Pegasus In Space

2

In her office in Beechwoods, the old Henner estate overlooking the Hudson River, Rhyssa Owen Lehardt had just got through her morning's mail when three square white envelopes floated into the space she had just cleared.

Neatly done, Johnny, she said, able to identify a well-known mind behind the kinesis. She heard a soft, smug chuckle. She opened the one addressed to her, noting that her husband, David, and Peter Reidinger were to be the recipients of the other two.

Vellum envelope, no less, she said appreciatively to her unseen listener as she pulled out the formal, engraved invitation card.

The Secretary of Space cordially invites you to the

Inauguration of the Space Station on …

Really, Johnny, isn't he running a bit late with his invitations? I mean, the ceremony is January first-tomorrow!

Don't tell me you haven't a thing to wear? teased Johnny Greene, former etop pilot and currently the kinetic in charge of transport to the officially rechristened Padrugoi Space Station. My dear wife got a couturier special but Senator Sally Greene was not among the Capital Hill desirables so she has no place to wear it. I had to slot my guests into space available, considering anyone who could wangle an invitation has done so. Sheeesh, you wouldn't believe the scheduling required!

Even Rhyssa's mind boggled at the thought of transporting, or teleporting, the hundreds of very important personages to the Space Station.

Ah, a mere snap but it is time consuming and left me very little time to arrange our trip, Johnny continued. Peter's got to be there even more than you.

Rhyssa sat back in her chair, catching an undertone.

Johnny? She paused. Are you expecting trouble?

No, not exactly, came the reluctant reply because telepaths did not, could not lie to each other. But I've a reason, sort of a hunch. Mallie doesn't confirm it so nothing may happen. Still, I don't trust Barchenka. She's been far too amenable.

The completion bonus? Rhyssa suggested. They both knew how single-minded and arbitrary Space Station Construction Manager Ludmilla Barchenka had been in suborning all the materiel that would bring the project in on-line by its due date, including the forced employment of many Talents.

Ha! She'd her sights set on the early completion bonus. There was an even more satisfied edge to Johnny's voice because he had been instrumental in making sure that Barchenka had not finished before the contractual date.

So what's bothering you?

She's giving in too easily. She's been sooo cooperative, so helpful to Admiral Coetzer that I smell a very large rat.

What does Madlyn say?

She's suspicious, too. So, I might add, are the grunts. They don't believe that they'll all be allowed to go downside. Though we've been transporting them down, as many as will fit in empty shuttles on their return leg. Which is another thing that worries me: she's letting them go.

She promised that, Rhyssa remarked, though a little frisson of tension shivered down her back. With only repair teams needed now, it isn't economical to keep all those grunts on, using up air, food, and space.

Next thing you know, she'll be sending down the offies and LEO will have to find another 'secure' facility to stash them in during their sentences.

Indeed. Rhyssa was not pleased to think that certain offenders might be returned to Earth. But surely Padrugoi would need janitorial services, unless Admiral Coetzer was against such penal servitude. Their quarters could be used for more storage space. Rhyssa wondered why she was suddenly arguing on the side of Barchenka. And Mallie says nothing?

Nothing she can articulate, and his mental voice was definitely troubled. You'll all come, won't you? Peter can 'port the three of you to Gate 134 at the Jerhattan Space Port at GMT 0900 tomorrow. I'll be there. Then his mental touch disappeared.

Rhyssa sat back in her chair, propping her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her hand. Peter had to be there, more than she? Hmmm. Well, Peter was the strongest kinetic. Even stronger than Johnny had become, once the former etop pilot got the hang of how Peter used generator gestalt to assist a launch. Peter would be thrilled to pieces to be at the Inauguration. In fact, Rhyssa had had to talk sternly to herself when VIPs all over the world had received their invitations and the Eastern Parapsychics hadn't received any. They were not, as a group or singly-despite the enormous help they had been to the difficult Barchenka-anywhere on her list of preferred guests.

Rhyssa examined the invitation, running the tip of her finger over the raised engraving, and felt the "tingle" of an encoded line. Well, obviously one did not get into the Inauguration without presenting this card.

"Hmmm. Taking no chances, huh, are you, Ludmilla?" So there was a top-level security effort? As well there should be, she thought. And yet, Rhyssa frowned, why? Few could, or would, sabotage Padrugoi now it was built. The cost-in human lives as well as effort-had been staggering, including the on-completion bonus for Barchenka. The project had had the enthusiastic support of every nation; it meant a way off overcrowded Earth, to the habitable planets already identified in this sector of the galaxy. The first generation ship had been built in space over twenty years ago and launched to Procyon, eleven light-years away, from the old, now-defunct Space Station. Since then, in speedier spaceships, other journeys had been initiated.

Well, Rhyssa wanted badly to go to the Inauguration. Now she would, and so would Peter. And Dave would, too, for their sakes. As she called up her nonpsychic husband's office number, she heard a scratch at her door. Had she been "broadcasting" the news that loudly?

"Come on in, Peter," she called.

The door opened and Peter's invitation disappeared from her desktop and reappeared in his hand.

"I don't believe it, Rhyssa, I don't believe it," he chortled, clutching it to his chest. "What took 'em so long? And who else is coming with us?"

"Dave's coming."

On cue, Dave answered her call. "Yes, Rhyssa?"

"Take the day off tomorrow. We're going to the Inauguration. I've got the invitations."

"We?"

"You, Peter, and I," she said, controlling the impatience she sometimes felt when he didn't pick up on what was so vivid in her own mind.

"Left it a bit late, haven't they?" Dave said in a dry tone of voice.

"Johnny Greene said it was the difficulty in arranging passenger space when so many have to get there on time," Rhyssa replied, though that really didn't wash as a valid excuse.

"Gee, Rhyssa," and Peter's facial expression was mixed confusion, annoyance, and surprise. "I could get us there."

"Yes, I know, dear," Rhyssa said. "However, we do have the formal invitations, complete with the integral security code."

Peter's eyes widened.

"That's good. I'd hate to be spaced because I had a bogus invite," Dave said. "See you tonight."

"Security codes?" Peter tore open the envelope and put the invitation against his cheek to feel the embedded security. "Wow!"

"Double wow! Not even my skeleteam," and Rhyssa rose from her desk and came around to ruffle Peter's hair, "would be able to enter Barchenka's lair without the proper code."

"Oh," and Peter lifted his eyebrows, running his finger over the code. His expression altered to "naughty boy." "I could!"

"We'll be legal tomorrow," Rhyssa said, mildly chiding.

"Oh," and Peter's face changed-the naughty boy reminded of previous mischief. He looked down and subtly grounded his feet, which had been a centimeter above the carpet.

He had been paralyzed since the day a wall had fallen on him and irreparably damaged his spine. A body brace that was supposed to give him some mobility had malfunctioned and he had lost use of his arms as well, until he had discovered an alternative method of moving himself-using kinesis. Mind, in this case, was very definitely over the mere matter of body. He had also learned how to imitate proper movement, using his remarkable gestalt with any available source of electric power. Given sufficiently powerful generators, young Peter Reidinger had performed feats of telekinesis far beyond expectation, such as moving supply shuttles from Florida to Padrugoi Station. His youthfulness-Peter was just fifteen-had precluded his regular employment by the Eastern Parapsychic Center; only his age had prevented him from being drafted onto the Space Station by Barchenka. Unknown to many, Rhyssa had had to make use of his particular abilities in several emergency situations, but she had been determined not to strain his blossoming Talent. Indeed, neither Lance Baden, the strongest of the other kinetic Talents, nor Sascha Roznine, who was the head of the Eastern Center's training program, had yet been able to assess Peter's full potential. Of course, now that Lance's conscription on Padrugoi was virtually over, he would be able to train and evaluate Peter Reidinger.

"Speaking of new clothes, though, Peter," and Rhyssa eyed his casual attire, loose-fitting trousers, well worn, and halfway up his calf. He was getting taller by the minute. "You can't go like that. Give Tirla a shout. She'll grab any excuse to go shopping." Rhyssa paused. "She has excellent taste."

Peter was quite willing to contact the former waif of Linear G, who was now living on Long Island with her foster parents, Lessud and Shria. Tirla waited, impatiently, until she reached her sixteenth birthday and was legally old enough to marry Sascha Roznine. She'd tagged him as "hers" when he rescued her from subsistence level living in the Linear.

The next morning, clad in an elegantly fashionable new tunic suit, Peter linked in with the Center's generators and teleported Rhyssa and Dave Lehardt to the telepad that General John Greene had given as their destination.

"Neat placement, Pete " he said, pushing himself upright from the vehicle he had been leaning against. He unfolded arms that had been crossed over the front of his dress uniform and the prestigious medals properly displayed. His face broke into a grin as he noticed Peter trying hard not to be self-conscious in the outfit that Tirla had bullied him into buying. Then Johnny whistled at an elegantly garbed Rhyssa, dressed in a trouser suit of her favorite dark green. He nodded approval at Dave's dress tunic, trimmed in the same shade.

"Where're the generators?" Peter asked, noticing how far they were from the main buildings of the Jerhattan Space Port.

"There!" and Johnny pointed to a seemingly innocent pile of vehicle shipping crates bunched together.

"Oh!" They could all hear his tentative "lean" into the units as he tested their capacity. "They'll do," Peter said, and then glided to the vehicle, the small torpedo-shaped, windowless drone that Johnny had been leaning against. Its surface, while dull, was bare of the usual remnants of plastic shipping waybills that festooned such shippers.

"Tell us why we're here," Dave asked, looking about at the drab edge of the huge landing field.

"Does this rendezvous have anything to do with the fact that each invitation was issued by a different VIP office?" Rhyssa put in. "Are they really valid enough to get us admitted?"

"Oh, yes," Johnny said, now urgently gesturing for them to enter the ship. They all had to crouch to do so. "I made damned sure of that!"

Did you have to steal them? Rhyssa asked.

Not exactly steal. Johnny chided her for her suspicions. Maybe purloin is the appropriate word because the last people Ludmilla wants on that Station today are Talents. And that's exactly why we have to be there. He ducked to take his place where a jury-rigged control board had been sited. He gestured for Peter to take the seat beside him.

There were also just four places, seats obviously taken from AirForce units to judge by the style of the safety harness.

"I assume you have a very good reason for smuggling us in, Johnny," Dave said.

"Oh, I do, but I don't know what it is, yet," Johnny said. "Not that I'm unnecessarily risking you three in a wild caper. Or my own neck. Madlyn's trying to get some information… she's still up there only because Ludmilla hasn't figured out yet that our Voice is Madlyn. And Maddie, bless her heart, volunteered to stay on during the switchover to Admiral Coetzer as the duty kinetic. Madlyn does a good 'scared-silly, mealy-mouthed' act around Ludmilla."

The young telepath, Madlyn Luvaro, was gifted with a telepathic voice that literally could be, and had been, heard from Padrugoi to Earth. Her kinetic ability, while minor compared to her telepathy, had been the ostensible reason she had been acceptable to Barchenka in the Talent Draft six months earlier. Sub rosa, she had done extraordinary service by keeping track of the hundreds of "casual" workers, the grunts, who were unlucky enough to become disengaged from their safety tethers and drifted out into space.

One of the conditions that Rhyssa as head of the Eastern Parapsychic Center had made to make the Talent Draft palatable to kinetics was that all extravehicular workers, grunts as well as specialists, would have safety tethers. Barchenka hadn't cared how many grunts she lost to such accidents. She wouldn't spare the work-hours or vehicles to rescue them. Not only had she refused to allow teams to stand by to catch drifters, she had also limited the oxygen supplied to grunts so that, if they lost their grip, their oxygen supply lastedtheir shift, with little left over. Barchenka's indifference had been one of the many reasons why Talents had refused to work on the Station. Then Barchenka had invoked an archaic pre-glasnost statute, a Russian one that should have long ago been repealed, stating that it was illegal to be unemployed and the state was the only employer, not the employer of last resort. This gave Barchenka the right, under Padrugoi's international charter, to draft any technicians, professionals, or workers required for the construction of the Space Station. The parapsychics had accepted that with as good a grace as possible. But they had also, in the line of duty, done what they could to help their fellow workers.

Though Barchenka had callously used the Talents she conscripted, she had never bothered to learn exactly what their Talents were, above and beyond the specialists she needed to finish the Space Station on time. So she had no idea that kinetics, like Madlyn, were also telepaths.

"Not that I don't want to be on the Space Station for the celebration of such a splendid human achievement," Dave said, "but last night we all watched the tri-d of her showing Admiral Coetzer around as the new commander."

"What? That tri-d fooled a hardened PR man like you? She had to do that," Johnny said deprecatingly. "I was there…"

"As General Greene?" asked Dave.

"Well, not so she'd've noticed," Johnny replied. "But there's something about her geniality," and he grinned back at Rhyssa and Dave, "that's very false. As well as totally out of character. Pete, don't help this 'lift.' I'll be using the push-pull method. I'd rather save you for later, if we should just happen to need our 'skeleteam.' He took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

There was no sense of movement, although lights ran berserk patterns around Johnny's control panel. A metallic clank and a slight jar told the passengers that the drone had landed. Johnny swiveled, a finger across his lips for silence, sudden tension in every line of his body. A complicated rapping on the drone's hull made him relax.

"Okay, kids, invitations front and center. 'Cuse me," he added as he squeezed around Rhyssa to get to the hatch to unlock it. The panel swung open to a very narrow aisle between towering storage vats and crates.

"Sir? The way's clear. The teams're in place and you've got ten minutes," said an anonymous voice as Johnny stepped out. He had to sidestep to let the others disembark in the cramped space. He held out his hand to Rhyssa. Slim as she was, she had to tuck in her tummy, grateful that her pregnancy wasn't far enough along to impede her.

"Let's go then," Johnny said.

What teams, Johnny?

Ssshhh.

The general led them a circuitous way through the high-piled stores to a lift door. Where a simple pass card would ordinarily be inserted, a much bulkier unit was welded in place.

"Taking no chances," Dave murmured.

"None," Johnny said definitively and carefully inserted his invitation card.

"Accepted," said a mechanical voice, and the checkpoint spewed the card back out. "There are four persons to be carded."

"It can count, too?" Rhyssa said, stepping up and inserting hers.

"Made it easier to keep track of bodies in and out," Johnny said cryptically.

Only when all four invitations had been verified did the doors of the lift slide apart.

"Don't put 'em away," Johnny advised as he punched the uppermost button. "We've got to go through three more security checks before we get where we want to go."

Johnny? The voice was a loud whisper that both Peter and Rhyssa recognized as Madlyn Luvaro's. Is that you?

Who else were you expecting?

I don't want to answer that. Madlyn's mental tone held a definite nervous edge.

Peter and Rhyssa, and Dave, are with me. Johnny grimaced at the way he'd inadvertantly added Dave as a seeming afterthought. Who else did we manage to keep on board?

Everyone you asked, Madlyn replied, the relief obvious in her voice.

Any ideas as to what's going down?

None, and her mental tone was as frantic as it was apologetic.

Don't worry. We're here, Johnny reassured her.

The lift stopped and its door opened. Johnny gestured for the others to get out as fast as possible. At that it nearly caught Dave's left foot, it snapped shut so fast. Johnny gestured a turn down the next T-junction, urging speed. Rhyssa tried to estimate how long the lift ride had been but couldn't. What seemed most important was that the bleak halls were vacant of traffic. They were not however without a certain pervasive odor of air recycled with the unmistakable taints of overcrowded and under-washed humanity. She'd heard thateight men or women shared each inadequate cubicle. Rhyssa eyed the halls and functional doors that looked as if they led into dormitories.

"And none of the masses are permitted to join the festivities?" Rhyssa asked, as they reached the next lift column.

"You got it in one," Johnny said, slipping his card in the slot and motioning the others to be quick. "Of course, most of those are empty since Barchenka started shipping the grunts downside once she had no further use for their bods. The offies are on the lowest levels and kept there with double wristbands that allow no access elsewhere unless they're working under guard. None of them'll be seen today."

Again the lift doors didn't open until all four cards had been cleared. John Greene checked his wristwatch, humming under his breath as he nodded his head to count the seconds.

"Time's going to be tight," he said as he barreled out of the lift, turning left.

This upper hall was wider, and the doors farther apart, indicating possibly better accommodations.

"Not really so," Johnny remarked, picking up on Rhyssa's public thoughts. "This is the level we moved the Talents out of." He gestured upward with his thumb. "At least they have the privacy shielding, and space, which Barchenka begrudged us." He turned a corner abruptly, pointed to the lift at the end, and started to jog. "Third checkpoint."

Peter glided past them and was already slotting in his card when they reached him.

"Air's better up here," Dave remarked as they were taken upward again.

"Better be," Johnny said, and the lift opened into another hall, painted an AirForce blue. Only one door sported the security unit. Johnny held up his hand. "We'll be emerging in the rest-room area. Pretend you've just been and go if you need to."

While his card was being processed, he straightened his tunic, brushed imaginary fluff from one sleeve, angled his soft hat more comfortably on his head, and then strode out into the corridor, looking neither right nor left. Their destination lay in the large chamber where people were standing in groups, chatting brightly to each other as people do when passing time. No eyes seemed turned in their direction as they discreetly filed in. Rhyssa made a show of smoothing Peter's new tunic at the back and then turned to put her arm through Dave's before they sauntered in.

I'll go hobnob with the service contingent, Rhyssa, Johnny told her. Your seats are row H, 98, 99, 100. The hospitality suite is not far from them. Your seats should have reserved signs on them. Barchenka's more nearsighted than she'll admit so I doubt she'll recognize you from the stage. Catchya later And Johnny Greene moved obliquely left, slipping in among the uniforms.

Their timing had been excellent. Rhyssa barely had time to look around the foyer, which featured wall photomurals of various stages of Padrugoi's construction taken from space, when she became aware of activity in the corridor they had just vacated. A squad of Station police in white dress tunics filed out of the rear door and began moving the invited guests toward the far end. There the huge folding doors were sliding open. A tiny audible click heralded an imminent broadcast, delivered in a slightly accented contralto voice.

"Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, please display your invitations for inspection and proceed into the auditorium."

A security check here, too, huh? Johnny said from wherever he was. And it looks like the official Lighting-up will be exactly on the contractual hour, he added with a snide chuckle.

Slowly, the crowd entered what was designated on the Space Station plans as a mall for tourists and residents. Along the outer skin of the Station, transparent panels of one of the special alloys that had been developed for the purpose allowed a stunning view of the stars. Dark bulks were discernible, some of them in orbit around the Station. Peter's eyes widened, then he visibly relaxed as his other senses identified the dark objects to him.

Why can't we see them? he asked.

Barchenka has to officially turn on the lights. That's part of the ceremony, Rhyssa said.

They moved steadily forward to the wider space at the back of the arranged seating, where people were beginning to angle toward side aisles and their reserved places. There was no middle aisle.

Peter was looking all about him, gasping a little as he recognized the faces of well-known world leaders, all splendidly dressed for the occasion. While outwardly he was the epitome of patience, he kept up a running telepathic commentary on the notables.

I never thought I'd be so close to her. D'ya see all those jewels, Rhyssa? And there's the triple world medalist in track. He did the 5,000 meter, the 10,000, and the 10,000 relay. Peter especially envied runners.

They displayed their tickets to a hard-faced, white-coated usher who was diligently checking every card. She directed them to the right-hand aisle. And down to row H. The first three seats bore "reserved" cards. A large male usher hurried forward from the front to validate the tickets again, nodded, and directed them to take their seats. In the next few minutes they had to get up several times to allow others to pass.

Careful, Pete. You're floating, Rhyssa said, and casually pressed his arm to settle him more firmly in the seat.

All this up-ing and down-ing, Peter muttered, disgruntled, because those making their way to seats beyond him obscured his view out the windows. I can't wait until the lights come on and I can really see.

At least we're far enough to one side so that the stage doesn't obscure your view, Rhyssa said in an encouraging voice.

Peter sat very straight, though she could hear the rumble of his discontent, for what seemed like an intolerably long wait. Actually, the audience was in a hurry to be seated and very shortly she felt the air of intense anticipation in the boy.

"Those ushers are military," Dave murmured in her ear, smiling at her as if he had said something innocuous.

Rhyssa gave a look at the ones in front, facing the audience. The stance was unmistakable as a "parade rest"-hands clasped behind their backs, legs slightly apart.

Johnny, where did she conscript her ushers? Rhyssa asked in a diffident tone.

Where d'you think? Moscow. She's got many connections downside and all over that part of old Russia. But I knew about them. Sent many of 'em up myself so we had a chance to check 'em out unofficially, Johnny replied. They're not the ones we worry about. They're visible. Anyhow, all of my guests have got in safely. Lance Baden and Gordon Havers are among 'em, though I thought someone might spot Lance and challenge him. And, Rhyssa could hear his smug satisfaction, the others are properly dispersed.

She was about to quiz him on "what others?" when a wide door opened beyond her. She caught a glimpse of another large chamber, tables set along the outside and covered with trays of food. There seemed to be rather a lot of very big men and women, dressed in white waiters' jackets.

Are they indeed, said Johnny, catching her startled reaction. Good to know. Knew I was wise to bring your sharp eyes along, Rhyssa. Oh, and incidentally, Pete, there's power on tap all over this level.

Peter turned to look at Rhyssa, eyes puzzled.

What's going on, Johnny? Rhyssa asked crisply.

I honestly don't have a clue, yet.

"Hey, they're starting' " Dave said, pointing to other panels sliding open, where the wide steps to the stage were situated.

Space Station Construction Manager Ludmilla Barchenka led the procession, wearing a severe uniform of space-blue with a chestful of decorations from her grateful motherland, soft spacer's beret crammed on her large head. For once her expression was not sour: she had an air of triumph about her. Some facet of that emotion alerted Rhyssa.

I've never seen her this pleased before, Johnny. She is up to something.

Can you tell what?

Not as long as she wears that metal skullcap.

Yeah, and Johnny sounded disgusted.

Admiral Coetzer, in the black uniform of his new responsibility, followed her, leading others of his staff, each paired with one of Ludmilla's outgoing executives.

At least they're wearing different uniforms, Johnny added.

Can't they get on with it! Peter said impatiently as the seating on the stage filled with the honored guests.

As the stage access door closed and the last person sat down, Peter emitted another gusty sigh.

Ludmilla Barchenka rose, nodded abruptly to Admiral Coetzer, and they both went to the table placed to one side of the lectern. An aide rushed to pull off the velvet covering and exposed the gleaming metallic switch, atop a pedestal.

The admiral smiled. Barchenka didn't.

"This is what you are here to see," she said in her accented and guttural voice.

She grasped the control, held it up for all to see, and then plunged the old-fashioned switch to the far side. Immediately, lights so brilliant that they momentarily dazzled the viewers came up outside and Peter wasn't the only one to gasp in amazement. The great upper wheel of the Station, a connected polygon where moorings and airlocks were located, was agleam with lights. Massive arrays illuminated the hull of the spaceship that would be the first of many scheduled to leave the Station on colonial missions. The size of it dwarfed even the great wheel.

Peter Reidinger seemed to back away from the vision. Rhyssa saw tears in his eyes and the wishful expression on his mobile face. When his chest did not rise, she elbowed him and he took a deep breath.

Easy, love, she added, her mental touch gentling his emotional response to the sight. You got here, to the Space Station, didn't you? You've come such a long way in a short period of time.

Startled, Peter glanced quickly at her. You don't mean I could go on her, do you? He raised his hand in the direction of the spaceship.

Equally surprised, Rhyssa exchanged eye contact and drew her lips down in a regretful moue. She'll be leaving on her first voyage this year You won't be old enough, dear, even if a kinetic would be a wise addition to her crew. It's not as if you could push her to her destination, is it? We do have to know where we're 'porting something.

We've got pretty good resolutions of the planetary systems they're going to… Peter couldn't actually wriggle his body but that was the impression Rhyssa had of what he would have liked to do just then. Time-resolved images, they call 'em, he said, remembering some of his astronomy.

"Not clear enough to 'port to, Peter. Not yet she said sadly. Dave gave a sideways glance at the pair. "Though God knows that would reduce the voyage considerably."

"You aiming to start shifting spaceships now, Peter?" Dave asked, referring to Peter's feat of the shuttle landing in Dhaka.

"Archimedes said, 'Give me where to stand and I can shift the Earth,'" Peter replied, grimacing up at Rhyssa.

"If you figure out where that is, Peter, you'll be assured of a place in history," Dave said with a droll grin.

"I'm working on it," the boy replied.

On the podium now, the World President Martin Cimprich had replaced Admiral Coetzer. With many flowing and apparently sincere phrases, the President thanked Manager Barchenka for succeeding "where so many others had been defeated by such a monumental task" in completing the Space Station on time. He added remarks about her devotion to the project, about her immense personal achievement, and how vital the Space Station would be to the peoples of Earth in their search for new worlds to inhabit. Barchenka, still standing, shifted from one foot to another, showing her usual impatience with speeches. As if Cimprich was aware of her restiveness, he cleared his throat and then, smiling at her, gestured for an aide to approach.

"It is my infinite and distinct pleasure, Manager Barchenka, to present you with this." A splendid sculpture, a rectangle of glittering plastic showing Padrugoi Space Station hanging above the Russian quadrant of Earth, passed from the aide's hands to his. With a very courtly bow, Cimprich presented it to Barchenka.

With a very brief smile and an ungracious snatch, she took possession of the sculpture. Then, with a flick of her fingers, she dismissed President Cimprich to his seat. She turned to the lectern and settled the heavy sculpture on its top with a thud that echoed through the audio system.

"Why do they have to mess this all up with speeches?" Peter demanded, and once again began to levitate until Rhyssa put a warning hand on his elbow. Will we be able to get on board the spaceship while we're up here?

I doubt it, Peter, so look your eyes full of her. We'll see about an official visit later. Admiral Coetzer knows of your part in the Bangladesh emergency.

"There is no way to keep the politicians and the orators away from such a fine opportunity to exercise their own voices," Dave said quietly, in answer to Peter's spoken question. "Especially during an election year."

"Don't remind me," Rhyssa said with a mock groan.

With no thanks to the President for his presentation, Barchenka began to enumerate the problems that she had had to overcome from day one of her assignment as Manager.

"She had to overcome?" Peter whispered, disgusted.

"Well, she did," Rhyssa said, adding sourly, "even us."

Barchenka appeared determined to recite every one of the obstacles in the path of the successful completion of the first World Space Station. She phrased her words as an indictment of those who did not spring willingly to her aid when first approached.

"'Accosted' is more like it," Dave said softly behind his hand. Rhyssa could not help a wry grin.

She says nothing about our help, Peter 'pathed sullenly to Rhyssa.

Did you expect her to? General John Greene asked from his seat among the military, on the far side of the auditorium.

If it weren't for us, Peter said angrily, she wouldn't have finished on time, or ever.

But she did, Johnny reminded him. And I'm not sorry I helped.

She still should give us credit.

Peter, Rhyssa replied firmly, never will she give us any credit No one does, and frankly, I'm all for anonymity. About ninety-nine percent of the indigenous population of Earth is afraid of psionic abilities.

Why? Peter frowned at his friend and mentor.

Because, lad, the parapsychic are different, said the distinctive voice of Australian Lance Baden, and you, in particular, are much safer being anonymous.

I don't want credit, Peter protested, turning his head to the left, in Lance's direction. But you and the other Talents who got stuck up here deserve it.

We don't expect it, Johnny said in a blithe tone. Nor do we want it from that source. Ooops, well, she's taking credit for reducing loss of life on the Station, too. Now to that I'll take exception.

Peter was probably the only one who was aware that it was the General who "reached out." Even Peter didn't at first realize what John Greene had done with that slight kinetic pulse. Suddenly Barchenka was scowling down at the prompter screen from which she had been reading her speech. She paused, scowled, lifted her hand to adjust dials, at first calmly, but when nothing seemed to improve, she thumped the screen in several places. Then, her expression registering fury, she slewed partway around and imperiously beckoned to someone standing at the back, below the stage.

"Wait," she said bluntly to the audience, clearing her throat and stepping aside as the technician hurried to assist her.

Peter hid the irreverent grin behind his hand. Will she get it back?

How would I know? Laughter rippled in Johnny's mental voice.

Peter watched as the technician made several adjustments, turning at last with a nervous smile for Barchenka and indicating he had fixed the problem. When she again took her place and looked down at the screen, she called him back.

What did you do, Pete? Rhyssa asked without looking at her prize student.

Me? Peter's expression was so surprised that Rhyssa had to believe him as he lifted his hand toward his chest in an attitude of offended innocence.

The audience began to get restless, shifting feet, clearing throats, and looking anywhere but at the glowering Barchenka. She was having words with the technician and he was still trying to adjust the screen to solve the problem. Whatever it was.

A woman, dressed in the Space Station's new black uniform, rushed out carrying a replacement unit. Music flowed out of the audio system, to bridge the pause in the program. The defective unit was removed quickly and with no fumbling and the replacement installed. Barchenka's speech disk was inserted and the two technicians stepped back, out of her way. The music faded.

"Boje moi! " were her first words. "The disk has been corrupted." She glared around at the technicians as if they were responsible. The woman, after a brief hesitation, stepped forward and murmured to the Manager. Barchenka flapped her hand about in an angry rejection. She turned back to the lectern long enough to eject her disk, and with a furious glare at the assembled, stormed off the platform and out of the auditorium. Somehow she left the impression that, if the door had not been automatic, it would have slammed shut.

The master of ceremonies launched himself at the lectern, tapping the tiny microphone to be sure he was audible.

"Sorry about that but let's give Manager Barchenka the ovation she deserves."

That she might not be able to hear through the thick panel did not register with him. His script required him to ask for an ovation. He did so. Very few dutifully stood and the enthusiasm of a genuine ovation was noticeably lacking, The guests on the platform, as if they wished to provoke a more lively participation from the audience, were the last to cease bringing their hands together.

The master of ceremonies cocked his head, obviously listening to an engineer's report. He smiled and leaning tentatively over the lectern, said: "I've been assured that we're back on-line, distinguished guests. I'm sure we're all sorry that some green gremlin," and he paused to see if everyone responded to his little joke, "has denied us the rest of Manager Barchenka's stirring speech but, as she so often did after the, ah, minor setbacks, let us proceed." He turned slightly and spread his hand invitingly to Admiral Coetzer who would now address the audience in his capacity as the newly appointed Station Manager.

Rhyssa was suddenly aware that what the assembled had heard of Barchenka's speech had not actually confirmed that transition of authority.

If the admiral seemed to hesitate briefly as he inserted his speech disk into the prompter, his face mirrored a little pleased smile when the process appeared to be successful. He began to speak in a crisp voice. He immediately mentioned the many, many agencies whose workers had generously given their time, skill, and thousands of work-hours to see this worldwide dream come true. He made special note of those whose work had been conscripted from the international Linear Labor Pool and happily announced that 32 percent of the "casual workers" had elected to stay on the Station as maintenance crew.

No other speaker experienced any difficulty with the prompting screen and they kept their remarks laudably brief. The special music composed by a Russian for this occasion marked the end of the formal part of the program and finally the master of ceremonies invited the audience to adjourn to the reception area.

Just what did you do, Pete? Johnny asked in a tight 'path as he homed in on Rhyssa, David, and Peter, emerging from the crowd making for the refreshments. From another direction, Supreme Court Justice Gordon Havers joined his fellow psychics.

Peter eyed the general speculatively. Banging her fist on the prompter wasn't a good idea. Possibly even scrambled her text.

Good thinking.

Peter did grin at the wordplay.

"Greene!" and the harsh voice stopped both the general and Peter in their tracks. Barchenka, her face set with anger, pulled Johnny Greene around by the arm. Alarmed, Peter stepped backward, trying to disappear into the throng. But others were as quick to leave the Manager's presence and Peter was halted, unable to move or willing to teleport. "How did you get up here? How did you scramble my screen?" she shouted, thrusting her fist up under the general's nose. She was so intent in confronting him that she failed to notice Rhyssa fade behind Dave's tall figure, pulling Peter with her.

"I, Madame Barchenka? I did no such thing," Johnny replied honestly, pushing her fist down and away, an action she tried unsuccessfully to resist.

"You have the capability," she continued, saliva spattering Johnny's face. Then she imperiously clicked her fingers over her shoulder. "Scan him, Grushkov," she ordered her telempath, hovering indecisively behind her. "Is he telling the truth? Let's hear you deny it now, Greene!" She folded her arms across her chest and glared up at the kinetic general, her complexion scarlet under her spacer's beret. "Then you will tell me how you got invitations and who gave them to you."

Peter wondered if he could unobtrusively teleport himself anywhere but where he was, half hidden behind Dave Lehardt's broad frame. How Rhyssa had prevailed against the Manager as long as she had showed the depth of Rhyssa's courage.

"I most certainly did not scramble the Manager's screen," General John Greene said, looking steadily at Grushkov. "My invitation came from the Secretary of Space himself in appreciation of my assistance in getting much-needed supplies to the Station, and on time."

Grushkov was immediately disconcerted. "Madame Barchenka, he is telling the truth. Furthermore, his public mind is completely open."

If John Greene and Peter saw the telempath blink and give John a closer look, Barchenka did not notice the exchange, her bulging eyes fixed on Johnny's face.

"Awrgh," she exclaimed hoarsely, clenching her fists and waving them about in frustration. Then she barreled forward, shoving into Dave's shoulder and pushing Peter aside with a bruising sweep of her arm. Johnny exerted a kinetic prop as the boy was momentarily off balance. Barchenka stomped onward, swinging her arms from left to right to clear her way to the long bar set up on one side of the reception room.

Grushkov muttered apologies to everyone so rudely handled as he and Barchenka's other white-coat aides followed in her wake.

I'm sorry now I helped her in any way, Peter said as Rhyssa, Dave, and Johnny ringed him against any other contact.

She didn't bruise you, did she? Rhyssa asked, concerned. Peter was much sturdier now than he had been when he had joined the Parapsychics, but he was still susceptible to contusions. Especially when he was not, as now, using any shields to prevent physical contact. Uncouth woman!

I've half a mind to spike her drink, Johnny murmured, glancing across the catering unit.

With an emetic? Gordon Havers suggested.

Peter would have laughed if he hadn't been mulling over something in Barchenka's mind that upset him when her arm had made contact with his chest.

Her speech was very important, he gasped. She wanted to impress the World Leaders so much that they would relent and make her Station Manager in spite of appointing the admiral. She's furious she couldn't finish it because… Peter faltered, ducking his head, frowning, his expression puzzled.

"What?" Rhyssa said aloud, shocked by the very notion of Barchenka in control of the Space Station.

"Admiral Coetzer's already on his way up to the hub," Johnny Greene said by way of reassurance.

You could read her? Rhyssa exclaimed. How could you? She's wearing a metal skullcap.

"If she is, it isn't very good," Peter said in a low voice, glancing nervously in the direction Barchenka had gone. She's going to take over the Station again. She's the only one she will allow to manage it. She's going to make us pay! Peter added. You most of all, Johnny.

"What isn't very good?" asked Dave, noting the tension in Peter's slender body.

Rhyssa quietly explained the gist of the exchanges. Dave's eyes widened in alarm and he, too, looked around the crowd to spot Barchenka's current position.

"How could she do that?" Dave asked Johnny.

"She hasn't got enough clout left with those necessary to confirm such an assignment, even if the Space Authority was insane enough to let her," Havers said, troubled.

What else did you sense, Peter? Johnny Greene asked, rocking back and forth on his heels, his jaw muscles tightening in dismay.

No one else has ever read her, Rhyssa repeated.

I think it was her whacking me like that. Peter lifted one arm to his ribs. He hadn't felt the blow, only reacted to the momentum of her thrust. The physical connection and she's so angry, she isn't holding anything back. I think she's after Admiral Coetzer, too. That's what she's gone to do now. He turned his upper body around, looking in the direction Barchenka had gone.

Oh, there you are! All three telepaths winced as Madlyn Luvaro's powerful voice assaulted their minds. Ooops. Sorry.

The telepaths glanced around, not immediately spotting Madlyn. Then the pretty, dark brunette in an elegant red dress suit stepped out of the throng. She was smiling, nodding politely to those she passed but there was a definite, noticeable tension to her body and a tightness to her smile.

"Hello, there, Rhyssa, Peter, General Johnny. How great to see you here," she said aloud. There's one goddawful rumor just starting the rounds in the workers' level: that Barchenka's going to be made Manager again. As she bowed politely to everyone in the cluster, she continued. The rumor is that she'd end up her speech by telling you all that she's taking over the Station. Her smile was fixed. She had modulated her extremely strong telepathic voice to a mere whisper, a scared mental whisper. Now her eyes begged Rhyssa to reassure her. How can she? When she came storming in here from the ceremony, and Madlyn gestured around the refreshment area, she was jerking her hands around at her white-coats and telling them that the plan would proceed. They moved out on the double. With that skullcap of hers, I couldn't read anything from her and those muscle men can't think with the front of their brains so she has been planning something all along. "Can I bum a ride back down with you, General?" she said aloud, tilting her head coquettishly at Johnny, but her eyes were clouded with anxiety.

Rhyssa said in a conversational tone, "Are you all packed, Madlyn?"

"Yessum," and the telepath nodded, more like a teenager than the confident executive she had become during her stint on the Station.

"I think I'll just see how Grushkov is doing," Johnny Greene said with a wickedly raised eyebrow. Stay here.

He wended his way into the crowd.

You don't think there's any chance she could get her way? Madlyn asked warily, pretending to admire Peter's smartly tailored outfit. "I almost didn't recognize you, you're so smart."

"Tirla took me shopping."

"She's got excellent taste." How does she think she can oust Admiral Coetzer? The World Council officially appointed him. He's such a nice guy. So calm. He impressed me when he toured the grunt levels and talked to all of them. Even descended to the offie levels. Never even wrinkled his nose at the pong down there, Madlyn said. Neither did Igor Koryakin, who's the new Maintenance Supervisor. How can they possibly turn the Station back over to her?

It just has to be wishful thinking on Barchenka's part, Rhyssa said.

Peter was very uncertain now. Could he have imagined the vivid sequences he'd seen in Barchenka's mind… like very fast-forward scenes… almost as if she were going over the plans in her mind? They couldn't have been precogs because Barchenka hadn't a vestige of psychic ability! He looked around warily. There weren't that many of her white-coated muscles in this area. He reviewed the brief glimpse of the very satisfied expression on her face, echoing her mental attitude. Then there was a sudden stir as the rank of doors beyond the refreshment area burst open, like one of the glimpses he'd had, and platoons of white-coated men and women strode purposefully in, spreading out.

Peter carefully levitated himself enough to see over nearby heads. I don't like the feel of this.

At the exact same moment, Johnny Greene broadcast, The admiral's run into a bad snag. His telepathic aide, Shandin Ross, is with him. They can't get the lift to work to the Control Intelligence Center level.

Ground yourself, Peter, Rhyssa said, pulling him back down to the floor.

She's locked Coetzer out! Johnny said angrily. Coetzer's supposed to have the command codes. She's locked him out.

Johnny, can't we do something? Peter replied anxiously.

"What?" Madlyn Luvaro demanded, and put her hand to her lips.

The lifts aren't responding, even to his emergency codes, Johnny said, his mental tone both angry and anxious. I'm reading Admiral Coetzer's mind. He's so furious right now he's dead easy to read. He's coming back here.

I've got to get closer to Barchenka, Peter announced.

Before Rhyssa could protest or caution him, Peter was gone from her side.

"No one will notice," Dave said, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

"You did."

"I was watching him. Everyone else is watching Barchenka's guards," Dave said. "Can't we do something? Anything? Are there enough strong Talents to just inactivate her?"

"Not with her metal skullcap," Johnny Greene replied telepathically as well as out loud. Although, Peter? Peter, where's he got to? he added, his tone agitated. Madlyn, have you any idea how many goons she has? Where has she positioned them? Oh! Johnny's voice was silent for three beats. Really? Pete, how'd you do that?

Johnny's astonishment was so intense that all the 'paths caught it.

My God, he's great, Madlyn Luvaro's voice was so strong, Rhyssa thought she had spoken out loud.

Yes, that's what I saw in her mind, Peter answered, and shot Johnny, as well as the other psychics, the visuals he had seen passing through her public mind. Her strategy.

That'll certainly help, Havers remarked, his lanky body relaxing. What now, Johnny?

Just be ready to take control when we can, Johnny replied. She's been too busy with her planning to watch her back. And there was a note of distinct satisfaction in his tone.

Those mysterious teams of yours? Rhyssa asked.

What teams? Both Madlyn and Gordon Havers wanted to know.

"How could she lock the admiral out of the command zone?" Dave murmured, not being privy to the lightning telepathed exchanges. "She formally handed over the passwords and encryption codes when the watch changed at dawn. Coetzer's staff has been installed since six a.m. Station time. Why don't…" he continued, breaking off when there was a sudden rearrangement of the crowd as someone barged forward: Barchenka. She had a voice wand in her hand.

"HEAR THIS!" The volume on her wand was deafening, instantly producing the silence she wanted from the now agitated audience. "I AM RESUMING THE MANAGEMENT OF THIS STATION. THERE IS AN INSURRECTION ON THE LOWER LEVELS."

That's a fat lie! Madlyn said.

"BE CALM! I WILL SAVE YOU. THE ADMIRAL YOU APPOINTED IS USELESS IN THIS EMERGENCY HE DOESN'T KNOW THE STATION AS I DO."

"Because, Madam," and the admiral appeared on cue in one open door, his aides spreading out on either side of him, hands on the holsters of their dart guns. He had an on-deck voice that could be heard without amplification. "You have tampered with the main control systems. I am the officially appointed Station Manager."

"I SHOULD BE. I WILL BE." Barchenka's wild gestures had opened a path between her and the admiral. He advanced to confront her. "NO ONE KNOWS THIS STATION AS DO, WHO HAS PUT EVERY RIVET AND GIRDER IN IT. YOU SHALL NEVER RUN IT WITHOUT ME. I WAS GOING TO EXPLAIN HOW MUCH YOU NEEDED ME BUT SOMEONE CORRUPTED MY SPEECH DISK." Her eyes were bulging, her face suffused with blood, the cords in her neck visible with her tension.

The admiral came to an abrupt halt, shaking his head in outrage at her ranting as Rhyssa, desperate to offer such help as her people had available, reached into his opened mind. She was startled to hear Peter's voice already there. Mention password, Admiral. Ask her about the password.

The admiral gave his head one more shake, eyes sliding quickly to Johnny Greene, whom he knew to be a Talent. He took another step forward, just as a thin arm in blue reached out of those near Barchenka and touched her shoulder.

"You've changed the password, have you, Barchenka?" The admiral said and, with an effort the Talents caught, gave her an amused smile. "That's why the systems won't respond. You've over ridden the codes you only just gave me."

"I HAVE CHANGED ALL. SPECIAL PROGRAM ONLY I CAN OPERATE," she cried dramatically, thumping her chest with her free hand. "NO ONE ELSE WILL EVER RUN PADRUGOI SPACE STATION BUT ME!"

Shelkoonchik? What does that mean? Peter asked. Sounds Russian with that 'chik' at the end of it. Madlyn, are there any Russian speakers on the Station?

Hundreds down in the grunt and offie levels.

No, no, someone in a command position.

Johnny Greene's amused voice answered. Yes, the Maintenance Supervisor, Koryakin. He's still trying to get the lift to work.

Koryakin! All three 'pathed the name at once. Their effort was met with silence.

He only receives, guys, Madlyn added in a droll tone.

Koryakin, the password has been changed to shelkoonchik, Peter said, his mental tone so intense that even Madlyn winced.

Did he hear that? Rhyssa asked.

Every receiving telepath on the Station heard that, Johnny Greene said, imaging himself tenderly touching his ear hole.

The admiral had come within inches of Barchenka now, almost a stroll of an approach. Certainly he did not act either cowed or subservient as he stopped just short of the semicircle of her white-coated guards.

"As the duly appointed Manager of Padrugoi, I must inform you that your deliberate attempt to undermine my authority can be considered an act of mutiny."

"MUTINY?" She threw back her head and howled with laughter. "When you can control nothing of this Station and all these-" She swung her arm to indicate the prestigious and important government officials in the stunned assembly. "Are hostages. Guests," she amended, "my guests until MY appointment is irrevocably confirmed."

That provoked angry denials and restlessness from an audience that included every world leader who had wished to attend the Inauguration of the Space Station, which their own security guards had cleared as "absolutely safe." From several directions, angry men and women charged her position. And aborted their charge when her white-coats produced illegal heat-guns and let off bursts of energy, searing the attackers. Their cries of dismay ended abruptly as Barchenka's forces swung their weapons from one side of the crowd to the other. The wounded were eased back, out of sight.

Is anyone badly hurt? Rhyssa asked on a broad band that would reach anyone in the crowd with minimal Talent.

No, ma'am. The ones I can see just got a warning crease. But that means those white-coats know how to shoot. Rhyssa couldn't recognize the speaker's mental tone: whoever he was, he was "shouting" to be heard at all. Anger had probably given him more range than normal.

"You want to get back to Earth?" Barchenka was saying now, her smile malicious. "Obey me. Any further display of insurrection," and her broad smile dared a response as her eyes swept the subdued crowd, "and my troops will see how fire-resistant your fancy outfits really are. I'll space ANYone who defies me. I, Ludmilla Barchenka, who MADE this Station, I am in complete control."

In the stunned silence that now held the assembled, the little bleep was all the more audible.

"Are you?" asked the admiral gently, his manner relaxed.

"What was that?" Ludmilla launched herself angrily at him and gestured for two of her guards to cover him. The admiral didn't resist when she wrenched off his wristcom and, dropping it to the floor, stamped on it, kicking it away from her when she couldn't break the impact-resistant case.

"You will be first to breathe space, Coetzer," she said, shaking her fist at him. Then she spoke into her own wrist unit. "Yellow Team, to the reception area. You'll see, Coetzer. You'll be admiral," and she snarled the rank in a contemptuous voice, "of deep space. And that," she waved her arm to include the audience, "will be the fate of all who defy me." Then she stopped, peering into the crowd, searching avidly.

Who's she looking for? Madlyn said, trying to shelter herself behind Dave's large frame.

Me, said Johnny Greene blithely, but she won't find me. Watch out, Havers. She knows you by sight, too. Are you far enough back in the crowd, Rhyssa? She'll also come after you.

"Yellow Team, what's keeping you?" she demanded angrily into her wrist unit.

That's more than enough of this sort of entertainment, Johnny said cryptically. Ready, set, GO!

NOW! The clear mental command was not in General Greene's voice. Suddenly the grilles on apertures halfway up the inner walls crashed down to the floor and those white-coats nearest reacted, blasting at the metal plates. To be shot down by the many standard tranquilizer rifles that appeared in the openings.

"What the-" Ludmilla began.

As she raised her hand to redirect her troops' weapons, a dart smacked into her throat. Even as she collapsed, tranquilizer darts rained down on her cohorts. A few, who had dropped to their knees and turned their weapons upward, were not hit. Abruptly every one of those threw their weapons away as if too hot to handle. On the hands held up in surrender, Rhyssa saw the unmistakable red burn welts.

Which they are, Peter said smugly. Tit for her tat!

The admiral stepped forward and removed the wristcom from Barchenka's limp arm and the weapon from her hand.

"Now hear this! Admiral Coetzer speaking. Ludmilla Barchenka has been taken prisoner. Surrender without further violence, and I guarantee safe return to the planetary surface. This mutiny is now over. Surrender to Station personnel immediately and in an orderly fashion. I repeat, Ludmilla Barchenka is under guard and her illegal force is disarmed. This is Admiral Coetzer speaking. This Station is now back under my command.

"Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, please be calm," and now he held his hands up, circling to be sure that he could be seen. "Are there any medical personnel who can attend our wounded?"

Johnny Greene suddenly levitated in front of the admiral, appearing to hesitate midair, reaching out with his right hand to deflect or catch something.

Got it! Johnny cried, dropping to his feet again as he showed the knife that had been thrown at the admiral. In the same second, one of Barchenka's thugs who was kneeling on the floor, doubled up, screaming in pain.

"I suggest that no one else attempt a similar breach of common sense," Johnny said, slowly rotating on his heel to survey Barchenka's mutineers. Pete, can you do a shield around the admiral? We're not home clear yet.

Sure! Peter Reidinger, looking frailer than ever against the tall, well-fleshed admiral, stepped to his side and projected an invisible barrier.

"Secure that man," the admiral said, gesturing for two of his aides to deal with the writhing would-be assassin. Then he noticed Peter. "Ah!"

"You need Pete fight now, Admiral," Johnny said quickly in an undertone. "He's that skeleteam I'm sure you've been briefed on."

The admiral raised his eyebrows in surprise, gave Peter an abrupt nod, and then continued to issue crisp orders.

"If some of my fellow guests would be so good as to collect the arms." Both male and female guests leaped forward immediately. Some of them cautiously nudged the weapons out of reach or gingerly touched the handles in case of residual heat. The arms were dumped in a pile that Johnny Greene then "lifted" out of the reception area.

Rhyssa crouched down by Ludmilla Barchenka's limp body and pushed her beret back, exposing the shiny skullcap that had prevented any telepath from reading her mind.

"Oh, my word!" Rhyssa. exclaimed. When she lifted the closefitting metal plate off, a round patch of bare skin, reminiscent of an ancient monk's tonsure, was revealed; bare skin further increased the protection offered by the cap.

"No wonder she felt dense," Gordon Havers remarked.

"It figures," Johnny Greene agreed after a quick glance. Then he grinned at Rhyssa. Not that I'd like to peek into her twisted mind but someone may have to, to make sure we've arrested everyone involved in this little, ah, mutiny.

Rhyssa gave a little shudder of revulsion and stood up, hands clasped together under her chin in distress. Dave put a comforting arm about her shoulders.

"General Greene?" Admiral Coetzer asked, beckoning for Johnny to come closer. He looked meaningfully at Peter, who was in earshot in his protective position.

"I'll vouch for Pete, Admiral," Johnny remarked in a low voice. Then he cocked his head, indicating he was all attention.

"How much of a force do you have, Greene? Enough to deal with this…" the admiral hesitated over a choice of words.

"Mutiny, Coetzer?" And Johnny's ineffable humor provoked a slight twitch of the admiral's lips. "I don't have a 'force,' just some volunteers in strategic places." He pointed up to the open grilles. "Another group reports that they tranked her Yellow Team in the hall so you don't need to worry about her being reinforced." Johnny ducked his head, scratching the nape of his neck and grimacing in embarrassment. "Your own personnel should be yours to command again… once we find your wristcom. Ah, thanks, Pete," he said as a wrist unit was teleported against his medals. He grabbed it.

"Thank you, Pete," Admiral Coetzer echoed, turning to the thin youth at his side before repossessing his communicator. His regard of his youthful guard was more interested than patronizing.

The military and naval guests had taken it upon themselves to secure Barchenka's whilom guards, conscious or tranquilized, assisted by Johnny's irregular troops. Leaving some on guard in the apertures, trank rifles trained below, others dropped from the hatches to secure the insurrectionists. Moments later, Admiral Coetzer's Station personnel arrived to take official charge of the captives.

Barchenka's limp body was soon draped over several chairs, strands of sweaty blond hair lying across the shaved pate. Though the drug in the dart would keep her unconscious for several hours, her hands and feet had been yoked as a precaution.

Meanwhile, recovering from the confrontation, other dignitaries had decided that now was the appropriate time to circulate refreshments. Since the waiters and waitresses were unavailable, guests performed such duties, pouring glasses of the inaugural champagne, wines, sodas, juices, and liquors set out on the tables. Some were passing trays of canapes and other finger foods, setting aside their official positions to help restore some semblance of "occasion" in the reception area. Those who had been unduly distressed by the shocks of the last hour were being comforted. Noise soon reached a normal level for such a gathering.

"Greene," the admiral said, after answering another bleep on his wristcom. "CIC reports shuttles leaving that were not cleared. Possibly some mutineers are trying to escape. I'd prefer not to christen the Station's defense system today, but the crews are not responding to orders to stop."

"An exodus like that can best be handled from Station control, don't you agree?" Johnny said, gently guiding the admiral toward the nearest exit. "We'll need the services of our Voice," he added, beckoning Madlyn to come forward. We might need everyone in CIC "I believe you've already met Ms. Luvaro, Coetzer," and when the admiral acknowledged that with a little bow to her, Johnny went on. "She's been our Station-to-Earth contact and she'll be very useful right now. I don't believe you've met Rhyssa and Dave Lehardt. Rhyssa's…"

"By reputation certainly I know Ms. Lehardt and her husband," the admiral said graciously, gesturing for the small knot of psychics to accompany him. "And Justice Havers. Though I haven't formally met Mr. Baden," he said, turning to Lance with an extended hand. "Your superb management of the Bangladesh Emergency was a fascinating advertisement for kinetics."

"Not as much as today was," Lance replied drolly.

On their way to the lift, they passed knots of white-coated men and women now guarded by personnel of Coetzer's command.

"Admiral, sir," Madlyn began tentatively, "you gotta reassure the grunts."

"I beg your pardon?" The admiral leaned slightly toward the Voice who was trotting to keep up with his long stride.

"The workers, down below, they're terrified of Barchenka and they think she's still in control. If you don't tell 'em you are, they might do just about anything."

"That will be our second task, Ms. Luvaro. You can't, by any chance, reassure them yourself?"

"Me? They wouldn't hear me, sir. None of 'em are receivers. It's your voice they need to hear on the audio. They liked you, you know. You didn't sniff or cover your nose when you visited their quarters.

Coetzer's lips twitched in an effort not to smile as he adapted his stride to her shorter one, taking her by the arm and guiding her into the lift.

"I'll see if we can't improve those conditions, Ms. Luvaro."

"They'll work their butts off for you if you do, Admiral," Madlyn said feelingly. "Oh, you know they will, Johnny," she added forcefully as she caught the general's amused reaction to her candor. "Only I still don't understand why Barchenka picked such a crazy password. She hated music and wouldn't let anyone even whistle in her presence."

The Admiral chuckled. "What better one to choose than something totally unsuspected. Since shelkoonchik means nutcracker, and one figures in the Tchaikovsky ballet, it was relatively obscure, given her habits. Koryakin told me the composer was a famous Russian." He turned toward the psychics for their opinion.

"He is indeed," said Gordon Havers. Well done, Pete! Neat way to disarm opponents, too. You must tell me how you heated up their weapons.

It seemed a good idea, Peter Reidinger replied modestly, but his visible smile was broad enough for two faces.

You did real good, Peter. Real good. Madlyn looked up at him so adoringly that Peter edged closer to Rhyssa as the lift doors parted on the Command level.

"Admiral on the bridge," said the sentinel at the lift as Admiral Coetzer walked into the Control Intelligence Center, the CIC, of Padrugoi Space Station.