Pegasus In Space

4

"She's got a psionic mental signature," Dorotea told Rhyssa when they had put the sleeping child to bed in the room Tirla had once occupied in Dorotea's neat little house on the Henner estate. Despite her eighty-odd years, Dorotea sat bolt upright on the edge of her chair. Perhaps the glass of brandy was out of character for what she called her "sweet harmless old lady" look, but she needed the drink. The pregnant Rhyssa was sipping cranberry juice.

"You can't guess what? Telepath, telekinetic, telempathy?" Rhyssa asked. Dorotea was their preeminent assessor of psychic abilities.

Dorotea shook her head, sighed in a heavy gust, and took another sip of her drink.

"Much too young to assess but it is there. She had quite a traumatic day." Dorotea held up her hand as Rhyssa started to protest. No, not the kinetic jump. She was fast asleep in Carmen's lap. Lance Baden knew better than to give her more to deal with. "No, Igot the awful distress of that little witch uprooting her plants just to be malicious. That garden meant more to Amariyah than anything else. Food or drink or shelter. She doesn't like water." Dorotea grinned. A bath had definitely been in order for the dusty, disheveled child before settling her between clean sheets. Tirla had solved the little contretemps over getting into a bathtub by flinging off her own clothes and climbing in first. "Except to use on plants, of course."

"It'd be normal for her to have a trauma about water, nearly drowning in the flood," Rhyssa said.

"Hmmm, yes," Dorotea murmured through the glass at her lips. She took a good swig. "However, she's unlikely to have that particular problem here in Jerhattan unless she falls in the fish pond. Since she also has no living relatives, and she does exhibit Talent, we'll just have her made a ward of the Center. We've done that before to rescue children from far worse circumstances. Besides which, I can use help in the garden now it's springtime. Or supposed to be."

"Are you willing to mind her?" Rhyssa was surprised. She had half planned to take the child into her home. Install her with two parental figures. That is, until Dorotea caught sight of the little waif.

"Well, you've moved Tirla out on me," and Dorotea gave a disapproving sniff, "though she enjoys the life with Lessud and Shria in their Linear." Dorotea gave another sniff, for she certainly wouldn't have fancied such a lifestyle. "You have enough on your plate with the Center and being pregnant. And you certainly don't need another child in the house when your son arrives."

Involuntarily Rhyssa's hand went to her abdomen. "Well, I have no objections to accommodating her."

"I do," said Dorotea. "I think I'm the right person for her. We can review this in a few weeks' time." She shook a finger at Rhyssa. "No one wants you overburdened, my dear. There! That's settled. You'd better get back to your house. Dave'll be in soon and he'll want to hear all about this."

He will? Rhyssa said with great amusement.

"I think he will," Dorotea said firmly, and finished off her drink. "Now," and she settled in her chair, the control panel of her household unit appearing in front of her, "I'll just order in some necessities."

"What? And usurp Tirla's prerogative?" Rhyssa said with a laugh as she rose from the chair. "I wouldn't dare."

"Tirla said she'd come back in the morning to assist me. Meanwhile the child must have something clean to wear tomorrow morning." Dorotea gestured to the unit. "As she's come from the sunbaked plains of Bangladesh, I'd say that shopping in a Mall tomorrow might cause severe culture shock. We'll introduce her gradually to such pleasures."

"Does Tirla have it all planned?"

Dorotea chuckled, glancing up at Rhyssa. "You know, I think she might and her instincts are invariably correct. She needs a break from wall-to-wall Teachering. Shopping for someone else will provide it. Amariyah! Such a lovely name! Tirla took instantly to the child and you know how unusual that is. I think we'd be wrong to interfere with that budding friendship."

Reflecting briefly on Tirla's complex personality, Rhyssa agreed. It was a wonder the way the girl had shaken off the trauma of the kidnapping and the physical abuse by that wretched Flimflam. Her feet showed no scars from the bastinado whipping that he had inflicted on her.

Tirla's a survivor, dear, Dorotea said reassuringly. Then she shooed Rhyssa away. "You've still got all those files to deal with. I can still handle something simple like this. Peter'll be back from that warehouse of Lance's soon and I'll need to fix him a snack."

With Dorotea headed for the kitchen, Rhyssa knew it was time to leave. The walk across the lawn to the main house, and the wing she and Dave lived in, gave her a chance to organize her thoughts for the work that did indeed lie in wait on her desk.

The next morning Tirla was back at Dorotea's almost before the woman had arisen from her own bed. Certainly well before Peter was up.

She's still asleep, Dorotea said, finger on her lips, as she met Tirla in the hallway.

"I thought she'd be up by now. It's well into day where she comes from," Tirla said in a quiet voice. She could "hear" Dorotea, as well as Peter, but she had never quite got in the habit of responding mentally. In her estimation, telepathy was something to be used in an emergency. "Did you get her something to wear?"

The previous evening Tirla had been indignant over the little sleeveless dress that Amariyah had arrived in.

"I did indeed. In the living room," and she stepped aside to let Tirla through. I'm getting breakfast. Did you wish something?

"What are you having?"

I'll just see what falls out of the fridge.

Tirla smelled the frying eggs and the toast as she finished inspecting the essential wardrobe that Dorotea had procured.

"I couldn't have done better," Tirla said, beginning to set the round kitchen table for three, then adding a fourth setting.

"Is she awake?" Dorotea asked, one hand hovering over the egg bowl.

"Coming to." Tirla slipped out of the kitchen.

"I'll let you handle it," Dorotea said to the empty air, and wondered if eggs were part of a Bengali breakfast. Eggs were produced by hens no matter what country they inhabited.

She heard the murmur of girlish voices, one a little high-pitched at first that settled into a less agitated tone halfway through the first sentence. She heard water in the hall bathroom and then the two girls entered the kitchen. Amariyah stopped in the doorway, all eyes but not alarmed as she surveyed the room.

"Good morning," Amariyah said, giving a polite Bengali bow, folding her hands up to her chest.

"You don't need to do that anymore," Tirla said. "It is not the custom here."

"Sister Kathleen is saying that there is no country that is not having good manners," she said mildly. Tirla stared at her in surprise. "This one says I am to call you Dorotea. You are not a Sister?" The cadence in which she spoke was Bangla, her vocabulary unusual.

Dorotea thought her manners quaint and most acceptable, a change from Tirla's blunt, almost impudent ways.

"I am not a religious Sister," Dorotea said.

"You may call her 'dida,' " Tirla suggested. That means 'grandmother,' Tirla explained, 'pathing on this occasion. It is very courteous for a much older woman.

Thank You for that translation, Tirla, Dorotea replied at her drollest. Tirla had the grace to flush.

Oblivious to the rapid flash of thoughts, Amariyah nodded. "Thank you, dida. Thank you very much for the clothing, too."

"You may sit, Amariyah. I will help the dida," Tirla said.

From her I will accept the appellation, Tirla, but you will call me Dorotea or I will not serve you this good breakfast.

"I will help Dorotea," Tirla repeated circumspectly. She put the plate of eggs and toast in front of Amariyah. "Isn't Peter coming to breakfast? Peter!" she shouted down the hall without waiting for an answer.

"I'm here, I'm here. Oh, good morning, Amariyah," Peter said, surprised. He had obviously teleported himself into the kitchen although the child had not seen him materialize. Now he "walked" to the table. "Ah, did you sleep okay?"

"I slept very soundly, thank you, Peter."

The girl waited until the others were served, bowing her head over hands clasped on the table edge. Dorotea hastily thought of a quick grace.

"Let us be thankful for the food we are about to enjoy," she said. She came to us from a Catholic orphanage. A little grace never hurt anyone, she added to a surprised Peter.

If Amariyah hesitated another second, it was to observe how the others addressed their food. Tirla ate with gusto, thickly buttering and spreading jam on the toast, cutting up her egg into manageable portions, drinking milk almost noisily, and chasing egg pieces around on her plate with her toast. Amariyah did not look up from her plate until nothing was left, then folded her hands in her lap.

"You wouldn't happen to have another egg, would you, Dorotea? Or more toast?" Peter asked plaintively. "D'you want anything more, Amariyah?"

She gulped and shook her head. "Oh, no thank you very much, Peter."

I gather that seconds were never offered at the orphanage, Dorotea remarked repressively, resuming her position at the range.

Like Oliver Twist? asked Peter with a grin as he physically took his plate to her rather than 'porting it.

Amariyah watched as Peter consumed two more eggs and three slices of well-buttered and jammed toast.

"I'm a growing boy," Peter said in an almost apologetic tone to her.

She quickly ducked her head away, flushing with embarrassment to be caught staring at anyone.

"Dida, what are my duties now? Tirla has served the meal. I am careful with dishes. Where does one wash them here?"

"In the dishwasher," Tirla said, pointing. "We have better things to do with our time than wash dishes."

Amariyah's eyes went round in surprise.

"That is so, dear," Dorotea said gently as she rose. "Come, we must select more clothing for you."

"You have already given me these." Amariyah touched the blue coverall.

"Jerhattan is much colder than Bogra," Dorotea said, holding out her hand. "Peter, you may fill the dishwasher."

"Sure." He paused, a devilish glint in his eye, and then meekly added, "Dorotea."

You'd better, young man. I want no didas out of you either.

Just thought I'd make Amariyah feel at home!

"You'd freeze outside, wearing just that," Tirla said, also holding out a hand to the child. "Come. We will see what's to be had," and the light of acquisition enlivened her face.

Oh, Lord, let's hope the treasury can stand it, Peter said. Tirla pretended she didn't hear that.

For Amariyah the morning was sheer magic. Either Tirla or the dida kept her hand in theirs as they watched the selections slide across the screen. They encouraged her to choose the colors she liked, the styles that she seemed to prefer. The ordering seemed to be done by speaking into the big screen. A small window at one side then confirmed the purchase. It took Amariyah a little time to realize that there was no bargaining with the vendor. She found that odd though the other two did not. Dida Dorotea was so kind, so generous, and Tirla was so much nicer than any of the other older girls at the orphanage that Amariyah couldn't believe her change in circumstances. She had even been able, for a few moments in the rapture of owning more than one dress, to forget her dead garden.

"Now, we do have some tasks," Dorotea said briskly. "Off," she added and the screen went dark. "If you will put this on, Amariyah," holding out a warm fleece-lined jacket, "we will go outside. Tirla will come, too."

"I will?" Tirla was taken aback. "But I thought I would access Teacher from here."

"The fresh air will do you good, too. Dida commands, Tirla," Dorotea said at her sweetest. She shrugged on an old jacket, shoved worn gloves in one pocket, a measuring tape in another. "I believe you like gardens, Amariyah." She was amazed by the vivacity flooding the child's solemn little face.

"Oh, I do, dida."

Dorotea took her hand. "Right now, of course, only the spring flowers are coming up but there's a lot of maintenance to be done. This house faces southeast so we have good sun on most of the beds all day. Things do not grow with quite the profusion that they do in Bangladesh, but I have reason to be proud of my green thumb."

That unfamiliar idiom made Amariyah regard Dorotea's slender hands with surprise.

"It's an expression, my dear, meaning that one is good at gardening."

"I have a black thumb," Tirla muttered, closing the front door behind them. "Oh! Look at the tools, Amariyah! Just your size."

Dorotea beamed with satisfaction as Amariyah gazed with rapture at the child-sized wheelbarrow, equipped with rake, fork, spade, trowel, and watering can. She had to be encouraged to examine the tools and reassured that, yes, these were for her to use. Surely there'd been some toys in that orphanage. Or had her garden been her only toy?

"Try them, Amariyah," Tirla said, pushing the child toward the barrow. "See, just the right size for your hands!" She had to close Amariyah's fingers about the rake handle. "See? They were made for you!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" exclaimed Amariyah, hands clasping the rake in a grip that made her knuckles turn white, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"Now, now, it's no big thing, dear. I do need help, you see, and Tirla's best at shopping." Dorotea reached into her coat pocket to find a tissue. "Tirla, go get my trug and my stool from the shed. We'll need to rake some of last year's leaves away, Amariyah. Let's make a start, shall we? Just wheel your barrow over here, will you?" Dorotea gently ushered the dazed little girl toward the garden where the green spires of daffodils poked through the mulch.

Tirla, returning with Dorotea's equipment, regarded Amariyah with consternation. She's still crying.

"Don't cry, Amariyah," she said aloud, folding a sympathetic arm about the girl's slender shoulders. She's not sobbing. She's just letting tears run down her face. How does she do that? "Itold you you'd have a garden."

"It's the dida's garden," Amariyah murmured. Rake in hand, she took the final steps. "But I will make it neater."

"That's the girl. This dida needs help with her garden," and Dorotea artistically groaned as she bent down. Amariyah was quick to help her to her knees. "I can trust Tirla to find shopping bargains but I wouldn't trust her to weed." Dorotea could not resist flashing a sour look at Tirla.

"Why are you trusting me?" Amariyah asked.

"Because," Dorotea said slowly for emphasis, "I know that I can. Here, let's just clear the leaves from this patch. Do you have daffodils in Bangladesh?"

Setting the little rake carefully to the ground, Amariyah dropped to her knees beside Dorotea, oh so patiently coaxing the dead stuff away from the green shoots.

"I have never seen these before."

For a moment, Tirla thought that Amariyah was sniffing the leaves, she had her face so close to them.

"Tirla, why don't you go get my gardening book?"

"Why don't we access the screen?"

"That would mean we'd have to go inside," Dorotea said, well aware of the ploys Tirla could come up with in order to get back to a screen. "I think one of those printed books you find so obsolete will do nicely."

"Which one?" Tirla asked in a put-upon tone.

"Get the Encyclopedia of North American Flora first," Dorotea said firmly. "The title is printed on the spine, you know." She turned back to her eager student. "Now, there are five varieties of daffodils around the house, and eight of narcissi. They'll be coming up next."

Tirla brought the book and, while Dorotea was turning the pages to the section on bulbs, she sneaked back to the house, to turn on Teacher. The avid gardeners stayed out for the entire morning. Tirla had a peek from the front window from time to time, seeing two rear ends waggling above the flower beds. Amariyah was evidently oblivious to everything but her hands in dirt and muck and making certain that she'd cleared the last little bit of debris from the emerging plants.

When that bed had been cleared, Dorotea ushered her back into the house. "Now wash your hands well, and be sure to brush your fingernails clean," she said, nodding significantly to Tirla to oversee the process.

Dida Dorotea served warming soup because the child was quite pale from cold under the tan the sun in Bangladesh had given her. By then the new clothing had arrived and Tirla insisted on a fashion show, making certain that everything fitted correctly, giving a long lecture on how Amariyah could mix and match the various items, and helping her put them away in the drawers.

Dorotea had had the notion of logging Amariyah on to Teacher in the afternoon so that they could see just where the child stood academically. That could wait until tomorrow. Today she would consolidate her position with the child by taking her on an afternoon stroll of the grounds so she could orient herself. Dorotea also hauled a protesting Tirla away from the monitor for more fresh air. The lawns were just beginning to green up but the trees and shrubs were bare.

"There is a great deal of gardening to be done here, dida," Amariyah said solemnly.

"This time of year is not the busiest for gardening here in North America, " Dorotea remarked. Because it was so obvious from Amariyah's manner that she looked forward to the challenge, she did not say that there were men who did nothing but take care of the gardens here on the old Henner estate.

"Where is the kitchen garden?" Amariyah asked.

Tirla managed to turn a laugh into a gurgle.

"I will show you where the vegetables are grown another day. You're cold. We shall go home and have a nice cup of tea." Dorotea tightened her grip on the small hand.

"We forgot to buy gloves," Tirla said. "I'll get gardening gloves, too, if they make them in Maree's size."

"I'm sure we'll find some," Dorotea said.

How is our waif? Rhyssa asked as they made their way back to the house.

If Teacher was the key to our Tirla, a garden is Amariyah's. What worries me is that she hasn't smiled once and I wonder if she knows how to laugh.

That's your department, dida.

Dorotea imagined herself as a giant cat, tracking down a mouse of a Rhyssa with malice intended.

I couldn't resist, dear Then Rhyssa's mental tone altered. We have got hold of Amariyah's birth certificate. She was born five years ago in Djakarta, August 17. Tony and Nadezhda were working on some ruins upcountry. Just made it to the hospital, or so Kayankira discovered in her research. There are, as Kayankira said, no living relatives. Both parents were single children. Each had put the other down as 'next of kin.' We also accessed Tony's employment application and security search lists no living relatives of any degree of kinship.

So she's ours?

I'll file a formal request with the Children's Protection League and have her legally made our ward. Pause. Kayan's very interested in our Tirla.

Ha! was Dorotea's response to that.

And inordinately impressed by Peter.

As well she might be. Dorotea had a very soft spot for Peter Reidinger.

Are you comfortable with Amariyah?

I'll be more so when I can get her to laugh and smile.

So how does your garden grow? I saw you two out there. Did Tirla sneak in to Teacher?

Dorotea indulged in a mental snort of disdain. As soon as she could. Well, she was Linear-bred. I can't expect her to be horticulturally minded. Amariyah, on the other hand, is to the manner born.

Those tools were sheer inspiration.

I thought so, too. But we must find her some patch somewhere on the estate, all hers. Mine is the dida's garden. She'd take on the entire grounds if we let her.

Maybe old Ted Comer will take her on as an apprentice.

Him? Dorotea and Ted were more frequently at odds over minor details of gardening than in charity with each other. I have to get her on the Teacher program first. We'll see just how good her orphanage tuition was.

With Tirla assisting the next morning, Amariyah Bantam was found to understand the basics that any five-year-old should know. Her spelling was the English-English variety, her vocabulary and arithmetic adequate, her handwriting the cramped little script that "saves paper," as Dorotea remarked. She was also fluent in Bangla. She knew nothing about technical Teacher aids, such as a computer, or even how to find her way around the tri-d. She informed them almost regally that only the older girls were given technical instruction. The orphanage had a communications system and a satellite connection, donated by the Presbyterian Women's Association. Occasionally they were all allowed to watch instructional programs and nature films.

Unexpectedly, her IQ testing ranged toward the genius level but her schooling so far had not been in the least bit challenging. Concurring with Carmen Stein's assessment, Dorotea could also feel the spark that so often blossomed into Talent.

It was Tirla, to whom such an item meant so much, who reminded Dorotea that Amariyah had no identification band.

"She'll hardly need it," Dorotea began. "She's not likely to go anywhere yet without an adult."

"You haven't even stranded her!" Tirla cocked her arms at her waist and glared accusingly at Dorotea. "We don't want another incident, do we?" she added, tilting her head, her eyes wise beyond her years as she obliquely referred for the first time to being kidnapped.

"Yes, you're quite right." Dorotea was prompt to admit mistakes. Even those she made. "If you'd just go up to the main house and get Sascha to give you some strands, you can weave them into her hair yourself."

"Yes, Sascha would have strands, wouldn't he?" Tirla said and, flipping her own long black hair with its security strand over her shoulder, briskly strode out of the house on her errand. "And I'll make him get an ID bracelet for Maree. Like an hour ago!"

"She's mute right now as far as telepathy is concerned," Dorotea told Rhyssa when she dropped by after Amariyah had gone to bed, exhausted by an exciting day. Dorotea pursed her lips. "We have, however, come to a compromise about how she will address me. Dida Tea is formal enough for her convent-trained sensibilities and it at least sounds like my name." Then Dorotea went on more thoughtfully. "She might have some kinetic ability although she didn't display any while we were weeding. She'd never seen daffodils. She's been poring over garden encyclopedias like the print would fade." She beamed over having another ardent plant lover as a companion. "Never thought those old printed books would be more than a curiosity. I noticed today that some of the print is fading. Or at least some of the color 'graphs in them. I've tried to explain to Amariyah about common and Latin designations of flowers. My Latin's rusty but Tirla and I did show her how to access Dictionary. She's been looking up all the big words as if her life depended on it. I think we'll plan a little trip to the Botanical Gardens once she's more acclimated to this part of the world."

"D'you think she's homesick for Bangladesh or the Sisters?"

Dorotea shook her head. "She may be later on when the novelty wears off. She asked to write to the Sisters. I must get the address from you. Oh, and she did smile at Peter tonight. Just a little smile but enough to reassure me that she knows how."

"Don't fret that, Dorotea. She must be a little overwhelmed by her change in circumstance. Have you told her about her… lack of blood kin?"

"No, I didn't. She's far too involved with differentiating asphodilus, which is Latin, from narkissos, which is Greek, in case you didn't know."

"I didn't," Rhyssa said, rising and beating a strategic retreat.

When, four months later, the earth warmed in spring sunlight, Dorotea and her new ward had become fast friends, despite the age difference. Ted Comer was also taken with the solemn little girl and was cajoled into giving her a garden plot all her own. He'd planned to put it into zinnias, which were not Dorotea's favorite flower, but Amariyah had endeared herself to him by naming every single shrub, tree, and greening plant by their Latin names.

"I couldn't stop her learning. She's inhaling gardening terms," Dorotea said in an aside to the surprised groundsman.

"I've some seeds I can give her."

"Any vegetables?" Dorotea asked, eyeing him. "She seems to feel that we are lacking in kitchen garden space."

Ted looked stunned.

"I do plan to take her to the greenhouses," Dorotea went on. "She wasn't that impressed with flowers and trees and shrubs being stuck indoors in the conservatory but she took the point that some of them wouldn't flourish in the open."

Ted nodded with the vigor of someone who doesn't quite understand what he has just been told.

"We can let her have both, can't we? Vegetables and flowers?"

"If it makes the little girl happy, I ain't agin it," Ted replied.

Only after she had planted it to her satisfaction did Amariyah show Tirla her garden. Tirla pretended a keen interest that took Dorotea by surprise.

"When did you start learning anything about gardening?" she asked Tirla when she had a chance.

The Linear-bred girl shrugged. "I gotta keep in touch."

Peter also feigned interest. He was able to make an escape from his horticulturally determined housemate because Rhyssa allowed him to accompany Lance Baden back to Adelaide, to continue their experiments in assessing his limits.

"If he has any," Lance amended when he discussed the resettlement with Rhyssa and Sascha.

"Traveling is a good idea," Sascha said, "especially since we've got to keep him busy until he's old enough to be put on the roster."

"I must get ahold of Dirk Coetzer," Lance said. "Peter keeps harping on that promise to tour the spaceship."

"I'll check with Dirk," Rhyssa said.

"And nudge Johnny Greene about it, too," Sascha suggested.

"That's not a problem," Rhyssa said. "The outfitting of the Andre Norton is still on schedule."

"So Barchenka's not the only one to make good," Lance said slyly.

"And I'll make sure Peter's on the first tour available. There are promises that must be kept."

"And miles to go before I sleep," Lance quoted, surprising them all.

The Space Station Commander Admiral Dirk Coetzer did not forget his promise to young Peter Reidinger. Without any reminder from General John Greene, just before Peter's sixteenth birthday in September, the admiral extended a special invitation to the young kinetic and to anyone else from the Eastern Parapsychic Center who wished to come. Rhyssa was coping with her colicky son, Eoin, but insisted that Dave go along with Peter, Sascha, Lance, and Boris Roznine. It turned out to be the first tour of the nearly completed spaceship and the Talents were the only guests. Johnny Greene was present, too; he knew the great ship almost as well as her designers.

" 'Every rivet and girder in it.' " Johnny's grin was malicious as he quoted Ludmilla Barchenka.

"That's enough of that," Dirk Coetzer said and the others guessed that Johnny Greene was not above trying the admiral's patience with occasional references. The former etop pilot remained the only other Talent who had sussed out and could effect Peter Reidinger's gestalt in telekinesis.

The colony spaceship was still moored in the construction quadrant, with access tunnels to the various hatches, and was surrounded by small rigs, with nets of supplies attached by tethers. For this visit, all but the engine and fuel storage segments had been aired up and the artificial gravity turned on so the guests could move about more freely. The tour started in one of the levels in which cryogenically suspended astronauts would be stored in racks of specially engineered "cradles."

"We prefer 'cradle' to 'coffin' or 'tank,' " the admiral said, patting the nearest empty container.

Peter eyed it speculatively. "Like a single-passenger carrier," he said to Johnny Greene. Carefully, with well-rehearsed control, he was able to lay his hand, but not his fingers, flat against the container. John and Lance, knowing how difficult it was for Peter to make small motor gestures, exchanged glances over that little triumph.

"There are nine levels so we can accommodate a suitable colonial gene pool," Coetzer went on.

He showed them one of the storage holds, already half full of supplies, and demonstrated how the locks would operate to prevent oxygen leakage from any hull penetration.

"No Titanic disaster in space," Coetzer said with satisfaction. "The Andre Norton has been built to survive. The ship is separated into units, each one self-sufficient. From the bridge, the captain can remotely initiate the revival of passengers should that be necessary."

"Let's hope it isn't," murmured Dave.

The admiral took his guests further forward, into the living levels where the skeleton crew-Coetzer grinned at Peter-would be running the immense colony ship. Each crew member was to serve two years' duty on rotation for as long as the journey would last.

"Not that the Andre Norton will get to Altair any faster but certainly eventually." Of that the admiral was certain.

"Some degree of privacy is essential to crew well-being," he said, showing them one of the cabins, where he demonstrated how cleverly furnishings had been built into the wall spaces. "They also afford shielding," and he nodded to Lance and Johnny. "We learned that lesson even if we aren't likely to ship any psychics in the crew."

"Why not?" Peter asked, jerking his head around to the admiral.

"None have volunteered, Pete."

"I would," Peter said firmly, almost belligerently.

"I know, son, I know," the admiral said, a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. Coetzer thought he'd fleshed up a bit, had lost the bony look he'd had at the Inauguration. He was taller as well and had an unmistakable but modest confidence about him now. Nothing succeeds like success, Coetzer thought, remembering the comments on young Reidinger's progress that Johnny Greene was always dropping. Which was why Coetzer had never forgotten his promise to the boy. "But your future is linked with this planet. God knows I'd give anything to sail this ship out of our system, on her way to Altair."

"Why can't you?" Peter asked. Surely admirals could do what they wanted. Cut orders or something.

Coetzer chuckled. "Doesn't work like that, Pete. Now, come with me and I'll show you the nerve center of this ship."

"Admiral on the bridge," was the ringing cry, causing officers and ratings to snap to attention.

"As you were. If you'll-" Coetzer began, and stopped as he saw the awed expression on Peter's face. He'd never quite got over the wonder of the scene that was visible in the forward screen of the Andre Norton so he stood in respectful silence as Peter absorbed the panorama. The ship's prow, although parallel to the great wheel of Padrugoi, faced outer space. Sometimes the prospect terrified those with any degree of agoraphobia. Mostly the view reduced people to stark amazement and wonder, as it did Peter.

The hunger, the yearning for the unknown and the unreachable was visible on the boy's face. For a long moment, the boy was stockstill until Lance leaned forward and lightly touched his arm. Peter exhaled.

"Say again, Pete?" the admiral asked, sure that he had heard words on that breath.

"I only need to know where to stand," Peter murmured, eyes focused beyond the plasglass to the black space, pinpointed with stars.

"When you find out," Johnny said gently, "do let me know."

Peter gave his head a shake, grinned with sheepish apology to the admiral.

"Well, then, let me show you how the Andre Norton operates."

Peter was attentive, asked intelligent questions, but his eyes were constantly seeking the scene outside.

"He's mesmerized," Lance remarked quietly to Johnny.

"Has that effect, all right, " Johnny replied, giving a short sharp sigh. "Can't blame him. I ogle it every chance I get."

Once the bridge tour was done, the admiral offered his guests lunch in his quarters. It was obvious to the others that Peter would have gladly taken a sandwich to the bridge and stared at space until it was time to leave. But he had learned manners from Dorotea and, though he kept looking at space until the lift door closed it from sight, he recovered his poise on the way back to Padrugoi. He kept thanking the admiral throughout the excellent lunch,asking now and then about details he wished to make clear in his own mind.

"Would it be against security if I asked if I could have some, well, sort of details, like how she masses? And you know, some idea of her interior and her decks?" Peter asked while the adults were having coffee. He didn't like any stimulants. He hadn't needed any medication since he'd left the hospital. Other than his paralysis, he enjoyed very good health.

"We do have just the sort of documentation you'd like, Pete," the admiral said. "Oh, nothing that breaches security or shows more than the general outlines but the specs do include the dimensions as well as the mass, though that's estimated rather than actual. We know how much the components weigh in gravity. Of course, it isn't as if the Andre Norton were a seagoing ship and we'd know how much water she displaces." The admiral grinned. "But yes, you may have what we've prepared as a press handout at her Launch." He leaned across the table to Peter, who was on his right. "You will, of course, be on hand?"

"I'd be delighted, sir," Peter replied, beaming with gratitude.

"Good, that's settled. You are high on the invitation list," and the admiral winked.

"Any time I can be of service, sir, you have only to think it."

"Really?" and Dirk Coetzer rolled his eyes.

"Oh, not 'pathing you, sir, never," Peter assured him hurriedly.

The admiral grinned. "Just teasing. I'm well aware of the high ethics of Talent."

"Anyway," and now Peter paused to smile impudently, "you've got a natural shield that only lifts when you get very angry."

"Oh? I do?" Coetzer was pleased.

Now you've done it, Johnny said with feigned disgust.

Done what?

I've had the admiral believing I could read his mind so he'd tell me what I needed to know before I went in and found it.

Peter looked from Johnny to the admiral who was still grinning with great satisfaction. Coetzer raised an eyebrow significantly at Johnny and sat back in his chair.

Looking without permission isn't ethical, Peter said, distressed that the man he admired most would do such a thing.

Who said I looked? Johnny replied. He just thinks-thought, thanks to you-I could read him.

Tsck, tsck Lance Baden said without glancing at their end of the table. He was chatting with unusual animation with the attractive engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander Pota Chatham.

A copy of the coveted plans, secured in a big envelope with ISS ANDRE NORTON blazoned on the front, was shortly delivered to the admiral, who handed it over to Peter. Then the Talents rose from the table, thanked the admiral and his officers for the tour and the lunch, and took the lift to the boat deck and the recently installed telepad. As they swung out of the lift, they nearly collided with a cleaning crew. Johnny felt a surge of menace and looked around at the janitors running vacuum tubes over the deck and walls. The flicker of what-ever-it-was was gone. Probably one of the grunts, annoyed by their appearance.

"Admiral Coetzer did say we were the first, didn't he?" Peter asked as he ducked into the personnel carrier, the envelope hugged to his chest. Lance was not the only one to notice that his fingers actually curled possessively on its edges.

"Yup," Johnny said, climbing into the forward left-hand seat. "Care to 'port us home, Peter?"

Peter hesitated and then, with careful hands and fingers, put the envelope on the forward shelf. He even managed an extra pat, as if telling the envelope to stay put.

"Sure," he said.

Dave Lehardt was relatively accustomed now to telekinesis but he was not accustomed to seeing it happen: the view of the boat deck of Padrugoi was suddenly the sunny late afternoon of the Henner grounds, and not a hint of movement-just the abrupt alteration of physical position. Dave swallowed in awe at the ease with which Peter displayed his ability. The kid hadn't even taken a deep breath: just teleported them. Snap! Like that! Amazing!

He was holding the envelope, Rhys," he told his wife, imitating Peter's gestures." He cocked his fingers around the edges and he was holding it to his chest-like his most precious possession-with both hands flat and definitely hugging it to him. He may not know he was doing it but Johnny, Lance, and I saw him."

Rhyssa smiled at her husband over the head of their son. "He's been close to such small motor movements for some time now, but only when he isn't really trying to use them. Lance hasn't mentioned it to him, though he's told me. That's good news. Peter still has no feeling below the neck. Maybe he'll just forget trying and let his Talent take over. When he's not conscious of the need for movement, sometimes he just moves like an ordinary sixteen-year-old. He doesn't even hover just above the floor as much anymore."

Dave chuckled softly, sitting down to watch his wife feed Eoin. "He would have liked to hover outside the Andre Norton. Seems to me that a kinetic would make a very good space traveler. He, or she, would function well in no gravity."

"For goodness' sake, don't mention that to Peter. Or he'll be after permission to do spacewalking next."

"Why not? Johnny does. And Coetzer dropped a hint that they would like to contract Pete for assembly jobs."

"I know that," she said in a glum voice.

"You're going to have to let him, you know. You'd be wrong to fight it."

Rhyssa gave him a long, hard stare that he returned, a little smile tugging at his lips.

"It's good public relations to plan ahead for every likely contingency, m'love. And look at it from Pete's perspective. Do you know anyone else who's so totally accustomed to no-gravity?"

She gave a little laugh. "I hadn't thought of his kinesis as no-gravity."

"It might be a little different, learning to cope wearing a space suit. He does, after all, still have to breathe air. Or does he?" He gave Rhyssa a quirky glance.

"Of course he does," she said. "Only why was it so important for him to get the plans?"

"Souvenir, of course. We were the first two civilians to see the finished product."

"Yes, that makes sense." Rhyssa paused, stroking her son's thin but waving hair. "Does he know Coetzer wants to employ him when he's of age?"

"Nothing was specifically said in Peter's hearing. But the boy's not dumb. He'll figure it out. He'd have Johnny on his side."

"That is, of course, a great consolation to me." Rhyssa lifted her son to her shoulder to burp him.

"It is to me," Dave said, leaning back in the chair and stretching his legs out.

"Maree?" Peter called from his room. "Can you give me a hand here?"

Amariyah appeared at the doorway, very much aware that her friend meant that literally. She knew that he did not use his body the way she could. She had even mentioned once, very tactfully, that he should remember to touch his heel to the floor first, then his toe. That's how people naturally walked. But she was quick to respond to any need he voiced.

"How?" she asked.

"I want to put this," his index finger limply pointed to the unfolded sheet on his worktop. It depicted the Andre Norton, the sections color-coded for the different functions: red for engineering, green for living, blue for life support, orange for command, yellow for cryogenic, and brown for storage. "On the wall." He swiveled his body, his finger now pointing to the display space. "There."

"You have the tacks?" she asked, coming forward. She was, as usual, dressed in gardening clothes, well washed and well used. Dorotea had put extra pads on the knees.

Amariyah pushed a chair against the wall while the top drawer of his desk opened far enough to allow the box of pins to exit and float toward her. She got up on the chair.

"Here?" She tapped thewall, looking over her shoulder at him.

"That's right." The thumbtack box hovered by her right hand. Then the sheet made a stately way across the room and flattened against the wall.

Amariyah straightened it slightly, took out the necessary tacks and neatly secured the corners, while Peter inhaled anxiously, wincing as each tack pierced the paper. She took the box out of the air, shut it, and, descending from the chair, replaced it and closed the drawer. Then she regarded the neatly hung drawing.

"That's what you saw today?"

"Yesss," and the awed tone Peter used made her regard him with polite surprise.

"You had a good look at it then?" she asked, knowing how excited Peter had been to be invited for a tour of the spaceship.

"But you should have seen outside!"

She blinked. "I thought it was inside that you wanted to see. What was outside that was worth seeing? You are telling me that space is all black."

"Yes," and Peter slowly shook his head from side to side, his eyes glowing, "it is. But then there're stars and space." The last word was reverently spoken.

"You and your space," she murmured affectionately. She was well aware of Peter's intense interests. He had got in the habit of confiding in her. She listened intently and unlike Tirla, his other confidante, she never interrupted or argued with him. Usually, of course, she was busy weeding. That gave them added privacy. Often he did what he could to help her because sometimes she tried to move things too heavy for her strength, like peat moss and fertilizer sacks or heavy pots and tubs. He'd even thrust his insensitive fingers into the mud because it was her notion that somehow messing in mud and dirt would be good for him. He knew Dorotea found gardening therapeutic, but not quite the same way that Amariyah did. She had an almost religious fervor for her garden. He understood it better now, with the diagram of the Andre Norton on his wall.

"Thanks, Amariyah," he said.

"You're hovering," she replied, gently pressing on his shoulder until he was grounded.

"Thanks," he said absently, his eyes going from stern to prow, up and down the decks, memorizing.

"Print won't fade, you know," she said kindly, quoting Dorotea's oft-repeated maxim.

"It better not," Peter said, but he smiled in her direction. "She's beautiful, Amariyah. Just beautiful. Everything I imagined she'd be. Inside and out."

"Do you want to go with her when she flies?"

Peter heaved a sigh, Amariyah slyly noting that his chest had actually lifted. When she had been in the Center long enough to be able to ask personal questions, she had broached the subject of Peter to Dorotea while they were companionably weeding the side bed. Why did he move so oddly? Had he been born like that? Dorotea had explained about the wall falling on him, his paralysis, and then his unusual ability to use a "connection," Dorotea had called it (though Amariyah learned later from Tirla that it was called a gestalt), to use the power of his mind to move his damaged body. While she was on that subject, she said that Peter could also not use the toilet as others did, and wore a bag for waste disposal. Amariyah calmly accepted this explanation with a nod of her head.

Peter, Dorotea went on, couldn't feel anything so they all had to watch out that he didn't inadvertently burn or injure himself. He was assiduous in doing the daily Reeve exercises to keep muscle tone, and in getting massage. Dorotea assured Amariyah that it was polite to remind Peter to keep his feet on the ground. When he got excited, he started to hover. Amariyah was to ignore any other unusual motions. Peter was still trying to control, by his mind, the smaller movements of hands and feet that everyone else took for granted.

"Are you going to move the spaceship when she's ready to go?" Amariyah asked. Several times now she had been in the personnel carrier, taken with Peter and Tirla on special educational trips.

"I wish." Peter shook his head, altering the mood. He grinned down at Amariyah. "The Andre Norton has to get where she's going under her own power."

"But you know where she's going. Why can't you just send her there? Is she too big for you?"

Amariyah was as aware as everyone at the Center that Peter Reidinger had the most astounding telekinetic ability.

"I've got to know where to stand first," Peter said, his eyes focusing on a distant goal.

She waited in case he had more to say. The shine in his eyes warned her that his thinking had turned very private. He'd said all he intended to right now. She slipped away, leaving him to thoughts that made his face both sad and glad. She was pleased that this admiral person had kept his promise to Peter. It was good that important people kept promises. She was pleased, too, that Peter had confidedin her as much as he did. She loved Peter.

She left his room, tiptoed to the door, which she closed quietly so as not to interrupt all his happy-sad thinking. She really did have to check on the seedlings. Ted was very pleased with the way hers came on. He said she had magic fingers, not just green ones, because her garden produced the most beautiful flowers and the tastiest vegetables. He had stopped trying to persuade her to concentrate on flowers; even stopped complaining that she bordered her garden with marigolds. She liked Ted: he was always smiling and cheerful. Just seeing his thin, weathered face made the day better. Dorotea liked him, too.

"Never a harsh word for anyone, bar insects and those dratted moles," Dorotea said. "A good man, our Ted. Knows his flora, too."

"He mispronounces the Latin names."

"But," and Dorotea held up one hand in mild rebuke, "he knows them."

Amariyah was suitably chastened.

"Now, now, child. Remember, too, that he understands gardening in this climate. Which is quite different from Bangladesh."

As Amariyah walked over to her garden, the other children in the Center were also released from their Teaching sessions. There were fifteen, six boys and nine girls, ranging from four to twelve. The Center also had daycare and early training for infants, but she didn't see much of them. Dorotea liked her to play with the older ones, and Amariyah endured activities like hide and seek-as long as no one tried to injure the bushes they hid behind or stepped on her garden-and jumping rope. She had quick, clever feet and knew about rope dancing from the orphanage. She learned the songs in English and added a few in Bangla. She did not, however, see any point in the endless tossing of the big ball up into the net circle. The ball was too heavy for her and the iron rim too high. Mostly the older boys and girls monopolized that outdoor activity. None of them was at all interested in gardening but she was as glad of that. They had no delicacy of touch and might damage young plants. She never forgot the death of her garden in the orphanage, nor Lila. It was therefore odd that she had felt from the very moment of their meeting that Tirla was different, safe, and trustworthy, even if Tirla did, somewhat, resemble Lila in physical type. Tirla was as special to Amariyah as Peter was. Tirla was sister to her, though sometimes the girl could be more motherly and demanding than Dorotea. Tirla considered Amariyah ineluctably hers. Tirla was also very smart about things in Jerhattan and the Linears. When Tirla took her out and about, Dorotea always reminded Amariyah to listen to Tirla and do exactly as she said.

Amariyah reached her garden and stood where she could survey the bed. It had started out as a small rectangle, almost begrudged by Ted as a special concession to Dorotea. He had now enlarged it three times; one end had partial shade during the hottest part of the day, so she could grow those special flowers that did not do well with full sun. She was, as Dorotea called it, counting heads when the ball bounced once, slamming into the display of narcissus, breaking heads off; bounced a second time and broke branches off the orange-colored Azalea indica.

Amariyah let out a shriek that was heard throughout the grounds, both orally and telepathically. The ball rolled from the Azalea indica down the slight slope and mashed down her marigold seedlings. Amariyah was not a violent child but she kicked that ball so hard that she sent it high into one of the trees, where it stuck in a bole.

Peter got to her first because he could 'port himself. Dorotea was not far behind him, Ted as well as two other groundsmen, Sascha and Sirikit from the control room, and Rhyssa from her office, while apartment windows were flung open as people reacted to the loud scream.

Amariyah was on the ground in front of her flattened marigolds, keening and rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks. She ignored Peter, though he tried to put a consoling arm around her shoulders. She ignored Dorotea, and Sascha and Rhyssa and even Sirikit whom she usually liked. Ted reached out to assess the damage and an invisible barrier blocked his hand. Startled, he looked to Dorotea who shook her head and he drew back, clucking his tongue at the damage.

"It isn't that much," he muttered to Dorotea.

"Any damage is too much," Dorotea said. "Find out who was shooting baskets and shoot them."

"They wouldn't have done it on purpose," Ted said. "Whyn't we just leave the ball up there?"

Dorotea followed the direction he pointed and gave a sour grin.

"I could put anchor fencing around the court, help keep the ball inside," he suggested. "Like I have around the tennis courts.

"Do so, Ted," Rhyssa said, having heard their discussion. "And no more basketball shooting until the fence is up." Did you get the same blast of fury and vengeance as I did? she asked.

Is there anyone on the estate who didn't hear it? Dorotea countered wryly.

It's gone now, Sascha said, making eye contact with Rhyssa from the other end of Amariyah's garden bed. Not a trace of telepathy from her now. He ran a frustrated hand through his thick hair.

Did you have a chance to assess it, Dorotea ? Rhyssa asked.

Dorotea shook her head. Might only occur for protection.

Peter said, She sure tore hair out of a bigger and older girl's scalp at the orphanage. The nuns were amazed at her reaction. Is there anything we can do about the bush and the bulbs? He reached out to pick up a narcissus bud and couldn't. He shoved his fingertips against the barrier and it dissolved. She's got a barrier around it. So protective yes, but I don't feel any 'pathing. And the barrier just went away.

She trusts you, Peter, Dorotea said. And I get no hint of Talent right now. She is a bit young. She started to get down on her knees by the child.

"Don't," Amariyah said sharply, but her voice was low and dispirited. "I'll fix it."

"Can you?" Peter asked, putting a world of sympathy and encouragement in his voice.

"I can, you can't. Go away!" Then Amariyah seemed to realize that she was speaking to the most important adults of the Center. "Please!"

"If you need any help, Maree," Ted said, "lemme know. I'll go put up a fence so it can't happen again."

"We'll find out who was playing," Rhyssa began.

"No!" There was no "please" to that sharp reply. "Go away while there is still time."

Time for what? Sascha asked.

Go away, she said, Peter added and, with an apology, 'ported everyone out of the immediate area, including himself.

Peter! Rhyssa, Dorotea, and Sascha said in surprise, finding themselves back where they had been only a few minutes before.

He's right, Dorotea said to forestall rebuke. As well she was back in her kitchen. She rescued the cookies she'd been baking before they were crisped.

When Amariyah came in for her supper, she was unusually silent. To be expected under the circumstances, Dorotea thought, and didn't remark on it. Peter kept watching the child across the kitchen table. Her eyes were swollen from crying despite the fact that she had washed her face. She hadn't quite got all the dirt from under her nails.

She's not unhappy, Peter remarked, but she sure is tired.

Amariyah finished her dinner, thanked Dorotea, rinsed her plate and utensils and put them in the dishwasher. Then she went to her room. She was in bed, fast asleep, ten minutes later when Dorotea surreptitiously checked.

It was Ted who came knocking on Dorotea's door early the next morning, before anyone else was awake.

"You better see this, Miz Horvath," he said, his eyes wide in their sockets and his whole body tense.

Dorotea flung a jacket over her dressing gown and followed him across the lawn and to Amariyah's garden.

"What?" Dorotea stared, as amazed as Ted. The marigold seedlings that she had seen smashed were upright and whole. The Azalea indica had not a trace of broken boughs. The narcissus sported intact buds.

"She could have replaced the marigolds," Dorotea told herself and Ted. "She might have also changed bushes, though I can't imagine where she got another orange azalea on short notice."

"It's the same one, missus. She didn't change it," Ted said, slowly shaking his head from side to side. "And bulbs don't transplant well when they're ready to bloom. They'd wilt."

"You're right about that."

Without a thought for grass or dirt stains on her elegant burgundy velvet housecoat, Dorotea knelt down and peered at the resurrected plants.

"And I sensed nothing at all. But then she murmured, fingers on her lips, "I was busy with the cookies and then supper." Peter? Wake up. Do you remember the state of Amariyah's garden in the orphanage when you saw it?

HUM What?

Dorotea repeated her question.

I didn't see it. Or rather, I saw where it had been; all neatly raked as if nothing had ever grown there.

Oh. That's a pity.

Why?

Well, and Dorotea accepted Ted's hand to help her to her feet, I'll see if I can winkle it out of Amariyah.

Why? Peter's tone was stronger, wider awake.

I think she resurrected her garden.

So that's why she wanted everyone to go away. Before it was too late. But I didn't feel anything. Did you?

No. Did you know that's what she was going to do?

No, but it's what she did, isn't it? Plants would wilt real fast in Bangla weather. Here there'd be more of a lag. Wouldn't there?

Did you help her? Dorotea asked, trying to solve the puzzling resuscitation logically.

Me? No. I'm no help in a garden. Except for 'porting things. There was amusement in his voice. Did she fix everything?

As near as makes no never mind. "Thank you, Ted " she said out loud, patting the bemused man's arm placatingly. "Just one more psychic mystery. Let's make no more of it, shall we?" She smiled brightly at the head gardener. "And do put up that fence." Or maybe, she added to herself in her innermost mind, almost ashamed of such a thought, that's what we shouldn't do so we'll find out what Amariyah does when her precious garden is threatened. Strange, I didn't feel any output. I must be getting old or something.

Dorotea told Rhyssa as soon as she sensed that her chief was in the office.

Well, I had one ear open for her, so to speak, Rhyssa said. I perceived nothing. Though, come to think of it, later she was very tired but not at all as miserable as she had been when she gave that shriek. And that was very definitely telepathed. In extremis!

Then there's my mother, Dorotea said, her eyes thoughtful.

Your mother?

Yes, Ruth Horvath was a micro-Talent, you know, and never did know what she was doing because she did it on a subconscious level. When she tried to manipulate on the microcellular level, she couldn't. It was spontaneous or it wasn't.

What could Amariyah have done? To restore plants to life?

Probably just as elemental. Ah, well, I don't think we should interfere.

I agree completely, Rhyssa said firmly.

Ted's putting up the fencing today, Dorotea said.

Under the circumstances, is that right?

Morally right, Dorotea replied irritably. I'm not sure I could live through another such incident. That'd be carrying research a shade too far.

Right. How are we going to explain it, though?

You mean the garden? I'm not going to try, Dorotea said.

Good idea! Especially since we can't. Have a good day! Rhyssa advised in a bright, overly cheerful mental tone.

When the boys came to apologize, and they were sincere to their toenails, Amariyah was just finishing her breakfast. Dorotea "heard" the boys approaching: two were promising empaths and Scott a possible kinetic since he always made many more baskets than his peers. They had reached their decision to come independently. Drew Norton was the spokesperson, his eyes anguished as he led the trio into Dorotea's kitchen when she opened the door for them.

"Amariyah," Drew began, swallowing hard and gulping, "we're the ones you should beat up for smashing your garden."

"Oh?" Her reply was noncommittal as she turned in her chair to face them. Scott Gates and Moddy Hemphill shot quick glances at her and then ducked their heads.

"We were messing with the basketball," Drew went on in a rush.

"And I kicked it, hard. I didn't aim at your garden, Amariyah. I really didn't," Scott said.

She gave Scott a long look. "I know you didn't. But my garden got messed up anyhow."

"Can you ever forgive us?" Drew asked, his face contorted.

"You didn't mean it," Amariyah said, accepting the apology and dismissing them with a nod of her head before she turned back to her hot toast.

Dorotea caught her thoughts; the flash of watching Lila deliberately uprooting her plants, stamping on them, kicking them, making sure even the little fence was destroyed. Then the arrogant girl's attempt to keep Amariyah from reaching her garden, from trying to save at least some of it. A very fleeting glimpse of Amariyah, head down, butting Lila to the ground, sitting on her chest and grabbing hands full of hair to yank from the scalp. If Amariyah had any regrets, it was that taking vengeance on Lila delayed any possible chance of saving her plantings. But she'd been so enraged, she hadn't thought beyond giving Lila what punishment she could inflict, subconsciously knowing that the nuns might ignore the matter since "only plants" had been involved.

There was a long pause while the boys tried to figure out if she had, or had not, forgiven them their trespass. Dorotea cleared her throat.

"You are supposed to throw that ball, not kick it," Amariyah said, realizing that some response from her was required.

"Ted's going to put up a fence to prevent, ah, any more wild shots," Dorotea said.

Scott shot her a quick look. "We're not to shoot baskets for a week."

Amariyah considered that, too. "Just don't kick it anymore," she said, giving Scott a long hard look. "You don't know your own strength."

He hung his head. "Guess so."

"Thank you, boys, for coming forward. That takes a lot of moral courage," Dorotea said, herding them to the door.

"Not when your parents're psychic, it doesn't," Drew muttered.

"They're not here facing Amariyah," Dorotea said. "You appreciate that, don't you, Amariyah."

"I am doing that," the girl replied, and popped the last bite of toast into her mouth.

"I think that's all, boys. I thank you for coming," Dorotea said.

"Only," and now Scott, reprieved, touched Amariyah on the shoulder, "how did you get the ball so far up the beech tree? Are you a kinetic?"

She shook her head, since she was chewing.

"She's far too young to know what sort of psychic ability she has," Dorotea said, chuckling.

Oooh, that's a whopper of a lie, Peter told his mentor. He was hovering in the hall, waiting until the interview was over.

Not at all. We don't know what sort of Talent she has.

Yet, was Peter's capper.

She was busy herding the boys to the kitchen door. Thanks for not appearing. It was hard enough for them to come apologize no matter what parental pressure was put on them.

Psychics must assume responsibility for the application of their Talent, either conscious or inadvertent, Peter remarked loftily. Hey, don't let Maree have all the toast.

Dorotea popped four more slices in the appliance. Come and get it!

Did she repair the garden?

Were you eavesdropping? Dorotea demanded sternly.

No. I looked when the boys came in. What happens if they see that there's no damage now?

They went the other way round the house, Dorotea said with a mental chuckle. So as not to view the scene of their crime.

"Good morning," Peter said cheerfully as he ambulated into the kitchen. "Mistress Maree, how doth your garden grow this morning?"

Amariyah blinked and looked up at Peter's bland face.

PETER! Dorotea expressed indignation at such a gaffe.

"Quite well, thank you," Amariyah said, speaking through her mouthful of toast, crumbs emerging in a spatter when she came to the "th."

"Really, Amariyah, how many times do I have to tell you not to speak with your mouth full?" Dorotea asked, pretending dismay.

"He asked. It's not polite to ignore a 'good morning.' "

"Gotcha," said Peter, managing to cock his index finger at Dorotea and winking.

"Polite response or not, do not speak with your mouth full, Amariyah, and use the napkin, please."

The psychics who had responded to Amariyah's shriek followed the example of Rhyssa and Dorotea: they ignored it. Ted built the twelve-foot anchor mesh fence around the back of the basketball standard. Amariyah's garden prospered. If, in the next few years, she grew things that ought not to survive winters in Jerhattan, no one remarked on that. They enjoyed unseasonal blooms, fruits, and vegetables. Even Tirla, who had no interest in gardening whatever, was complimentary.

Over the next two years, Amariyah studied the Basic Tuition courses and received high scores. On her own initiative, she studied elementary botany, biology, and horticulture. She complained to Dorotea that the curriculum was much too basic and asked for a more advanced course. She was also very good about keeping in touch with Sister Kathleen and Sister Epiphania on a regular basis and received short notes in return. To prove that she had grown and was flourishing, she sent them a glossy of herself and Dida Tea in front of her flower garden. But she didn't say that it was her very own garden.

Peter, too, studied hard and by the time he was eighteen, he had completed degree courses in engineering with an emphasis on astronautics, physics, and astronomy. He read everything he could access on spaceship design, lunar habitats and ecology, and the constant flow of Martian reports, and he memorized the classified data that Johnny Greene slipped him from time to time about Mars's first manned station. Learning all he could helped Peter Reidinger pass the time until he was officially allowed to work for the Parapsychic Centers.

When Tirla married Sascha on her sixteenth birthday, her wedding bouquet contained stephanotis floribunda, blossoming vigorously out of season. Amariyah, as an ecstatic bridesmaid for her dearest friend, wore a circlet made of the flower that was reputed to encourage happy marriages. Sascha was equipped with a sprig on his formal jacket and so was his best man, his twin brother, Boris. Rhyssa also carried a generous matron of honor's spray of stephanotis. Dorotea and Shria, acting as "mothers of the bride," wore corsages of traditional Greek wedding flowers. They sat proudly in the front row of the imposing lounge of the Henner mansion as Lessud escorted his foster daughter to Teresa Aiello who, in her capacity as mayor of Jerhattan, performed the marriage ceremony. The bride had said she would "honor" her spouse but emphatically refused to have the word "obey" in the vows she took.

Mama Bobchik was the only representative of Linear G and that was solely because she had been present at Tirla's illegal birth. And remembered the date. She was so awed by the company that she was rendered almost speechless, although the occasion did not inhibit her appetite. Nor did anyone "notice" how much of the food disappeared from the buffet tables that Mama Bobchik continually browsed. Peter, serving as an usher at the intimate wedding, kept a check on her acquisitiveness in case small items of value in the reception rooms went astray. In this, Mama Bobchik was somewhat maligned, for she limited herself to foodstuffs.

Kayankira had appeared, still hopeful that she could contract for Tirla's services as soon as she turned eighteen, despite Rhyssa's constant assurances that the polylinguist would definitely be stationed in Jerhattan to be near her husband. Carmen Stein was a guest, as were Cass Cutler and Suzanne Nbembi, the first psychics with whom Tirla had worked. Sirikit and Budworth in his mobility chair came down from the Incident control room.

After the traditional wedding cake was cut and distributed, the speeches spoken and toasts given, Peter 'ported the bride and groom to their secret honeymoon destination.

Dorotea and Shria wept and so did Mama Bobchik. Boris heaved a sigh of relief that his brother was finally safely married to his most unusual bride. If anyone remarked on the disparity of ages between bride and groom, everyone who knew Tirla at all well recognized that she was sixteen going on sixty, in real-life terms. She was more than a match for Sascha. It was devoutly hoped that he was a match for her.