by Unknown
“Together…we pushed him out.” He contemplated it wonderingly. “But I
can’t stay awake forever.”
“I’ll have the Tommies keep calling you. I’ll have them fill your mind, even when you’re asleep. That might keep you aware.”
“We can try.”
“If two of us can shut him out, think of what seven of us might do.”
“Seven?” He groped stupidly for her meaning. The tiredness…
“Our minds and the five Tommies,” she explained excitedly. “We could link them together. We’ve never tried that. Oh, I’ve got another idea!”
“What is it?” He grasped eagerly at her words.
“Perhaps I could contact him through the Tommies.”
“Zandro?” The idea bewildered him. “He can’t contact the Tommies directly. He admitted that.”
“But how about the Ikus? If the Tommies could reach the Ikus, I could put the call through them.”
“They couldn’t receive it unless their minds were stronger than Zandro’s,” he protested. “I can’t imagine it’s possible.”
“Is it the receiving or transmitting end that’s important?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I linked my mind to the five Tommies, then called. Think of the mind power, Danny. Perhaps I could get through.”
“To the Ikus?”
“I could try.”
“The same thing might work with Zandro,” he reflected.
“He’d shut me out. I feel certain he would. But he might answer the Ikus. If he does, I’ll keep bombarding him.”
“Bombarding him how?” He felt a surge of excitement.
“Telling him to stay out of your mind.”
He asked eagerly, “Do you think it might work?”
“We could try. How did you reach the Iku?”
“The Iku…” He groped foggily at his memory. “Iku 998W, that was it.”
“Iku 998W,” she repeated. “I’m going to call him.”
“You said you were going to warn someone, tell him about me.” He felt the tiredness sweeping back. “I want to go to Gylan.”
“Mr. Smith. I told him.”
“Is he” — Danny paused, afraid to hope — “going to do anything?”
“He will. I’ll make him. Now you must sleep, Danny. Sleep while you can.”
“Sleep,” he echoed.
“Now,” she said firmly, “I’m going to call Mr. Iku.”
10
SHE LIVED in an orphanage on the Street of the Shopkeepers.
Samul gazed at the notes he’d scribbled during Kelton’s call. “Childhood Retreat” — the name was pleasant. He recalled the place — an old plastiglass building set behind a high grillwork fence bordered by tall sprays of scarlet kashba lilies. Golden lucca trees shaded the spacious grounds.
It was privately endowed, perhaps the only privately endowed orphanage on Makal, he reflected. The state-owned orphanages were luxurious affairs, replete with libraries, educational facilities, triscreens, swimming pools, and game grounds, for under social welfare regulations, the state had to provide every parentless waif opportunities equal to those afforded the children of even the wealthiest. As Sol Houston once remarked, “It pays to be an orphan.”
But apparently the Childhood Retreat didn’t offer the same advantages — not to judge by the girl’s faded pink dress and worn sandals. It was
understandable, of course; private institutions were not allowed to compete on equal terms with public ones, hence were not tax exempt. That made a difference.
Samul studied the picture Kelton had sent him over the duplicator. Thin, nose slightly snubbed, dark tangled hair, the too-large pink dress — the agent had drawn it from memory, distributing copies to every police official in Gylan. He had also used it to jog the memories of merchants along the Street of the Shopkeepers.
The tactic had paid off. A number of merchants had recognized her. Several immediately had identified the drawing as “that girl from the orphanage.” None had known her name. But that was of no consequence; he would learn it soon enough.
How much did she know? Quite a lot, to judge from their brief conversation. Would she talk? Recalling the thin face and faded pink dress, he smiled; she was just a child, scarcely more than a waif. Chances were that she had stumbled into something by chance that was far above her ability to comprehend. Oh, she was telepathic, all right, but the trait definitely wasn’t related to intelligence; he had that on the best of authority.
A bit of psychology, he reflected. Once he located the girl, calmed her fears, he would be able to draw from her what she knew. Perhaps what little she did understand would provide the clues he needed. But he wished the initial contact with the Tommies had been made by a telepath like Kelton instead of the girl. Kelton would have known how to handle the situation.
He frowned at the thought. Odd, the Tommies would respond to Kelton, but he couldn’t establish communication through them. He had tried to reach the boy again and again, to no avail. He could hear the Tommies repeat the call, but there it ended. Could the girl’s mind be that superior? Kelton thought it was.
“She scares me,” he had said.
Perhaps superior telepathically, Samul mused. But she was still a child, still limited in comprehension. He would have to simplify his questioning, be careful not to awe her.
Humming, he tapped the legal computer for the information he thought he might need, then slipped the picture into a pocket and rode the atomic lift to the ground floor. Striding out under the pinkish-gray sun, he boarded a belt that carried him toward the Street of the Shopkeepers.
The orphanage appeared as he had remembered it except that the grillwork fence was higher and the golden lucca trees all but hid the ancient plastiglass structure. No children were visible; he thought perhaps they were in class. The scene held an aura of quiet unreality.
The high metal gate was locked. Peering through the grillwork, he spotted an elderly gardener working around the roots of the kashba lilies. Samul called to him. When he paid no heed, he shook the metal gate vigorously and called again. This time the gardener rose reluctantly and shuffled toward him. His ancient eyes peered at Samul through the grillwork.
“No visitors allowed on weekdays,” the old man said. His voice was creaky with age.
Samul played the police role. Producing his credentials, he displayed them with a flourish. “Official business,” he snapped.
“Official?” The old man eyed the credentials dubiously.
“Police,” Samul said briskly. The old man hesitated before reluctantly bringing a key from his pocket and turning the lock. Samul pushed the gate open and stepped inside. Drawing the picture from his pocket, he thrust it under the gardener’s face. “Know this girl?”
“Y-yes.” The old man’s eyes clouded with anxiety.
“What’s her name?”
“Arla…Arla Koy,” he mumbled.
“Thank you.” Samul nodded pleasantly and continued along the winding path that led to the front entrance. Closer inspection proved the building to be far older than he first had supposed. The interlocking arch that formed the porch had been adapted from the ancient Temple of Kennedy XXVII, a hereditary president of the First Terran Empire; the style had been out of vogue a good fifty years. The dormered windows of the upper story were from an architectural age older still.
He ascended the steps, searching for a bell. Finding none, he rapped loudly. He sensed movement from somewhere inside, then the door swung open. Momentarily he was disconcerted to find himself facing a slender brunette girl with the clearest hazel eyes he’d ever seen. She appeared several years younger than himself.
“Good morning,” Samul said. He offered a tentative smile. “I’d like to speak with Arla Koy.”
“No visitors are allowed on weekdays,” she answered primly. She moved as if to close the door.
“It’s official business,” he said hastily. He extended his credentials.
“What is it?” She eyed him bemusedly.
“I’m Samul Smith, with the Space Administration. I would…”
“Space Administration?” she cut in. “What has the Space Administration to do with an orphanage?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about.”
“To an orphan?”
“Well, yes.” He fidgeted uneasily.
The hazel eyes rested calmly on him. “Are you all right, Mr. Smith?”
“Certainly,” he answered indignantly. The suspicion that she was secretly laughing at him ruffled his feelings.
“I’m afraid she knows very little about space, Mr. Smith.”
“Oh, I’m not here to talk about space.”
“No? What is it you want?”
“I was getting to that.” The hazel had a touch of yellow in the irises he found intriguing. “Uh, I’m not certain I caught your name.”
“Yoshi Penn. Miss Yoshi Penn.” She dimpled slightly.
“Yoshi,” he exclaimed. “The name’s from the Middle Empire, the Dannholt Period. Princess Yoshi of Karn. A beautiful name.”
The dimple deepened. “My father chose it. He was a historian.”
“A fascinating period,” Samul said inanely. The girl facing him was every bit as lovely as the princess must have been.
“I’m surprised you know of it,” she murmured. “Few people do.”
“The study of the Middle Empire is a hobby,” he replied proudly. “Especially the linguistics. Did you know that the name means flower?”
“I’ve heard that.”
“I’ve seen pictures of them. Much more beautiful than the kashba lily.”
“Nice of you to say, Mr. Smith.” Her expression grew severe. “What is it you wished?”
“Oh, the business.” Samul awkwardly crammed his credentials into a pocket. “I would like to speak with Arla Koy.”
“That’s not permitted, Mr. Smith.”
“Samul, I like it better,” he explained. “It’s official business.”
“With a child of minor age?” she asked archly. “This is more in the line of an investigation,” he protested.
“Investigating a child?” She cocked her head inquiringly.
“Only in a sense,” he said hurriedly.
“Regulation SW1414B was enacted to protect the child against such invasions of privacy,” she reprimanded.
“That regulation doesn’t apply to staff members for masters or above,” he corrected, glad he’d consulted the computer.
“Not if you have an order from the Board of Justice,” she replied demurely. “Do you have such an order?”
“Well, no.” He felt flustered. The computer hadn’t indicated that contingency.
“Then you can’t speak with her, Mr. Smith.”
“Can’t? Not even a few words?” he asked helplessly. She wasn’t using any reason whatever.
She raised her eyes. “What is the nature of the inquiry? As her guardian, I have the right to know.”
“Guardian?” He was startled.
“I’m in charge of the orphanage,” she explained. “It’s the same thing. Parent-surrogate is the wording in the SW code.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“A parent-surrogate is arrogated the same rights as a parent,” she said severely.
“I’m not denying that,” he protested.
“Would you enter a private home and make such a demand of a real parent?”
“Well, uh…”
“It’s the same thing,” she asserted.
“But I just want to speak with the girl!”
“What is it you wish to know?”
“Well, she’s been talking to a boy.” He groped for words, flustered again. Her hazel eyes and slender face threw him off balance. Did she realize how attractive she was? Princess Yoshi couldn’t have been half so lovely. He became aware that she was staring at him. “Talking to a boy,” he repeated stupidly.
“And the Space Administration is investigating that?” she asked disbelievingly. “I’ve heard some odd tales about it but…”
“He lives on another planet,” he blurted. He caught the incredulity that swept her face and hurriedly added, “Across the Ebon Deeps.”
“You are all right, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, I said so.”
“It sounds quite strange.”
“Of course it does.” He felt a quick relief. He could understand her attitude exactly.
“You still need an order from the Board of Justice,” she answered pointedly.
“Well, I could get one.”
“It’s my responsibility to see that you do.”
“I understand your position,” Samul said, “but I was hoping…”
“That I would be lax in my responsibilities? Is that what you mean?”
“Not at all,” he exclaimed hastily.
“I’m glad we agree on that,” she murmured.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised. “Will you be here?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And Arla?” He caught the question that sprang into her eyes and explained, “She goes to town quite often.”
“To town?”
“Wandering around,” he added lamely.
“The children aren’t allowed in town. Not unaccompanied,” she replied firmly. Samul sensed an evasion in the answer and started to protest, but the door had shut. He stared at it with a feeling of bewilderment. Somehow he sensed that she had been laughing at him all the time. At an aide to Sol Houston, the Overlord of Space! And she certainly had been evasive about the girl. Small wonder the government discouraged private institutions. He could never have that trouble in a public one.
Turning from the porch, he thought of the hazel eyes again. And the slender face and graceful poise. Yoshi! A lovely name. He reached the garden gate and rattled it. As the gardener shuffled toward him, he remembered something else. Her evasion.
“Is Arla in there?” He jerked his head toward the building.
“I…think so.” The old man sucked nervously at his lip. “The children aren’t allowed outside.”
“She goes out.” Samul adopted the stony tone of officialdom. “How does she get out? Do you let her out?”
“No,” the gardener mumbled.
“Do you leave the gate unlocked?”
“That’s against the regulations.” He shook his head.
“Then how does she get out?” Samul demanded. He gazed sternly at the other.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know or won’t say? Come, this is official!”
A frightened look came into the old man’s eyes. “I think she walks through the fence,” he muttered. Before Samul could answer, he turned and shuffled away, disappearing among the golden lucca trees.
A girl who could walk through metal fences!
Samul smiled grimly as he turned onto the Street of the Shopkeepers toward the moving belt. A likely story. The old man probably had been letting her out, was trying to cover up; he’d been too worried for it to be otherwise. But to dream up a fantasy like that!
Samul halted almost in midstride.
But she had fogged film! That appeared a certainty. And she could transmit and receive thoughts across the Ebon Deeps. That was a certainty. Her knowledge of the existence of Danny June proved that. At the very least, she had gotten the information from the Tommies; that was more than Kelton could do.
Aware that several people were eying him curiously, he resumed his step. Nothing was impossible, not in this Universe or the next; he’d always held to that. But to walk through a metal fence! He felt a touch of humility.
There had to be a more logical explanation, he told himself, one that fell within the province of natural laws. Still, he’d heard strange things — like the man on Thurmond who could levitate himself vast distances into the sky. Or the boy on Jekyll who reportedly foresaw the future. Some of the stories were almost as weird as the stuff they showed on the triscreens.
> Did Yoshi suspect anything strange about the girl? Possibly; she was quite protective. His face brightened. Yoshi didn’t interest him, of course, but still…Picturing the hazel eyes in the slender face, he felt a warm glow. She was nothing like the girls he’d known; nothing at all. Not that he was really interested.
“Mr. Smith?” The call was so low that it took a second or two for it to penetrate his consciousness. When it did, he spun around to look back, knowing who it was even before he saw her. She stood a few paces away, regarding him apprehensively.
“Hello, Arla.” He gave her a friendly smile in an attempt to put her at ease. “I was looking for you.”
“I knew you were, Mr. Smith.”
“You knew?” He wondered that he felt no surprise. “Did Yoshi…Miss Penn tell you?”
She shook her head mutely.
“Were you reading my mind?” he asked severely.
“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Smith.”
“Then how did you know?”
“I…I sort of felt it.”
“Felt it?”
“I can’t explain how.”
“Are you afraid of me?” He spoke in a kindly tone.
“Because of being a telepath?” she whispered. She nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I am.”
“Don’t be,” he encouraged. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not registered,” she answered almost inaudibly.
“No one will bother you,” he assured her. “I’ve arranged that.”
“They won’t make me register?”
“No.” He smiled cheerfully. “Don’t you trust me?”
She studied him for a long, silent moment. “Yes, I trust you.”
“Why don’t we go to my office, talk in private.”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t do that, Mr. Smith.”
“No?” He cocked his head quizzically. “I noticed a small ice cream place down the street.”
“That would be fine,” she said.
Walking toward it, Samul remarked carefully, “You said you wouldn’t read my mind.”
“Well, no,” she answered hesitantly.
“But you have.”
“At the library,” she whispered, “but that was because I had to know.”
“I don’t mind,” he answered cheerfully, “but please don’t make it a habit.”