Pegasus in Space (25 page)

Peter was safe enough with them. However, the nurse he passed on his way down the hall was a very attractive redhead. She had a determined look on her face as she stopped outside the room he had just left. He wondered if she were Nurse Roche.

———

P
eter was released from hospital three days later, the orthopedic specialist astounded by the rapidity with which the fractures had knitted. The ribs and the humerus fracture were almost healed.

“Most unusual, most unusual,” he said, frowning at the evidence on the scan monitor. “Especially with the presence of some osteopenia and muscle atrophy.”

“He’s good about his Board exercises, swims almost daily, and has been conscientious in taking supplements. He’s never been sick,” Rhyssa said. “Since he joined the Center, that is,” she added hastily when the doctor’s eyebrows rose in surprise. She was equally surprised but wondered if such rapid recovery was some facet of Peter’s maturing Talent. He was bound and determined to leave the hospital at the earliest opportunity. Not that she blamed him, knowing his antipathy to a hospital environment. With all the visitors, he wasn’t getting enough rest either but she couldn’t exactly hint to the admiral or the mayor to suspend their kindly meant visits. “Since there is knitting, can he leave now? We’ll take very good care of him, I assure you. We’re just as anxious that he heals completely as you are. He spent so long in the hospital after the other accident, I know he’ll progress much more rapidly at home.”

“Highly irregular, Ms. Lehardt. Ordinarily I would insist that he went to a convalescent home where proper nursing care is available twenty-four hours.”

“He isn’t ordinary, Doctor,” Rhyssa said gently, and the doctor flushed. “He’ll do much better with Ms. Horvath, I assure you. She’s an excellent nurse and very strict. She won’t let him lift a finger.” She smiled at her most radiant and charmingly insistent, and with firm mental assurances.

“Medically I have no reason to keep him here,” he said, tapping the scan’s evidence. “It isn’t as if he’s on a course of medication.”

Rhyssa was able to sense the reason the doctor wanted him to remain: he’d never had a chance to examine a parapsychic before. There had to be
something
that would show up on a Somatosensory Evoke Potential. But he doubted he could get permission to do one. This kid was too well connected to be used as a guinea pig. Reluctantly he agreed and signed the release.

Peter was nearly bouncing off the firm hospital mattress before the doctor was out the door.

“Hang on, will you, Peter? I’ve the Center ground vehicle in the parking lot. The hospital’ll insist you go down on a grav-pad but don’t … for Pete’s sake,” and she grinned at him, “fall out of your multiple-fracture role? Okay?”

He ’ported the clothes she had brought and she discreetly retired to the guest room while he put them on. Then she called for the transport and waited, Peter almost vibrating with anticipation. It seemed to take a long time. Then both of them became aware of voices in the hall, growing louder and louder. She opened the door to see four nurses arguing, with some heat, as to who was to escort Mr. Reidinger. If Peter pulled his head back in dismay, he also came as close to levitating his body onto the grav-pad as made no difference. The other nurses followed them to the elevator, pleasantly chatting about how glad they were he was well enough to go home, that he was to take it easy and not overdo, and they were glad to have been of assistance to him.

Only when the ground vehicle swung away from the exit did he seem to relax into his seat with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“That glad to go home, Peter?” Rhyssa asked.

“You’ve no idea,” he said fervently.

R
hyssa was especially grateful that he would be at Dorotea’s during his convalescence. If Dorotea didn’t have an eye on him, Amariyah would. Neither would let him do anything that might jeopardize the knitting of his broken bones.

Both Rhyssa and Dorotea thought that Admiral Coetzer’s brief visit, three days later, prompted Peter’s demand that he be allowed to work a light schedule.

“I listened,” Dorotea said belligerently. She had been conspicuously in the garden when the Admiral arrived. “He has Peter’s best interests at heart and it’s obvious Dirk Coetzer misses the boy.” Peter would always be a boy to Dorotea.

“What did he say?” Rhyssa asked anxiously. It was cold standing out in an unseasonably brisk September wind. “It’s Space Authority who want medical updates on Peter, not the admiral.”

Dorotea gave a dismissive sniff, settling back to her gardening stool while they were chatting. “Them! Coetzer didn’t even mention work to Peter or ask for a time when he’d be able to work again. He remarked on seeing the old
Andre Norton
diagrams superseded by the Arrakis, recommended some books. Said that his downside leave was over. Never a mention that he applied for it the moment he heard from Madlyn that Peter’d been injured. Of course, I suppose he can administer the Station from wherever he is and possibly had meetings with Space Authority down here. I got the feeling,” Dorotea remarked thoughtfully, “that he’s having trouble with them.”

“Bureaucracy in its usual obstructive role,” Rhyssa said drolly. “Anything else?”

“Dirk Coetzer admires our Peter very much indeed. He was very nice to Amariyah, too.”

“I’d expect that. Was she on her best behavior?”

Dorotea chuckled. “She quizzed the admiral rather closely about station hydroponics. He was startled but he recovered well and answered her quite fully.”

“Did she mention her current ambition?”

“Of course, and Coetzer recommended the Controlled Environment Life Support System course at Columbia. There’s one in Alaska, too.”

Rhyssa grinned. “No matter what her rating is from Teacher, she still has to wait until she’s eighteen.”

“Then the admiral took a polite leave and departed to that fancy ground machine with the Space Authority emblem plastered all over it. The sort that glows in the dark.” She paused. “Will you allow Peter some ’ports? He isn’t sufficiently occupied right now despite everything Maree and I can invent. Even Tirla’s running out of amusing incidents of trouble those yearling twins of hers get into.”

“I know,” Rhyssa said in a dire tone since Mischa and Miriam had been in her house with Rachelle while Tirla visited Peter. They made Eoin and Chester look like saints in comparison.

“I’ll bet you do.” Dorotea plunged her trowel back into the dirt, digging a small cavity for the hardy pansies she was planting. “I’d let Peter do something, Rhyssa.”

“I will. Maybe he won’t ask right away.”

Peter did the same afternoon.

“I don’t
do
anything with my body.” Peter argued with Rhyssa to give him some sort of work, no matter how limited. “I lie totally still when I ’port. You know I do. I’m sick and tired of being a convalescent.” He emphasized the word with contempt. “I’m bored with reading and watching the news. The current daytime programs are abysmal and I’ve memorized most of those old films and replays of the good classics.”

“You should keep in touch with what else goes on in the world, Peter,” Rhyssa said. She ignored the pile of visuals that he seemed to spend a lot of time reviewing.

“I watch the newscasts. But I
need
to work!” He put a lot of feeling in that statement. “I was safer on Padrugoi!” he added sullenly.

She accepted that remark with equanimity and yielded to the inevitable, getting Rick Hobson to replace the old generator outside Peter’s room with a much heavier new one. Though Peter hadn’t said it, she knew he was keen to get back to Padrugoi and further EVAs, or whatever that pile of visuals he kept examining represented. If doing some work delayed his return until his bones were fully healed, she must be grateful.

W
hen the members of the fraternity that had disrupted his birthday celebration were brought to trial, his name—and that of the Eastern Parapsychic Center—was not mentioned. Space Authority’s bureaucracy had so decreed. The restaurant actually filed the complaint and appeared as plaintiff. The severe fine, awarded to the restaurant, depleted the group’s treasury and effectively disbanded them. Those whom LEO had charged with drunk and disorderly conduct were sentenced to three months’ community service. Not all at the dinner had overindulged, though; as the judge remarked in delivering his verdict, they should have restrained their offending colleagues. The two who had crashed into Peter had heavier fines and were given a six months’ sentence for the grievous bodily harm of an unidentified diner. One of them, a man in his middle years who had held the position of deputy chief in the fraternity, made certain allegations about what he’d do when he was free again. His threats, for that’s what the listeners took them as, were duly noted down by Cass Cutler, who had attended the court hearings in her capacity as crowd-control empath.

I
n his third visit to Peter at Dorotea’s, Johnny Greene brought Admiral Coetzer’s representations to Rhyssa that Peter could actually return to Padrugoi: his welfare would be their constant concern.

“I know I’m being protective,” Rhyssa told Johnny Greene and, seeing his expression, added, “
possibly
overprotective but the medical opinion is that we’d be smarter to let him heal both from the breaks and the trauma of the affair.”

“Trauma?” Johnny asked, eyebrows rising on his forehead. Then his expression of surprised dismay altered. “Well, I suppose it was. I certainly
‘felt’ how he hates hospitals. It’s just that Coetzer needs him badly.” He came to an abrupt halt.

Rhyssa caught something in his voice that sounded false.
What are you up to now, Greene?

He gave her a wide-eyed innocent stare.

And don’t try
that
on me. Let me guess. You and Coetzer need all that stuff Peter keeps looking at on the Moon, don’t you?
Rhyssa said.

“Yeah, to be honest.”

Rhyssa gave him a long hard look. “And you want that boy …”

“He’s not a kid any longer, Rhyssa,” Johnny interrupted. “And we both know I don’t have Peter’s heft.”

“You think he could ’port as far as the Moon?” Privately Rhyssa thought Peter was capable of such a feat but that was loyalty speaking, unsupported by proof. They still hadn’t reached the limit of his thrust.

“Lance thinks so,” Johnny replied. “I do, too.” It was not yet the time to tell her about Peter’s Bollard Bag special lunar delivery.

“He isn’t well enough,” Rhyssa said almost too quickly. And flushed as Johnny cocked an eyebrow at her for her vehemence.

“We’ll be glad to have him back when and as soon as he’s well enough. Got any guesstimate I can placate Dirk with?”

“He’s only been home two weeks. Give him another month. At least.”

Johnny snorted in disgust, caught her determination not to let Peter be rushed, and nodded. “Three weeks maybe?” His expression beseeched her.

“Only if the scan shows those bones are completely knit.”

“I thought they were! Okay, I’ll just pop in and see how he’s doing.”

Peter was doing fine. When Johnny arrived, Amariyah was giving him his daily massage. Since Peter wasn’t yet allowed to continue his daily Reeve Board exercises, massage with healing oils was at least an alternative passive muscle toning. Amariyah had watched the therapist until she knew each of the movements and then insisted that she be allowed to help. The therapist had remarked on how strong her hands were.

“All that gardening,” Peter said teasingly.

Despite his lack of physical sensations, Peter always felt better after massage. Oddly enough, Dorotea noticed that he wasn’t as nervous with
Amariyah as he was with the therapist, an attractive girl as well as an empath. Dorotea was also keen to have Amariyah take on a change of duty from Teacher and her garden. If she tended toward caring, that would be a good career for her and might nourish whatever Talent Amariyah had. Gardening was, in its own way, a form of nurturing.

“Well, hi there, skeleteam,” Johnny said, peering into Peter’s room.

“Heard you coming,” Peter said, prone on the massage plinth, not bothering to turn his head toward the visitor. “Any luck on getting me back up to Padrugoi?”

“Nope.” Johnny sat himself down in the specially built chair in front of Peter’s worktop. Idly he swung it about on its gimbals. “She’s giving you another three weeks lounging around down here. Can’t say as I blame her.” He eyed Pete’s long, bony frame, shiny from the oils used, a towel draped over his hips. “If you were up there, you’d be working your butt off. Sorry, Amariyah.”

The girl had given him a sharp frown.

Peter chuckled. “She doesn’t want to lose her patient. Nags me all the time, she does.”

“I don’t,” said Amariyah, her dark blue eyes protesting. “Dorotea’s the one who nags at you. ‘Eat this, have more of that. You’re too skinny.’ ” Her mimicry of Dorotea’s tone was perfect. Then she demonstrated the point, trying to pinch Peter’s thin waist above the towel to show how little flesh there was. She then soothed the reddened spot.

“Are those ribs healed, Maree?” Johnny asked, noticing where she’d nipped him.