Ziantha awoke suddenly from a sleep where, if
dreams had crowded, she could not remember, as if she had been
summoned. She knew what she must do, as surely as if Yasa had given
her an order. Fear chilled her small body, but greater than that
fear was the need which was a hunger in her.
The girl remembered Ogan’s precept: fear, faith, and
obsession were akin. All three could drive a person to complete
self-abandonment, removing mind blocks, unleashing emotions. She
did not fear that much, but she knew she was obsessed.
Korwar’s sun was above the horizon. These chambers were
all soundproof; she had only her knowledge of the daily routine to
guide her. The quickest way to arouse interest in Yasa’s
domain was to depart from the usual. Ziantha drew herself into a
small brooding bundle on the window seat, laced her arms about her
knees, and stared down into the garden.
It was going to be a fair day—good. Psychic powers
diminish in a storm. Her talent could also be threatened by other
factors; energy fields produced by machines, the sun, planets, even
human emotions. What she had in mind was a stern test. She might
not be able to do it at all, even if she could station herself at
the right site, at the proper moment, with the needed backing.
The needed backing—
Psychokinetic power—
There were devices in plenty in Ogan’s lab. But to lay a
finger on one of those was to attract instant attention. She must
depend upon another source entirely.
Ziantha unclasped her hands, raised them to cover her eyes,
though she had already closed them, concentrated on forming a
mind-picture and with it a summons. It would depend on whether
Harath was free.
She delivered her message. But so far she was favored; Harath
was not in the lab. Quickly she went to the fresher, bathed, and
sat down before the merciless mirror, no longer intent upon her own
shortcomings, but upon applying those aids that would take her into
Tikil as a person exciting no second glance.
A companion of the second class, from Ioni, she decided. The
factors, such as her height, that she could not alter without
wasting some of her power in producing a visual hallucination,
would fit that identity. The girl worked swiftly, a wig of
brassy-colored hair brushed out in full puffing, the proper skin
tint, lenses slipped in, changing her own pale eyes to a much
darker hue.
She chose skin-hugging trousers of a metallic blue, a
side-slitted overrobe of green, and then hesitated over jewelry
that was, for the most part, more than jewelry if carefully
examined. Best not, she decided regretfully. Some of those devices
had side effects that could be picked up by Patrol detects. Stick
to a shoulder collar with no secondary use, wrist rings that
covered the back of her hands with a wide, flexible mesh of worked
gold between the five joined finger rings and the wrist bracelet,
forming mitts without palms.
A last check in the mirror assured her the disguise was
complete. She dialed the combination code for morning juice and
vita meal and ate to the last crumb and drop that sustaining, if
unexciting, breakfast.
Her corridor was silent, but she knew the house was astir. Now
the last test— Drawing upon all the resolution and ease she
could summon, Ziantha stepped to the visa-panel block and punched a
code button.
She thus recorded her present appearance and gave her reason for
leaving the villa. Without that her absence would arouse suspicion,
although the fact that she went into Tikil in disguise was of no
moment. It was customary for those of Yasa’s household to
make sure of cover in the city.
“I go to Master-Gemologist Kafer on the Ruby Lane,”
she said. Well enough. Yasa would believe that she might be
selecting the promised reward for last night. A gem would be such.
And Kafer’s shop would place her close to her real
destination.
For a moment Ziantha waited, tense. There might be a negative
flash in answer. It could be her misfortune that Ogan had set up a
plan of some experiment this morning. But only the white flicker of
a recording came in return.
Though she wanted to run, to be out of reach of either Ogan or
Yasa as quickly as she could, Ziantha disciplined herself to keep
to the almost strolling pace of one embarking for a morning’s
shopping in Tikil. She dared not even summon Harath again, not when
Ogan’s devices might record such a call. But, before her
tight rein on impatience was stretched too far, she was on the
roof, where a flitter waited.
One of Yasa’s liege-fighters turned his head, his eyes
slitted against the full light of the sun striking across them. It
was Snasker, a taciturn, older warrior, his pointed ears fringed
with old battle scars, another of which ridged his jawline. He was
holding out one hand while a shape of soft down jumped to catch at
his fingers. His glance at Ziantha was indifferent.
“For Tikil?” His voice was a low growl.
“Yes. If it pleases you, Snasker.”
He yawned. “It pleases, fem.” Snapping two claws at
his companion, he climbed into the flitter.
Ziantha stooped to catch the little creature who now threw
himself into her arms, chittering a welcome. Though she could not
understand his speech, she met mind-talk easily.
“Harath here. Go with Ziantha now, now!”
She beamed back agreement and settled herself beside Snasker.
Harath sat on her lap, panting a little, his beaked mouth open a
fraction, his round eyes wide to their fullest extent.
Just what Harath was, what species he represented, or whether he
could be classed as “human” or merely as a highly
evolved and telepathic animal, Ziantha did not know. His small body
was covered with a down which could be either feathers or the
lightest and fluffiest fur. But he was wingless, having coiled
within deep pockets of his body-covering four short tentacles he
could use as one might use rather clumsy arms and hands. His legs
and feet were down-covered, though the down was shorter in length
and fluffed out as if he were wearing leggings and three-toed
slippers on his feet. The toes ended in wicked-looking talons which
matched the oddly vicious warning of his large, curved beak. In
color he was blue-gray; his eyes, black rimmed, were a vivid
blue.
He had come to Ogan still encased in his natal egg, so
transported during the incubation period, by a Guild collector. And
his talent was psychokinetic to a high degree. Not that he apported
as well as Ogan had hoped—perhaps that was because he was
still so young, and his powers would grow. But he could “step
up” the psychic power of another to an amazing degree.
On Korwar, in Tikil, where outré pets were the rule
rather than the exception, he excited little attention. He chaffed
against wearing the small harness Ziantha now fitted on, enduring
it only because he must. Harath had a vast curiosity, and his
favorite treat was a trip away from the villa. Since Ogan had
decided such trips were a form of training, it was not unusual for
Harath to accompany any one of the household into town.
The sun was very brilliant and on her knees Harath’s small
body vibrated with the soft click-click of beak with which he
expressed contentment.
“Where?” Snasker asked.
“I go to Kafer’s.”
They were winging over the Dipple but Ziantha would not look at
that. She was excited by what she planned, deadly afraid she might
betray some of that feeling to Harath. This—this must be like
chewing gratz—this sensation that one could do anything if
one only set one’s determination to it.
She must hold control, she must! Fight down that tingle of
energy which came into being at the end of one’s spine,
rising slowly to the head. Not here—not yet!
The flitter landed on a platform in the center of the gardened
square. Through the trees she could see the flashing jewels of
light which marked Ruby Lane of the gem merchants—the
brilliant signal visible even in the sun. Now she must curb her
impatience, visit Kafer in truth before she tried her
experiment.
Normally she would have been totally distracted by Kafer’s
display. It was sheer pleasure to those who loved the beauty of
gems cut and polished. Or else the small toys and oddments, both
old and new, made of precious things gathered up from perhaps a
thousand worlds to show here, where credits flowed a free
river.
In spite of the need which drove her, Ziantha stood for a moment
entranced before a diadem lined with small tubes set with flexible
thread-thin filaments, each supporting a flower, a leaf, a bud, or
a filmy insect, to form a halo which would sway like meadow grass
under a breeze with every movement of the wearer. Beyond this was a
model town made of karem—that iridescent precious metal of a
long-lost alloy from Lydis IV—complete in miniature with even
its population, each tiny inhabitant no taller than her thumbnail
but equipped with microscopic features and apparel.
She could look and look, but this was not what brought her here.
Though most of Tikil kept late hours and the press of shoppers
would not come until afternoon, there were customers drifting in
and out of the shops, from Kafer’s at the proud head of Ruby
Lane, all down the road.
Harath rode on her shoulders as she moved along, the leash of
his harness looped about her forearm; his head sometimes seemed to
turn almost completely around as he tried to see everything at
once. Ziantha did not mind-talk, saving energy for later. She
forced herself to saunter, pausing here and there.
Now she had reached the end of the lane, and she could wait no
longer. Ziantha turned to cross into the luxurious foliage of the
garden, nearer to the building which held Jucundus’s
apartment. She must get as close to that as she could.
Unfortunately she was not the only weary shopper to seek out the
shade and rest here. Each bench she came to had its occupant. And
the closer she came to her goal, the more crowded these ways
appeared to be. Her frustration became almost unbearable when added
to the strain of keeping control. Somewhere there must be a place!
She was not going to surrender her plan so easily.
Her agitation reached Harath. He was chittering unhappily,
shifting his feet about on her shoulder with his claws pricking
through to her skin. If she got him too upset he would not
perform.
They were almost to the end of the last walk when Ziantha came
upon something that might have been intended by fortune for the
very purpose she had in mind—a small side way between two
stick palms. She turned into that hopefully, finding a moment later
a bench sheltered by growth, almost invisible from the main path,
and unoccupied.
The reason for that was plain. Dew had condensed on the plants
and wet the surface of the seat with droplets which the sun had not
dried because of the heavy screen of foliage overhead. She looked
at that and, with a sigh, jerked up her slitted skirt, seating
herself gingerly on the damp surface, the chill of which penetrated
through her single layer of clothing at once. But more than this
minor discomfort was she willing to risk for her plan.
She summoned resolution, removed Harath gently from her
shoulder, and turned him about on her knee to face her, feeling the
flow of communication between them as his eyes locked on hers. Yes,
he was willing to aid her, not needing to be coaxed.
Now Ziantha released that brake on her power she had maintained
through the morning. The pulse of energy in her lower back built up
slowly, perhaps inhibited by the control. But it was rising to her
call, climbing up through her shoulders, now at the nape of her
neck, coming at last behind her forehead, pulsing faster in a
rhythm that was comforting. She felt her whole being at acute
attention, as always happened when she called upon this ability,
about which even Ogan knew so little.
The time was—now!
Ziantha no longer stared into Harath’s eyes. Rather she
fastened on the mind picture that had haunted her since last night.
It was as if she no longer dwelt within her body, but rather hung
suspended above that table, a swimmer in the air, anchored in place
by her desire, her need for that crude lump.
Summoning every fragment of memory, the girl built her mental
picture into vivid reality. Now—come! All of her talent
surged to feed her desperate desire. And there was that stronger
pulse of energy bolstering it, the energy Harath released. Come! As
if she shouted that to something which could easily obey her cry,
Ziantha shaped that demand in her mind, imprisoning the lump as if
her order were a tangible net. Come!
She held that at peak force as long as she could. But there came
a time when, even with Harath’s backing, she could keep it so
no longer. It swept away, leaving her so spent she swayed dizzily.
Pain ran in ripples along her arms and legs as she became aware of
her body again. Her hands dropped from their grasp on the alien,
twitching in a lack of coordination. Saliva dribbled from her
mouth, sticky wet on her chin. She had never unleashed such a
will-to-do before and she was frightened at her present weakness,
at the dizzy swirl of bush and tree when she looked up. Harath
chittered and pressed against her; there was fear in his nuzzling.
If this had so affected her, what might it have done to him? For
the first time that day, thought of another broke through the
obsession which had haunted her since waking. Ziantha tried to
raise her hands to soothe him, found they were numbed, deadened,
moved slowly and clumsily.
But—
There was something else. In Harath’s struggle to get
nearer he had almost shoved it to the ground. Dazedly she brought
her hand up to catch it—the lump!
She had done it! A successful apport! She did not rate high on
the scale of psychokinetic power, yet with Harath’s backing
she had brought it here!
Only now she was so drained, so weak, she could hardly force one
thought to meet another in her head. She had wanted, she had so
fiercely wanted— But now that it lay there on her knee, what
did she plan to do with it? She could not think, not yet. It was
like trying to catch one’s breath after a grueling race; the
plight of her body was too intrusive; to it she must surrender for
now.
Slowly, far too slowly, her strength began to return. In this
side nook, shadowy as it was, Ziantha could not even be sure of the
passing of time as man normally lived it. For in the realm into
which she had forced herself, time had a different measurement
entirely. She could have sat there for a few moments—or
hours. The chill of the damp seat struck inward and she was
shivering. Yet she could not summon strength enough to get to her
feet, out into the heat of the sun.
And she could look at that brown-gray lump with indifference.
Only, as she continued to stare at it, that indifference changed.
The wild excitement that had gripped her at her first contact with
it was growing again. It was worth it! She knew that it was worth
any effort she had had to put forth. It was—what—? She
knew only that she must find out, that such knowledge was as
necessary to her as breathing or thinking—
But she dared not tap it now, not while she was so shaken by the
effort made to apport it from Jucundus’s apartment to this
place. No, she must have the backing of all her energy when she
tried to break its secret. Which meant she dared not touch it with
her bare hand.
Very awkwardly, for still her hands were numb, Ziantha tugged at
her girdle, forced open her sling purse, and, using a portion of
her skirt wrapped around her fingers to keep from direct contact,
wedged and pushed the chunk into the purse for safekeeping. It was
a quite visible lump but the best she could do.
Food—drink—Ziantha had remembered seeing a small
serving grotto in the other path. With Harath clinging to the
bodice of her robe as she managed to stand erect, she paced slowly
toward that haven, striving to fight off dizziness.
Back in the full sun the warmth seeped into her body, displacing
that chill, banishing the shivers which had wrung her moments
before. Harath climbed now to grip her shoulder once again. Though
the energy that had flowed to her from him had been great, still it
seemed that their ordeal had not affected him as it had her. That
so small a body and brain could have generated that powerful backup
was a surprise to her, as she, in turn, began to throw off the
mind-dulling fatigue.
Ziantha came to the grotto and wavered into the nearest seat. As
she sat down, the listing of drinks and food beamed up at her from
the top of the table. She punched the proper buttons to bring her
the most sustaining of those dishes.
Chewing on a vita-biscuit, the girl did not forget Harath. She
broke off bits, dipped them into a conserve high in energy
quotients, and passed them to him. The first shock had worn away;
even the pains in her legs and arms were easing as she drank the
thick, sweet lingrum juice, its warmth adding to the sun’s to
banish the last of the chill.
Now, with the ebbing of the worst of her fatigue, Ziantha began
to feel a new exuberance. She had done it—had apported, a
feat she had never tried before, beyond a few tests in the lab.
Most of those had rated her ability too low to warrant concentrated
training. Of course she had not done it alone; she could not have.
But it was her thought, her plan that had accomplished it. Now the
girl longed to take the lump out of her purse, to inspect it.
However, good sense kept her from doing so.
Harath’s long tongue snaked from his bill as he licked
some drops of sweet from the fluff on his chest. Then suddenly, he
froze, and through the tautness of his body an alert reached
Ziantha, though he did not try to communicate with mind-talk.
Slowly his head turned in one of those hardly-to-be-believed side
sweeps, so that he was looking almost squarely, not only over her
shoulder, but also over his own. And Ziantha nearly cried out as
his talons tightened, piercing the fabric of her robe. She sat with
the cup raised in both hands to her lips, but she no longer sipped
at its contents. Rather she readied her powers as best she could
and sent forth a mind-seek.
Harath had his own protection, and that did not depend, save in
a last extremity, upon his five senses, but rather on the sixth, or
seventh, or whatever number made up his “sensitive”
reaction to any threat. He was alert to something now, and the fact
that he did not relay what he had picked up to her was a greater
warning of danger.
Her earlier exultation was wiped away. She had spent herself too
much in that burst of kinetic seeking; her mind-search was now
limited, picking up nothing of moment. Ogan? Had he trailed them to
Tikil? She could believe that. He might just have set up this whole
affair, Ziantha thought. He could have suspected last night that
she had held back something in her report, used her to uncover that
today. Now it seemed, looking back, that it had all been far too
easy—her leaving the villa with Harath—all of it!
She wanted desperately to turn her head, sure that if she did so
she would see Ogan come into view. And there was no use running; he
could mark her down in an instant by any one of four or five
devices she understood only too well.
Harath stirred. He was climbing down from her shoulder,
clutching at her robe with his claws, using his two upper tentacles
to balance. Then he squatted on the table, flicking forth one of
those tentacles, inserting it greedily into the pot of sweet
spread, whipping it back to draw through his beak, his tongue
curled about it to sweep off the last bit.
But he was acting. Just as she had acted out the role of Zhol
Maiden last night. Now he was all
small-creature-with-but-a-thought-of-food. And Ziantha, not quite
sure how she understood (unless Harath could broadcast on some more
subtle mental length) concentrated on watching him. Lick, eat,
lick, eat. He did not turn his head again. But now and then he
bobbed it energetically up and down, licking splashes of his treat
from his chest.
Up—down—slow—now twice fast—Ziantha
caught her breath. Harath—Harath was coding! She spread out
her hand on the side of the cup as she drank, but her fingers
tapped that surface with the same beat.
Bob, bob, bob—she read his warning of a sensitive. Not
Ogan—Harath would have no reason to warn of him. To the alien
Harath, she and Ogan were of a kind, united. No, this was a
stranger. And—
He might only be cruising. One of the Patrol sensitives taping
mind levels as their companions, who used physical means of
controlling crime, made inspections through those districts where
the activities of the Guild might be centered.
Ziantha had been proud of her achievement; now her folly struck
her like a forceful blow. If there had been a sensitive anywhere
within range of her late exploit, the amount of energy she had
loosed would have brought instant investigation. That was why
Harath was using code. As long as neither of them tried mind-search
they were safe, at least from a spot check. Certainly on suspicion
alone no patroller could pick up innocent wayfarers for psychic
testing.
Her fingers moved on the mug. Harath bobbed his head. They
understood each other. Her one fear was the distance now between
them and means of escape. She felt far better than she had when she
had crawled out into this place. But she would have to stroll, not
hurry, to the flitter park, and she must plan a return route to
baffle any trail. Could she trust her exhausted body?
Also, any Patrol sensitive might well be able to recognize the
signs of energy exhaustion. He had only to note the least wavering
on her part and take her in to be psyched. And then— But she
would not let herself think about what would come after that. No,
she must summon up all her resolution and make it to the flitter
landing without displaying any overt signs to any watcher.
It was growing late, and she could not remain here too long.
This place might already have been marked down as one of the sites
to look, the need for food and
drink . . . Ziantha
fumbled for a tal-card made out on a legal business of
Yasa’s, slipped it into the payment slit. Harath climbed once
more to her shoulder as she stood up.
Good. She could walk without believing that each new step was
going to spill her forward on her face, that much had food done for
her. Now, the flitter park—slow and easy, but not too
slow.
Harath had closed his eyes. For all intents he might be
sleeping, though his sharp hold on her shoulder did not waver. He
had closed his mind, just as she had closed hers. But as she went
she used her eyes. Her companion had signaled “he” in
relation to the hunter. But the pursuer might just as well be a
woman. Four, five, six—a dozen people in sight.
Some were obviously visitors, or at least not in a hurry. There
were three others—all men—wearing the dress of
merchants. If she could have used mind-touch only for an instant
she would know the enemy, but that would have revealed her in turn.
Now she must mark faces, make very sure none could follow her back
to the villa. All at once that seemed to her to be a very safe
refuge.
Ziantha awoke suddenly from a sleep where, if
dreams had crowded, she could not remember, as if she had been
summoned. She knew what she must do, as surely as if Yasa had given
her an order. Fear chilled her small body, but greater than that
fear was the need which was a hunger in her.
The girl remembered Ogan’s precept: fear, faith, and
obsession were akin. All three could drive a person to complete
self-abandonment, removing mind blocks, unleashing emotions. She
did not fear that much, but she knew she was obsessed.
Korwar’s sun was above the horizon. These chambers were
all soundproof; she had only her knowledge of the daily routine to
guide her. The quickest way to arouse interest in Yasa’s
domain was to depart from the usual. Ziantha drew herself into a
small brooding bundle on the window seat, laced her arms about her
knees, and stared down into the garden.
It was going to be a fair day—good. Psychic powers
diminish in a storm. Her talent could also be threatened by other
factors; energy fields produced by machines, the sun, planets, even
human emotions. What she had in mind was a stern test. She might
not be able to do it at all, even if she could station herself at
the right site, at the proper moment, with the needed backing.
The needed backing—
Psychokinetic power—
There were devices in plenty in Ogan’s lab. But to lay a
finger on one of those was to attract instant attention. She must
depend upon another source entirely.
Ziantha unclasped her hands, raised them to cover her eyes,
though she had already closed them, concentrated on forming a
mind-picture and with it a summons. It would depend on whether
Harath was free.
She delivered her message. But so far she was favored; Harath
was not in the lab. Quickly she went to the fresher, bathed, and
sat down before the merciless mirror, no longer intent upon her own
shortcomings, but upon applying those aids that would take her into
Tikil as a person exciting no second glance.
A companion of the second class, from Ioni, she decided. The
factors, such as her height, that she could not alter without
wasting some of her power in producing a visual hallucination,
would fit that identity. The girl worked swiftly, a wig of
brassy-colored hair brushed out in full puffing, the proper skin
tint, lenses slipped in, changing her own pale eyes to a much
darker hue.
She chose skin-hugging trousers of a metallic blue, a
side-slitted overrobe of green, and then hesitated over jewelry
that was, for the most part, more than jewelry if carefully
examined. Best not, she decided regretfully. Some of those devices
had side effects that could be picked up by Patrol detects. Stick
to a shoulder collar with no secondary use, wrist rings that
covered the back of her hands with a wide, flexible mesh of worked
gold between the five joined finger rings and the wrist bracelet,
forming mitts without palms.
A last check in the mirror assured her the disguise was
complete. She dialed the combination code for morning juice and
vita meal and ate to the last crumb and drop that sustaining, if
unexciting, breakfast.
Her corridor was silent, but she knew the house was astir. Now
the last test— Drawing upon all the resolution and ease she
could summon, Ziantha stepped to the visa-panel block and punched a
code button.
She thus recorded her present appearance and gave her reason for
leaving the villa. Without that her absence would arouse suspicion,
although the fact that she went into Tikil in disguise was of no
moment. It was customary for those of Yasa’s household to
make sure of cover in the city.
“I go to Master-Gemologist Kafer on the Ruby Lane,”
she said. Well enough. Yasa would believe that she might be
selecting the promised reward for last night. A gem would be such.
And Kafer’s shop would place her close to her real
destination.
For a moment Ziantha waited, tense. There might be a negative
flash in answer. It could be her misfortune that Ogan had set up a
plan of some experiment this morning. But only the white flicker of
a recording came in return.
Though she wanted to run, to be out of reach of either Ogan or
Yasa as quickly as she could, Ziantha disciplined herself to keep
to the almost strolling pace of one embarking for a morning’s
shopping in Tikil. She dared not even summon Harath again, not when
Ogan’s devices might record such a call. But, before her
tight rein on impatience was stretched too far, she was on the
roof, where a flitter waited.
One of Yasa’s liege-fighters turned his head, his eyes
slitted against the full light of the sun striking across them. It
was Snasker, a taciturn, older warrior, his pointed ears fringed
with old battle scars, another of which ridged his jawline. He was
holding out one hand while a shape of soft down jumped to catch at
his fingers. His glance at Ziantha was indifferent.
“For Tikil?” His voice was a low growl.
“Yes. If it pleases you, Snasker.”
He yawned. “It pleases, fem.” Snapping two claws at
his companion, he climbed into the flitter.
Ziantha stooped to catch the little creature who now threw
himself into her arms, chittering a welcome. Though she could not
understand his speech, she met mind-talk easily.
“Harath here. Go with Ziantha now, now!”
She beamed back agreement and settled herself beside Snasker.
Harath sat on her lap, panting a little, his beaked mouth open a
fraction, his round eyes wide to their fullest extent.
Just what Harath was, what species he represented, or whether he
could be classed as “human” or merely as a highly
evolved and telepathic animal, Ziantha did not know. His small body
was covered with a down which could be either feathers or the
lightest and fluffiest fur. But he was wingless, having coiled
within deep pockets of his body-covering four short tentacles he
could use as one might use rather clumsy arms and hands. His legs
and feet were down-covered, though the down was shorter in length
and fluffed out as if he were wearing leggings and three-toed
slippers on his feet. The toes ended in wicked-looking talons which
matched the oddly vicious warning of his large, curved beak. In
color he was blue-gray; his eyes, black rimmed, were a vivid
blue.
He had come to Ogan still encased in his natal egg, so
transported during the incubation period, by a Guild collector. And
his talent was psychokinetic to a high degree. Not that he apported
as well as Ogan had hoped—perhaps that was because he was
still so young, and his powers would grow. But he could “step
up” the psychic power of another to an amazing degree.
On Korwar, in Tikil, where outré pets were the rule
rather than the exception, he excited little attention. He chaffed
against wearing the small harness Ziantha now fitted on, enduring
it only because he must. Harath had a vast curiosity, and his
favorite treat was a trip away from the villa. Since Ogan had
decided such trips were a form of training, it was not unusual for
Harath to accompany any one of the household into town.
The sun was very brilliant and on her knees Harath’s small
body vibrated with the soft click-click of beak with which he
expressed contentment.
“Where?” Snasker asked.
“I go to Kafer’s.”
They were winging over the Dipple but Ziantha would not look at
that. She was excited by what she planned, deadly afraid she might
betray some of that feeling to Harath. This—this must be like
chewing gratz—this sensation that one could do anything if
one only set one’s determination to it.
She must hold control, she must! Fight down that tingle of
energy which came into being at the end of one’s spine,
rising slowly to the head. Not here—not yet!
The flitter landed on a platform in the center of the gardened
square. Through the trees she could see the flashing jewels of
light which marked Ruby Lane of the gem merchants—the
brilliant signal visible even in the sun. Now she must curb her
impatience, visit Kafer in truth before she tried her
experiment.
Normally she would have been totally distracted by Kafer’s
display. It was sheer pleasure to those who loved the beauty of
gems cut and polished. Or else the small toys and oddments, both
old and new, made of precious things gathered up from perhaps a
thousand worlds to show here, where credits flowed a free
river.
In spite of the need which drove her, Ziantha stood for a moment
entranced before a diadem lined with small tubes set with flexible
thread-thin filaments, each supporting a flower, a leaf, a bud, or
a filmy insect, to form a halo which would sway like meadow grass
under a breeze with every movement of the wearer. Beyond this was a
model town made of karem—that iridescent precious metal of a
long-lost alloy from Lydis IV—complete in miniature with even
its population, each tiny inhabitant no taller than her thumbnail
but equipped with microscopic features and apparel.
She could look and look, but this was not what brought her here.
Though most of Tikil kept late hours and the press of shoppers
would not come until afternoon, there were customers drifting in
and out of the shops, from Kafer’s at the proud head of Ruby
Lane, all down the road.
Harath rode on her shoulders as she moved along, the leash of
his harness looped about her forearm; his head sometimes seemed to
turn almost completely around as he tried to see everything at
once. Ziantha did not mind-talk, saving energy for later. She
forced herself to saunter, pausing here and there.
Now she had reached the end of the lane, and she could wait no
longer. Ziantha turned to cross into the luxurious foliage of the
garden, nearer to the building which held Jucundus’s
apartment. She must get as close to that as she could.
Unfortunately she was not the only weary shopper to seek out the
shade and rest here. Each bench she came to had its occupant. And
the closer she came to her goal, the more crowded these ways
appeared to be. Her frustration became almost unbearable when added
to the strain of keeping control. Somewhere there must be a place!
She was not going to surrender her plan so easily.
Her agitation reached Harath. He was chittering unhappily,
shifting his feet about on her shoulder with his claws pricking
through to her skin. If she got him too upset he would not
perform.
They were almost to the end of the last walk when Ziantha came
upon something that might have been intended by fortune for the
very purpose she had in mind—a small side way between two
stick palms. She turned into that hopefully, finding a moment later
a bench sheltered by growth, almost invisible from the main path,
and unoccupied.
The reason for that was plain. Dew had condensed on the plants
and wet the surface of the seat with droplets which the sun had not
dried because of the heavy screen of foliage overhead. She looked
at that and, with a sigh, jerked up her slitted skirt, seating
herself gingerly on the damp surface, the chill of which penetrated
through her single layer of clothing at once. But more than this
minor discomfort was she willing to risk for her plan.
She summoned resolution, removed Harath gently from her
shoulder, and turned him about on her knee to face her, feeling the
flow of communication between them as his eyes locked on hers. Yes,
he was willing to aid her, not needing to be coaxed.
Now Ziantha released that brake on her power she had maintained
through the morning. The pulse of energy in her lower back built up
slowly, perhaps inhibited by the control. But it was rising to her
call, climbing up through her shoulders, now at the nape of her
neck, coming at last behind her forehead, pulsing faster in a
rhythm that was comforting. She felt her whole being at acute
attention, as always happened when she called upon this ability,
about which even Ogan knew so little.
The time was—now!
Ziantha no longer stared into Harath’s eyes. Rather she
fastened on the mind picture that had haunted her since last night.
It was as if she no longer dwelt within her body, but rather hung
suspended above that table, a swimmer in the air, anchored in place
by her desire, her need for that crude lump.
Summoning every fragment of memory, the girl built her mental
picture into vivid reality. Now—come! All of her talent
surged to feed her desperate desire. And there was that stronger
pulse of energy bolstering it, the energy Harath released. Come! As
if she shouted that to something which could easily obey her cry,
Ziantha shaped that demand in her mind, imprisoning the lump as if
her order were a tangible net. Come!
She held that at peak force as long as she could. But there came
a time when, even with Harath’s backing, she could keep it so
no longer. It swept away, leaving her so spent she swayed dizzily.
Pain ran in ripples along her arms and legs as she became aware of
her body again. Her hands dropped from their grasp on the alien,
twitching in a lack of coordination. Saliva dribbled from her
mouth, sticky wet on her chin. She had never unleashed such a
will-to-do before and she was frightened at her present weakness,
at the dizzy swirl of bush and tree when she looked up. Harath
chittered and pressed against her; there was fear in his nuzzling.
If this had so affected her, what might it have done to him? For
the first time that day, thought of another broke through the
obsession which had haunted her since waking. Ziantha tried to
raise her hands to soothe him, found they were numbed, deadened,
moved slowly and clumsily.
But—
There was something else. In Harath’s struggle to get
nearer he had almost shoved it to the ground. Dazedly she brought
her hand up to catch it—the lump!
She had done it! A successful apport! She did not rate high on
the scale of psychokinetic power, yet with Harath’s backing
she had brought it here!
Only now she was so drained, so weak, she could hardly force one
thought to meet another in her head. She had wanted, she had so
fiercely wanted— But now that it lay there on her knee, what
did she plan to do with it? She could not think, not yet. It was
like trying to catch one’s breath after a grueling race; the
plight of her body was too intrusive; to it she must surrender for
now.
Slowly, far too slowly, her strength began to return. In this
side nook, shadowy as it was, Ziantha could not even be sure of the
passing of time as man normally lived it. For in the realm into
which she had forced herself, time had a different measurement
entirely. She could have sat there for a few moments—or
hours. The chill of the damp seat struck inward and she was
shivering. Yet she could not summon strength enough to get to her
feet, out into the heat of the sun.
And she could look at that brown-gray lump with indifference.
Only, as she continued to stare at it, that indifference changed.
The wild excitement that had gripped her at her first contact with
it was growing again. It was worth it! She knew that it was worth
any effort she had had to put forth. It was—what—? She
knew only that she must find out, that such knowledge was as
necessary to her as breathing or thinking—
But she dared not tap it now, not while she was so shaken by the
effort made to apport it from Jucundus’s apartment to this
place. No, she must have the backing of all her energy when she
tried to break its secret. Which meant she dared not touch it with
her bare hand.
Very awkwardly, for still her hands were numb, Ziantha tugged at
her girdle, forced open her sling purse, and, using a portion of
her skirt wrapped around her fingers to keep from direct contact,
wedged and pushed the chunk into the purse for safekeeping. It was
a quite visible lump but the best she could do.
Food—drink—Ziantha had remembered seeing a small
serving grotto in the other path. With Harath clinging to the
bodice of her robe as she managed to stand erect, she paced slowly
toward that haven, striving to fight off dizziness.
Back in the full sun the warmth seeped into her body, displacing
that chill, banishing the shivers which had wrung her moments
before. Harath climbed now to grip her shoulder once again. Though
the energy that had flowed to her from him had been great, still it
seemed that their ordeal had not affected him as it had her. That
so small a body and brain could have generated that powerful backup
was a surprise to her, as she, in turn, began to throw off the
mind-dulling fatigue.
Ziantha came to the grotto and wavered into the nearest seat. As
she sat down, the listing of drinks and food beamed up at her from
the top of the table. She punched the proper buttons to bring her
the most sustaining of those dishes.
Chewing on a vita-biscuit, the girl did not forget Harath. She
broke off bits, dipped them into a conserve high in energy
quotients, and passed them to him. The first shock had worn away;
even the pains in her legs and arms were easing as she drank the
thick, sweet lingrum juice, its warmth adding to the sun’s to
banish the last of the chill.
Now, with the ebbing of the worst of her fatigue, Ziantha began
to feel a new exuberance. She had done it—had apported, a
feat she had never tried before, beyond a few tests in the lab.
Most of those had rated her ability too low to warrant concentrated
training. Of course she had not done it alone; she could not have.
But it was her thought, her plan that had accomplished it. Now the
girl longed to take the lump out of her purse, to inspect it.
However, good sense kept her from doing so.
Harath’s long tongue snaked from his bill as he licked
some drops of sweet from the fluff on his chest. Then suddenly, he
froze, and through the tautness of his body an alert reached
Ziantha, though he did not try to communicate with mind-talk.
Slowly his head turned in one of those hardly-to-be-believed side
sweeps, so that he was looking almost squarely, not only over her
shoulder, but also over his own. And Ziantha nearly cried out as
his talons tightened, piercing the fabric of her robe. She sat with
the cup raised in both hands to her lips, but she no longer sipped
at its contents. Rather she readied her powers as best she could
and sent forth a mind-seek.
Harath had his own protection, and that did not depend, save in
a last extremity, upon his five senses, but rather on the sixth, or
seventh, or whatever number made up his “sensitive”
reaction to any threat. He was alert to something now, and the fact
that he did not relay what he had picked up to her was a greater
warning of danger.
Her earlier exultation was wiped away. She had spent herself too
much in that burst of kinetic seeking; her mind-search was now
limited, picking up nothing of moment. Ogan? Had he trailed them to
Tikil? She could believe that. He might just have set up this whole
affair, Ziantha thought. He could have suspected last night that
she had held back something in her report, used her to uncover that
today. Now it seemed, looking back, that it had all been far too
easy—her leaving the villa with Harath—all of it!
She wanted desperately to turn her head, sure that if she did so
she would see Ogan come into view. And there was no use running; he
could mark her down in an instant by any one of four or five
devices she understood only too well.
Harath stirred. He was climbing down from her shoulder,
clutching at her robe with his claws, using his two upper tentacles
to balance. Then he squatted on the table, flicking forth one of
those tentacles, inserting it greedily into the pot of sweet
spread, whipping it back to draw through his beak, his tongue
curled about it to sweep off the last bit.
But he was acting. Just as she had acted out the role of Zhol
Maiden last night. Now he was all
small-creature-with-but-a-thought-of-food. And Ziantha, not quite
sure how she understood (unless Harath could broadcast on some more
subtle mental length) concentrated on watching him. Lick, eat,
lick, eat. He did not turn his head again. But now and then he
bobbed it energetically up and down, licking splashes of his treat
from his chest.
Up—down—slow—now twice fast—Ziantha
caught her breath. Harath—Harath was coding! She spread out
her hand on the side of the cup as she drank, but her fingers
tapped that surface with the same beat.
Bob, bob, bob—she read his warning of a sensitive. Not
Ogan—Harath would have no reason to warn of him. To the alien
Harath, she and Ogan were of a kind, united. No, this was a
stranger. And—
He might only be cruising. One of the Patrol sensitives taping
mind levels as their companions, who used physical means of
controlling crime, made inspections through those districts where
the activities of the Guild might be centered.
Ziantha had been proud of her achievement; now her folly struck
her like a forceful blow. If there had been a sensitive anywhere
within range of her late exploit, the amount of energy she had
loosed would have brought instant investigation. That was why
Harath was using code. As long as neither of them tried mind-search
they were safe, at least from a spot check. Certainly on suspicion
alone no patroller could pick up innocent wayfarers for psychic
testing.
Her fingers moved on the mug. Harath bobbed his head. They
understood each other. Her one fear was the distance now between
them and means of escape. She felt far better than she had when she
had crawled out into this place. But she would have to stroll, not
hurry, to the flitter park, and she must plan a return route to
baffle any trail. Could she trust her exhausted body?
Also, any Patrol sensitive might well be able to recognize the
signs of energy exhaustion. He had only to note the least wavering
on her part and take her in to be psyched. And then— But she
would not let herself think about what would come after that. No,
she must summon up all her resolution and make it to the flitter
landing without displaying any overt signs to any watcher.
It was growing late, and she could not remain here too long.
This place might already have been marked down as one of the sites
to look, the need for food and
drink . . . Ziantha
fumbled for a tal-card made out on a legal business of
Yasa’s, slipped it into the payment slit. Harath climbed once
more to her shoulder as she stood up.
Good. She could walk without believing that each new step was
going to spill her forward on her face, that much had food done for
her. Now, the flitter park—slow and easy, but not too
slow.
Harath had closed his eyes. For all intents he might be
sleeping, though his sharp hold on her shoulder did not waver. He
had closed his mind, just as she had closed hers. But as she went
she used her eyes. Her companion had signaled “he” in
relation to the hunter. But the pursuer might just as well be a
woman. Four, five, six—a dozen people in sight.
Some were obviously visitors, or at least not in a hurry. There
were three others—all men—wearing the dress of
merchants. If she could have used mind-touch only for an instant
she would know the enemy, but that would have revealed her in turn.
Now she must mark faces, make very sure none could follow her back
to the villa. All at once that seemed to her to be a very safe
refuge.