Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  The full details were being vividly proclaimed, complete with fanfares of brass instruments and snippets of the Respected Venerable Homilifier Ponsit Prosit smiling beatifically at vast audiences. A chorus was promised, and a short blast of five-part harmony and high soprano descant was presented as an enticement to attend the full show. This V R & Holy Religious Interpretation Group purportedly had only recently returned from the Eastern Cities of Faith, where Ponsit Prosit had endured “fasting meditations of great length and illumination.” Linear G was fortunate in the extreme that he was able to fit that evening’s assembly into his busy tour. So, he had not had a booking in a while, Tirla thought cynically. Well, Religious Interpretations were very popular in Linears, better than fights sometimes and often more showy. Tirla liked shows—and legal extensions.

  There had been a Public Health roundup recently, so a second, covert one was unlikely in her experience. And while a Religious Event could be staged to mask more illicit operations than washing tieds in public, there still might not be any undercover LEOs. Crowd Controllers would be around, of course—that was standard procedure—but Tirla knew most of them despite the way they altered their appearances.

  The important thing was that she had the Yassim tieds to change. She should never have agreed to do it, but Bulbar had been insistent and the “talker”’—a hit man whom she would not willingly offend—had told her that she was being given the opportunity in reward for services already rendered. Having consented to a professional engagement with Mama Bobchik, who was not only another person it was unwise to offend but someone who, having presided over Tirla’s birth, would always defend the girl, Tirla was committed on two counts to attend.

  Prepared with several contingency plans, Tirla began her usual morning routine—bargaining for the day’s meals and getting a bath and a clean issue of clothing. But as she proceeded, she was stopped by various female clients, each wanting her company during this Religious Event because the featured Lama-shaman was reputed to speak in tongues and Tirla was absolutely the only person who would faithfully tell them everything he said. There was a limit, however, to how many people Tirla could adequately represent. Surrounded by very insistent, vocal, and physically active prospective clients, none of whom she cared to antagonize, she attempted to organize them.

  “Bilala, you and Pilau must come together. Anna, you team up with Marika. Zaveta, Elpidia comes as well. Chi-shu, Lao Wang with you. Cyoto, Ari-san is your partner.” And so she grouped them. Ten pairs was as unmanageable as it was unavoidable. Before she got into any further difficulties, Tirla discreetly removed herself from public view. She still had to get the tied credits out of their hidey holes and secreted about her for easy access.

  We have an Incident,” Sirikit said, her light, crisp voice carrying easily to Budworth, who was duty officer in the Parapsych Control Room.

  “Who?” Budworth sent his gimballed chair spinning across the tiled floor to her station. Seeing him maneuver so rapidly around the Control Room made people forget that his spine had been crushed in an accident and that he had only minimal movement of his head and two fingers.

  “Auer.” Sirikit’s surprise was reflected in her voice.

  “Really!”

  “And Bertha!”

  “That’s an unusual combination.”

  “Not if Ponsit Prosit the Great Flimflam is involved. I caught the p.a. for Linear G.”

  “It is very true she would have his guts for garters,” Budworth said, grinning wryly. Bertha Zoccola was generally a relaxed and tolerant individual, but mention of that particular RIG was enough to enrage her. Budworth set himself for her fury in reporting a precog involving the man.

  Whenever precognitive Talents responded to an Incident, they would flash the Center, alerting Control to receive a verbal description of what they had previewed. Budworth positioned his chair at the fingerboard next to Sirikit and scratched his chin on the rim of his head support, feeling the surge of excited anticipation that he always experienced at such moments.

  “C’mon, you net-heads, report!” he exclaimed.

  Sirikit glanced away from her screen to grin at him. Then a bleep sounded, startling both of them even though they were expecting an entry.

  “Auer here,” the emotionless voice announced, and the precog’s face appeared in one of the response screens. “A real messy one. High panic, screams, mob, kids trampled, the usual thing. Why don’t you grab Ponsit and space him to the shipyards? I’m tired of protecting that scuzfart.”

  “You saw Flimflam himself, Auer?” Sirikit asked encouragingly. At Budworth’s nod, she took over the routine questions. She was one of the most deft at post-Incidental debriefing, and Auer always responded well to her. Budworth busied himself with tapping out a query for scheduled public events. More crowd control would have to be assigned to Linear G.

  Auer shrugged with an indifference both observers knew was false. “He’s prominent. All colored lights and glittering hands. Then running away. As usual. Never stays to calm the audiences he excites to riot pitch.”

  “Where?” Sirikit encouraged him.

  “Your typical Residential assembly hall. Usual Ponsit backdrops. Nothing unusual . . . except—” Auer paused, frowning down at something. “Except—that’s odd!”

  “What’s odd, Auer?”

  “All over a scrawny girl?” When he looked up, his eyes were haunted.

  “Yes?”

  “I feel . . . and her danger is acute. It doesn’t end tonight. She’s Talented!” That was said in a surprised voice; then Auer passed a hand across his eyes, scrubbing downward. “It’s gone now. It’s gone.” The screen blackened.

  Another screen brightened.

  “You shouldn’t allow that man a permit at all!” Bertha Zoccola was bristling with indignation. “You’ve caught him dealing time and again! Those people don’t have the credits to spend on mystical cures and miracle healings. He spouts the most appalling sort of pantheist tripe. And in the worst language!”

  “What did you see, Bertha?” Budworth asked the plump little woman, who still cherished a worn deck of Tarot cards that her great-grandmother had once read with a high enough degree of accuracy to earn a significant credit balance.

  “I keep telling you that man is nothing but trouble.” Her double chin quivered, and her expression was concerned. “I don’t care if the Domestic Satisfaction Index does rise after he’s played a Residential. Why should we Talents protect a quacksalver, a faker, a pharisee, a hoaxer, a gyp! An arrant carnie!”

  “We’re not protecting him! Now, what did you see, Bertha?”

  “Halfway through that—that gibberous effort of his—you never can tell what he’s saying in that mumbo-jumble of his—there’s a movement, to the left of the platform . . .” She jingled her left hand, her many wrist bracelets clacking noisily. “Or do I mean his right?” She raised the other hand, splaying fingers crammed with rings. “There’s a commotion. It has to do with a large group of women.” She waggled her hand again, frowning. “Then everything goes wild! A name! They’re all calling a name! And I can’t hear what it is! Oh, wouldn’t that cause a saint to swear! The one vital detail! And I thought I heard it so clearly . . .” She pursed her lips in concentration and then slowly shook her head, sighing. “No, it’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks, Bertha dear. You’ve filled in some details.”

  “Who else?” Bertha asked, as always.

  “Auer.”

  “Him?” Bertha was incredulous. “Well, what’d’ya know about that? Do keep me screened, Buddy.”

  “You bet.” Budworth was punching Sascha’s office as her picture dissolved. “Sascha, we got an Incident.”

  “There’s only one crowd controller assigned to the RIG, Budworth,” Sirikit murmured to him. “Residential Linear G is listed as blue, calm.”

  “Well, it’s about to change color unless we can neutralize. Sascha, something’s going to bust wide at Ponsit’s meeting at G tonight.”<
br />
  “Linear G?” The large blue eyes in Sascha’s Slavic-cast face widened with surprise. “We’d nothing planned there,” he murmured. “Who saw it?”

  “Bertha and Auer.”

  “What?” Sascha raised his eyebrows. “That’s a first. I’ll be back to you, Buddy. I’ll organize our infiltration with the Bro.” Rhyssa, we’ve got an incipient riot.

  That sort of thing’s more your bailiwick than mine, was Rhyssa’s reply. Give my regards to Boris.

  As the contact with Sascha faded, Budworth grunted, absently scratching his jaw. He hoped there would be remote visuals set up so that he could watch what went on, and if Sascha’s LEO brother, Boris, was involved, there would be. Whether his experience was vicarious or not, Budworth appreciated being involved in these unexpected spectaculars. One never knew what would happen during an Incident. He was honest enough in the back of his mind—the only safe place to think in the Center—to realize that he had not been a physically brave person even before his accident. Still and all, he found the breathless anticipation and stimulation to be very pleasant sensations for one husked by a mobility chair.

  Sirikit was making rapid entries, documenting the Incident. Although the Talented had come to have immense credibility, and the meticulously kept daily files might generally be scanned only by Research, the procedures outlined by the Parapsychic Center’s first administrator, Henry Darrow, were scrupulously followed. The full spectrum of Talent was far from being known and certain facets of Talent were not at all fully developed, as in the case of young Peter Reidinger’s Talent for an electrical gestalt. And who knew what sort of unusual Talent might yet be discovered among emergents? Budworth sighed as he turned back to tasks which once would have seemed far from mundane.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tirla did not dare be late to the meeting, but she also did not want to arrive too soon and risk being hassled by even more people demanding her particular services. No matter what baksheesh was offered, she could translate for only so many at a time, especially with the other, more pressing, matter to complete. That had to be managed. She chose to arrive with enough time to do a quick survey and identify the best vendors, as well as any undercover LEOs or PHOs. The fortuitous scheduling of the Religious Event still bothered her.

  Unless . . . It occurred to Tirla that maybe there would be some Treasury persons in the crowd, checking up on vendors, that money laundering itself was the target of this occasion. But the Ts were easy to spot. They were always so obvious about blending into the crowd.

  Having arranged to meet the women at the main southeast entrance, Tirla entered the Assembly atrium from one of the side northwest gates. Someone else had already disabled the entrance eye that read IDs and counted attendance, saving her the trouble. The petty vendors had their booths up and merchandise displayed: mainly trinkets and synth clothes, goods that could be quickly shifted. But there were air-cushion carts being angled through the wider doorways, proving that some serious trading would be done. She felt somewhat easier in her mind. The big traders would not risk themselves or their merchandise at a risky-disky.

  She took note of prices as she wended her way through the gathering crowd. She hoped there would be some fresh produce—well, fresh in that it had been recently nicked from the underground warehouses that supplied Jerhattan’s markets. She would treat herself to a nice crisp pepper, carrot, or apple from the day’s earnings, something to sink her teeth into instead of the subsistence mush or compound protein loaf. She wanted to get a stick of real chewing gum, too, to keep her mouth moist when she started translating. She spared only a glance for the activity on the platform, where hands were rushing about, draping curtains and swags and hauling lighting and sound equipment about. She was never impressed by packaging—just the quality of the contents. She found gum at Felter’s stall and made him launder one of the smaller tied notes.

  She was just savoring the minty flavor of her gum when she caught sight of an all too familiar profile in totally unfamiliar synth-issue clothing. Yassim was actually here? She ducked behind a large man in a stained robe that had once been the height of fashion. He was holding up both arms, wigwagging at someone on the stage. The smell of him nearly made her swallow her gum, but his outline completely obscured her.

  What was Yassim doing here? Tirla wondered. Didn’t he trust her? As her camouflage dropped one arm to cup his hand to his mouth to shout a direction, Tirla chanced a second look.

  Yes, it was him. He was unmistakable. He had done something subtle to his face, altering its shape—probably pads in his cheeks and lower lip—but he had not, could not, alter that long thin hooked nose and the sloping forehead. He walked, as always, as if he owned the place, strutting about in a loose overrobe that had not suffered much cleaning in its long life. His headgear was also appropriately worn, torn, and stained. It was a creditable attempt to blend in, but Tirla knew the man was Yassim. There he was, sauntering about, inspecting trinkets, pausing to ask questions of vendors, appearing to go from one group of friends to another, friends she quickly identified as some of his multitude of ladrones, hitters, and sassins. Well and discreetly guarded though he was, why was he there?

  Her odorous blocker moved and she moved with him, keeping him as cover. When he stopped, roaring out instructions, she, too, did—and saw Yassim talking to three Neester mothers who had young children with them. Suddenly Tirla knew what he was doing there.

  With equal certainty, Tirla did not want to be anywhere in his vicinity while child buying was on his mind. She did, however, make a mental note of which ladrones and sassins she knew among his followers. There had to be one she could trust to give his boss the tieds she had exchanged into floaters. There was no way she could avoid that chore.

  Subliminal music had started, and the lighting in the Assembly Hall began to alter subtly, heralding the beginning of the Religious Interpretation. Tirla ducked behind the nearest vendor’s shillboard and slipped to the southeast entrance.

  An agitated Mirda Khan seemed to have eyes in the back of her mirror-adorned headdress, for she swung around, her face as sharp as a predatory bird’s, as Tirla approached. She hooked her fingers painfully into Tirla’s grasp and hauled the girl to her.

  “Where were you? Where were you?” Mirda shook her angrily, showering her with spittle and sour breath so that Tirla pulled back as far as she could. The other women who had commissioned her to translate the RIG’s words formed a close circle around her. But since their bodies also shielded her from Yassim’s notice, she did not resist.

  “I was pricing the merch,” she said, unrepentantly.

  Bilala and Pilau were trying to edge around Mirda and pull Tirla to their segment of the circle. Mirda jammed Tirla tight against her angular body while Mama Bobchik somehow got ahold of Tirla’s free arm, effectively pinning her between the two formidably large women.

  “He’s here,” Tirla said to Mirda, squirming to give herself a little space. She repeated the phrase until all her customers knew.

  “He?” Mirda stretched to peer over the heads of their little knot. She gave a snort. “Yassim’ll roast in hell before I sell him another child.” Her fingers tightened convulsively on Tirla’s shoulder. “You stay away from him. You hear me good?”

  Tirla nodded enthusiastically. If Mirda knew Yassim, was there a chance she could inveigle the woman to pass on the laundry? Not with any sure knowledge that all of it would reach him.

  “He gives a good price,” Elpidia whined. She had a girl child old enough to spin off. She also had a drug habit to keep, for which she exchanged the yearly fruits of her womb once they were of an age to be sold off profitably. She fretted whether or not to go back to her squat and bring down the child for him.

  “I would not sell to such as him!” Mirda snapped in her own language, black eyes flashing scornfully. “Price or not. Even selling to the station is better.”

  “What did she say?” Elpidia demanded of Tirla.

  Tirla shrugged. “I am
hired to translate the speaker, not settle disputes between clients, and she is not one to annoy.”

  Elpidia scowled at Mirda Khan, who hauled Tirla around, nearly wrenching her left arm out of Mama Bobchik’s hand.

  “Come,” Mirda said. Her outer robe billowing its musty folds across Tirla’s face, she led the group forward, acting as a spearhead through the still thinly scattered gathering. She halted right under the stage, where no one could thrust in front of them to block their view. She was about to push Tirla forward when the girl wriggled free.

  “I must be able to see him. I will stand here, where I can see, and where all of you can hear.” She repeated this until it was clearly understood by all her clients.

  Within the circle she felt safe from Yassim. She began to relax and even to enjoy the music despite the patchy sound of the shrill replay as it ground through a multi-ethnic repertoire. Where were the famous live backup performers? This had been publicly billed as an occasion! Tirla took note of activity on the stage, the draperies billowing suddenly here and there from movement behind them. She could just catch a glimpse of the right-hand wings and people milling about, waiting to go on. So, there was a chorus. She much preferred live singing.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a big man to her right, wandering with all too apparent indifference. She sensed a penetrating assessment of her companions going on under the brim of a battered peak cap, and she leaned surreptiously into Mama Bobchik. She felt something else then, a soothing brush across her mind which caused the high, sharp chatter of the women to fall off into a less excited pitch. She was not sure what that was all about.

  The man was not Treasury. She followed his progress, aware that he was in contact somehow with two women who gave every evidence of being oblivious to him as they chattered and laughed together, jostling through the early comers to find a good position near the stage. She peered suspiciously at the two, their faces painted with careless hands, one of them obviously pregnant, though she wore the gear of a prostitute. Their faces were unfamiliar, and Tirla was beginning to wonder if the meeting really had been staged by an authority like Treasury or PH when a third woman, well known to Tirla, greeted them effusively and stayed to gossip. Reading from their lips the commonplace remarks they exchanged soothed the girl. It was seeing Yassim here that made her so nervous. She certainly did not owe him so much that he would come after her. She was not even overdue with the laundered credits. What had happened to his stock? He was not often caught short enough to brave a public affair. She touched the little pouches of tieds in the clever vest she wore for the purpose under her issue suit and reassured herself that all were in place.