To Ride Pegasus

by Anne McCaffrey

  “If there’s no Incident on the graphs, Les, even Gillings must admit to our innocence.”

  Welch rolled his eyes heavenwards. “How can you be so naive, Dave? No matter what our remotes prove, that heist was done by a Talent.”

  “Not one of ours.” Daffyd op Owen could be didactic, too.

  “Great. Prove it to Gillings. He’s on his way here now and he’s out to get us. We’ve all but ruined his spotless record of enforcement and protection. That hits his credit, monetary and personal.” Lester paused for a quick breath. “I told you that public education program would cause more trouble than it’s worth. Let me cancel the morning ’cast.”

  “No.” Daffyd closed his eyes wearily. He didn’t need to resume that battle with Les now. In spite of this disastrous development he was convinced of the necessity for the campaign. The general public must learn that they had nothing to fear from those gifted with a parapsychic Talent. The series of public information programs, so carefully planned, served several vital purposes: to show how the many facets of Talent served the community’s best interests; to identify those peculiar traits that indicated the possession of a Talent; and most important, to gain public support for the Bill in the Senate which would give Talents professional immunity in the exercise of their various duties.

  “I haven’t a vestige of Talent, Dave,” Les went on urgently, “but I don’t need it to guess some dissident in the common mass of have-nots listened to every word of those ’casts and put what you should never have aired to good use … for him. And don’t comfort me with how many happy clods have obediently tripped up to the Clinic to have their minor Talents identified. One renegade apple’s all you need to sour the barrel!”

  “Switch the ’cast to the standard recruiting tape. To pull the whole series would be worse. I’m coming right over.”

  Daffyd op Owen looked down at the blank screen for a long moment, gathering strength. It was no precog that this would be a very difficult day. Strange, he mused, that no precog had foreseen this. No. That very omission indicated a wild Talent, acting on the spur of impulse. What was it Les had said? “The common mass of have-nots?” Even with the basic dignities of food, shelter, clothing and education guaranteed, the appetite of the have-not was continually whetted by the abundance that was not his. In this case, hers. Daffyd op Owen groaned. If only such a Talent had been moved to come to the Center where she could be trained and used. Where had their so carefully worded programming slipped up? She could have had the furs, the jewels, the dresses on overt purchase … and enjoyed them openly. The Center was well enough endowed to satisfy any material yearning of its members. Surely Gillings would admit that.

  Op Owen took a deep breath and exhaled regret and supposition. He must keep his mind clear, his sensitivities honed for any nuance that would point a direction toward success.

  As he left his shielded quarters at the back of the Center’s extensive grounds, he was instantly aware of tension in the atmosphere. Most Talented persons preferred to live in the Center, in the specially shielded buildings that reduced the ‘noise’ of constant psychic agitation. The Center preferred to have them here, as much to protect as to help their members. Talent was a double-edged sword; it could incise evil but it neatly separated its wielder from his fellow man. That was why these broadcasts were so vital. To prove to the general public that the psychically gifted were by no means supermen. Research had indicated there were more people with the ability than would admit it. There were, however, definite limitations to most Talents.

  The Parapsychic had been raised, in Daffyd’s lifetime, to the level of a science with the development of the Goosegg, ultra-sensitive electroencephalographs which could record, and identify the type of “Talent” by the minute electrical impulses generated in the cortex by the application of psychic powers. Daffyd op Own sometimes thought the word “power” was the villain in perpetuating the public misconceptions. Power means “possession of control” but such synonyms as “domination,” “sway,” “command” leapt readily to the average mind and distorted the actual definition.

  Daffyd op Owen was roused from his thoughts by the heavy beat of a copter. He turned onto the path leading directly to the main administration building and had a dear view of the Commissioner’s marked copter landing on the flight roof, to the left of the control tower with its forest of antennal decorations.

  Immediately he perceived a reaction of surprise, indignation and anxiety. Surely every Talent who’d heard the news on the morning ’cast and realized its significance could not be surprised by Gillings’s arrival. Op Owen quickened his pace.

  “Orley’s loose!” The thought was as loud as a shout.

  People paused, turned unerringly towards the long low building of the Clinic where applicants were tested for sensitivity and trained to understand and use what Talent they possessed: and where the Center conducted its basic research in psionics.

  A tall, heavy figure flung itself from the Clinic’s broad entrance, charged down the lawn, in a direct line to the tower. The man leaped the ornamental garden, plunged through the hedges, swung over the hood of a parked lawn-truck, straight-armed the overhanging branches of trees, and brushed aside several men who tried to stop him.

  “Project reassurance! Project reassurance!” the bullhorn from the tower advised. “Project happiness!”

  “Get those cops in my office!” Daffyd projected on his own as he began to ran towards the building. He hoped that Charlie Moorfield or Lester had already done so. Orley didn’t look as if anything short of a tranquilizer bullet would stop him. Who had been dim-witted enough to let the telempath out of his shielded room at a time like this? The moron was the most sensitive barometer to emotion Daffyd had ever encountered and he was physically dangerous if aroused. By the speed of that berserker-charge, he had soaked up enough fear/anxiety/anger to dismember the objects he was homing in on.

  The only sounds now in the grounds were those of op Owen’s shoes hitting the permaplast of the walk and the thud-thud of Orley’s progress on the thick lawn. One advantage of being Talented is efficient communication and total comprehension of terse orders. But the wave of serenity/reassurance was not penetrating Orley’s blind fury: the openness dissipated its effect.

  Three men walked purposefully out of the administration building and down the broad apron of steps. Each carried slim-barreled hand weapons. The man on the left raised and aimed his at the audibly-panting, fast approaching moron. The shot took Orley in the right arm but did not cause him to falter. Instantly the second man aimed and fired Orley lost stride for two paces as the shot penetrated his thigh but incredibly he recovered. The third man—op Owen recognized Charlie Moorfield—waited calmly as Orley rapidly closed the intervening distance. In a few more steps Orley would crash into him. Charlie was swinging out of the way, his gun slightly raised for a chest shot, when the moron staggered and, with a horrible groan, fell to his knees. He tried to rise, one clenched fist straining towards the building.

  Instantly Charlie moved to prevent Orley from gouging his face on the coarse-textured permaplast.

  “He took two double-strength doses, Dave,” Moorfield exclaimed with some awe as he cradled the moron’s head in his arms.

  “He would. How’n’hell did he get such an exposure?”

  Charlie made a grimace. “Sally was feeding him on the terrace. She hadn’t heard the news ’cast. Said she was concentrating on keeping him dean and didn’t ‘read’ his growing restlessness as more than response to her until he burst wide open.”

  “Too much to hope that our unexpected guests didn’t see this?”

  Charlie gave a sour grin. “They caused it, Boss. Stood there on the roof, giving Les a hard time, broadcasting basic hate and distrust. You should’ve seen the dial on the psychic atmosphere gauge. No wonder Orley responded.” Charlie’s face softened as he glanced down at the unconscious man. “Poor damned soul. Where is that med-team? I ‘called’ them when he got outside.”


  Daffyd glanced up at the broad third floor windows that marked his office. Six men stared back. He put an instant damper on his thoughts and emotions, and mounted the steps.

  The visitors were still at the window, watching the med-team as they lifted the huge limp body onto the stretcher.

  “Orley acts as a human barometer, gentlemen, reacting instantly to the emotional aura around him,” Les was saying in his driest, down-east tone. To op Owen’s wide-open mind, he emanated a raging anger that almost masked the aura projected by the visitors. “He has an intelligence factor of less than 50 on the New Scale which makes him uneducable. He is, however, invaluable in helping identify the dominating emotion of seriously disturbed mental and hallucinogenic patients which could overcome a rational telepath.”

  Police Commissioner Frank Gillings was the prime source of the fury which had set Harold Orley off. Op Owen felt sorry for Orley, having to bear such anger, and sorrier for himself and his optimistic hopes. He was momentarily at a loss to explain such a violent reaction from Gillings, even granting the validity of Lester Welch’s assumption that Gillings was losing face, financial and personal, on account of this affair.

  He tried a “push” at Gillings’s mind to discover the covert reasons and found the man had a tight natural shield, not uncommon for a person in high position, privy to sensitive facts. The burly Commissioner gave every outward appearance of being completely at ease, as if this were no more than a routine visit, and not one hint of his surface thoughts leaked. Deep-set eyes, barely visible under heavy brows, above fleshy cheeks in a swarthy face that missed nothing, flicked from Daffyd to Lester and back.

  Op Owen nodded to Ted Lewis, the top police “finder” who had accompanied the official group. He stood a little to one side of the others. Of all the visitors, his mind was wide open. Foremost was the thought that he hoped Daffyd would read him, so that he could pass the warning that Gillings considered Orley’s exhibition another indication that Talents could not control or discipline their own members.

  “Good morning, Commissioner. I regret such circumstances bring you on your first visit to the Center. This morning’s newscast has made us all extremely anxious to clear our profession.”

  Gillings’s perfunctory smile did not acknowledge the tacit explanation of Orley’s behavior.

  “I’ll come to the point, then, Owen. We have conclusively ascertained that there was no break in store security measures when the theft occurred. The ’lectric wards and spy-scanner were not tampered with nor was there any evidence of breaking or entering. There is only one method in which sable, necklace, dress and shoes could have been taken from that window in the five minutes between TV scans.

  “We regret exceedingly that the evidence points to a person with psychic talents. We must insist that the larcenist be surrendered to us immediately and the merchandise returned to Mr. Grey, the representative from Cole’s.” He indicated the portly man in a conservative but expensive grey fitted.

  Op Owen nodded and looked expectantly towards Ted Lewis.

  “Lewis can’t ‘find’ a trace anywhere so it’s obvious the items are being shielded.” A suggestion of impatience crept into Gillings’s bass voice. “These grounds are shielded.”

  “The stolen goods are not here, Commissioner. If they were, they would have been found by a member the instant the broadcast was heard.”

  Gillings’s eyes snapped and his lips thinned with obstinacy.

  “I’ve told you I can read on these grounds, Commissioner,” Ted Lewis said with understandable indignation. “The stolen …”

  A wave of the Commissioner’s hand cut off the rest of Lewis’s statement. Op Owen fought anger at the insult.

  “You’re a damned fool, Gillings,” said Welch, not bothering to control his, “if you think we’d shelter a larcenist at this time.”

  “Ah yes, that Bill pending Senate approval,” Gillings said with an unpleasant smile.

  Daffyd found it hard to nullify resentment at the smug satisfaction and new antagonism which Gillings was generating.

  “Yes, that Bill, Commissioner,” op Owen repeated, “which will protect any Talent registered with a parapsychic center.” Op Owen did not miss the sparkle of Gillings’s deep-set eyes at the deliberate emphasis. “If you’ll step this way, gentlemen, to our remote-graph control system, I believe that we can prove, to your absolute satisfaction, that no registered Talent is responsible. You haven’t been here before, Commissioner, so you are not familiar with our method of recording incidents in which psychic powers are used.

  “Power, by the way, means ‘possession of control’, personal, as well as psychic, which is what this Center teaches each and every member. Here we are. Charles Moorfield is the duty officer and was in charge at the time of the robbery. If you will observe the graphs, you’ll notice that that period—between 7:03 and 7:08 was the time give by the ’cast—has not yet wound out of sight on the storage drums.”

  Gillings was not looking at the graphs. He was staring at Charlie.

  “Next time, aim at the chest first, mister.”

  “Sorry I stopped him at all … mister,” replied Charlie, with such deliberate malice that Gillings colored and stepped towards him.

  Op Owen quickly intervened. “You dislike, distrust and hate us, Commissioner,” he said, keeping his own voice neutral with effort. “You and your staff has prejudged us guilty, though you are at this moment surrounded by incontrovertible evidence of our collective innocence. You arrived here, emanating disruptive emotions—no, I’m not reading your minds, gentlemen.” Daffyd had all Gillings’s attention with that phrase. “That isn’t necessary. You’re triggering responses in the most controlled of us—not to mention that poor witless telempath we had to tranquilize. And, unless you put a lid on your unwarranted hatred and fears, I will have no compunction about pumping you all full tranks, too!”

  “That’s coming on mighty strong for a man in your position, Owen,” Gillings said in a tight hard voice, his body visibly tense now.

  “You’re the one that’s coming on strong, Gillings. Look at that dial behind you.”

  Gillings did not want to turn, particularly not at op Owen’s command, but there is a quality of righteous anger that compels obedience.

  “That registers—as Harold Orley does—the psychic intensity of the atmosphere. The mind gives off electrical impulses, Gillings, surely you have to admit that. Law enforcement agencies used that premise for lie detection. Our instrumentation makes those early registers as archaic as space ships make oxcarts. We have ultra-delicate equipment which can measure the minutest electrical impulses of varying frequencies and duration. And this PA dial registers a dangerous high right now. Surely your eyes must accept scientific evidence.

  “Those rows of panels there record the psychic activity of each and every member registered with this Center. See, most of them register agitation right now. These red divisions indicate a sixty-minute time span. Each of those drums exposes the graph as of the time of that theft. Notice the difference. Not one graph shows the kinetic activity required of a ‘lifter’ to achieve such a theft. But every one shows a reaction to your presence.

  “There is no way in which a registered Talent can avoid these graphs. Charlie, were any kinetics out of touch at the time of the theft?”

  Charlie, his eyes locked on Gillings, shook his head slowly.

  “There never has been so much as a civil misdemeanor by any of our people. No breach of confidence, nor integrity. No crime could be shielded from fellow Talents.

  “And can you rationally believe that we would jeopardize years and years of struggle to become accepted as reliable citizens of indisputable integrity for the sake of a fur coat and a string of baubles? When there are funds available to any Talent who might want to own such fripperies?” Op Owen’s scorn made the Cole man wince.

  “Now get out of here, Gillings. Discipline your emotions and revise your snap conclusion. Then call through normal channels a
nd request our cooperation. Because, believe me, we are far more determined … and better equipped … to discover the real criminal than you could ever be, no matter what your personal stake in assigning guilt might conceivably be.”

  Op Owen watched for a reaction to that remark but Gillings, his lips thin and white with anger, did not betray himself. He gestured jerkily towards the one man in police blues.

  “Do not serve that warrant now, Gillings!” op Owen said in a very soft voice. He watched the frantic activity of the needle on the PA dial.

  “Go. Now. Call. Because if you cannot contain your feelings, Commissioner, you had better maintain your distance.”

  It was then that Gillings became aware of the palpable presence of those assembled in the corridor. A wide aisle had been left free, an aisle that led only to the open elevator. No one spoke or moved or coughed. The force exerted was not audible nor physical. It was, however, undeniably unanimous. It prevailed in forty-four seconds.

  “My firm will wish to know what steps are being taken,” the Cole’s man said in a squeaky voice as he began to walk, with erratic but ever quickening steps, towards the elevator.

  Gillings’s three subordinates were not so independent, but there was no doubt of their relief as Gillings turned and walked with precise, unhurried strides to the waiting car.

  No one moved until the thwapping rumble of the copter was no longer audible. Then they turned for assignments from their director.

  City Manager Julian Pennstrak, with a metropolis of some four million to supervise, had a habit of checking up personally on any disruption to the smooth operation of his city. He arrived as the last of the organized search parties left the Center.

  “I’d give my left kidney and a million credits to have enough Talent to judge a man accurately, Dave,” he said as he crossed the room. He knew better than to shake hands unless a Talented offered but it was obvious to Daffyd, who liked Pennstrak, that the man wanted somehow to convey his personal distress over this incident. He stood for a moment by the chair, his handsome face without a trace of his famous genial smile. “I’d’ve sworn Frank Gillings was pro-Talent,” he said, combing his fingers through his thick, wavy black hair, another indication of his anxiety. “He certainly has used your people to their fullest capabilities since he became LEO Commissioner.”