Pegasus In Space

7

Rhyssa was especially grateful that he would be at Dorotea's during his convalescence. If Dorotea didn't have an eye on him, Amariyah would. Neither would let him do anything that might jeopardize the knitting of his broken bones.

Both Rhyssa and Dorotea thought that Admiral Coetzer's brief visit, three days later, prompted Peter's demand that he be allowed to work a light schedule.

"I listened," Dorotea said belligerently. She had been conspicuously in the garden when the Admiral arrived. "He has Peter's best interests at heart and it's obvious Dirk Coetzer misses the boy." Peter would always be a boy to Dorotea.

"What did he say?" Rhyssa asked anxiously. It was cold standing out in an unseasonably brisk September wind. "It's Space Authority who want medical updates on Peter, not the admiral."

Dorotea gave a dismissive sniff, settling back to her gardening stool while they were chatting. "Them! Coetzer didn't even mention work to Peter or ask for a time when he'd be able to work again. He remarked on seeing the old Andre Norton diagrams superseded by the Arrakis, recommended some books. Said that his downside leave was over. Never a mention that he applied for it the moment he heard from Madlyn that Peter'd been injured. Of course, I suppose he can administer the Station from wherever he is and possibly had meetings with Space Authority down here. I got the feeling," Dorotea remarked thoughtfully, "that he's having trouble with them."

"Bureaucracy in its usual obstructive role," Rhyssa said drolly. "Anything else?"

"Dirk Coetzer admires our Peter very much indeed. He was very nice to Amariyah, too."

"I'd expect that. Was she on her best behavior?"

Dorotea chuckled. "She quizzed the admiral rather closely about station hydroponics. He was startled but he recovered well and answered her quite fully."

"Did she mention her current ambition?"

"Of course, and Coetzer recommended the Controlled Environment Life Support System course at Columbia. There's one in Alaska, too."

Rhyssa grinned. "No matter what her rating is from Teacher, she still has to wait until she's eighteen."

"Then the admiral took a polite leave and departed to that fancy ground machine with the Space Authority emblem plastered all over it. The sort that glows in the dark." She paused. "Will you allow Peter some 'ports? He isn't sufficiently occupied right now despite everything Maree and I can invent. Even Tirla's running out of amusing incidents of trouble those yearling twins of hers get into."

"I know," Rhyssa said in a dire tone since Mischa and Miriam had been in her house with Rachelle while Tirla visited Peter. They made Eoin and Chester look like saints in comparison.

"I'll bet you do." Dorotea plunged her trowel back into the dirt, digging a small cavity for the hardy pansies she was planting. "I'd let Peter do something, Rhyssa."

"I will. Maybe he won't ask right away."

Peter did the same afternoon.

"I don't do anything with my body." Peter argued with Rhyssa to give him some sort of work, no matter how limited. "I lie totally still when I 'port. You know I do. I'm sick and tired of being a convalescent."' He emphasized the word with contempt. "I'm bored with reading and watching the news. The current daytime programs are abysmal and I've memorized most of those old films and replays of the good classics."

"You should keep in touch with what else goes on in the world, Peter," Rhyssa said. She ignored the pile of visuals that he seemed to spend a lot of time reviewing.

"I watch the newscasts. But I need to work!" He put a lot of feeling in that statement. "I was safer on Padrugoi!" he added sullenly.

She accepted that remark with equanimity and yielded to the inevitable, getting Rick Hobson to replace the old generator outside Peter's room with a much heavier new one. Though Peter hadn't said it, she knew he was keen to get back to Padrugoi and further EVAs, or whatever that pile of visuals he kept examining represented. If doing some work delayed his return until his bones were fully healed, she must be grateful.

When the members of the fraternity that had disrupted his birthday celebration were brought to trial, his name-and that of the Eastern Parapsychic Center-was not mentioned. Space Authority's bureaucracy had so decreed. The restaurant actually filed the complaint and appeared as plaintiff. The severe fine, awarded to the restaurant, depleted the group's treasury and effectively disbanded them. Those whom LEO had charged with drunk and disorderly conduct were sentenced to three months' community service. Not all at the dinner had overindulged, though; as the judge remarked in delivering his verdict, they should have restrained their offending colleagues. The two who had crashed into Peter had heavier fines and were given a six months' sentence for the grievous bodily harm of an unidentified diner. One of them, a man in his middle years who had held the position of deputy chief in the fraternity, made certain allegations about what he'd do when he was free again. His threats, for that's what the listeners took them as, were duly noted down by Cass Cutler, who had attended the court hearings in her capacity as crowd-control empath.

In his third visit to Peter at Dorotea's, Johnny Greene brought Admiral Coetzer's representations to Rhyssa that Peter could actually return to Padrugoi: his welfare would be their constant concern.

"I know I'm being protective," Rhyssa told Johnny Greene and, seeing his expression, added, "possibly overprotective but the medical opinion is that we'd be smarter to let him heal both from the breaks and the trauma of the affair."

"Trauma?" Johnny asked, eyebrows rising on his forehead. Then his expression of surprised dismay altered. "Well, I suppose it was. I certainly 'felt' how he hates hospitals. It's just that Coetzer needs him badly." He came to an abrupt halt.

Rhyssa caught something in his voice that sounded false. What are you up to now, Greene?

He gave her a wide-eyed innocent stare.

And don't try that on me. Let me guess. You and Coetzer need all that stuff Peter keeps looking at on the Moon, don't you? Rhyssa said.

"Yeah, to be honest."

Rhyssa gave him a long hard look. "And you want that boy…"

"He's not a kid any longer, Rhyssa," Johnny interrupted. "And we both know I don't have Peter's heft."

"You think he could 'port as far as the Moon?" Privately Rhyssa thought Peter was capable of such a feat but that was loyalty speaking, unsupported by proof. They still hadn't reached the limit of his thrust.

"Lance thinks so," Johnny replied. "I do, too." It was not yet the time to tell her about Peter's Bollard Bag special lunar delivery.

"He isn't well enough," Rhyssa said almost too quickly. And flushed as Johnny cocked an eyebrow at her for her vehemence.

"We'll be glad to have him back when and as soon as he's well enough. Got any guesstimate I can placate Dirk with?"

"He's only been home two weeks. Give him another month. At least."

Johnny snorted in disgust, caught her determination not to let Peter be rushed, and nodded. "Three weeks maybe?" His expression beseeched her.

"Only if the scan shows those bones are completely knit."

"I thought they were! Okay, I'll just pop in and see how he's doing."

Peter was doing fine. When Johnny arrived, Amariyah was giving him his daily massage. Since Peter wasn't yet allowed to continue his daily Reeve Board exercises, massage with healing oils was at least an alternative passive muscle toning. Amariyah had watched the therapist until she knew each of the movements and then insisted that she be allowed to help. The therapist had remarked on how strong her hands were.

"All that gardening," Peter said teasingly.

Despite his lack of physical sensations, Peter always felt better after a massage. Oddly enough, Dorotea noticed that he wasn't as nervous with Amariyah as he was with the therapist, an attractive girl as well as an empath. Dorotea was also keen to have Amariyah take on a change of duty from Teacher and her garden. If she tended toward caring, that would be a good career for her and might nourish whatever Talent Amariyah had. Gardening was, in its own way, a form of nurturing.

"Well, hi there, skeleteam," Johnny said, peering into Peter's room.

"Heard you coming," Peter said, prone on the massage plinth, not bothering to turn his head toward the visitor. "Any luck on getting me back up to Padrugoi?"

"Nope." Johnny sat himself down in the specially built chair in front of Peter's worktop. Idly he swung it about on its gimbals. "She's giving you another three weeks lounging around down here. Can't say as I blame her." He eyed Pete's long, bony frame, shiny from the oils used, a towel draped over his hips. "If you were up there, you'd be working your butt off. Sorry, Amariyah."

The girl had given him a sharp frown.

Peter chuckled. "She doesn't want to lose her patient. Nags me all the time, she does."

"I don't," said Amariyah, her dark blue eyes protesting. "Dorotea's the one who nags at you. 'Eat this, have more of that. You're too skinny.' " Her mimicry of Dorotea's tone was perfect. Then she demonstrated the point, trying to pinch Peter's thin waist above the towel to show how little flesh there was. She then soothed the reddened spot.

"Are those ribs healed, Maree?" Johnny asked, noticing where she'd nipped him.

"Of course," she said. Then she stroked the other fractured places with comforting pats of her hand. "He was scanned two days ago. He is showing progress." With a deft flick of her arms, she flipped a long towel over Peter's prone body. "There. That is enough for today. You have Johnny to talk to. Would you care for some refreshments?" she asked, turning solicitously to the general.

"As long as it's home-baked," and Johnny licked his lips in anticipation. "Don't get much of that up on Padrugoi."

"That is not what Peter tells us," she said as she left.

What is the situation on Padrugoi, Johnny?

The general grimaced with dissatisfaction. I've gone as far as I can go, Pete. The cargo corrals are bursting the edges of their nets. For the next exciting installment, we need you. In the new contract with SpaceShifters International, shipping costs went up eight percent. Not only do freighters require full crews, talk about feather-bedding-the thrust to get them under way guzzles fuel. Once a freighter's up to speed, it can drift down to the Moon, make a braking orbit, and use a brief burn to assume orbit. More to start back to Padrugoi. Hell, we could send down twice as much payload if we didn't have to use up so much cargo space for fuel and all that extra crew.

An expense that you hope I'll be able to reduce?

You got it in one, Pete. That was when Johnny noticed that Peter's treasured picture of the Andre Norton was partially obscured by the Arrakis and high-resolution shots of First Base and the moonscape surrounding it. Simulating Limo flights, huh? He swung the chair about and ran a finger down one of the glide-pattern lines, ending at the First Base field and three lonely cargo containers, their hatches open to their emptiness.

Well, it beats watching the tri-d.

Johnny grinned at Peter's sudden flush and decided that the kid was embarrassed to be caught at it. No harm really, in his studying shuttle piloting when he had little else to do while healing.

You know, Johnny added casually, adding another bone for Peter to worry while he was convalescing, I've been doing some use-energy study on myself, like how many calories I burn when I'm lifting. Rather interesting. He took a pencil file from his blouse pocket and set it on the worktop. Here are Lance's study records of you, lifting this, that, and everything, here, there, and everywhere. I think you'll notice that you're much more economical, calorically speaking.

Having spoken his piece, he was properly appreciative of the tea, sandwiches, and little pastries that Dorotea and Amariyah brought in. They had an enjoyable conversation. When Johnny took his leave, he paused briefly.

"Oh, Station scuttlebutt has Madlyn dating Dash Sakai."

"She is?" Peter grinned with delight. "He noticed?"

"You might say her interest was brought to his attention." Johnny Greene gave them all a farewell salute.

Three weeks later, the Center's chief medical consultant, Martin McNulty, and Dr. Coulson, an orthopedic specialist sent in by the Space Authority for an impartial opinion, pronounced Peter medically fit.

"In fact, if we didn't have the accident scans to compare with," the orthopedic man said, "I'd wonder if they ever had been broken. There is, as I'm sure you're aware, McNulty, some osteopenia."

"Peter takes dietary supplements against loss of bone mineralization."

"Not as much muscle atrophy as I'd expect."

Peter did not like the way Coulson regarded him: as an object rather than a person. He hated being discussed as if he weren't there, as if he were nothing more than a pronoun.

"Of course, Peter regularly uses his Reeve Board in exercising, has frequent deep tissue massage, swims, and he doesn't put any strain on his skeleton," the Center's medic remarked, eyeing his patient. Martin McNulty was empathic with some contact telepathy to augment that ability. "Being kinetic has some advantages, doesn't it, Pete?"

Peter nodded, his eyes darting to Coulson's incredulous expression as he looked from the accident MRI image to the one on the monitor. His professional manner did not conceal doubt from his very perceptive patient.

"Of course, there'd be less weight on those bones in space," Martin went on.

"Padrugoi Station has gravity!"

"Yes, but still only 0.75 of Earth normal now that the Station is in full operation. Visitors find that more comfortable, you know," Martin replied.

"Whichever," and Coulson flicked his fingers in dismissal of the difference, "I have to concede that those bones are clinically whole." He touched Peter on the shoulder, unaware that Talents, especially Peter, disliked casual physical contact. "You can go back to work as soon as they'll have you," he said, with a patronizing smile.

Pete, Martin said warningly when the patient shifted his body away from the orthopedic man's touch. He doesn't know better.

"Thank you, Dr. Coulson," Peter said, gliding away from tactile range.

Martin deftly maneuvered the specialist out of the treatment room. "If you'll just sign the certificate that Pete'll have to produce to his employers, Sidney," he said, a subtle empathy reinforcing his suggestion, "we won't need to take more of your time." He closed the door behind him, which was as well because Peter 'ported himself back to his room where he let out his burst of exultation.

You've been cleared? Dorotea asked from the kitchen.

Now don't worry, Tea. Doctor Coulson doubted I'd ever broken anything, despite all the scans.

Really? You've healed that well?

Peter was far too elated to hear the odd tone of her voice. He only knew that he could go back up to Padrugoi as soon as he could organize his departure.

Do wait until after dinner, dear, Dorotea said placidly. I've got your favorite casserole in the oven and Amariyah's done you an apricot pie for dessert. Besides which, you'd better speak to Rhyssa.

Rhyssa already knows, Rhyssa and Peter replied in unison. Peter's triumphant laugh echoed down the hall to the kitchen and telepathically up to Rhyssa in her office.

Rhyssa? Peter added. Can you tell Johnny Greene? Madlyn should be on watch and can pass the good news along.

Of course, Rhyssa replied with no hint of her mixed feelings. She was, of course, delighted that Peter had passed the physical but she was also depressed that he was so eager to return to Padrugoi.

You can understand his urgency, though, can't you? Dorotea said on a tight message.

Yes, I can.

Don't sound so defeated and why don't you and Dave come down for pie. Amariyah's crust is always flakier than mine. When are you going to be able to ship up that empath and the hydroponics specialist? Peter needs some empathic company up there.

I've held Ceara Scott back to go up with him and Ping Yung is already onstation.

Then you'll have done your best for him once again.

Oh, I do hope so.

Of course you have, and Dorotea's tone was testily reassuring. Though, perhaps he should be doing more for himself.

I beg your pardon?

Now don't get huffy with me, Rhyssa Owen Lehardt! Dorotea replied tartly. One of these days he's going to get into a situation he'll have to get himself out of, you know!

Yes, and Rhyssa's mental tone was abruptly contrite.

You can't be worried anymore about those stupid threats Cass overheard in court? Dorotea went on. As if that drunk would ever be hired onto the Station in any capacity. He wouldn't pass the age limit much less the physical. Peter is safer on Padrugoi, doing what he's good at and loves.

Ceara Scott was a space-medicine physician, joining Padrugoi Station for several jobs: one was to do her grant experimentation on the effect of weightlessness on the bone mass of the casual workers-the polite term for grunts. Another was to monitor Peter's physical condition and the third was to discern any antagonism toward him, either personally or in his capacity as a teleport/telepath.

When Rhyssa announced that she had to be ready to take up her assignment on Padrugoi by ten P.M. that day, she was instantly flustered.

"I haven't got anything packed, Ms. Lehardt. I mean, I knew I'd be going soon, but that's awful soon."

"Ten o'clock tomorrow morning?"

"Oh, no, I mean, yes I could probably make that but…" The young woman was clearly rattled.

"Just pack what you'd need for the first few days, Ceara, and we'll see that the rest follows. Would that help?"

"Noon?" was the tremulous option suggested.

"That will be fine. Shall I send Sirikit over to give you a hand?"

"Oh, would you? Please. I'm sorry to be a nuisance."

"Not at all, Ceara. The delay suits me fine," Rhyssa said, and with a cheerful smile, broke the comm connection.

"Putting off the inevitable?"

"You heard Ceara," Rhyssa said, trying not to sound defensive. "She's the delay."

Dave grinned at her. "When are we invited for apricot pie?"

"About seven-thirty."

"Just us?"

"I suspect so."

"Then why are you wringing your hands, Rhys?" Dave asked, cocking his right eyebrow at her.

"I am?" Rhyssa hastily rubbed her hands on her pants legs. She stood up. "I think I will actually be relieved to have him back on Padrugoi."

"Look, Rhys," and he put his arms about her waist, drawing her into him, "the drunk and disorderly guys haven't finished their term of community service and, double-banded as they are by LEO, there's no way they could get into the Center here. And there's even less chance of one getting on Padrugoi."

"You saw the latest of their on-line threats."

"And," he said, hugging her, "I saw Boris's report of how quickly the pair were arrested. The Faithful Brotherhood of the whatever they called their little coven are now all tagged and their associations identified as well. You know that."

She sighed. "I know it. Do they?"

"Pete'll be safe for the next four weeks. You can always suggest he take his free week at Johnny's." When he felt her stiffen slightly, "Okay, so that's the most obvious alternative. At Lance's then, or Kayankira's, or at your parents' place in Montana."

"Dorotea and Amariyah would never forgive me."

"At Tirla's then. No one could ask for better security than that. It wouldn't arouse Peter's suspicions, unless you broadcast them. Dorotea and Amariyah can go there. You know Maree is great with Tirla's Hyper Twins."

Rhyssa gave her husband a reproachful look.

"Well, they're a handful," Dave said.

"Our kids aren't?"

"We had them one at a time and got used to 'em."

"Which reminds me, I promised to read Eoin a story. Did I tell you I actually got reproductions of the Dr. Seuss books?"

"Several times." He kissed her and let her go. He didn't have an ounce of psychic ability but he'd been reading her body language with great appreciation-for six years. He might not know exactly what was worrying his wife but he knew when she was upset and could comfort her.

Peter Reidinger had been all set to dislike Dr. Ceara Scott on sight when he found out from Rhyssa that the space-medicine specialist had been unable to leave the moment he had clearance. She arrived at the Jerhattan telepad in a ground vehicle filled with family and three carrying cases. She'd taken another twelve hours to pack that little?

Some people organize their packing, Rhyssa reminded him. She had said her good-bye the previous evening, Dorotea affectionately but not fussily ten minutes ago. It had been Amariyah who had clung to him, her fingers patting each one of the old fractures as if reassuring herself of his health. Peter hated it when Amariyah cried, the silent tears streaming down her face.

"No, dear," Dorotea had said firmly. "Give Peter a happy face."

An obedient grimace sent the tears to one side of the nine-year-old face.

"See? I'm smiling," Amariyah said, spoiling it with a gulping sob.

"I promise, Maree," Peter said, leaning down to rest his cheek against her wet face, "I'll see if you can come up on a visitor's pass. You and Dorotea."

"Don't include me," Dorotea said, urgently waving away the offer.

"Well, you and Ted, too, so you can both see the hydroponic gardens."

"The gardens? I could see them?" The child brightened.

"Didn't I promise?"

Go now, Peter, Dorotea said, lightly putting her hands on Amariyah's shoulders and drawing her away from Peter.

Peter 'ported himself to the Jerhattan telepad and waited. He hoped that Amariyah would stop crying.

She's accessed this morning's Teacher, Peter Don't worry about her, Dorotea said.

I'm not worrying about her.

Hmmm. Yes, of course not. 'Bye.

Peter settled his one duffel bag behind the passenger seats and waited. He checked the personnel carrier. He glided over to the generators and inspected them. He waited. Shading his eyes, he saw a ground car on the perimeter road. He flicked out his mind. He had had no contact with this Ceara Scott so he doubted that he could 'path to see if she was in it. He did, to his surprise, feel anxiety, nervousness, fear, and keen anticipation. He waited more patiently.

When he identified her as the second person to emerge from the crowded vehicle, he was agreeably surprised. She had the most glorious red hair, curling vigorously around her head. She had the almost translucent skin that often went with such coloring and her eyes, anxiously seeking his, were an amazing shade of blue. He stared.

Manners, Peter, manners! Dorotea rebuked him.

"Dr. Scott?" He moved toward her, making sure he looked as if he were walking, a skill he had worked on improving during his convalescence. Sometimes he could almost feel the surface beneath his feet. "Tell me what you're bringing with you, and I'll store it for you," he said, extending his hand. He even managed to curl his fingers about her knuckles. He savored her essence though the contact was very short, since she was full of repentant haste.

"Mr. Reidinger, thanks, but Stu will put my packs in," she said, indicating the young man, also a redhead, but bearing no facial resemblance to her.

The dark-haired woman who had emerged first was now directing Stu, with a maternal air, to hurry and be sure to get them all in.

"My mother," Ceara said. "I was told this wasn't a secured base so they insisted on coming. My father, my sister Terry, my sister Fiona, and her husband, Dr. Richard Jude," she went on, introducing all the passengers.

"No, it's not exactly a secured base," Peter said. No other hands were offered him so Ceara must have warned them.

Her brother stowed the three bags, of which only one was very large. Ceara stood looking around.

"Isn't the pilot here?" she asked.

"I'm the pilot," Peter said, lifting one hand to his chest and smiling confidently.

"Oh, how silly of me," Ceara said, flushing. "Mr. Reidinger's the telekinetic I was telling you about, Dad."

The elder Scott nodded. "Then kiss me a hug, girl, and let's not delay him any longer."

Kissing and hugging included every one of her party but as soon as the farewells were done, she walked briskly to the carrier. Peter waved her over to a front seat and she settled herself.

"If you'll all stand back," and Peter pointed to the side of the telepad that was farthest from the generators. "Nice to meet you," he added as he watched them scatter hurriedly out of the way.

"I didn't delay you too much, did I, Mr. Reidinger?"

"It's just gone noon," Peter said, "and I'm Peter, not Mister anything, Ceara."

"Thank you," she said. "How long does it take to get to Padrugoi?"

Peter lightly leaned into the generators. "Not very long," he replied, unable to resist grinning. The field vanished and they were on the telepad in Padrugoi's transit bay, a cleaning gang just beyond the telepad circle, goggling at the suddenly materializing personnel shell.

"Ohhhhh," her gasp was a startled indrawn breath. For a long moment, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar, she stared out the forward window at the abruptly altered view. "Ohhhh," she said again. Closing her mouth, her very blue eyes still wide, she turned to him. " 'Not very long,' huh? More like instantaneous, wasn't it, Peter?"

"That's kinetics for you," he said, opening the hatch and lifting himself out. He hadn't quite got the hang of doing that as a normal person would. She didn't seem to notice as she emerged.

"Oh!" she said, immediately aware of the lower Station gravity.

"You'll get used to it quickly," Peter said.

Just then the Station alarm went off.

Pete? said Johnny, his tone urgent. Get up here! Fast! Some goddamn dink of a freighter captain just sliced through a very full cargo net and containers are popping out of it like pus out of a wound. Some are headed toward the Wheel. We need your ass up here.

The ensign who had been awaiting Peter and Dr. Scott didn't know what to do with the alarm wailing.

"Escort Dr. Scott to the sick bay, Mr. ahh-" Peter picked the man's name out of his head, "-Patterson and then proceed to your duty station. Nothing to be alarmed about, Ceara. Safety drill sort of thing," he added mendaciously. "Excuse me."

And he 'ported himself to the CIC where everyone was scrambling to their stations. The main screen had been divided into multiple windows: the freighter with its empty cargo rack tangled with the cargo net; the stream of containers let loose from the corral; the gigs and tugs speeding to head off those in a trajectory toward the Wheel of the Station; and the space-suited workers jetting to converge on the loose objects.

"Neatly timed, Pete," Admiral Coetzer said, arriving from his ready room. "Linke, have we identified the freighter? Who's the captain? And I want him in here as soon as he gets his damned vessel out of the net and moored property! Find out who his employer is and about getting his contract and his license revoked. Portmaster Honeybald is apoplectic. Who's EV watch officer? Who do we have out there that can assume command and bring order to that chaos? Pete," and Coetzer motioned to the upper left-hand screen, "can you stop that one from tumbling? It looks to be on a collision course."

"Yes, sir," Peter said. He immediately repositioned himself at the engineer's station manned by Lieutenant Junior Grade Spencer Ci. Peter hadn't worked with him before. Not that he needed gestalt to tip the upper facet of the cube the admiral had pointed to. He pressed against it, perceptibly slowing its end-over-end motion and bringing it to a halt in space, relative to the Wheel.

Good catch, Johnny Greene said, striding into the CIC. "Where do you want me, Admiral?"

"Screen three, Johnny. See what you can do with that mess." The Station generators picked up revolutions as the general tapped their power.

"Sir, Bergkamp here, I've got a full unit suited up and cycling through the lock."

"Good, proceed to the Wheel and deflect any incoming. Peter, do us a mean favor and detach that fragging freighter from the net and put it where it belongs. The dolt who's driving it doesn't know his ass from his elbow." While the admiral's suggestion was facetiously delivered, it was no less the appropriate measure to take. To judge by the erratic use of his maneuvering thrusters, the captain was only making matters worse by pushing the rest of the net's captives hard against the far side of the net that bulged ominously. Without conscious thought, Peter leaned into the Station's power and turned off the vessel's thruster rockets, picked it out of the net, and deposited it at the nearest empty gate in the commercial mooring section. Pieces of the cables it had severed or tangled with floated in reaction in space. The CPO in charge of the nearestcrew sent men to secure those before they constituted an additional hazard. Almost as an afterthought, Peter secured the freighter to the wharf and connected the accordion airlock to its main hatch.

Well done, Pete! Johnny exclaimed.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Reidinger," the admiral said with great aplomb, slapping his armrest in one-handed applause. Cheers from the other officers echoed Coetzer's sentiment. "Now, let's round up those strays, patch that net."

Lift that barge, tote that bale, the irrepressible General Greene sang inaccurately.

"And restore chaos to confusion." Oblivious to the 'path, the admiral finished his command. Peter choked on suppressed laughter.

Don't do that to me, Johnny, he said.

Relief, lad, sheer relief, Greene replied. Now help me get that inward bound quartet of dome arcs. Their shape makes their trajectory erratic.

Where shall we put them?

Just stop 'em. Here comes the cavalry, and Johnny pointed to the lower left-hand screen where EMU-clad figures were jetting into view.

"Bergkamp, get your men on those dome arcs. General, are you available?"

"On the mark, Admiral," Johnny replied.

"Mr. Sakai, I want a secure link to Mr. Honeybald at the Portmaster's office," the admiral went on, handling other aspects of the emergency.

Peter, and the unmistakable voice of Madlyn Luvaro nearly deafened him, I have three tumblers outward-bound from the net, sou'-sou'-east at five thousand kps relative to the Station.

I'll get 'em. Where do you want them?

The 822 looks to be the nearest gig. It's not all that far from where they spun off. They're panicking. Maybe Dash hasn't heard them with so much confusion on the bands.

Peter found the grunts easily enough by opening his mind, augmenting his telepathic range with gestalt from the generators, just as the communications officer reported their predicament.

"I have them, Lieutenant Sakai," Peter said into the comunit.

"You do?" Dash Sakai swung his chair round toward the engineering station in surprise.

"Madlyn," Peter said in explanation.

"Oh. Very good. Thank you, Reidinger. They didn't think we'd see them with so much else going on."

A simple case of 'quis custodiet,' Madlyn said smugly.

Peter thought her quote inappropriate but her watchfulness was not.

The pilot of the gig to which Peter shifted the three grunts acknowledged their proximity and gave them a tow back to the Station.

"Admiral Coetzer, I have the captain of the CeeCeeD on-line, demanding to know who turned off his maneuvering engines and who-" and Sakai paused.

"Let me have it, Lieutenant," the admiral said with a malicious smile.

"The hell endangered his crew with that-I'd rather not repeat that, sir-precipitous mooring?"

"Inform the captain of the CeeCeeD that he is to be in my office with his log file at 1600 hours. Inform Mr. Honeybald that the crew is not allowed shore leave and that the captain is not to be admitted back on board without direct orders from me."

The emergency lasted two hours, of which only the first threequarters were critical; the rest was spent mending the broken net cables and herding the captured cargo back into confinement.

Peter did not admit to anyone how tired he was from that spate of concentrated activity. He was unexpectedly relieved when the admiral stood the watch down from the scramble. Coetzer gave a "well-done" and a special nod of thanks to Peter and Johnny before he left the CIC for his office. Peter was surprised to see others reacting to the all clear. Temuri Bergkamp sat back from the engineering panels, dramatically mopping his sweaty forehead.

"Never appreciated what you guys can really do," he said. "I know you shift cargo up here, but bouncing a freighter with its thrusters on is something else again."

"I turned the thrusters off first and I thought the admiral meant what he said," Peter replied.

"He did," Temuri replied feelingly. "I just don't think he thought you could do it that fast."

"No problem with the generators the Station has," Peter said, feeling his face flush at the praise.

"Pete loves generators, Bergkamp," Johnny said with a wide smile. "The bigger the better. He can do anything with the right amount of power… and a place to stand."

There are moments, General, when you're a pain in the ass, Peter remarked.

If anything, the general's smile got wider.

Sorry, Pete. Let's blow this joint.

"Thanks for your help, Bergkamp. C'mon, Pete, I know you didn't get a chance to settle in." And I won't mention the beautiful redhead you brought up with you.

You just did.

Rank has some privileges. I'm grabbing some lunch. What about you?

I need to unpack.

Catchya later. Johnny Greene turned in the other direction and Peter gratefully went to his quarters. He'd left his bag in the personnel carrier and now 'ported it up to his cabin. He would have to apologize to Dr. Scott for leaving her in the abrupt way he had. Maybe they would have explained it all to her when she reached the sick bay. Thinking of apologies reminded him that his remarks to the general had been uncalled for, even if Johnny had not apparently taken offense. But Peter was annoyed with himself for snapping like that.

Peter changed his waste-bag and showered, closing his eyes as he levered shampoo to his head. He stood under the fine air-driven hard spray until he no longer felt the sting of soap on his sweated face. The warm air circulated through the shower enclosure and died away as the cubicle's sensors ceased registering moisture to be recycled.

Peter lay down on the bunk, lifting the light cover over his bare body.

"I'll just close my eyes," he murmured. He did, and was startled by the strident buzz of the intercom.

"The admiral's compliments, Mr. Reidinger," said a voice he recognized as Yeoman Nicola Nizukami, "and would you kindly join him for dinner at 2130 hours?"

Peter saw that he had an hour to get dressed.

"Yes, certainly, Mr. Nizukami. Delighted."

He must have slept nearly three hours. He'd have to get fit. There was a Reeve Board up here for him to use and he could rig the hydrotherapy bath for swimming against a current. He'd start tomorrow morning. That is, if his schedule allowed.