Damia Read online

  “Take a long nap, now, Afra. Let your brain idle,” she said, rising and replacing the chair. Then she left the Tower.

  Afra took her advice. Nor was that the only time he did so.

  * * *

  He was in the Tower for five weeks before Reidinger contacted him directly, though not in the bull roar he invariably used in his exchanges with the Rowan. At that, the strength of Reidinger’s powerful touch direct to his mind was sufficient to dismay Afra. He had never encountered such a dense mind before. Capella had been firm and strong but nothing compared to Peter Reidinger, the third of that name, to be Earth Prime. The Rowan was very strong, with hints of a substance equal to Reidinger’s but never displayed. But Afra was now familiar enough with the Rowan to be comfortable, if still in awe. Reidinger was different. He was the most powerful man in Federal Teleportation and Telepathic. And on his approval, no matter what the Rowan had said, depended Afra’s continued appointment to Callisto Tower. However, Afra managed a creditable, he thought, response, calm, unflustered, and above all, mannerly. His parents would have been proud of him.

  Atta boy, Afra, the Rowan said when Reidinger’s presence had withdrawn. He loves to dominate. Has most of FT&T scared witless—saves him a lot of trouble to have instantaneous obedience, but it can inhibit. You just carry on as you did and don’t let him fluster you. Remember, and here the Rowan allowed a wicked chuckle to weave into her tone, he doesn’t scare me and if I want you, I’ll have you. Tell you what, Afra. Before he can bellow at you—and he will—present him with one of your origamis . . . say a bull in full bellow! A scarlet bull. Take the wind out of his sails. Distract him and you’ll have the upper hand.

  Are you sure the upper hand is good for a lowly T-4 from Capella?

  The Rowan projected an even more malicious grin. Sweet-talking words is for a woman: standing your ground is a male prerogative.

  In retrospect, it was not Reidinger who awed Afra in point of fact, but the sheer size of the Blundell building, surrounded by the immense cargo and passenger terminals, cradles, and auxiliary structures. Afra stood by the personal capsule in which the Rowan had sent him from Callisto and gawked. The FT&T complex was larger than the capital of Capella. Beyond it stretched the commercial and residential towers of the largest single metropolis of the Central Worlds, receding into a distance his eyes could not adequately measure.

  He was, however, aware of air tinged with an unknown odor that his mind told him must be “brine,” since the FT&T complex bordered an ocean.

  “Afra of Callisto Station?”

  He whirled and saw a youth in the uniform of an FT&T apprentice, a stocky lad with oddly flecked green eyes, dark hair, and a fresh complexion.

  “Yes,” and he echoed the acknowledgment telepathically, testing the messenger.

  The boy grinned and held up his hand in the formal greeting between Talents. “Gollee Gren. I’m supposed to be a T-4.”

  “On escort duty?” Afra smiled back, remembering his service in the same capacity on Capella.

  “When no one else is available,” Gollee said, not the least bit disconcerted by such duties. “This way. You’ve got to clear Security and that takes time.”

  Even when it’s obvious who I am?

  Gollee shrugged, his grin droll. “Don’t be offended. They even go through the rigamarole for visiting Primes.”

  “Don’t lay it on too thick, Gollee. Primes don’t visit,”

  “Well, you know what I mean. Even T-2’s get the treatment. No one gets into the Great God Reidinger without clearance.”

  Gollee had gestured toward the airy shell of concrete and plasglas that formed the entrance to the huge Blundell FT&T Agency Headquarters.

  It did take time to clear Security, scanners, retina search, personal interviews—though it was clear they had Afra’s dossier on screen as he was interviewed. Afra was tempted to remark that a telepathic check from any T-3 or -2 would allay any suspicions, but the attitudes of the T-8’s processing him suggested he’d better not interrupt the process with an impertinence. The Security guards did not have his height but outweighed him by many kilos. They were especially concerned about his origami and subjected it to so many tests that Afra was alarmed that they’d ruin the little gift.

  “Surely you realize that it’s only folded paper. Here!”

  He tore a sheet from the pad on the desk and with practiced skill, folded a replica. “See?”

  The guards “saw” but were palpably unimpressed with his dexterity, though Gollee was. Eventually they had to concede that it posed no threat.

  Finally the security badge was grudgingly handed over. With a mental sigh of relief, Gollee led him toward the bank of grav lifts.

  Gollee punched an intricate code, his fingers flashing so fast Afra’s eyes could not follow nor was he able, in that instant, to read Gollee’s suddenly shielded mind.

  They’re even stricter about that, Gollee said in an apologetic tone. I’ve only just been assigned to guide duty and they really do mind-burn anyone who disobeys or bends the drills. “They would have to, of course, Prime Reidinger being so important to Central Worlds,” he added aloud, and motioned for Afra to step with him into the programmed shaft. “How long have you been doing that paper-folding? You made it look so easy.”

  The upward motion was unusually rapid for a grav shift.

  “Basically origami is easy. Once you get the hang of it.”

  “Where’d you learn? Is it a Capellan thing?”

  “No, originates from a place called Japan.”

  “Oh, in the Pacific Ocean somewhere.”

  “So I understand.”

  Then, suddenly, a narrow aperture opened into which the current pulled them. The access snapped shut behind them. Gollee grinned at Afra’s reaction.

  “No way you can get into the Prime’s quarters without the right clearance. The entire building is shielded and sealed . . . especially this part.”

  “I don’t think I’d like to live like that.”

  “We never will. We’re not Primes.”

  A second, more generous opening appeared and remained long enough for Afra and Gollee to step out into the lobby, which was elegantly decorated in soft greens and comfortable seating. Fractiles were displayed on a corner screen and soft music fell pleasantly on the ear. Gollee made for the door—the least ornate of several opening onto the lobby—to his left.

  “Stand square,” Gollee murmured as they reached the door which then slid into the wall. They walked across a second lobby and to the center door in its wall. “You’re on your own from here, but I’ll be waiting to guide you back. Good luck.” His expression suggested that Afra needed all he could command.

  Afra squared his shoulders and eyed the solid wood panels and remembered the Rowan’s advice. Would Security have informed Prime Reidinger about a red paper bull and spoiled his gambit? The door slid open to admit him into the spacious suite occupied by Peter Reidinger.

  “Come in, come in,” and the powerful mental voice was just as powerful and intimidating in its audible mode as its owner was physically impressive.

  “Thought you might like this, sir,” Afra said, advancing quickly toward the semi-circular desk behind which Reidinger sat. It was a case of moving swiftly or having his knees knock treacherously. He was glad that his hand didn’t shake as he leaned across the wide desk and placed the delicate red bull in front of Earth Prime.

  Surprised by both approach and gift, Reidinger regarded the little figure. Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  “A bull, by all that’s holy! A bull! Horns, snout, and . . .” With one long and surprisingly well-shaped finger, Reidinger prodded the bull to a side view, “. . . and balls!” He guffawed again. “That white-haired, bug-eyed Altairian loon suggest it?”

  “She’s not bug-eyed,” Afra replied, indignant at such a description of the Rowan whom he considered rather beautiful in an unusual way. And when Reidinger regarded him in amused surprise, “and
no loon either.” The Rowan had said he must stand up to Reidinger. He wouldn’t have done so for his own sake, but he certainly would for hers.

  Reidinger smiled enigmatically, leaned back in his conformable chair, and steepled his fingers. Afra did not like the knowing way Reidinger eyed him and stiffened, tightening his shields—in case it would do him any good in the presence of this man.

  “You were raised on Capella, Afra Lyon,” Reidinger said, his face suddenly expressionless, his hooded eyes inscrutable. “Which is noted for its adherence to the manners other worlds ignore. Manners which are not ignored in my Tower, I might add.”

  Afra inclined his head at this tacit reassurance of his mental privacy.

  “The Rowan did suggest a red bull,” he said then, with a slight smile, aware now that Reidinger certainly displayed bullish characteristics.

  With index finger and thumb, Reidinger picked the bull up by one horn and examined it closely. “Origami!” he said suddenly. “I’ve heard of it but not actually seen examples. Show me how you did this!”

  “Paper?”

  Reidinger opened drawers, frowning more deeply as he discovered nothing but paper’s technological replacements.

  “Paper!” Suddenly pads, flowered and pastel stationery, and large sheets of transparent plastic, littered the pristine surface of Reidinger’s desk. “Pick.”

  Testing the various weights, Afra found one that would crease well, thin enough to fold easily but not tear. He squared it off and folded one corner away from him to the top, running a finger to form the first crease. Reidinger’s eyes never left his hands until he deposited a small pale blue cow beside the horned bull.

  “And an udder, by all that’s holy!” Reidinger slapped both hands down flat on his desk, the breeze blowing the little cow over and sending the bull backwards. Tenderly, Reidinger righted the blue cow and drew the bull back to its original position. “Where’d you learn how?”

  “The chief on a freighter that regularly cradled at Capella. He’s retired now and lives in Kyoto, Japan, in the Pac . . .”

  “I know where it is. Been there yet?” Reidinger cocked his head at Afra.

  “No, sir.”

  Reidinger widened his eyes. “Don’t you want to?”

  “Yes, sir, when I . . . I . . .” Now Afra faltered. Not quite brash enough despite the apparent success of this interview to commit himself to future plans.

  Reidinger leaned back again, eyeing him speculatively. Then he gave a bark of laughter, shifting his weight so that the chair assumed an upright position.

  “If you’ve managed to endure five weeks with that white-haired,” and Reidinger grinned unrepentantly, “. . . gray-eyed . . . bird-like Altairian, I suspect you’ll stay the distance. In fact . . .” Then Reidinger caught himself up, canceling that start with a flick of his fingers. He stood, a massive figure, big-boned and muscular, his eyes on a level with Afra’s despite the Capellan’s unusual height. He extended his hand, palm upwards, across the desk to Afra in a clear command for tactile contact.

  It was most unusual but Afra responded without hesitation, though he could not stifle his gasp at the shock of rippling power and how much Reidinger learned of him in that split second’s contact.

  My little loon’s lonely in her Tower, Afra Lyon of Capella . . . And Reidinger’s tone was as gentle as the hint in the words.

  Afra was overcome with confusion. None of the exhaustive homilies on etiquette from his family covered this contingency.

  “Be her friend, too, Afra,” Reidinger added in a brisk, business-like tone as if he were recommending a particular brand of technology so that Afra almost wondered if he’d mistaken that quick mental message. “Now, get out of here and let me get back to work.” He settled back into his chair and swung it to the consoles that were ranked behind his desk. “Gren’s to take you into the city,” he added without looking around. “You won’t survive comfortably on Callisto with a bed, two sagging chairs, and a battered table. Spend some of the money FT&T’s paying you on yourself for a change.”

  Respectfully, Afra bowed and, turning around, left the room. In the lobby, Gren sprang to his feet, his whole body expressing concern and interest. His face broke into a smile.

  “You survived?”

  “The bull did it!”

  Gren’s smile broadened. “Clever that. Oops.”

  In alarm, Afra watched as Gren’s eyes suddenly crossed and, as suddenly, refocused. Gren shook his head and swallowed. “I wish he wouldn’t do that to me,” but then he looked at Afra and his grin returned. “I’m under orders, no less, to take you anywhere in the city you want to go.” He winked and Afra caught a tinge of sheer sensuality from Gren which made him blink. Gren was his age but had obviously not had the strictures of Method to inhibit physical experiences. “You’ve got a two-day leave of absence. So,” and he gave an impudent bow, “what’s your pleasure, T-4 Afra?”

  “Mercantile, I think,” Afra said, gratefully seizing that opportunity. “And something to eat.”

  “Stomach’s settled, huh?” Gollee’s knowing look was sympathetic.

  They retraced their way to the ground floor, Gollee informing Afra that his security clearance was valid for his lifetime. Gollee took him to the T-10 clerk, who stored such badges, and then down to the ground floor where he ordered transport for them.

  Afra’s first contact with the metropolis remained a series of brilliant impressions: the staggering choice available in the furniture showrooms (he surprised himself by picking simple things, reminiscent of homely Capellan counterparts), linens in plain shades, rugs in geometric designs, rather plebeian lamps (from the look on Gollee’s face), and two lovely Asian vases filled with flowers held in stasis forever at their peak, book tapes by the gross (titles he’d only heard of), and two paintings, both antique but pleasing to him. (Gollee tried to steer him toward modern artists, but Afra found them too frantic in design, material, and color.)

  In clothing, he allowed Gollee to guide him, for the youth’s own dress was quietly elegant and well made. For someone who had never had more than three Tower-jumpsuits and one good outfit, Afra enjoyed buying apparel that subtly diminished his alien complexion and accentuated his broad shoulders and erect carriage while imparting a stylish bulk to his lean frame. He liked the look of some of the trendy boots and had a pair fashioned, while he and Gollee watched, in the size, color, and style of his choice.

  When Gollee realized that this was a major shopping effort, he called the FT&T Cargomaster and arranged for a pod and cradle number to which all Afra’s purchases could be sent, and transported back to Callisto on the next shipment, or whenever Afra came to the end of his credit.

  Then, clad in a new outfit—dark green, soft leatherene boots, a fashionable tunic and trouser combination—Afra invited Gollee to take him to a mid-range eating place where they would replenish lost energy.

  “I know just the place,” Gollee announced, with another of his reckless winks. Shortly, they were seated at a table in an eating house with a pleasant ambience. There was soft music, subdued lighting, excellent appointments, and a discreet menu that appeared in the top of their table as soon as they were seated.

  The selection was literally otherworldly, for it listed dishes from every one of the Central Worlds. Gollee appeared to be far more sophisticated than his years, for he rattled off a description of items that Afra had never heard of. Afra tried not to let his ignorance or confusion show. Then Gren held up a hand to beckon an attendant. As the man came in answer to the summons, Gren looked earnestly at Afra.

  “I know some of the specialties of this restaurant that I think you might like.”

  “We-ell.” Gren’s self-assurance and the good-natured way in which he had steered Afra throughout the day easily convinced Afra to accede. He gave a rueful smile. “I haven’t had much experience with off-world dining.”

  The waiter regarded Afra in surprise while Gollee’s encouraging smile became very worldly indeed.

>   “One man’s homeworld is another’s tourist spot. My friend is in from Capella. How about serving us a platter of dainties that’d tempt him to appreciate Terran cuisine?” The attendant seemed reluctant. “Is Luciano on today?”

  “Luciano?” That did impress the man.

  “The very same.” Gollee nodded pleasantly, as if discussing menus with Luciano was a habit. “Would you tell him that the G-man is showing a friend of his boss about this aul’ sod and we need to consult.”

  The waiter raised his eyebrows. “G-man? I’ve heard about you.” He gave a hitch to the white apron tied about his loins. “I’ll tell him you’re in again.”

  Luciano himself appeared between the platter of dainties and the soup. He gave Afra a friendly nod as Gollee introduced him.

  At that moment, Afra had a mouthful of an unexpectedly peppery savory and just caught himself resorting to telepathy to answer. He flapped his hands, first indicating his busy mouth and then giving the concerned chef the ok sign.

  “Spicy? Not spicy enough? Too spicy?” Luciano asked with professional concern.

  “Too spicy, I’d say,” Gollee suggested with a laugh. “I’m accustomed to your brand of seasoning, but Afra must think he’s being poisoned. Look at his face and how his eyes are watering.”

  The arch look on Luciano’s face startled Afra so much that he ventured to splutter around his mouthful: “No! No! ’Sgreat. I like . . . spices.”

  Luciano was instantly mollified. “Ah, a man with educated tastes.”

  “Not only that, Luciano,” Gren said, grinning with sheer malice, “he got the ol’ man by the balls and had him laughing.” Gren shot the astounded Afra a conspiratorial wink. “And that’s no bull, my friend.”

  “You did that?” and clearly Afra had ascended ranks in Luciano’s estimation. “To the great man?” and the fiery Italian gestured in the direction of the distant Blundell complex.

  Afra washed the rest of his mouthful down with water so that he could remedy this slightly skewed version of the morning’s business.

  “It was just a short interview . . .” he began.