Pegasus in Flight (23 page)

When an officious floor walker moved in on Tirla with the obvious intent of removing the waif from the elegant premises, Sascha intercepted him.

“I wouldn’t,” Sascha said in a low voice, pushing out his sleeve so the special design of his wrist ID was visible. “I’m escorting her. Is she acceptable as a patron now?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir, but you must admit . . .”

“That’s why we’re shopping.”

The man walked quickly out of Sascha’s vicinity with several anxious backward glances.

“You weren’t going to hex him, were you, Sascha?” an amused voice beside him asked.

He turned to see Cass Cutler grinning up at him. “If I could, I’d put a hurry one on Tirla,” he said. “We went through all twelve levels of this place like a dose of salts, and now she’s settling down for a second tour.”

Cass laughed at his discomfort. “And they sent you out on your own with your protégée?” She laughed again. “That’s unkind.”

“It’s supposed to be mutually instructive.”

Tirla reappeared and latched onto Sascha’s hand, regarding Cass very narrowly from her suddenly inscrutable eyes.

“I remember you,” Cass said. “You ricocheted off me and my partner at Linear G. And you messed up Flimflam’s scam to a fare-thee-well. My congratulations!”

“You’re one of him,” Tirla accused, jerking her head toward Sascha.

Cass laughed again, a throaty, genuine laugh. Sascha could feel Tirla’s fingers relaxing. “Not quite, chip. We’re on the same side, but right now I’m assigned to LEO, crowd control.”

Tirla looked about her, slightly contemptuous. “Not much of a crowd here today.”

“I’m not on duty today,” Cass replied, grinning down at Tirla. “I see you’re on a day off, too. What’ve you found that appeals to you?”

Will you help me, Cass? Please say yes!
Sascha pleaded.
I’ve a hideous presentiment that that child intends to case the entire mall again before she’ll even try something on.

“If you don’t mind me saying it, Tirla, you’ll be able to walk further with a decent pair of shoes on your feet. There’re some good bargains to be had right now. What strikes your fancy?”

With a sense of reprieve, Sascha followed Cass and Tirla to the shoe department. An hour later, after two harried human clerks had replaced the mechanical fitter, Tirla’s small, narrow, and very dainty feet ended up in soft purple leather boots, in the only pair that would fit her feet.

Totally unsuitable for a child, of course,
Cass said,
but they do fit.

And she adores them!
Sascha saw how Tirla’s face glowed as she strutted from mirror to mirror, regarding her feet.

“Mr. Roznine,” the head clerk said wearily as the docket spun out of the teller machine, “your young companion has a most delicate and unusual foot to fit. May I recommend this concern? They do very fine custom work.”

Sascha read the man easily and caught the unspoken message: “So we won’t have to go through this again.” But he was just as grateful to take the card, which could be inserted in Dorotea’s mall machine for home shopping.

He blessed Cass with every new purchase, for the woman actually seemed to enjoy the looking, the trying, and the endless discussions of fit, style, and color.

“The concept of having unlimited funds to spend is foreign to the child, Sascha,” Cass said at one point, “but you must admit that she knows what suits her.”

Tirla was modeling a one-piece outfit as different from subsistence issue as diamonds from rhinestones. The main color was a soft blue with purple accents in seam-stitching, pocket trim, and fasteners. Once Tirla found that outfit to her taste and Sascha’s—it was always Sascha to whom she turned for approval—it took the combined efforts of both Sascha and Cass to get her to buy additional clothing.

“Why do I need more? I’ve boots, and this material’s hard wearing. It’ll do for weeks. Even if I had to catch freights again,” Tirla added, peering mischieviously up at Sascha.

He had to chuckle at her impudence. “It’s a fetching outfit, Tirla, there’s no question of it. But even Teacher will get tired of seeing you in it.”

Tirla gave him a long hard look. “Teacher doesn’t
see
me.”

“No, but Dorotea and I do, so do Sirikit, Budworth, Don, and Peter, and Rhyssa. You never see
them
wearing the same clothes two days in a row.”

“Oh, they have lots of clothes. Dorotea has closets full.” Tirla did not sound envious—if anything her tone was slightly censorious, as if she felt it was improper for people to have so many things to wear.

“A few changes are in order,” Cass said. “I’ve got quite a few myself,” she added encouragingly while Tirla merely stared back, her hands plunged into the deep pockets and her shoulders hunched under the smooth fabric.

“This isn’t coming out of your floaters, Tirla,” Sascha began, suddenly realizing what might be causing her hesitation. “Dorotea and Rhyssa want you to be suitably dressed now that you’re a Talent. You’re not a subbie anymore, you know.” He pointed to her wrist ID.

“Oh.” There was look of surprised wonderment on the girl’s face as she regarded her bracelet with dawning comprehension. “Is that why those salespersons were so nice to me?”

“Quite likely,” Cass said in a dry tone of voice. “Everyone in malls like these recognizes the distinctive pattern.”

Tirla twirled hers on her fragile wrist. “They do?”

She settled the band outside the cuff of her new clothes. “How much can I buy with just this?”

Sascha disguised a choke of dismay with a cough just as Cass caught him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Let’s find out, shall we, chip?” Cass asked cheerfully and held out her hand.

Tirla took it readily enough, but her other hand immediately sought Saseha’s, and then she was dragging them after her toward a rack of brilliantly colored trousers.

She was not as profligate as Sascha feared, but she ended up with “something different to wear every day of the week.” Then Sascha made good his promise of a treat, inviting Cass to join them in the Old-Fashioned Parlor of Gastronomical Confections and Irresistible Desserts.

Tirla managed to get through three immense, rich concoctions that Sascha privately thought revolting.

Cass:
Let her enjoy, Sascha. Ice cream is something she’s only heard about.

Sascha:
What if she comes home sick? Dorotea will skin me alive.

Cass:
This child has an iron constitution if she’s survived subbie slop until now. And look at how much pleasure she’s having.

Sascha, groaning:
I’ll be sick!

It was then that Tirla realized there were other girls and boys enjoying the parlor. Her spoon on automatic, she took full note of the other youngsters.

That blonde ought never to wear bright colors. She’d look better in pastel shades. Boy, what’s he wearing such tight pants for? He’ll squeeze ’em dry. Now that red outfit might look good on me. Maybe I can get something like that next time Sascha wants to spend money.

Sascha glanced surreptitiously at Cass, who rolled her eyes.

Sascha:
Stream of consciousness and loud and clear. Does she realize she’s broadcasting?

Cass, busily spooning up the last of her treat:
Highly unlikely. That child’s had to be on the
qui vive
all her life. Frankly, Sascha, I take it as a high compliment that she’s relaxed enough in our presence to do some unguarded thinking.

Sascha:
Good point.

As nonchalantly as he could, Sascha observed Tirla, listening to her pithy and acute remarks about physical appearances, style, clothing, manners, and a range of other subjects that flowed across her alert and fascinating mind.

Then Cass, with apparent reluctance, rose and said that she had to get back to the Center, as she had an evening assignment. Tirla even looked disappointed that their threesome had to break up.

“Look, chip, anytime you want to have a gawk round some of the other malls—” Cass started.

“There are
other
ones?” Tirla exclaimed, shooting an accusing glare at Sascha.

“Thousands,” Cass told her with an unrepentant grin. “But you can’t really do more than one at a time, or it all gets jumbled up in your head as to what you saw where and which price. Believe me, I know!”

Tirla saw the merit of that and, tucking her hand in Sascha’s, was content to return to their transport and the Center.

By the time they reached Dorotea’s, their purchases had arrived by express package tube and were piled neatly about the room.

“What a charming combination!” Dorotea exclaimed on seeing Tirla’s clothes.
Did you buy the mall out, Sascha?

Give her a little while and she probably will. Cass made the mistake of informing her there are a thousand more just like Grafton’s, and we may never be able to pay her bills.

Dorotea laughed. “I’ll expect a fashion show after supper, Tirla.”

“Show? Why? I can put on something new every day this week. That’ll show you,” Tirla replied. “What’s for supper? It smells good!”

“After all you just finished eating?” Sascha demanded.

“That was the treat. Don’t I get supper after a treat?”

“Of course you do,” Dorotea assured her, glaring at Sascha.

If you’d seen the three huge, gooey, sickeningly sweet things she consumed only a half hour ago, you might not be so quick to stuff her with supper,
Sascha cautioned.

“Wash your hands, Tirla, and I’ll serve immediately. Are you staying, Sascha?”

“No, thanks,” he said, managing to sound polite.
Peter was right about her being telepathic. But she doesn’t know she is.

Hmmm. You see, you did learn something from her today. What did she learn from you?

How to spend money,
Sascha replied sourly, and left.

If the official spectators at the launch even noticed the youngster seated to one side in the upper control room, they would have supposed him to be a child on a special tour, his youth according him a treat. The men certainly noticed the woman who sat beside him, for she had an arresting beauty and an unusual silver streak in her dark hair. However, her attention never strayed from the boy. Equally involved in him was the tall dark-haired man in fatigues with a colonel’s eagle on one collar tab. So few spared the trio more than a passing glance. The real action was taking place out by the massive towering gantry, where gale-force winds whipped the steam from the shuttle’s rocket end. All recent launches had been pretty tricky, the bad weather causing havoc with all air transport but none more so than the critical first minutes of a shuttle launch.

The countdown echoed through the shielded room—at the count of eight, the spectators were jockeying for position for an unimpeded view through the treated slit windows, eager for ignition and takeoff. Fingers were surreptitiously crossed, for this was the thirteenth successive shuttle flight.

“We have ignition!” As often as that phrase was uttered, it was always said with a ring of quiet triumph. As the shuttle engines began their full-throated roar, none of the spectators would be able to hear another noise, that of power generators pulsing at ever-increasing speed: a subtle whine that built and then leveled off just as the shuttle, one of the majestic new Rigel class, began its first imperceptible upward thrust. The final link to the launch tower fell away. Everyone held his or her breath. Then, despite the howling wind and the lashing rain, the shuttle crept upward from the reinforced concrete without deviating a centimeter from the optimum takeoff trajectory. Lift became obvious with increasing acceleration, and suddenly the bird was up and running, disappearing, except for the radiance of its rockets, into the lowering ceiling of dark gray swirling clouds.

Immediately all eyes turned to the newly installed infrared monitors that continued to track the shuttle on its unswerving path through the atmosphere and safely above the turbulence, well on its way to Padrugoi Station, where its payload was urgently needed.

“The pilot has the conn,” Peter Reidinger said, opening his eyes. He glanced first at Rhyssa and she nodded, smiling reassurance as she removed her hand from his. He liked her to be touching him in these moments, even if he could not feel it.

“You have the conn, Crosbie,” the controller said, letting out a small sigh of relief. “Good thrust, Pete. You’re working like a charm. Got the whole thing down to a science.”

“It is,” Johnny Greene reminded him, grinning.

“You know what I mean, Colonel,” the controller said, flapping his hand.

“He’s teasing you,” Peter said, turning his attention to the monitor. He did not really need it—he could follow the ascent of the shuttle like a pulse in his vein, a tingle of power running up and down his bones. He could
feel
that.

“Very economical thrust, Peter,” Johnny said, perusing the printout on the generator control panel. “That’s the third one in a row at that level gestalt. I think we can now establish certain parameters to power usage in bad-weather launches—even if I still can’t tell
how
you do it.” He made a disgruntled noise in his throat. The ex-etop pilot had been hoping that he could learn Peter’s gestalt link by following his mind during a launch. He and Rhyssa had decided that the fact that he had only latent kinetic Talent might be all to the good—for a pure kinetic might be unable to adapt to Peter’s ways. But he had had no more luck than Sascha at discerning the boy’s method.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard, JG,” Peter suggested. “I keep as open as I can . . .”

“I know you do, lad. Wide open. I’m just too clumsy to get through the door. I think it’s going to
have
to be a trained kinetic.”

“Second-stage ignition,” the controller said, alerted by his board. “On its way! You do good work, Pete. Good work.”

“C’mon, time for your swimming lesson, Pete,” Johnny said. “Gotta keep you fit enough to launch these birds.”

“Can’t I stay? To be sure it docks okay?” Peter would not admit, even deep in his skull where Rhyssa might see, that he did not have enough energy left immediately after a launch to move from the couch. He grasped at any excuse to gain the few necessary moments to reenergize himself.