The Rowan Part 9

'If I don't find a T-4 from this group, I'm sure there'll be plenty more willing to accept a promotion to a new Tower. Now, do please stop overdramatizing a simple 'portation. I know that you'll make the s.h.i.+ft with your usual skill, Siglen, so I've no worries at all.' She stayed only as long as minimum politeness dictated and then went in search of Gerolaman.

'Well, it's true enough about David and Capella and she went completely sedated and coc.o.o.ned in a special shock capsule,' Gerolaman said. 'I know Siglen was so sick she lost 5 kilos. And no Prime I've ever heard of has ever been able to 'port himself or herself through s.p.a.ce. Reidinger went to the Moon once and never stirred off planet afterwards.' 'I'm the youngest Prime, and healthy, athletic . .

'Everything the others weren't,' Gerolaman finished with a malicious gleam in his eyes. 'I'll lay bets on you, m'girl. Now, what d'you think of that T-4, Forrie Toy?' 'I don't like him at all. He eyes me the way Siglen does a particularly creamy eclair and he won't meet my eyes. He slams s.h.i.+elds up against even the most courteous request.

I'd never be able to work with such a closed mind.' 'Procyon's sending over a T-4 female.

'I work better with a male pairing.

'Well, Siglen would have preferred to but Bralla was the only one to suit her, ever.

'Gerolaman, do I have to remind you that I am NOT remotely like Siglen.' 'No, you don't, Rowan, but we still have to form the nucleus of a working team before you reach Callisto!' 'I'll try the woman.'

Channi could not have been more of an opposite had a mad genetic scientist deliberately designed them. She was a half-meter taller than the Rowan, big-boned, a woman who moved with deliberation (probably because she was afraid of injuring someone smaller than her large self), and while she was tested as a T-4 rating in both telepathy and teleportation, the Rowan could not achieve any rapport.

'She slows me up as if I was trying to work through a wall,' the Rowan said and began to worry that she'd never a.s.semble a cohesive Tower staff.

Where Gerolaman kept rea.s.suring her that there was no question that she would soon find appropriate matches of skills and Talents, Bralla would appear with suggestions from Siglen which invariably proved totally useless. The time for the Rowan's scheduled departure drew closer and she became more anxious to start out on the right note.

ROWAN! Reidinger's unmistakable tones roared through her skull.

Stop that fidgeting. You've got enough to run a Tower right now with the seven you've picked and the ten who're waiting for you at Callisto.

You're going to have to relax. I don't want you in a muck sweat when you board the transport.

And how are you betting on my survival? she demanded acidly On what? The genuine surprise in his tone rea.s.sured her more than the diatribe he launched when he understood what the bet was.

Mauli and Mick came to help her pack the things she would be transferring to Callisto. Their companions.h.i.+p helped ease the inevitable heartache as she came across gifts that Lusena had given her over the years. From his special caricase, Rascal alternated between acid comments on his incarceration and plaintive requests to be allowed out but he had proved too much of a nuisance, hiding in crates or attacking Mauli. When everything had been neatly stowed in the container, the Rowan with Mauli and Mick, 'ported it into its a.s.signed place in the transport waiting on the cradle for the morning's lift.

'Are you sure you don't want to sleep in the guest house?' Mauli asked, looking about the rooms empty except for Rascal's case.

'I'll be fine. I'll just move a few things in from the stores,'

the Rowan rea.s.sured them and saw them firmly out of her quarters.

She put Rascal's cage safely in the food preparation area which was the only room that she and Lusena had not redecorated from Siglen's original offering. Then, working at top speed, the Rowan papered, painted, and restored the rooms just as they had been on the day she had moved into the Tower. For just this night, it wouldn't hurt her to sleep on that ghastly pink and orange bed. She was tired enough so she wouldn't even notice. But Rascal did and it took him a long time to stop his disgusted commentary.

If the Rowan could have avoided the farewell rituals, she would have. She hadn't had much sleep on that wretchedly soft bed and formalities invariably set her teeth on edge. All the Secretaries were there, each with something encouraging to say to her and a small present to brighten her new quarters. Secretary Camella wavered between radiant smiles and a teary face. Siglen wept copiously on Bralla's shoulder, moaning about the imminent tribulations and why wouldn't anyone listen to her and take proper care of her little pupil, the best one she had ever trained, and to have to endure what was before her.

Leading her Tower personnel up the gangway into the big and brightly lit transport, the Rowan ignored a flashback to the day it had been Purza she'd carried, not Rascal, up a ramp. She turned for one last wave at the a.s.sembled, and confidently followed the steward to her room.

'You've a barquecat?' the man exclaimed, noticing her burden.

'Rascal. The Mayotte let me have him four years ago.

He's been a super friend.

'Mayotte, huh? You rate, Prime. You got to be real special to be voted a Mayotte barquecat.

'What do you have on board?' and the stimulating exchange lasted until he slid back the door of her cabin, explaining that it was larger than most accommodations and showing her the various facilities.

The Rowan pretended interest but she had to swallow frequently and she began to sweat even before she thanked the garrulous steward and finally managed to ease him out the door. The cabin was very small.

She'd been in shower stalls that were larger. But then she wouldn't have to be in it long.

Now, please don't worry, dear. Really, there is absolutely nothing to worry about, Siglen's anxious tones blossomed in her mind.

It isn't the same sort of mind-wrenching trip that I had to take to get here the first time, you know, before Altair Tower was operational.

Siglen's mind was roiling with fear for Rowan. The girl could easily visual the slab of a woman, supine in her couch, her eyes on the vessel's coordinates on the ceiling screen, her fingers checking and checking the gestalt thrust needed for the launch. It was a scene she had witnessed time and again, but not at this end of the operation.

Bralla would be hovering in the background. #I do hope everything will go smoothly for you, dear, Siglen continued, her anxiety intensifying. I've checked and double checked and everything is in perfect working order. I just wish I didn't have to be the one The Rowan gritted her teeth. The last thing she needed was Siglen reminiscing over her tribulations on the journey from Earth to Altair.

The woman meant well.

The Rowan urged the lift-off claxon to sound, signaling their imminent departure. Involved in gestalt, Siglen could not transfer mental garbage. What was keeping the woman from completing the lift?

Oh, oh, Bralla, and Siglen's wide open mind wailed as the Rowan child once had done. How can I do this to her?

The Rowan tried to close out a sudden whirling, mindboggling disorientation.

Lift, Siglen! Now is not the time to dally! Get me off planet NOW! the Rowan cried, unwilling to endure any more delay colored by a cowardly old woman's ancient fears.

The Rowan leaned back against the door, closing her mind to Siglen's moans. Siglen was frightening herself.

The Rowan wasn't at all frightened, even if the cabin suddenly seemed constricting. The cabin on the Miraki had been small but the Miraki had been on the sea which rolled around Altair. There was fresh air all over. She took deep gulps of air and it tasted properly. She knew from standard procedures that air was replaced between voyages so this wasn't stale recycled air she was breathing.

The pa.s.senger vehicle was not a large one: Siglen lifted far more ma.s.s without thinking twice about it. She had only to 'port the s.h.i.+p halfway to its destination where Reidinger as Earth Prime would catch and ease it into Earth's Star System. As it neared Jupiter, the s.h.i.+p would enter the proper orbit to land on Callisto's surface.

Once the Tower was in full operation, it would be the Rowan who would catch an incoming 'portation and land it neatly and without a b.u.mp into the cradle designed to receive it on Callisto. The Rowan fixed her mind on her future, her own Tower to run, free forever of Siglen's fussy peculiarities.

The claxon sounded. The Rowan found it oddly difficult to move from the door to the bunk. Even silly, but she lay down. She ought not to feel any motion whatever. Siglen was an experienced Prime.

There would be no motion, nothing at all like the Miraki coming through the Straits, no bouncing, rolling, slewing.

Oh my dear child, brace yourself! Brace yourself' Siglen even managed to penetrate the Rowan's s.h.i.+elding but then she had the gestalt to magnify her telepathy.

But the Rowan knew the moment the 'port began: she knew it because the marrow of her bones vibrated with the generator gestalt.

Oh, Bralla, HOW could I do this to the child? How? Oh, what she'll suffer now!

There was no escape for the Rowan from Siglen's anguished keening.

Nor would Siglen leave her alone, determined in her unnecessary solicitude to support her former pupil through this ordeal.

Then, just as Siglen had said it would, suddenly everything was spinning in her head: She was neither up nor down, nor sideways, but whirling in a desperate spiral to nowhere and she screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed, and heard Rascal shrieking with equal panic.

Then she was falling into hands, hands that seized and held her down, down, down, forcing her into the vortex that reached out to envelop her and she descended, unchecked into the awful spinning, mind-wrenching blackness.

PART TWO

CALLISTO

When the Rowan came storming into Callisto Station that morning, its personnel mentally and literally ducked.

Mentally, because she was apt to forget to s.h.i.+eld.

Literally, because the Rowan was p.r.o.ne to slamming loose furnis.h.i.+ngs around when she got upset. Today, however, she was in fair command of herself and merely stamped up the stairs into the Tower. A vague rumble of noisy thoughts tossed around the ground floor of the Station for a few minutes, but the computer and a.n.a.logue men ignored the depressing effects with the grat.i.tude of those saved from greater disaster.

From the residue of her pa.s.sage, Brian Ackerman, the Stationmaster, caught the impression of intense purple frustration. He was basically only a T-9, but constant a.s.sociation with the Rowan had broadened his perceptions. Ackerman appreciated this side effect of his position - when he was anywhere else but at the Station.

At the beginning, just after the Rowan had been a.s.signed to Callisto, he had tried to transfer with no success. Federal Telepathers and Teleporters, Inc. had established a routine regarding his continuous applications. The first one handed in each quarter was ignored; the second brought an adroitly worded reply on how sensitive and crucial a position he held at Callisto Prime Station; his third often a violent demand - always got him a special s.h.i.+pment of scotch; his fourth - a piteous wail - brought the Section Supervisor out for a face-to-face chat and, only then, a few discreet words to the Rowan.

Ackerman was positive she always knew the full story before the Supervisor finally approached her. It pleased her to be difficult, but the one time Ackerman discarded protocol and snarled back at her, she had mended her ways for a full quarter. It had reluctantly dawned on Ackerman that she must like him, and he had since used this knowledge to advantage. He was also becoming proud of the fact that he was one of the longest serving members of the Callisto personnel.

Each of the twenty-three Station staff members had gone through a similar shuffling until the Rowan accepted them. It took a very delicate balance of mental talent, personality, and technical skill to achieve the proper gestalt required to move giant liners and tonnes of freight.

Federal Tel and Tel had only five Primes - five T-i's each strategically placed to effect the best possible transmission of commerce and communications throughout the sprawling Nine-Star League.

It was FT&T's dream someday to provide instantaneous transmission of anything, anywhere, anytime. Until that day, FT&T exercised patient diplomacy with its five T-is, putting up with their vagaries like the doting owners of so many golden geese. If keeping the Rowan happy had meant changing the lesser personnel twice daily, it would probably have been done. The present staff had been intact for over two years in spite of the Rowan's eccentricities.

The Rowan had been peevish for a week this time and everyone was beginning to smart under the backlash. So far no-one knew why the Rowan was upset. . . if she did herself. To be fair, Ackerman thought, she usually does have reasons.

Ready for the liner! Her thought lashed out so piercingly that Ackerman was sure everyone in the s.h.i.+p waiting outside had heard her.

But he switched the intercom in to the s.h.i.+p's captain.

'I heard,' the captain said wryly. 'Give me a five-count and then set us off.' Ackerman didn't bother to relay the message to the Rowan.

In her mood, she'd be hearing straight to Capella and back. The generator board was ablaze with varied colored printouts and messages as the team brought the booster field up to peak, while the Rowan impatiently rewed up the launch units to push-off strength. She was well ahead of the standard timing, and the pent-up power seemed to keen through the station. The countdown came fast as the energy level sang past endurable limits.

ROWAN, NO TRICKS, Ackerman said.

He caught her mental laugh and barked a warning to the captain.

He hoped the man had heard it, because the Rowan was on zero before he could finish and the s.h.i.+p was out of the system, beyond com distance in seconds.

The keening dynamos lost only a minute edge of sharpness before they sang at peak again. The lots on the launchers snapped out into s.p.a.ce as fast as they could be set up. Then loads rocketed into the receiving area from other Prime Stations, and the ground crews hustled rerouting and hold orders. The power note settled to a bearable pitch, as the Rowan worked out her mood without losing the efficient and accurate thrust that made her FT&T's best Prime.

Callisto Moonbase was not a large installation, but its position was critical. Most of the heart system's freight and pa.s.senger s.h.i.+ps required the gestalt lift beyond the system where the hyper or drone drives could safely be activated. As such bases went, it was luxurious - once you got accustomed to the overhead lower of Jupiter, or its ma.s.s jutting up from the horizon. Terraforming the moon gave its workers psychological rea.s.surance during the working 'day' with trees and gra.s.s lawns and flowering bushes and plants under the main dome.

There were pleasant gardened accommodations for those staff that were on 24-hour duty, though most of the personnel - the Rowan willing - returned to their Earth surface or orbital homes. As befit her status as an FT&T Prime, the Rowan had a special double-domed enclosure, with gardens and a pool and rimmed with small trees and bushes to complete her privacy. Rumor had it that her quarters were rich with priceless furnis.h.i.+ngs, gathered from many planets, but no-one knew for certain as the Rowan guarded her privacy even more than FT&T guarded her. The Callisto installation had been the engineering and scientific feat of the century, now commonplace since technological improvements outstripped that accomplishment as humans reached newer and more exotic planets in ever more remote star systems.

One of the ground crew toggled the yellow alert across the board, then red as ten tonnes of cargo from Earth settled on the Priority Receiving cradle. The waybill said Deneb VIII, one of the newest colonies, which was at the Rowan's limit. But the s.h.i.+pment was marked TOP EMERGENCY PRIORITY/ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL with lavish MED seals and stencils shouting 'caution'. The waybill described the s.h.i.+pment as antibodies for a virulent plague and specified direct transmission.

Well, where're my coordinates and my placement photo?

snapped the Rowan. I can't thrust blind, you know, and we've always rerouted for Deneb VIII Bill Powers was scrolling through the Stardex which the Rowan suddenly tripped into a fast forward, the appropriate fax appearing on all screens at once.

Glor-ree! Do I have to land all that ma.s.s there myself?

No, Lamebrain, I'll pick it up at 24.578.82, the lazy rich baritone voice drawled in every mind, that nice little convenient black dwarf midway. You won't need to strain a single neuron in your pretty little skull.

The silence was deafening.

Well, I'll be . . . came from the Rowan.

Of course, you are, sweetheart - just push that nice little package out my way. Or is it too much for you? The drawl was solicitous rather than insulting.

You'll get your package! replied the Rowan, and the dynamos keened piercingly just once as the ten tonnes disappeared out of the cradle.

Why, you little minx . . . slow it down or I'll burn your ears back!

Come out and catch it! The Rowan's laugh broke off in a gasp of surprise, and Ackerman could feel her slamming up her mental s.h.i.+elds.

I want that stuff in one piece, not smeared a millimeter thin on the surface, my dear, the voice said sternly. OK. I've got it.

Thanks! We need this.

Hey, who the blazes are you? What's your placement?

Deneb VIII, my dear, and a busy boy right now. To-to.

The silence was broken only by the whine of the dynamos dying to an idle burr.

Not a hint of what the Rowan was thinking came through now, but Ackerman could pick up the aura of incredulity, shock, speculation, and satisfaction that pervaded the thoughts of everyone else in the Station.

What a stunner for the Rowan! No-one except a T- 1 could have projected that far. There'd been no mention of a new T-1 being contracted to FT&T, and, as far as Ackerman knew, FT&T had the irreversible first choice on T-1 kinetics. However, Deneb planet was now it its third generation and colonial peculiarities had produced the Rowan in two.

'Hey, people,' Ackerman said, 'sock up your s.h.i.+elds.

She's not going to like your drift.

Dutifully the aura was dampened, but the grins did not fade and Powers started to whistle cheerfully.

Another yellow flag came up for the Altair hurdle and the waybill designated LIVE s.h.i.+PMENT TO BETELGEUSE.

The dynamos whined noisily and then the launcher was empty.

Whatever might be going through her mind at the moment, the Rowan was doing her work.

All told, it was an odd day, and Ackerman didn't know whether to be thankful or not that the Rowan wasn't leaking any aggravation. She spun the day's lot in and out with careless ease. By the time Jupiter's bulk had moved around to blanket the out-system traffic, Callisto's day was nearly over and the Rowan wasn't off power as much as decibel one. Once the in-Sun traffic had filled all available cradles, Ackerman wound down the system. The computer banks darkened and dynamos fell silent. . . but the Rowan did not come down out of her Tower.