Pegasus in Space (32 page)

During that brief exchange, Peter had “felt” the substance of the sensors, mentally examining the volume, as someone would take a cautious taste of unfamiliar food. Most times he didn’t need to do any psychic handling since the manifests always told him what he was about to ’port.

“I think it would be wisest for me to deliver them directly to your office, Colonel,” Peter said. “Lance, may I have the exact coordinates?”

“Of course, Pete,” and yet another window opened at the base of the conference room screen with the lunar location. First Base in Oceanus Procellarum was situated near the Moon’s equator at 3°11′40″ south latitude and 23°23′8″ longitude.

Take your time, Pete
, Johnny said. Aloud he added, “Commander Chatham, you might have one of the standby gigs collect the packaging before someone in the marshaling yard sounds an alarm. It’s in the priority section of the corral.”

“Very good, sir.”

You can get a direct contact with Bergkamp, Pete
.

“Admiral, may I have a direct contact with Engineering,” Peter said,
hoping he sounded calm. Was it his imagination or did his voice shake a little?

No!
was Johnny Greene’s firm reassurance.

“Of course,” said Dirk Coetzer, his blue eyes decidedly twinkling, “and I think so that we can watch you in action, let’s have the engineering station board up on our screen, Pota.”

“Very good, sir.”

Another window crowded against the others on the bottom of the screen.

“I’m ready,” Peter said, wondering if all those on his side were in league to give him more time. “Lance? I’ll put the sensors on the worktop behind you.” Peter leaned into the gestalt. The surge on the generators’ gauges flickered at the highest point and fell back as he eased off to what he now sensed was just the right amount of power required. He tried very hard not to think of the immense distance involved. Only that these sensors, their specific volume, had to be placed elsewhere, on the worktop behind Lance. For a nanosecond he felt Lance’s mind, reacting in exultation over this second display of pure, boundless telekinetic power.

“Wait!” That was all the time Colonel Watari had to utter a protest before the teleportation was completed.

“Neatly done,” Lance said, grinning from ear to ear as he swung around in his chair to face the delivered package.

With a cry of alarm, Colonel Watari leaped across the room, anxious hands examining it, gesturing for Cyberal to help him remove the one outer plastic sheet of packing so he could assure himself that the sensors had not taken any harm during their unique journey through space.

“I heard only a slither,” Lance was saying, and turned back to the screen to those in the Station conference room. “Excellent, Pete.”

“Would you be in need of a midmorning snack, Mr. Reidinger?” Secretary Abubakar asked with attentive courtesy. “To replace the calories you just burned up?”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Peter replied, inclining his head graciously to the Secretary. “Yes, thank you.”

“I think we are all in need of sustenance,” the admiral said, and raised his voice. “Barney?”

Okay there, Pete?
Johnny asked. “A marvelous idea,” he added aloud.

“Could we have a reading on the—” Fraga began, looking at Peter beside him, his fingers still steepled together. Alicia Taddesse was apparently deprived of speech; she sat staring at the space where the three sensors had been. “The gestalt. Is that what you call it, Mr. Reidinger?”

“I use a gestalt, Mr. Fraga,” Peter said. “What the Engineering records tell us is how much generator power was involved in the teleport.”

“I see.”

I wonder if he really does appreciate the distinction
, Johnny remarked.
You’re tired, Pete. No more showing off today. Got me?

Showing off? Me?
Peter imaged himself with a huge mouth, lower lip drooping to the floor. Johnny gave a smug mental chuckle.

Admiral Coetzer suggested that perhaps they should end the conference on this good note. Peter could see that the colonel was tight strung with the desire to get the sensors into place. Lunar quakes were a constant hazard to new construction. Watari was certainly more than polite when he efficiently went off-line. The admiral and the Secretary exchanged grins.

T
eleportations or schedules were not even discussed during the break. Before the proceedings at Padrugoi ended, the Secretary had dropped the formal Mr. Reidinger and was calling him Peter. Georg Fraga seemed anxious. One of those, Peter thought, who did not realize that parapsychics were still people, with minds that worked differently. Alicia Taddesse confined her remarks to agreeing with her superior or the admiral. She did request a report on Mai Leitao. The senior medical officer responded that Ms. Leitao was in a deep and restful sleep.

“I can ’port her,” Johnny offered, “to whatever destination you suggest? The infirmary at your headquarters, perhaps.”

Taddesse reared back in her chair, scowling. “Not when we know that she’s terrified of teleportation.”

“She needn’t know,” replied the general with a shrug. “You can tell her she was brought down from the Station on a regular transport. Which is no lie since I regularly ’port personnel downside.”

“Commander de Aruya recommended that she have immediate treatment for her, ah, malnutrition,” the Secretary said, “and a holiday.”

“There’s not another regular, self-powered shuttle going down for a week,” the admiral put in, his expression solicitous. “She need never know.”

“I think that’s wisest, Alicia,” Fraga said earnestly.

“We can ask the medic at Headquarters Infirmary to keep her sedated overnight. She obviously needs the rest. I hadn’t realized I was working her so hard,” Abubakar said, his expression anxious.

“She’s meticulous in the performance of her duties,” Taddesse said in a low voice.

“I’m sure,” the Secretary murmured. He rose, offering his hand to the admiral, who got to his feet. Then he approached Peter.

“Mr. Reidinger,” and he grinned over the formal title, “Peter, I am deeply grateful for your willingness to extend yourself. You must tell me quite frankly if we overwork you at any point.”

“I will, sir.”

If you don’t, I will, Pete
, Johnny said, also rising.
There is no way I’m going to allow anyone to risk skeleteam
.

Except you!
Peter tried to keep his tone jesting.

Johnny gave him a very long thoughtful look.
Especially me
. Then he broke mental contact to stride around the table, helping Fraga collect Leitao’s possessions.

W
hen Peter got to the officers’ mess, he wasn’t sure that he was hungry. He wasn’t sure what he felt. By rights, he should have been elated at having ’ported two packages all the way to the Moon. He kept seeing the expression on Mai Leitao’s face, her scrambling move away from him. As if he were unclean or his Talent was a disease that could infect her. She reminded him of his mother and her altered perception of him. He also realized that he had been shielded from such mundane attitudes and reactions. Carefully shielded. Maybe he should opt for his own apartment, and not in the Talents’ special enclave where he would gain no realistic knowledge of how his sort were perceived by the other 99.97 percent of Earth’s inhabitants.

“Peter?” said a cheerful voice behind him. He spun about. “It’s just Ceara Scott,” she added, reassuring him before he had completed the turn to face the redhead. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just saw you there and,” she gestured to the empty mess, “thought it would be nice to have someone to eat with. If you’re eating? I’m taking a break before this place gets too crowded and all the best entrées are gone. There’s fried chicken today.” She sniffed deeply. “Doesn’t it smell divine?”

Despite her red hair, she wasn’t at all like Nurse Roche. Color was different, too; not the same shade of red, Peter thought.

Her smile began to waver.

“I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“No, no, not at all, Ceara. I’d like company, too. The fried chicken does smell good.” He raised his arm to gesture for her to lead the way. She chose a table at one side of the mess.

They were served deftly by the rating who suggested the corn bread and okra as suitable companions to the chicken.

“Good eatin’, ma’am, suh,” he said, grinning broadly. “Smart of you to get in here ’fore the rush starts.”

“And keep away from it, too,” Ceara said in a low voice as he had gone off with their order.

“Are you settling in here all right, Ceara?” Peter asked, thinking he heard an uncertain note in her voice.

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “They’re all
very
helpful. It’s so different from university labs where the competition can be fierce.” She paused, searching his face. Peter saw anxiety. “Sometimes it’s difficult being an empath. You can’t avoid sensing what other people are thinking.”

“You’re an empath?”

“Yes.” She seemed surprised. “Didn’t you know? A latent, I admit,” and she smiled shyly. “I just didn’t know
how
I knew some of the things I did—like how other students felt about me. It was almost a relief to know it was a perfectly normal empathetic response.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” She gave him a sad little smile. “They said at the Center that I’m not obliged to inform people I’m an empath, since I’m not all that strong and I’m not really working as one. I thought I’d better tell you.” She made eye contact as she lightly touched his right hand where he had placed it on the table.

The physical contact was meant to allow him to “feel” that she was telling the truth. Hadn’t anyone mentioned he didn’t like to be touched? Well, no, why should they? Empaths and telepaths preferred to make tactile contact; that was how they were able to reach a mind the next time. She must have been briefed about him, that a wall had paralyzed his legs and then the damned body brace had shorted the nerves in his arms. That is, if she hadn’t guessed by the odd way he moved about. Her public mind was earnest, anxious, and orderly. He would have expected that in someone trained in medicine. She was certainly speaking the truth, though he also perceived that she was anxious about his acceptance of her.

“Thank you, Ceara,” Peter said. “It’s sort of a relief,” and he gave her a reassuring grin, “to have another Center person up here.”

“Yeah,” she said with a little smile. “I’m glad you’re here, too. I don’t know many other psychics. It’s all new to me. Just like this grant.” She still
had her hand on his and he could feel her sparkling with excitement, pride, and anticipation.

“How come you were sent up to the conference room?” he heard himself asking.

She shrugged both shoulders. “Coincidence. I am a licensed medical practitioner as well as a medical researcher. I want to keep my hand in and so I said ‘yes’ when they asked me would I assist in medical emergencies. They put me up on the duty roster so fast I couldn’t renege. So I was next up when the call came in. I don’t think I ever want to be
that
dedicated to my work.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Agoraphobic as well as psychophobic. What a combination! Ah, here comes lunch.”

The meal did look especially appetizing and Peter felt his mouth watering. He never felt his stomach rumble, of course. He was grateful that he could smell and taste what he ate. The officers’ mess on Padrugoi served excellent food, not that Dorotea wasn’t the best cook in the world, but it was nice to taste other cuisines. There was quite a selection of international dishes available here.

“Your family sure didn’t want you to leave,” he said. “Neither did my sister. Dorotea wouldn’t let her come to the telepad.”

“Dorotea?”

Peter could sense her curiosity even though she maintained a polite expression.

“Dorotea’s my adopted grandmother. I’ve been staying with her at the Henner estate, you see, since I emerged as a kinetic. A ward of the Parapsychic Center.”

“The scuttlebutt is that you’re stronger than General Greene.”

“Well,” Peter demurred, “that’s still debatable. But I’ve been living at the Center and so has Amariyah. She’s an orphan. Her parents died in the floods in Bangladesh, oh, five or so years ago now. We’re sort of brother and sister. She’s crazy about flowers. We’d have plants all over the house if Dorotea let her. Maree wants to be a hydroponic specialist when she grows up. She’s not quite ten now. Sorry. I’m babbling,” Peter said.

“That’s all right. I’m the one who usually does that,” Ceara said, smiling until her eyes crinkled.

The steward came by their table, offering seconds before the chicken was wolfed down or dessert. Ceara ordered pecan pie, and talked Peter into it, and an herbal tea.

“I prefer them,” she admitted shyly. “Too much caffeine and my eyesight blurs when I’m doing slides.”

“Funny, I can drink tea with no bad effect but coffee’s no good for me. Johnny—General Greene, that is—can’t function without constant cups of coffee.”

“Probably because he’s been a pilot so long,” she said with a disarming crinkle of her nose.

The topic of likes and dislikes was being discussed when the steward returned with their orders. It wasn’t until Ceara’s wristcom bleeped a reminder that they parted, with some reluctance on Peter’s part. He briefly wondered if he had felt so comfortable with her because she was empathic. But he didn’t care. He
had
felt comfortable with her and had unconsciously relaxed from the stress of the morning.