To Ride Pegasus (14 page)

“Hell, he doesn’t have to admit it. The facts prove it. But I must say, Dave, you made one mistake.” Joel’s chuckle was rich.

“Had I known what I know now, I do believe that this once I’d’ve sat back and twiddled my thumbs.”

“Ha!
I
don’t believe that far a minute … no, maybe you would have,” and the lawmaker’s voice rippled with amusement. “If this has budded your altruistic armor, it’s worth it. Worth dying for, because there’s nothing trickier to tie down than an honest man gone bad! Now let me go to work.”

“Joel, let me know …”

“Hang loose, man. Don’t rob me of my cool. Not now!”

The senator signed off but Daffyd op Owen sat staring moodily at the wall opposite his desk, unable for the first time in his life to divert his train of thought. His mind writhed in recrimination as bitter as an ancient inquisitional penance.

“Dave?” Welch’s brisk voice broke through his introspection. “There’s an anomaly on … Oh, I’ll come back later.…”

“No, Lester, come in.”

Welch gave his friend a speculative look but he unrolled the graphs without comment.

“Ruth Horvath!” Op Owen was surprised, almost irritated that she should be the subject of the intrusion.

“Couple of things. Here … on the baby’s chart … Incident after Incident … compare it with Ruth’s. No pattern. Not even an inky hiccup. I thought you said she could block that baby.”

Curious now, op Owen scanned the charts. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a sustained emphatic variation.

“
That’s the anomaly. Happened last night. It’s a spontaneous variation. All her others have been triggered, usually by Lajos. And, if you’ll look at the peaks and valleys in last night’s records, you’ll see that the pattern is kinetic.”

“That’s too tight for a true kinetic touch.”

“Well, it’s not TP, it’s not ‘finding’ and what’n’hell would she be trying to do, fast asleep? ‘Finding’ is a conscious application, anyway. No, this is a kinetic pattern.”

“For what reason? Against what?”

“Who knows? The point is, while she has stopped suppressing her husband, she hasn’t started blocking her daughter. And that’s going to be serious. I mean, we don’t need a teething telepath broadcasting discomfort.”

“Teething?”

“I forget you’re not a parent,” Welch said with tolerant condescension, “to
small
babies, that is.”

Op Owen was engrossed in the patterns and it was obvious that Ruth was not responding and seemed unable to use a conscious block. And that was too bad. He frowned at the unusual kinetic display of the previous night.

“She’s got it. She used it.”

“Not consciously.”

“I hate to resort to therapeutic interference. It might jeopardize her ever using it consciously.”

“It’s therapy for Ruth, or that baby’ll tyrannize both parents. And that’s bad. A kid that strong has got to have limits, right now, before she can develop precocious resistance.”

Op Owen examined the charts one last time, shaking his head as he noticed the telepathic patterns on Dorotea’s chart, saw the impingement on the mother’s and no block.

“These could be legitimate calls …”

“Don’t evade, Dave. I know you hate interfering with Talent; that it should be spontaneous. Admit Ruth Horvath
is one of those who cannot use Talent consciously. Meddle a little!”

Op Owen rose, his face drawn. “I’ll drop over to see them today. Let’s hope she responds well to hypnosis.”

“She does. I looked up her training record.”

Two days later Welch came back in triumph, trailing two sheets of graphing tissue like victory streamers.

“You did it, Boss. Look, pass blocked, time and again, with a minimum of effort on Ruth’s part. But damn it, she’s not a pure kinetic. What could she be moving with such an infinitesimal touch? How does she apply the block?”

“Unconsciously,” op Owen replied with a sly grin. “However, it may be because that touch is so delicate, she can’t do it consciously. I didn’t
look
very deeply. But so many kinds of Talent are fairly heavy-handed, violent. Like using awls in place of microneedles.” He winced a little, remembering how his mental touch had uncovered Ruth’s pitiful lack of self-confidence in her Talent. All her Incidents occurred without her awareness, deep in the subconscious levels of her mind into which Daffyd saw no need to trespass. She was a nice womanly person: her surface thoughts revolving around her husband, her daughter: all her anxieties were needless guilts over minor details. It was, therefore, relatively easy to block her notions that she would inadvertently harm Dorotea, or try to suppress Lajos. It was easy to erase conscious knowledge of her Talent, replacing it with a feeling of accomplishment and well-being: the post-hypnotic command to respond to Dorotea’s telepathic demands and channel them firmly into speech centers. He also displaced her reluctance to have other Talented children because she felt inadequate. Ruth must have great resources of self-assurance. He planted them.

Now op Owen turned to Welch. “Ask Jerry Frames how soon Ruth Horvath can bear another child. I’d like her
first two fairly close together before she gets cold feet.”

“Cold feet he calls it!” was Welch’s parting crack.

“I’m sorry, Daffyd,” the Washington precog said, “I’ve stared at Joel Andres’s picture for hours. I’ve read his House speeches, I’ve read his memoirs. I’ve sat in his outer office until the Senate police asked to have a word with me. Then
he
came in, and recognized me, of course. And gave me a scarf to hold.” Mara Helm paused. “As a memento, he said. But I don’t see it.”

“You’ve had no stimulation about him at all?”

“Nothing dire.”

“What do you mean, nothing dire?”

“That’s what I mean and all I mean, Dai. Nothing conclusive, in that his life concludes. And, as you know, my accuracy is unfortunately high.”

“I don’t understand this, Mara.”

“No more do I when I hear the gossip around town.”

“Which is?”

“That Senator Andres is spending his last moment helping a minority group that not only has predicted his imminent demise but destroyed his one chance of a cure.” Her voice held no inflection as she uttered these quick sentences, but her dislike of imparting the gossip was obvious to her listener. Mara cleared her throat suddenly. “I do have a precog though,” she added, mildly amused.

“A good one, if I recognize that tone of voice. I could stand some pleasant tidings.”

“I’ll be seeing you shortly,” and she laughed mischievously. “In the flesh, I mean. Here!”

“In Washington?” Daffyd op Owen was startled. He rarely left the Center and, at this moment, he had no desire under heaven to set foot in Washington.

Two weeks later, Daffyd op Owen, in a swivet of anxiety which no perception could dispel, disembarked from
the heli-jet on the Senate landing pad. Mara Helm and Joel Andres were waiting for him. Daffyd had no eyes for anyone but the senator who strode forward, grinning broadly, eagerly grasping the telepath’s hand, forgetting in the excess of his welcome that Daffyd avoided casual physical contacts.

However, op Owen wanted more than anything to touch-sense his friend. And was reassured by the vigorous sensation he felt equally strong through mind and body. He might disbelieve the evidence of his eyes as he stared at Andres’s clear pupils, the healthy tanned skin with no trace of the yellow, indicative of liver disorder. Op Owen could not deny the feeling of health and energy that coursed to him in that hearty handclasp.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

“Who knows?” Joel replied. “The medics called it a spontaneous remission. Said my body had started manufacturing the right enzymes again. Something to do with a shift in the RNA messenger proteins or some rot like that. Anyhow, no more amyloids in the perivascular spaces—if that makes any sense to you—the old liver and spleen are back to normal size and I can
feel
that. So, friend,
I
no longer need that neo-protein research that Zeusman scrapped.”

Mara Helm remained aside, smiling benevolently at the two men, until they finally remembered her presence.

“Dai, see?” and she laid a finger fleetingly on his sleeve. “You’re here as predicted!”

“Did you bring the graphs and records I asked for?” Joel inquired.

“Here they are,” and Daffyd handed the neat package over.

“Good,” and the senator’s expression was maliciously gleeful. “We’re going to hoist Senator Mansfield Zeusman today on
his
petard. However,” and black anger surged across Andres’s face, “I beg your indulgence, Daffyd. Certain—what would you call them, Mara—security measures?”

Mara’s lips twitched but there was an answering indignant sparkle in her eyes.

“A shielded cage?” Daffyd asked.

“Yeah,” and the sound was more of a growl than an affirmative. “Don’t think I didn’t protest that insulting …”

“In fact,” Mara said, “he ranted and screamed at the top of his voice. All Washington heard. I elected to keep you company in the gilt-wired gold-fish bowl,” and she gave op Owen a flirtatious wink.

“You’ll have an advantage over me,” Andres said. “You can switch off the sound of Zeusman’s voice.”

“Who? Me?” Daffyd asked and the three entered the Senate Building laughing.

Op Owen was not surprised at Mansfield Zeusman’s insulting treatment He expected little else. Although the senator had initiated the investigation of all the Centers, he had never personally entered one. Obviously Zeusman was among those who believed that any telepath could read every mind: he would be unlikely to believe that telepaths performed their services much as a surgeon does an exploratory operation in the hope of uncovering a patient’s malignant disease. Zeusman also decried the psychiatric sciences, so his attitude was at least consistently narrow-minded.

“One more thing,” Andres said as he held open the door into the shielded room, “you’re here at the Committee’s request not Zeusman’s, or mine. They may want to question you. Please, Dave, don’t tell
all
you know?”

“I’ll be a verbal miser, I promise.”

“That’ll be our saving,” Andres replied. He obviously distrusted op Owen’s sudden meek compliance.

“Doesn’t Joel look wonderful?” whispered Mara as they seated themselves.

“Yes,” Daffyd replied and then shut his lips. Even that interchange, broadcast into the chamber beyond, drew
every eye to them. Op Owen crossed his legs, clasped his hands and composed himself outwardly.

Zeusman was not as large a man as op Owen thought he’d be. Nor was he a small man in stature which might have explained the aggressive, suspicious personality. He resembled a professor more than a senator, except for the elaborate gesticulations which were decidedly oratorical. And he was expatiating at length now with many gestures, pointedly ignoring Andres who took his place at the conference table.

The other five members of the Committee nodded towards Andres as if they welcomed his arrival. Their smiles faded as they turned back to the speaker. It was apparent to Daffyd that Zeusman’s audience was heartily bored with him and had heard the same arguments frequently.

“These Experts claim …” and Zeusman paused to permit his listeners to absorb the vitriol he injected into that label, “that even the advertisement of that precognitive word changes events. Now that’s a cowardly evasion of the consequences of their pernicious meddling.”

“We’ve been through that argument from stem to stern before, Mansfield,” the lanky bald man with a hawk nose said. Op Owen identified him as Lambert Gould McNabb, the senior Senator from New England. “You called this extraordinary session because you claim you have real evidence prejudicial to this Bill.”

Zeusman glared at McNabb. McNabb calmly tamped down his pipe, relit it, pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, blowing against the pressure to relieve his eardrums, sniffed once or twice, put the pipe back in his mouth and turned an expectant face towards Zeusman.

“Well, Mansfield, either hang ’em or cut ’em down.”

“I have your attention, Senator McNabb?”

“At the moment.”

“My contention has always been that protection for these meddlers is against common sense, ethics, and all the laws of man and God. They usurp the position of the Almighty by deciding who’s to live and who’s to die.”

“To the point, Mansfield,” McNabb said.

“Senator McNabb, will you desist from interrupting me?”

“Senator Zeusman, I will—if you will desist from jawing.”

Zeusman looked around for support from the other five members of the Committee and found none.

“On the 14th of June, I left my offices in this building for the purpose of visiting several of the universities requesting the renewal of Research Funds. As you know, it is my custom to arrive unannounced. Therefore, it was not until we were airborne that I gave my pilot his directions.”

“What time was that?” asked Andres quickly.

“The time is irrelevant.”

“No, it isn’t I repeat, at what time did you give your pilot his flight directions?”

“I fail to see what bearing …”

“I have a transcript of the pilot’s log, from the files of the Senate Airwing,” Andres said and passed the copy over to McNabb.

“Ten-twelve, Daylight Saving time, the record says,” McNabb said in a drawl, his eyes twinkling as he casually flipped the record across the table to the others.

Zeusman watched, frowning bleakly.

“I have here,” Joel went on before Zeusman could grab the floor, “authenticated graph readings of four precognitive Incidents: one from Eastern American Center, the Washington Bureau, Delta Creter and Quebec. The period, allowing for time zones, in which these precogs occurred is between 10:12 and 10:16. Excuse the interruption, Zeusman, but I’m trying to keep things chronological.”

Zeusman awarded Andres a vicious smile and then a keener look. Op Owen wondered if Zeusman was only now aware of Andres’s improved health.

“Ahem. When my heli-jet landed at North East University, I and my party were physically restrained by Dr.
Henry Rizor, the Research Dean and members of his staff, from conducting our investigation of their project on the specious grounds that a precog had been issued, predicting a flaming death for me and my party, due to a faulty heat converter which was supposed to explode. Well, gentlemen, I fathomed this little trap immediately.”