Mai could be involved. She lives only for work," and the Secretary's little smile was rueful.

Fraga appeared and Roznine saw no apprehension in his posture until the Secretary introduced him as the LEO Commissioner.

"How may I help you, Commissioner?" His manner remained smooth and quite possibly he wasn't aware that Boris was a strong telepath, though most people at Fraga's level knew that LEO used parapsychics.

"I must ask you a few questions in line with an ongoing investigation, " Boris said.

"But, of course," Fraga replied, his mien still betraying no trace of guilt or apprehension as he took the chair the Secretary had indicated.

Boris crossed his right leg over his left knee, outwardly totally at ease. "Would the name Shimaz mean anything to you?"

"No."

That was true enough. "Listening" for truth or falsehood was not illegal so long as listening went no further than public thoughts.

"From what source did you obtain organ transplants for your son?" Boris snapped the query off.

Fraga went into shock, color draining from his face and his mind hardening. It would now be more difficult for Boris to tell truth from fiction but there were other betraying signs of guilt or anxiety.

"Oooh!" Fraga seemed to fold in on himself. "I had to. I had to. I've repaid every single credit. Mai took it out of my salary. She said she had a discretionary fund. She was willing to loan me credit from it. I have repaid it."

"Mai Leitao was involved?" The Secretary was astonished and glanced covertly at Boris.

"I certainly didn't have that amount of credit at my disposal. I was desperate. I asked her would the SA see their way clear to give me an advance. I had to tell her why. There wasn't much time, you see, if Josef was to live. The credit had to be sent to the special account number I was given."

That also was the truth. Fraga was willing for that to be seen in his eyes, his manner, his agitated hand gestures.

"Do you remember where the credit was sent?" Boris asked.

"A bank in Sandakan." Fraga swallowed and clasped his hands. Possibly, Boris thought, to control their shaking.

"An organ farm was situated in the nearby mountains," Boris said in a neutral voice.

Fraga visibly shuddered and closed his eyes. "I didn't know." He opened his eyes. "I didn't care." He made an effort to master himself. "My son was dying."

Boris waited a moment before he asked the next question. He disliked harassing people who had acted for the best of personal reasons but Law Enforcement was as necessary to this complex world as what Order could be achieved. Organ-replacement from unauthorized sources was illegal. Almost as dangerous to the recipients who might pay exorbitant prices; possibly paying again when the organs failed or bequeathed other diseases to the recipients. In some respects, Shimaz's operation had been well organized: the transplants did match the recipient's blood type and tissue sample and in most cases the organs were healthy, the transplants successful.

"Did you make contact with a person on Padrugoi during your visit there on the fifth of March?" Boris fired the important query before Fraga could recover.

Fraga dropped his head into his hands.

"Did you bring him a message or some item?"

Fraga was close to collapse. Boris waited. Abubakar's face was a study of sympathy and consternation, his eyes sad. Fraga's reply was jerky; it was obviously an effort to speak.

"I brought a message. I was made to or the illegal organ purchase would become public knowledge. And Mai would be implicated since the credit note could be traced back to her office."

"Tell me how, and when, you were asked to be a messenger. In person?"

"No, a comm message. Out of the blue. Eight years after the operation."

"Precisely when?" Boris asked ruthlessly.

Georg Fraga raised his tormented eyes. "The day before the meeting up at Padrugoi." He made a mirthless sound. "I kept a voiceprint. In case there was another attempt at blackmail. I'd've gone to you then."

That, Boris was pleased to "hear," was the truth. He suppressed the flare of pleasure that Fraga had had the forethought to take a print. It would be a valuable piece of evidence. Since Fraga had been honest, Boris would see what he could do to mitigate the charges against the man. Honesty was the best policy.

"It's regrettable that you didn't come to us in the first instance," he said sternly.

"And be charged with an illegal organ transplant?" Fraga asked ironically.

"Did you tell Mai Leitao?" Abubakar asked gently.

"I had to find out if she'd been contacted, too. I had to warn her." The Secretary nodded. Now he turned to the LEO Commissioner.

"May I inquire what happened because Georg delivered that message?" he asked in a bleak tone.

"Fortunately the consequences were not as serious as they might have been," Boris replied. He turned to the dispirited Fraga. "The voiceprint will be a crucial piece of evidence, Mr. Fraga."

"I'll get it for you."

"I'll come with you, Mr. Fraga, as I have taken entirely too much of the Secretary's time."

Fraga rose stiffly.

"Come back here directly, Georg," Abubakar said in a colorless voice.

Fraga gave a slight bow and then led the way out of the office.

The next two weeks did not give Peter a single opportunity to put in for time on Padrugoi's link with the far-side telescopes. But he did make time for one thing: a call to Professor Gadriel to make his own personal apologies. Checking the time in Geneva, Peter placed a person-to-person call on a secured line to Professor Tomas Gadriel at CERN. High time, too. Apologies should be made sooner rather than later. He knew that Rhyssa, as head of the Eastern Parapsychic Center, had been in touch with Gadriel, but Peter had been responsible for the ruination of those new circuits, not Rhyssa. It should be just after the lunch break at the research facility.

"Bonjour, Conseil Europeen pour la Recherche Nucl6eaire," a pleasant-sounding receptionist answered.

"Bonjour," Peter replied in his best French, "ici Peter Reidinger de la station d'espace Padrugoi. Je veux parler avec Professeur Tomas Gadriel, s'il vous plait."

"You are calling from Padrugoi?" The receptionist switched to flawless English, making it clear to Peter that his accent needed a lot of work. "May I tell the professor the purpose of your call?"

Peter felt himself growing hot. "I wanted to discuss his latest parapsychic experiment with him."

"Very well," the receptionist said. "One moment please." The line went dead for some seconds. "I am transferring you to the professor now. Good day."

"Hello?" The voice that replaced the receptionist's was baritone. "Mr. Reidinger?" There was a distinct note of pleased surprise in the tone.

"Professor Gadriel, thank you for accepting my call," Peter began. "Ah, it is yourself who calls me," and the professor switched on the visual, showing himself to be totally unlike Peter's original mental image of the telekinetic physicist. A tall, burly man who looked more like an alpine climber than scientist, beamed at him. With both hands he smoothed back thick brown hair from his forehead in what was a characteristic gesture, as he leaned eagerly toward the screen and planted muscled forearms on the worktop. "I must thank you for all that you have done."

Peter was surprised. "Thank me? But your generators!"

"But the science!" Professor Gadriel responded with a Gallic twist of his shoulders. "I am so glad that my generators were available when you needed them, and flattered that you would think of them at a time when you were quite obviously under a lot of stress-"

"Professor, what were you told?" Peter broke in.

"I was told nothing." Tomas Gadriel laughed. "But I am a man of science, and if you work at CERN, you learn to think quickly. My instruments were on and tracking that day, young man. I know exactly when you dumped power into my generators and exactly how much power you dumped. The explosion in space-the so-called 'fire in the sky'-was on every newsvid. It took me less than an hour to sort through the math, you know."

"I see," Peter replied slowly, wondering who else would be able to do the math. "Wait a minute, you say 'dumped'?"

"Mais oui!" Professor Gadriel said. "You dumped over ninety-eight gigawatts of power through my circuitry. It held up rather well, too. It did not take me long to realize that that figure represented an orbital translation-and a lunar one at that. You see, you had to compensate for the difference in specific energy."

Peter slumped in his chair. "Professor, I don't understand. What specific energy?"

Professor Gadriel pursed his lips in thought. "Young man, has not Madame Lehardt insisted that you are well rounded in all the sciences?"

"Well, she has tried," Peter replied in a rueful tone.

"And do I not understand that you have a keen interest in space flight and space travel?"

"I do," Peter admitted.

"Then I would expect you to understand that for every kilogram of mass you put in an orbit, you must have increased the body's energy-both kinetic and potential-by a certain amount."

Peter nodded in comprehension. "I'm sorry, I follow you now. In translating an object from Earth's orbit to rest on the moon, I had to change the total energy per kilogram for every kilogram I lifted."

"If by 'lifted' you mean teleported, then yes, exactly," Professor Gadriel agreed. "But there is more energy per kilogram in an object orbiting the Earth at an altitude of two hundred kilometers than there is in an object at rest on the Moon. So the energy had to go somewhere, n'est-ce pas?"

"Naturally," Peter responded automatically. "But how did your generators cope with such an influx of power?"

Professor Gadriel shrugged. "They did not, of course. But my gestalt circuitry took the power, and when the couplings fused, the power grounded to Earth, Which is a pity, because otherwise CERN would have sold a very tidy sum of electricity to the European power grid." The professor grinned. "Next time, we will handle that. In another six months, please feel free to repeat your performance."

Peter grinned back. "It's not a performance I want to have to repeat, thank you."

"And why not?"

"Because I have never felt so drained," Peter replied. "But why, if I received so much power, should I feel drained?"

"You should ask my fuse the same question, young man," Professor Gadriel replied with a hearty guffaw. "It's not the direction the power flows in which matters-it's the total amount of power."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "I can see why there would be a power surplus in this case, but if we are only teleporting objects from place to place on Earth, why do we need gestalt generators?"

"Well, of course," the professor replied, "you don't-or we would never have discovered psychic powers. Over short distances, for small masses, the power requirements are such that the psychic's own power is sufficient. It's only over long distances or with large masses that we require additional help.

"Of course, even over relatively short distance, we telekinetics require more power than we use-and that is a mystery," Professor Gadriel continued. "It is a mystery that I am trying to solve."

Peter laughed. "I thought the biggest mystery was how psychic powers worked at all."

Professor Gadriel threw up a dismissive hand. "That problem was solved long ago. Mon Dieu, what Teacher program have you been using? You have heard of Heisenberg, correct? And Schrodinger? You understand quantum mechanics, don't you?"

Peter found himself nodding decisively to all three questions. "I certainly do, Professor. At least I thought I did. I did pretty well on Teacher exams in physics, and general applications of quantum mechanics and string theory. But I'm afraid I don't precisely appreciate what quantum mechanics has to do with telekinetics."

"You do not? But I thought that everyone knew-" the professor broke off and slapped his forehead in disgust. "Ah, idiot! I cannot believe-"

"Professor, I'm very sorry to have distressed you. Maybe I should let you get back to your work," Peter said, dismayed at the professor's temper.

"No, not you-me!" The professor slapped his forehead again for good measure. "Perhaps you haven't had time lately to read the technical journals from CERN." When Peter shook his head, unwilling to admit that he didn't have time to read any technical journals, just manifest lists of where to send what, Gadriel nodded his head sympathetically. "Then you did not know that we, here at CERN, now know how telekinetics and all the psi powers work."

"You do?" Peter was shocked. "That is excellent news. With that knowledge we should be able to build gestalt generators to take us to the stars!"

"Ah, but it is not so easy, Mr. Reidinger," the professor said sadly. "Knowing how psi powers work is the easy part; making them work better-that is very difficult."

"How do they work, Professor?"

"Our psychic powers utilize the quantum mechanical effects of an observer on a macroscopic scale," the professor said simply. Peter looked confused. "You know that in the realm of quantum mechanics, simply observing a particle changes its state, correct? Professor Heisenberg embodied this in his Uncertainty Principle."

"Yes," Peter replied. "The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle states that with subatomic particles it is not possible to observe its state without the energy used to make the observation causing a change in that state-if you shine a light on an electron, it will either change its speed or its orbit."

"Correct, " the professor said. "The effect of the observer is more profound, even. In the case of Schrodinger-and his poor unfortunate imaginary cat-an observer is required before an observation can be made."

"Like Schrodinger's cat-no one can know if the cat is dead or alive without actually opening the airtight box and looking," Peter agreed.

"Exactly," the professor replied entusiastically. "And we Talented people are very special observers. While nothing can be said to have happened without an observer, we, with our Talents, can make things happen the way we want them."

"So I teleport objects by wanting them to be where they need to go."

"Very good. But I would have said, we move objects by observing them to be in their new location," the professor corrected, nodding furiously.

"And telepathy?" Peter asked.

"Telepathy is even easier. It is purely a quantum-mechanical effect, " the professor said. "Telepaths think they are talking with someone, and that someone hears them-neural stimulation at the quantum mechanical level."

Peter's face lit up with understanding as he absorbed the professor's explanation. "Our Talents work because we want them to!"

"Exactly."

"And the gestalt generators?"

"They increase our ability to realize quantum-mechanical effects on a greater scale, as well as handling any specific energy concerns."

Peter frowned. "That doesn't explain why I get better results with some generators than others."

"To understand that, I would need to see your telemetry-some measurements," the professor replied.

Peter grinned. "I understand that you've been looking into this, and we have collected quite a lot of telemetry from our work up here on Padrugoi. I can download it to you now."

The professor glanced at his watch. "For you, Peter, I will make time to analyze the data. Let me clear my schedule while you commence the download."

Fifteen minutes later, Peter and Professor Gadriel were elbowdeep in their accumulated data.

"I see what you mean here, Peter, about the various loads," Professor Gadriel agreed, highlighting one section of a graph… "It certainly looks like everyone goes through a period of adjustment when they first join into gestalt with a generator."

"What I've been trying to understand, Professor, is why I can't get a correlation between graphs for different generators," Peter said.

"Please, Peter, it would be easier for me if you called me Tomas," Professor Gadriel said, smiling. "We are friends now, non?"

Peter swallowed. Professor Gadriel was easily twenty years his senior-but his ready smile was infectious. "Very well, Prof-Tomas. But if you look here," and Peter brought up multiple graphs in the lower window, "there seems to be no correlation. And without correlation-"

"We are missing something," Tomas interrupted. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Some piece of data is not in our picture. Let's look at the data for General Greene."

"Very well," Peter agreed, rapidly graphing that data and displaying the results.

"Ha! I see something," Tomas said. He pointed to the graphs. "Look how much longer it takes General Greene to come into gestalt with these generators. Always he takes longer." Tomas tapped rapidly on his keyboard. "Here are my traces from my older gestalt circuitry. I am quicker, even than you," he noted. "Now why is that?"

"Some of these installations are newer than others," Peter noted. Quickly he ran up graphs of gestalt against installation date.

"Hmm, the correlation is not exact," Tomas said. He frowned thoughtfully, then brightened. "But some of these would have received newer circuitry. Where are the records?" His fingers flew over his keyboard again. "Ah, here. Let's see now." Peter's graph was rearranged on the screen. "Hmm, still not quite a perfect fit."

"Would all the newer circuitry be the same?" Peter asked.

Tomas shook his head. "No, almost every circuit is custom-built, an experiment. I've been working with smaller circuit paths, aiming for higher efficiencies. Your Padrugoi equipment is three or four generations old. And some of these other installations-pah!" He waved a dismissive hand. "Why, this one in Australia is ancient."

Peter groaned. "I got a headache every time I used it."

Tomas shot him a startled look. "Really? Headaches. This is something else we must consider. I recall a headache once, way back…" His voice faded away. "No, I cannot remember. Let me consult my notes." Again his fingers tapped on his keyboard. "You wouldn't believe the amount of silliness I am willing to record, Peter," Tomas said, shaking his head. "By the way, I am recording our work together now-is that a problem? I should have mentioned it earlier, but most of my colleagues already know my penchant for recording everything."

Peter shook his head. "No, sir. In fact, it makes quite a lot of sense."

Tomas grinned. "Good, I am glad you agree. I get someone else to deal with the words that the silly speech-to-text software still can't handle. Mostly, it's very good. But not as good as a-" His voice trailed off. "Ah, here it is. Yes, I had some trouble with your Australian generators, too. But my charts… Hmm. I was still faster than you or General Greene, with those machines."

"Perhaps you are more powerful or-"

"Nonsense! I know my limitations," Tomas cut him off. "There is no time for false modesty or bragging. We are dealing with science, Peter. There's a reason-probably a good one-why it is easier for me to form a gestalt than you." Realization dawned in Professor Gadriel's eyes. "Of course! I designed the circuitry and tested it. Why would I bother to give myself a headache when I could avoid it? Hmm, somehow the circuitry works best for me…" Tomas's words trailed away as he lapsed into thought once more.

"Maybe you tuned it-" Peter began.

"Voila!" Tomas shouted. "Or perhaps I should say, eureka! You are right, Peter. I most certainly did tune those circuits. How was I to know that I had tuned them best for me?"

"Would that explain the different times to achieve gestalt?" Peter asked.

Tomas shrugged. "Perhaps. Or the headaches. I would imagine that both are aspects of how well a particular telekinetic is in tune with the gestalt circuitry-but I imagine that some telekinetics are better at entering into gestalt than others, no matter how well the circuitry is tuned. We shall have to experiment."

"Great," Peter said. "When do we start?"

Tomas threw up his hands. "Peter, you are unquenchable. We have been at this now for-zut alors!-seven hours, and you want to start running experiments?"

Peter looked abashed. "Sorry, Professor, it's just that-"

"I know, my young friend, youth has no patience," Tomas said. "But I will need some time to think this over and build new circuitry."

"I'm sorry," Peter once again felt obliged to apologize.

"You should not be!" Professor Gadriel responded hotly. "We have made great strides this day, you and I. When we are done… who knows? But now I must report this to my superiors-I will need to draw a lot of new equipment." When Peter made to speak again, Tomas cut him off. "Do not worry-I shall have no problem getting it. Let me have some time to sort things through-I shall contact you again as soon as I have more."

Peter caught Johnny showering, too excited to wait a single minute in sharing that incredible conversation and its rewards for them.

Well, one thing's sure, Gadriel's not all wet the way I am right now.

Sorry, Johnny.

He caught Johnny's tolerant sigh.

Don't be. I'd heard something about Gadriel before our interesting trip to First Base, but I didn't actually connect quantum mechanics with what we do. Didn't anyone think to tell us?

There's some sort of Murphy's Law, isn't there, that says that the people who do the work are the last ones to know?

If there isn't, there should be. Okay, you recorded, too, didn't you? Send it to my workstation and I'll review it. And let's not tell Dirk right now. We should see if it works for us, and then organize a new contract.

Is that all you ever think of, contracts? Peter was both amused and irritated by the general's practicality. Being able to work more efficiently shouldn't be translated into more credit. Or should it, especially if it benefited the Center, as well as the kinetics involved?

And don't tell Rhyssa just yet, Johnny added. I don't want to get her hopes up until we're sure Gadriel's right.

Peter grumbled but obeyed. And had another diversion for his spare time when he wasn't porting shipments to First Base. Commander de Aruya had forwarded his MRI readings and Peter's incredible neoneurogenesis to Mountainside Hospital.

Neuro-specialist Finn Markstein wanted very much to examine Peter Reidinger in person and arranged to come immediately to Padrugoi for this purpose. A man in his early thirties, with a face that looked much younger than his years and experience, he had a confident and optimistic manner. His field of concentration was spinal injuries, including bypass operations that provided limited mobility. Although Peter sensed that Markstein was highly skeptical that the source of the miraculous neurogenesis was an eleven-year-old girl, Dr. Markstein did not argue the point, murmuring about gift horses. Markstein discussed Peter's case with Commander de Aruya and on video-link with Martin McNulty. The station physiotherapist, Mike Malaj, was briefed to restore Peter's body to full working condition. He had to gradually gain strength and resilience to perform gross motor movements. As Ceara had suggested, the fine-motor skills would take longer. Finn Markstein was willing to advance the opinion that full recovery from the paralysis was possible, with dedicated hard work on Peter's part. A hydrotherapy tank was already part of the sick bay's equipment, and Peter was scheduled to spend a good deal of time in it between 'portations and the exercise facility.

"You're not really in bad shape, Pete," Mike told him on the second day. "Smart of you to keep working out on the Reeve Board. I won't kid you though. It's going to be rough at times. I gotta work you hard. Nothing personal, you realize."

Though intellectually Peter did realize that, it was hard not to think that Mike was a despot, putting him through strenuous exercises, demanding more and more at each session. If Sue, his original therapist, had seemed strict, she was a pussycat in comparison to Mike.

"Gotta get those quadriceps moving." Mike used a litany of those muscles in a sort of chant as he worked Peter through his body: arms, chest, abdomen, pelvis, back, and legs. "Think into the tissue of pectoralis major. And don't forget the minor. Let's get these arms working-deltoid, biceps, triceps, the flexors. Your belly, sir, and its latissimus dorsi, the rectus abdominus. Your good ol' gluteus maximus, medius, and minimus. Get 'em working. Make your muscles remember what they once did. Quadriceps, rectus femoris. They will remember, you know, if you make them. You're a psychic. Make your mind work for you."

"I was " Peter gasped, sweating to move inches when a half hour before he had 'ported hundredweights to the Moon, "doing just fine that way. This is different."

And, oh, how different it was! It almost defeated him. Sternly he reminded himself that getting rid of that damned appliance would be worth an ocean of sweat. Markstein reassured him that the diversion could be reversed and he would be able to control his bodily functions. That was an ambition devoutly to be realized. The operation had been done to him-without him realizing what it meant-after the consultants regretfully announced that his paralysis was incurable.

When telekinesis had given Peter mobility, he had pleaded with Dr. McNulty to reconnect him, but the doctor had regretfully replied that Peter did not have the sympathetic nervous system to control voluntary actions, no matter how clever he had been at counterfeiting movement in his limbs.

"If I have to wait for voluntary muscle control to develop, how will I know when it does?" Peter asked Finn.

The doctor twitched his lips, cleared his throat, and his eyes gleamed. "You'll know. The man in you will stand up and be noticed."

It took Peter a moment to realize what Markstein meant, and then he felt the blood rush to his face. He remembered, all too vividly, the three A.M. bath!

"You'll know, Peter," the doctor repeated gently.

It took ten days of designing, testing, and refining-and some very serious headaches-before Professor Gadriel and Peter were satisfied with their results.

"Look at this, we have a one hundred percent decrease in power consumption when the circuits are tuned." Professor Gadriel chortled happily to himself. "And you were so right, Peter, to think of using musical notes for tuning-very efficient. I also notice that your friend Lance Baden is tone-deaf, which probably explains why he cannot achieve the gestalt. It is also true that some telekinetics take longer to achieve a gestalt, but those times decrease significantly when the generators are tuned to their pitch."

"It's as though a telekinetic has a particular range of ability-and the peak efficiency is at a particular frequency," Peter observed.

"I agree," said Johnny Greene, who had been brought in as a later test subject. He rubbed the back of his neck in a vain attempt to rid himself of his latest headache. "And now I know why I like songs in G major more than those in C."

Peter's best key was C major.

"I also see that our efficiencies increase with the greater efficiency of the gestalt circuitry-the 0.1 micron circuits are much easier to work with," Johnny noted. "Professor, when do you think we can push down to finer circuitry?"

Tomas frowned and shook his head. "We are dealing with a great amount of power, General Greene. It is very hard to design such fine traces to handle such high loads."

Johnny sighed and nodded. "But it is obvious that the closer we are to the quantum-mechanical limit, the easier it is for us to enter into the gestalt."

"Ah, but we must be careful not to let other quantum-mechanical effects overwhelm our circuitry' " Tomas countered.

"I think the really important thing, Tomas, is when can we get this new circuitry installed up here on Padrugoi?" Peter said.

Tomas perked up. "Oh, didn't I mention?" Across the link, the other two shook their heads. "Ah, well-today, if you can stand the headache of picking it up."

"Can we!" Peter and Johnny chorused. The several crates of ultrasensitive circuitry from CERN were deposited with butterfly delicacy to the high-security storage on Engineering deck.

From such sublimity, Peter reported for another very physical session with Mike. And so he sweated, had his muscles galvanically stimulated, ate the special diet-which included the complex carbohydrates he needed-despite the extra loads that had to be emptied more regularly from the waste-bag. He also reinstituted the limbic exercises Sue had taught him. In a way, that was following Mike's advice about thinking into his tissue. And deadening the pain! It was almost good to feel pain, to stretch and compress. Almost!

Peter was also almost sorry to have the next week off, because Lieutenant Temuri Bergkamp was quite willing to install the CERN circuits to improve the performance of his generators in gestalt. He said it would take at least the week to get them integrated. He grinned at both Johnny and Peter, a twinkle in his eye that told them he'd been on the list of those who needed to know how Limo-34 had been able to make it back to First Base.

A week off from telekinesis did not, however, mean a week off from intensive physiotherapy, because Martin McNulty made provisions for Peter to continue the relentless exercises.

Nevertheless, he and Johnny gratefully 'ported downside to the Jerhattan terminal. For the first time, Peter noticed the expanse of low land that had once been a nice urban area until a compulsory government acquisition had transferred the residents to other, quieter habitations. Jerhattan Transport Complex had grown but not outstripped the available area. The telepad was east and south of the main buildings and the grid of concrete takeoff and taxiing strips. Even the airbus hotels needed room to maneuver and make their vertical landings. Small craft used auxiliary fields.

Here, there would be space for a suitable headquarters, Peter decided, near enough Jerhattan proper for access-especially by telekinetics-and cargo space for the containers. Johnny had never referred to Peter's mention of a commercial amalgamation of telekinetics and long-distance telepaths. Peter was not going to rush the idea. Simply because Johnny hadn't taken him up on that casual reference didn't mean that the general had not heard it.

Nor had Peter had time to trick Johnny into sending to "South America." In between his physio sessions, there had been so many and unexpected developments. Especially more talks with Tomas Gadriel. The professor had also offered the new circuitry to Rhyssa. While she was dubious about how this would help other parapsychics, she and Sascha excitedly discussed how this would alter the training of the new kinetic. This could well be the most important breakthrough for parapsychic research since Henry Darrow had invented the Goosegg that could record the brainwaves and prove genuine incidents of psychic ability.

Maybe, Peter mused, when they got back to work, the Gadriel gestalt would make it easier to trick Johnny into sending to "South America." And then he'd also make time to stargaze… or rather, asteroid-gaze.

Now, he was just a step away from Amariyah.

Both Rhyssa and Dorotea told him frequently and in no uncertain terms not to mention Amariyah's part in his neoneurogenesis, that he wondered if they thought he'd lost his wits as he regained his limbs. He, of all people, knew he must be adroit. How he was going to also impress on Amariyah not to inhibit her Talent-which she didn't yet know she had-was another matter. He had read all he could about Dorotea's mother, Ruth Horvath, who had been able to manipulate cells, but could never consciously tap into her microkinetic Talent. He read how deftly Daffyd op Owen, Rhyssa's grandfather, had dealt with Ruth, subtly inspiring her innate maternal sympathies for persons he wished her to heal and alter. Sometimes this had been successful; it was not an easy Talent to have, use, or direct.

According to most parapsychic experts, a person did not come into his or her Talent until puberty or until a trauma forced them to use alternate skills, as had happened to him. Instinct had governed Amariyah's abilities-the instinct to heal, nourish, protect. Some latent Talents, like Ceara Scott's empathy, were not apparent even at puberty, emerging gradually, almost unnoticed.

Long after Johnny had taken himself on to his home in Virginia, Peter tarried at the Jerhattan telepad. Finally realizing that he was ridiculously postponing his reunion with Amariyah, he 'ported himself to the Henner estate, the trees around the perimeter beginning to leaf out. Why did that surprise him? Objectively, only four weeks had elapsed since he had said good-bye to Dorotea and Maree. Subjectively a very great deal had happened.

He would have given much to stride smartly down the path to Dorotea's neat house. That was in the future. He didn't yet have the physical strength to relinquish kinesis. Also, he wasn't sure how often he would. It was such an effort. Only the reward of removing the waste-bag was worth the struggle. And having a longer, healthier life. Markstein had been eloquent on that topic. Long-term paralysis had devastating effects on the body of the skeleteam. Peter grinned. While there was a trickle of people heading toward the transport tube and their day's work, they were in the distance.

Amariyah! Dorotea! Rhyssa! His mental tone was not quite a shout since all three were nearby.

PETER! Rhyssa's response was a second faster than Dorotea's. Both rang with joy!

I'll meet you at Dorotea's, Rhyssa said. You sound so good!

Amariyah doesn't 'hear,' Peter, but we're just having breakfast.

I ate above. Padrugoi's day is ahead of Earth's right now but I could certainly use another cup of tea.

He 'ported himself into the hallway outside the kitchen. He sensed Amariyah in her bedroom.

"Maree? I'm home," he called, and opened the door to the kitchen.

Quickly wiping her hands on her apron, Dorotea opened her arms to him. He couldn't step fast enough to get to her, but he could close his arms tightly around her body, and "feel" her frailty. Fortunately, he only had so much muscle in his arms so "tight" wasn't bone-crushing.

"Oh, Peter, you have improved," she cried, and he could feel the pressure of her arms about his waist as she hugged him enthusiastically. Then she pushed him away, to stare into his eyes, trying to assess the less obvious alterations in him. "In so many ways, my dear, dear boy!"

Amariyah charged into the kitchen, shouting with joy. If he hadn't instinctively braced himself, she would have propelled them against the sink unit.

"Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter!" she caroled in a litany of welcome, flinging her arms about his waist.

"Ama-ree-yah," Dorotea exclaimed in automatic protest. "Have some manners!"

Peter embraced her slender frame, so much more vibrant than Dorotea's, wriggling as if to bore inside him to display her joy at his homecoming. A swift, impetuous hug, and then she released him, grabbing his hand, not even noticing that he could close his fingers about hers.

"Come see, come see. I've so much to show you," and the wiry little girl tried to haul him after her.

"Amariyah Bantam," Dorotea said firmly, gripping a fold of her tunic top and pulling her back. "Breakfast is ready and the garden will not disappear." Though at times I wish it did, she added with an exasperated sigh. No, I take that back, and her face mirrored guilty dismay. "Peter, sit down at the table. The kettle is about to boil for your tea, and you will surely eat some of the Danish rolls I made for you." If you sit, she will.

Peter sat. Heaving the most dramatic of sighs and rolling her eyes in pique, Amariyah reluctantly settled to her place.

"Did Ping Yung tell you if those plants thrived?" was the first question she asked after a long drink of orange juice.

"Yes, he did, and they did, and he wants you to come more often."

Amariyah flung a see-I-told-you look at Dorotea, who smiled tolerantly.

"Does the hydroponics unit at First Base use Triticum, too?" Amariyah continued to fire questions at him throughout the meal. But only, Peter thought affectionately, because she wasn't guiding him around her gardens and explaining which plants had done the best this spring and what she'd accomplished during his absence. After all he had survived and been part of and victim to, her chatter was a relief, the restorative touch of a different kind of reality.

Rhyssa joined them for coffee and one of Dorotea's Danish pastries. The three Talents began one of those lightning mental exchanges of the details that Amariyah did not need to know. Both Rhyssa and Dorotea were eager to hear all about Peter's physical progress.

"You're not taking a vacation from your exercises, are you, Peter m'dear," Rhyssa said as she dunked her pastry in her coffee.

As if I'd have the chance with Martin, Mark, and Mike-three formidable M's-choreographing my 'week off,' Peter said with some asperity.

"Helping me in the garden is exercise," Amariyah said. "And I will massage you."

Peter grinned. "I've missed it, dear." He laid his right hand on hers and squeezed.

"That's much stronger," the girl said with all the solemn approval of an adult.

Very privately Peter wondered that these days people only felt free to mention his physical condition because his paralysis was being reversed.

Definitely I felt more heft in you, Peter, Dorotea added, then her eyes filmed briefly. Just as Amariyah did. Even squeezing for a hug. So telling. So reassuring.

Dorotea, Peter exclaimed, hiding what he had discovered about her body.

I suppose there's no indication yet how long it will take you?" Dorotea went on more briskly.

Peter replied meekly. I must work hard and not shirk my exercises no matter how painful." And if I'm a good boy, I should be fit for the marathon in October.

MARATHON? The two women exclaimed together.

"I will see that you do, Peter," Amariyah said.

You both know what I want the most, he said on an entirely sober note.

Dorotea nodded. Daily teleporting to the Moon has not been a strain on you with all that strenuous physical exercise?

A snap, Peter said, accepting the change of subject. If I can tune myself into the available generator, I can 'port it. Opening his perceptions wide, he watched Rhyssa's face to see her reaction to that very broad, if accurate, statement. He was surprised that she didn't take him up on that. She probably had more urgent problems. Just as well, since he hadn't completed his theory. He really would have to get back to those reports.

Would that it was true for more psychics, she said with a rueful expression in her eyes and a lift of one shoulder. Remember the basketball incident?

Yes, and Peter couldn't think why she would remind him.

One of the villains of the occasion, and then she spoke out loud.

"Scott Gates is demonstrating strong kinetic ability."

Sascha will be training him on the Gadriel gestalt, won't he?

Of course, and Rhyssa sounded surprised that he would question that.

Just how much, Peter wondered, would tuning into the Gadriel circuits alter telekinesis along the range of such abilities? Certainly it would alter the limits that he had to believe were self-imposed. Certainly he had proved that he could both 'port and 'path farther than anyone-including himself-had suspected. And Scott Gates would begin training on the Gadriel. Good!

"Scott helps me in the garden," Amariyah said. Then she frowned a bit. "I don't know why he volunteered, but I think he's coming to like it."

"He's only fourteen," Rhyssa said with a grin. "Sascha's got a lot of basic training to do before he can specialize. With all you have to do right now, Peter, you really won't have time for anything else."

"That's true," Peter admitted, but he didn't want to miss an opportunity to catch a Talent early enough.

"I'm training him, too," Amariyah put in.

"And doing a good job of it, I'm sure," Peter said, smiling at her.

"What are you up to, Peter Reidinger?" Dorotea asked, as blunt as ever.

"Yes, what?" Rhyssa reinforced the query.

He grinned at them both. "My prime directive from you, Rhyssa, has always been to find other kinetics who can make a gestalt." Remember that I was not quite Scott's age when I discovered it.

That is a good point, Rhyssa agreed. "You could certainly meet him, get his mettle, as it were. That would certainly do no harm."

"No, it wouldn't." To himself Peter added, and quite possibly a lot of good.

Rhyssa then cocked her head at him. What else did you learn between here and First Base, Peter?

Peter smiled for an answer and, when he felt her unmistakable push at his mind, he raised one hand and slowly made his index finger move in admonition. Tsck, tsck, Rhyssa. Wasn't it you who taught me never to peek?

Both women were so impressed by that gesture that they were distracted.

Speaking of peeking, he went on to keep the advantage, Johnny told me about Georg Fraga and Mai Leitao.

That's sad, though, Rhyssa said, then her mental tone oozed distaste. So, Shimaz is implicated?

Peripherally at least, Peter replied. Johnny said that they traced the voiceprint Fraga took when he was blackmailed. It identified a Riz Naztuk who is Shimazs uncle. Of whom he has many, including cousins by the dozens, he said, trying to lighten the revulsion both Rhyssa and Dorotea felt at the mention of the Malaysian. Riz Naztuk's face appears on Barchenka's surveillance tapes as a visitor but their conversation, while undoubtedly ambiguous, doesn't implicate them. Yet.

How wide did Shimaz's connections spread? Dorotea asked, appalled that the wretched pervert still figured in their lives.

That's going to take time to discover, Peter said. There are only so many psychics available for that kind of work.

hyssa's expression was full of regret.

"I have finished breakfast," Amariyah announced. "All of it," she added, glancing sideways at Dorotea. "You may now see my gardens, Peter." She got down from her chair and held her hand out to him in unspoken command.

Obediently, Peter rose to his feet and took it, grinning sheepishly at the two women.

Come for dinner at our place, Rhyssa said. Dorotea may not hog you to herself. The boys are demanding a share of your company.

When Dorotea nodded her head in agreement, he accepted. And allowed Amariyah to haul him outside. He found the tour oddly relaxing and was able to answer almost all her questions about the gardens on First Base.

"I've got to do my physio now, Maree," he said almost regretfully.

"I'll come with you. I will do massage after. I do very good massage. You said so yourself." She gave him a level adult stare, waiting for his affirmative response.

He ruffled her blue-black hair. He'd done that before, of course, but never being able to feel its silkiness on the palm of his hand.

"You do the best massage in the world, Maree dear," he assured her. Peter had wondered just how he could avail of her expertise without drawing undo attention to it. He'd talk the physio into agreeing. "I know you have Teacher this morning."

She made a face, reverting to a child's annoyance. "Do I have to?"

"If you want to do hydroponic gardening in space, you have to."

"Oh, very well," she said with a long-suffering sigh. "But you come right back."

Don't you dare try to probe, Peter Reidinger, Dorotea said at her sternest.

I wouldn't dream of it.

Amariyah was an entirely different facet of potential Talent than Scott Gates was. Scott already knew he could teleport. Maree's unique ability must be nourished as tenderly as she would her most delicate plants. Would she, too, grow into her Talent?