Pegasus in Flight

by Anne McCaffrey

  Then, to shut up the renewal of Bilala’s caterwauling, Sascha shot a strong silencing command compulsion on the hysterical woman. She fell back in the arms of the women who held her, her mouth working soundlessly. An awed hush fell over the platform.

  The business was quickly concluded then, and Tirla watched solemnly as crisp floaters changed hands. She had never seen so much money in circulation at one time and in front of everyone. It was better so. No one could claim afterward that one had received more than another. Some of the women lingered, displaying real distress as their children were loaded back into the front four cars. Sascha propelled Tirla towards the last car, which the search group was boarding.

  Tirla held up her braceleted arm. “You keep the bargain in fact but not in spirit?” she demanded as the drone cover slid shut. She tugged at the coveted wristband.

  “The bargain is kept in fact and in spirit, Tirla, but you can’t go back to G, not with Bilala your enemy.”

  “Huh! That one!” Tirla snorted derisively. “She wouldn’t find me if I didn’t want her to. I’m not afraid of that stupid woman.”

  “Frankly, I would be, were I you,” Sascha said. “She’ll certainly make sure Yassim knows what part you had in clearing out his hide.”

  That caused her to reflect, although Sascha still could not nudge his way past her shields.

  “Then what was the point of making it seem as if they’d escaped?” she demanded with some exasperation.

  “That seemed a sensible safeguard at the time. Up until you’d wanted to be such a good neighbor. C’mon . . .” Sascha held out his hand. “I think I can find you a safe squat for a few days with a friend of mine.”

  Dorotea? he called. Can you spare a moment for this waif?

  Tirla looked at his hand as if it were covered in acid.

  “At the hostel? With them?”

  “You’re legal, remember?” he reassured her with a little smile. “Technically, you’re free to move anywhere you want to now. You’ve got a wad of floaters, but—” He raised his hand in a cautionary gesture. “—you know as well as I do that an unattached kid in a Linear right now is in jeopardy. Yassim has got to find replacements, and Mirda Khan and Mama Bobchik wouldn’t be there to defend you.”

  “Defend me?” Tirla was both indignant and astonished.

  “Oh, they did, in their own ways. And if a ladrone didn’t snap you up, the Public Health would, as you’re underage and should be in school.” Wow! he exclaimed to Dorotea as he sensed Tirla’s sudden reaction. That opened up an excited crack.

  Dorotea: Keep working it then!

  “Frankly, I would be wary, were I you,” Sascha said.

  Tirla fingered her precious ID. “School? I could access Teacher?”

  “You’ve the right to all the education you can stuff into your head—that is, once you overcome the little problem of being an unattached minor. C’mon, get into the pod. It’s ready to go, and I want you out of this hostile environment.”

  Tirla cast a look over her shoulder at the knot of women around Bilala and said “Stupid cunt” under her breath, but she did not resist Sascha’s guiding hand.

  “Once you’ve caught up with the grade level, you could even go to a regular school.”

  “Me? In a school?” Tirla was skeptical as well as contemptuous.

  “I suspect you’ve got a lot more talent than you realize, Tirla.”

  Dorotea, acidly: You were never one to understate a cause.

  Tirla hunkered down beside him, balancing her torso between spread knees, hands dangling limply between her legs, her butt against the padded end of the cargo pod. She cocked her head up at him, hauling the strands of dark hair off her face, her dark eyes sparkling with, it seemed to Sascha, a private amusement that, for all his telepathic skill, he could not penetrate.

  “Talent?” she repeated.

  “Yes,” he said. “Talent.” He settled down beside her just as the train began to ease forward.

  “I’m nothing like you,” Tirla said warily, swaying a little.

  “No, you’re not. I cannot talk to everyone in their own language as glibly as you do.”

  Tirla thought for a moment and then shrugged. “That’s not hard to do.”

  “Not for you. Ranjit, who’s quite a linguist, was making heavy weather of the translations just now.”

  Tirla shrugged again, dismissively.

  “In a few years, you could earn a big wage just translating.” He could feel her attention. “Enough to live at the top of any Linear and never have to worry about the Yassims of this world.”

  “Working for LEO?” She was plainly unwilling.

  “For someone with your gift of languages, there are far better opportunities than LEO. You do need some schooling.”

  “I got schooling.” Her tone was both rebellious and indignant. At Sascha’s prompting, she added, “I used my brother’s ID—as long as I had it. I got schooling.”

  Dorotea, would you check that out? The brother’s name and ID are on the Incident report.

  I caught a glimpse again, Sascha, Dorotea said. I’m going to need personal contact with her to get past that shield. I gather you plan to bring her to my place and I’m to play sweet frail harmless grandmama? Boy, this has been a day! In for a penny, in for a pound. Did you get any of the high-level interview?

  Caught most of it! Sascha sent an image of him cheering like a mad soccer supporter.

  When all the excitement dies down, Sascha, we are going through the testing procedures with the proverbial fine-tooth comb.

  Just then Sascha felt the jar as the four forward cars were detached to go on to the western hostel that would accommodate the illegal children. He caught the look of apprehension on Tirla’s face and her quick glance at him.

  I’ll take her to my spare room if you’d rather, he told Dorotea.

  Nonsense. I may hate typecasting but I’m far more suitable. Though you’re doing rather well, Dorotea allowed somewhat grudgingly.

  Sascha smiled and resettled himself. “It’ll be smoother from now on,” he said to Tirla. “We’re being shunted to the commuter track.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To my grandmother.”

  I’m not sure I care to be related to a glib philanderer like you, Sascha Roznine. No morals.

  “If she’ll have you for a few days until I can find the right Residential school for you,” he amended. “That would solve the problem of nosy Public Health officials and keep you out of Yassim’s notice.” The mention of school briefly opened her shield and he saw a fearful startlement—a hunger and a withdrawal—before it lowered. He went on casually. “But, as I said, you’ve a legal ID, floaters enough for months, and you can suit yourself.”

  Their car had been shunted several times, and the progress became smoother and faster. Tirla noticed it, and she also noticed how the other people in the car were relaxing, smiling and chatting comfortably with one another.

  Residential school, my ass! Boris’s disgusted tone echoed in Sascha’s mind. I can just see Fairmont or Holyoke taking in that subbie.

  Tolerance, Bro, tolerance. She’s clean and healthy, and that tight mind might conceal a genius.

  Boris: For scams!

  Dorotea, steel in her tone: You just let us handle one of our own.

  Since when am I disowned? Boris asked.

  Dorotea: When you’re wearing nothing but your LEO hat!

  Sascha had a mental image of his brother withdrawing quietly, offending hat in hand. No one took on Dorotea in a crusading mood. He glanced down at Tirla, who was deep in thought, staring down at the floor, though her body appeared relaxed. When the cargo-pod door opened as they reached the vehicle park in the quiet grounds of the Eastern Center for Parapsychics, she reacted with amazement and disbelief. As the other members of Sascha’s team piled out, laughing and chatting over the successful assignment, Tirla just stood, her large eyes wide and white as she stared around her. Sascha did not hurry her.
The old Henner estate, with its big old beeches, maples, and oaks, the wide lawns and the attractive two-story residential units, was unusual enough in modern Jerhattan and had to be a revelation to a Linear resident. Tirla looked appalled.

  “My grandmother lives over there,” Sascha said, pointing to the dwelling that had once been the gardener’s lodge. “There she is, weeding the border.” You are the most complete ham, Dorotea. Weeding?

  True enough, but I wasn’t going to swathe myself in black subsistence and bedeck myself with bracelets and nose rings to make her feel at ease. And the border does need weeding.

  What about your arthritis?

  I always suffer for my art, m’dear. I’ve recruited Peter, too. He needs to climb down from rarefied atmospheres, and something homely will help. Also, he may be older than she is, but he looks young. He’s to appear with eats. Refreshments are always a good way to start off a conversation, particularly for someone with a Near East background. “Why, Sascha, what a pleasant surprise!” Dorotea hoisted herself to her feet and held out her arms to him. Kiss me, you lout. Even grandmothers need a ration of passion now and again!

  “Grandmother, this is Tirla . . . Tunnelle.”

  Inventive boy! Dorotea commented.

  “She needs a place to stay for a few days. Would it be too much of an imposition?”

  Dorotea extracted herself from Sascha’s enthusiastic embrace and extended a mud-daubed hand to Tirla. Since Dorotea had been accepted and acceptable from the moment of her birth, she had about her an aura that made rejection from anyone impossible; Tirla delayed only a moment before grasping the extended hand. She’s got bones like a bird’s, Sascha. How could she possibly do all she’s just done?

  “Tirla, this is Dorotea Horvath.” There’s nothing frail about Tirla’s mind, Dorotea.

  “Actually, I was just about to quit and have something to eat and drink. The sun’s warm today. Peter, is the juice ready?” she called, and gestured for her guests to precede her into the little house.

  Sascha was glad that he had thought of Dorotea, instead of taking Tirla to the far more daunting manor house and its formality. Judging by the girl’s stunned expression, even this homey room was far outside her experience.

  “I expect you’ll want to wash up, and I need to,” Dorotea said gently, touching Tirla’s arm and pointing to the little hall. “Lavatory’s second door on the left, dear, plenty of towels. Peter,” she said as she made for the small kitchen, “we have two more guests.”

  Peter: What’s she like?

  Sascha: Scared.

  Peter, wryly: Know the feeling!

  Dorotea: Tight shield.

  Peter, earnestly: I’ll be careful.

  Dorotea: And don’t show off. You’ll terrify her.

  Peter: I did all the showing off I’m going to do this morning.

  An apprehensive Tirla reentered the room, surreptitiously trailing fingers along wooden surfaces and across the sofa backs. Sascha noticed that she had washed hands, arms, neck, face, and that portion of her chest that was visible above the round neck of her rather worn clothing. She had brushed her long hair neatly back over her shoulders. Sascha thought of the cheerless functionality of subsistence living quarters and gave Tirla another full mark for nonchalance.

  “Here we are,” Dorotea said, arriving with a large tray laden with all sorts of fingerfoods: savories, small open-faced sandwiches, wedges of fruit, and strips of fresh vegetables. “Peter, don’t drop the glasses!” Fortunately, Tirla’s back was to the boy who, with both hands on the huge pitcher of orange juice, was allowing four large tumblers to float along beside him.

  “Hold it while I pour,” Peter said, handing Tirla a glass, a diversion that kept her from noticing the other glasses sliding to positions on the low table near Dorotea and Sascha.

  Dorotea: Peter!

  Peter: She didn’t see it.

  When all had been served with juice, Peter bounced into the chair beside Tirla and took a long drink of the juice, wiping his mouth and exclaiming with satisfaction at the taste.

  “Don’t inhale the juice, Peter,” Dorotea said as she offered Tirla the tray of snacks. An uncommon fondness for green pepper, she noted when she saw Tirla’s eyes brighten at the sight of the slices. Closely watching Dorotea, the girl had closed her fingers about three, then increased her haul to six when there was no reaction. “The cheese puffs are hot and fresh,” Dorotea said, pushing them toward Tirla. “You’d better get them now before Sascha or Peter hog them all.”

  Tirla let the pepper strips fall into her lap and obediently took a cheese puff.

  I couldn’t make myself some coffee, could I, Doro? Sascha asked plaintively.

  Drink! Anything. She won’t until we all do. “Peter, this is just what I needed. I must have dehydrated in the sun. Sascha, there’re asparagus in the breadrolls. I know you like them! And Peter, you are not to eat all the chicken sandwiches. He would, you know,” Dorotea rattled on, nibbling at a cheese puff which she then put to one side to take a bite of a pâtéd cracker. Well, we’ve all sampled everything to prove there’s no poison or drugs. Ah, good! Oh, my word! She’s starved!

  Tirla had started to drink and eat with quick sharp bites and snatched swallows, as if she was torn between eating and drinking and afraid that the food would suddenly disappear. All three telepaths were aware of a sudden lightening of her carefully guarded thoughts as she made inroads on the snacks. The pastry melted in her mouth, releasing tastes that satisfied unknown cravings with textures that titillated her tongue, from the reassuring crisp watery tang of the green peppers to the bite of sharp cheese and savory meat fillings.

  Food would be a trigger, Dorotea went on wryly, when you consider she’s probably been hungry all her life. She took a long drink of the orange juice. “I hope you’ve more in the kitchen, Peter, because it tastes marvelous. But then, fresh-squeezed orange juice always does, don’t you think so, Tirla?”

  Sascha! Boris’s tone was authoritative. Your waif’s in good hands. Someone just snatched one of the Jerhattan schoolkids we stranded three weeks ago.

  “Well,” Sascha said, rising and dusting crumbs off his fingers. “I’ll leave you to it, Tirla. You’re safe enough here for a few days, and Peter can show you how to log on to Teacher. Right?”

  As he strode across the lawn to the main house, Dorotea told him, She paused in her eating when you left, but I fear the snack tray and the orange juice pitcher are of far greater moment than you, honey.

  Sascha was not certain, in his private mind, if he liked taking second place to a batch of canapés, even with a preadolescent.

  CHAPTER 13

  “You been here long?” Tirla asked Peter the next morning as they ate breakfast in the pleasant and, to Tirla, amazing kitchen room. Dorotea was preparing eggs—fresh eggs—in a pan at the stove, using, of all things, a naked flame. Tirla did not wish to distract her from the dangerous procedure, so she spoke in a low voice.

  “Hmm,” Peter said amiably, taking neat spoonfuls of the ripe melon. “Ever since I got out of the hospital.”

  Tirla watched to see how he dealt with the food—she would have sliced it thin and eaten down to the rind. “Why were you in the hospital?” she asked. Hospitals were fearsome places to Tirla, who had always made a practice of avoiding medics, as well as quacks. She also had a wary distrust of sick people, never having been ill or injured herself.

  Peter gave a diffident shrug of one shoulder. “A wall collapsed all over me.”

  “You must have been hurt bad.” In Tirla’s experience people did not survive walls coming down on them.

  “Couldn’t walk for months. Couldn’t even feed myself.” His eyes took on an unfocused cast.

  “And they let you live?” Tirla was stunned at such good fortune.

  Peter regarded her with some surprise. “Of course, though for a while there, I really didn’t want to live.”

  Tirla absorbed that remarkable statement as she bent to the task of eating me
lon. It was really good—not gone off like most of those she scrounged. She flicked careful glances at Dorotea to make sure the fire was under control. Why didn’t the woman use the hotter she had right there in the wall? One of the first things one learned in the Linears was not to mess with naked flames. Fire was a sure way to bring down the wrath of the LEOs.

  “Why did you?” Tirla asked, realizing that Peter was waiting for her to comment. “Live, I mean.”

  “Rhyssa taught me how to move again.”

  “You do move sort of oddly,” she said, having noticed the peculiar gliding motion he used. He did not, in fact, seem to take real steps, though his legs moved.

  Peter snickered, his mouth full of melon. He swallowed and grinned broadly. “That’s because I’m not really walking. I impel myself kinetically.” His eyes glinted with mischief at her mystification. “I make my body move. It can’t.”

  Tirla stopped eating, staring at him until she recalled that even in Linears a lengthy stare was impolite. “Your body doesn’t move? But you’re eating. You’re using your arm and your hand—just like me.” She held her own hand up.

  “I’m pretty good at it, aren’t I?” Peter was delighted with his effect on Tirla. “I’ve done some other stuff, too, moving—” He broke off, with a slightly rueful grin. “I hear you’re pretty good at your Talent, too. That was larky—getting the kids away from the pervert.”

  Tirla slowly shook her head, dismissing her achievement. “Nothing like what you do. I don’t have much Talent at all.”

  Peter snorted with good-natured contempt. “That’s what you think. It’s not what Rhyssa said. I’m good at what I do. But you’re very very good at what you do. Don’t knock it.”

  Slightly embarrassed by the sincerity of Peter’s tone, Tirla changed the subject, eager to pump him on puzzling topics. “You said Rhyssa helped you? Is she the dark-haired one who was here last night after Sascha left?”