Pegasus In Space

5

Starting the day after his eighteenth birthday, Peter Reidinger spent time in all the other Parapsychic Centers on Earth, getting to know the other registered kinetics, hoping that he could find one more who could employ the gestalt that had added such scope to his, and Johnny Greene's, abilities. He had already met other Center chiefs when their travels brought them to Eastern on business with Rhyssa, but not all the other kinetics. Despite the ingenious tests that Lance Baden had set during his training period, Peter Reidinger had yet to learn the limits of his kinetic thrust. Even without using generator power to augment kinesis, he could lift several tons. Not very far, of course, but without visible strain. In gestalt, he apparently had no limit.

Lance reported to Rhyssa that he hesitated to try to explore the potential for fear of inadvertently pushing Peter too far; if there was a "too far" for Peter's gestalt.

Rhyssa showed Lance's report to Johnny on his next visit to her office. It had become a frequent stop in his weekly schedule now that Jerhattan had officially opened a telepad and supplied generators capable of thrusting supply drones to Padrugoi. He let the hardcopy drift down to her desk.

"Well, I'm satisfied with pumping stuff up to Padrugoi. That's pretty good for a banged-up middle-aged ex-etop pilot:' Johnny said with a grin. "Trouble is, it's not quite good enough anymore."

"What are you leading up to?" Rhyssa asked, cocking her head at him.

"Basically, how soon I can start using Pete."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Now that Padrugoi's looking ever outward, I'm useless."

"Oh, go on!" Rhyssa said derisively.

"I'm serious. There's First Base expanding habitable blocks on the Moon…"

"Lance is up there, handling construction tasks very well," she said, trying to compose herself for what was really on J. Greene's mind.

"On the Moon, yes, but not in space. Not when the Space Authority is looking to set up a permanent south polar base on Mars." He leaned sideways, his green-flecked amber eyes gleaming. "We need Pete in space, Rhyssa, not stuck downside." When she started to protest, he rapidly continued. "Yeah, I know. He's trying to find you another gestalter." Johnny's opinion of the prospect was low. "If you haven't up 'til now, you're not likely to. Furthermore, Pete will feel that he's failed you if he doesn't."

"Oh, come now, Johnny, that's a bit strong," she replied, irritated.

"You know it isn't. The boy adores you. He's determined to make you proud of him."

"I already am," Rhyssa protested.

"Then let him perform where he's best suited. In space."

"There are far too many things that can go wrong in space," she said firmly.

"Like kidnappers?"

"Low blow, John Greene," she snapped back. "He's unique!"

"And we can't lose him," he finished for her. "But you will!" Johnny cocked his finger at her, his expression solemn, "If you keep him down on Earth doing piddling little pushes when what he really wants is space. He has since the moment he pushed that supply rocket up from Florida. Where you were quite happy to take him so you could show off his unique abilities!" He bracketed the last two words and gave her a challenging stare. "Look, at least let him train on Padrugoi. Maybe you're right," and Johnny took to pacing, throwing his hands in the air. "Maybe he can't cut the mustard in space. Maybe he's agoraphobic and the sight of so much 'nothing' all around will freak him out."

Johnny paused and gave Rhyssa a big grin. "I sorta doubt it. He's been hanging in space, of a sort, since the first time he went out-of-body to find you. He needs to find out what his limitations are because we sure as hell don't know them."

"Did he put you up to this, Johnny?" Rhyssa managed to keep her voice level. Her thoughts were chaotic; she had sensed Peter's disappointment with his assignment to find more gestalting kinetics, though he had kept a tight shield on his thoughts, smiled, and told her he'd do his best.

"Me? No." He opened his mind so she'd know he was telling the truth. "That's why I'm here now, making sure you make the right decision before he wonders where on earth you're going to stash him to 'keep him safe.' For Pete's sake," and he gave her a droll grin for his use of the well-known exclamation, "give him the permission before he asks you. You'll strengthen your position with him."

She knew that was true.

"Contract him to Padrugoi," Johnny went on. "Dirk likes the boy. He needs him badly to finish off the Arrakis. They're behind schedule. He'll also make sure that he's thoroughly trained. If I'm wrong and Pete can't hack spacework, it'll be Dirk who tells him. Not you."

Rhyssa dropped her eyes, sighing as she recognized the merits of that argument. From the moment Peter Reidinger had touched her sleeping mind, they had had a bond that she had done everything she could to strengthen. She also recalled Dave's warning about Peter's yearning to be involved with the spaceships, and space itself.

"And another thing, he can't really teach anyone what he does," Johnny went on, pressing his advantage as he saw her waver. "I'm as much a fluke as he is. I had advantages, true, being an etop pilot with an understanding of mechanics and flight. The only reason I lived through my crash is because I think I did something along the lines of a gestalt to keep from smashing myself irrevocably on the ground." Johnny gave a self-deprecating chuckle.

"Would Padrugoi be enough for Peter?" she asked in a soft voice.

"Enough? I guarantee he'll be kept actively employed and well appreciated." The mischief never far from Johnny Greene erupted. "Think of the fee you can extract from the Space Authority for his services! The Centers will be rolling in credit."

"Credit has never been a consideration," Rhyssa said, pretending to be offended by monetary considerations.

"Ha! Who's kidding who? Sascha and Tirla could initiate that scanning program of theirs and you could fund that guy, Professor Gadriel, and his CERN project and the FermiLab physicists." He started to tick off on his fingers the various projects that the Centers had in mind when the cash flow improved. "The gene ID program has only been held up since your grandfather's time. So has the research into therapeutic touch that Sister Justa Smith, Clive Bakster, and Dolores Krieger pioneered in the nineteen sixties."

Rhyssa looked away from Johnny's uncharacteristically earnest expression, out the window, to the green lawns and flowering trees. And imagined the blackness of space from the gigantic spinning wheel of Padrugoi Station. She remembered Peter Reidinger's face when he had first looked out on the vastness and the far glow of stars. She should stop being afraid for him: that was repressive. She knew he wanted to get out into space, somehow, in some capacity. Dave had reminded her of that. She would be wise to submit gracefully to the inevitable and let Peter go. Her grandfather had often said that, when you let someone go, they were more likely to return. Admiral Dirk Coetzer was not a Barchenka, trying to suborn unwilling workers. In this case the worker was only too willing. And able.

"You'll be sure that he'll be drilled exhaustively?"

Johnny smiled, his mind exuding his relief at her surrender and his unreserved approval. "I'll be as close to him as the skin of his extra-vehicular mobility unit. We'll have Madlyn on his case throughout and you know she'll tell you all!"

Rhyssa gave a nervous little laugh. "Even when I don't ask."

"Know what you mean," Johnny said, exuberant. "Look, there's some groundwork I want to lay before you tell Pete. Sirikit says he's manning Lance's position as Adelaide Center's kinetic right now. I'll just drop in."

Rhyssa eyed the general suspiciously. "What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing that puts our golden goose at risk. Just a sort…" and he grinned, "a caper, if you will. I also have to give Dirk the good news."

"He's the one who put you up to this?"

"Of course. Ever since Pete screwed Barchenka's password out of her mind, he's had September eighth red-circled on his notepad."

"Really? I know Peter was very pleased to get a card from the admiral."

"He'd've had a contract if we'd thought you'd be the least bit willing. So, get it done now. Of course," and Johnny scratched his head, "we still have to convince Space Authority to let an eighteen-year-old play with their precious cargoes."

"Johnny Greene!" Rhyssa exploded with indignation at that admission. The man's gall was inexhaustible.

"Well, I didn't want to get their hopes up."

She swooped up a fistful of pencil files, threatening to shower him with them but he 'ported himself neatly out of her office, his laughter echoing in her mind.

On sober reflection and without his insidious presence, Rhyssa admitted to herself that, presuming the boy didn't have an unsuspected agoraphobia, his destiny-such a pompous word-was in space.

However, Rhyssa did check with Amalda Vaden to see if there was any hint of a disaster affecting Peter.

"Nope. Can't find one," Mallie reported. "You expecting any?"

"Just checking," Rhyssa replied. "But keep your precognitive eye on him over the next few weeks, will you?"

"Sure," and there was a smile in her voice. "Pete's a good kid. He'll do well on Padrugoi."

"How did you know what he's going to do?"

"I'm the precog, you know," was Mallie's parting shot.

Johnny Greene had set up his "test" with Lance before the kinetic had gone on his latest construction contract with First Base. Johnny's telepathic range fell well short of Oceanus Procellarum so the two men made advance plans… in case. They were both certain of two things: first, they needed incontrovertible proof for the Space Authority and second, Peter needed a real challenge. So Johnny "flew" himself to Adelaide at the time Peter would be finishing his breakfast and before the rest of the Talents would arrive for work. Peter was surprised and very pleased to see him stroll into the guest quarters of the Adelaide Parapsychic Center just as Peter was 'porting his breakfast dishes into the kitchenette sink.

Nothing's wrong, is there? Peter asked, gliding swiftly to the general's side as he stood looking about the foyer.

Johnny shook his head, shielding any wisp of thought the young man might catch. The general was still elated by his most satisfactory interview with Rhyssa.

"No one's here yet?" Johnny asked with innocent surprise as he walked on into the Main Incident room. Peter followed him. Since Peter was in residence, and certainly able to handle any parapsychic emergencies, the other telepaths and kinetics went home after their duty hours.

"Not yet. Harry's usually first in. He bikes here, to keep fit," and Peter sounded a bit wistful. He might be able to 'port himself anywhere on Earth but a simple pastime like riding a bicycle was not an option. "He swears he'll teach me how."

"Harry might at that," Johnny agreed affably as he swung the small bag he carried up onto the worktop. "Start up the generators, will you, Pete? Got a small job for you. Lance needs this."

"Lance? But he's on First Base," Peter replied, startled.

"This isn't heavy," Johnny said blithely, demonstrating by 'porting the bag from the surface without a gestalt and suspending it for a few moments. "Three kilos."

"But the Moon?" Peter repeated, stunned.

"Look, Pete, you've managed to push forty tons four hundred and forty klicks without breaking into a sweat. Pushing three kilos four hundred thousand is not that much more effort, now is it?" Johnny gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'll be ready to boost though, frankly, I think you can do it on your own. Either way, Lance says the engineers need these sensors like yesterday. Everything's held up waiting for them. I don't see why we can't try it. Window to the Moon is open," and he pointed out the east-facing window where the lunar ghost was visible in the morning sky, "and it's at perigee. Timing's right. If we're going to give it a go." Johnny's tone was subtly challenging. "Don't think it'll strain you, skeleteam." A nice touch, that, reminding Pete of other triumphs. "Lance wouldn't suggest it if he thought you and I couldn't cut the mustard."

"Well…" Peter looked around the empty office. "But I'd need to 'see' where I… we were sending it."

"Sure." Johnny whipped some glossies from the outside pocket of the small bag. He dropped the first one on the desk: the lunar coordinates of First Base, conveniently close to the equator in Oceanus Procellarum. "Sort of in the backyard of First Base, you see," and he pointed to the shining dome in the background, moving his finger to a red and white striped bollard that was the selected target.

"What's that for?" Peter asked.

"Actually," and Johnny frowned down at the bollard as if trying to remember, "I believe it's a marker for the lunar vehicle parking area. See that shadow?" This was barely visible but Peter nodded as one will when one wishes to show that one has been closely observing details. "It's one of the four-man articulated crawlers." He deposited a second image from those in his hand and chuckled as he displayed it to the kinetic. "Even got a lunar license plate: FB 3, no less. Detailed enough for you?"

Peter gave a dubious sniff, screwing his face up into a grimace.

"Ah, let's give it a try," Johnny said nonchalantly. He had been intently listening for the generators to reach full power. Now he shot as strong a mental reassurance to his young colleague as he dared. He couldn't be too obvious about such a 'pathing but he counted on having confused Peter with fast talk. "Sit!" He pointed imperiously to the chair that was used for telekinetic sessions. "I'll hook you up," he said, putting a hand on Peter's chest to push him back into the padded seat. "Have official readings on your performance."

"Only three kilos?" Peter asked, eyeing the bag dubiously as Johnny bent to fit the sensitive pads of the recorder to his body.

"That's all, bag included. Ready?" Johnny didn't want to give Pete any time to think beyond the essential errand. He opened his mind, letting Peter feel his readiness. "Set? GO!"

The generators whined at such a high pitch that, for a nanosecond, Johnny Greene wondered if the powerful drain might not overload them.

"Hey, I don't think you needed that much moxie on the 'port," he exclaimed in feigned surprise. "Ease up, will ya? It's not like you were trying for the moons of Jupiter."

"Well, I wanted to be sure to reach the bollard." Then Peter began to realize what he'd just done. "I felt it connect. I have to have got it there. Don't I?"

"We'll know soon enough," Johnny said easily.

"Say, you can't 'path as far as the Moon. How'd you know about Lance needing the chips?"

"Madlyn," Johnny replied enigmatically as he watched the printout on the recorder.

"Oh." Pete frowned. "Wait a minute. She can't 'path as far as the Moon either. Or at least she's never mentioned she could."

"Sheeesh," Johnny said, flicking his fingers dismissively. "Com-contact, man. Which lesser mortals without your advantage regularly use to communicate. Coetzer had Madlyn 'path me when the urgent request came through. I had to pull rank to get all the chips needed. Some were highly classified, you know." He had glanced over the sensor report. "Hope you didn't plow that bag. Be hard to replace those items." He clicked his tongue in mild reproach as he showed Peter the readings. "Bit of overkill on the power you used. You'll need to refine the long thrust, I think."

Peter looked startled by Johnny's matter-of-fact appraisal and Johnny grinned wryly as Peter gave a worried gulp.

"When will we know if I did it right? If I did. And you weren't in on the thrust either." Peter glared accusingly at Johnny.

"I wasn't needed," Johnny replied with injured innocence. "Two of us might've blown the generators and really messed up that shipment."

"So, when will we know?"

"Didn't think you could do it, did you?" Johnny said, grinning. He made a fist and gave Peter a mock blow to the jaw.

"But we don't know if I did."

Johnny chuckled confidently. "Lance should call through on the Center's comm," and Johnny tilted his head at the comunit. "Lemme know when he does. I'm not worried. And I've got the figures to prove you did it, too." He jerked his thumb at the readout. "Well, I'd better get back and reassure the wife. I forgot to tell Senator Sally I'd be missing early this morning. I'm sure she'd've sent you her love if she'd known I was going to see you." He put a comradely arm about Peter's shoulders and guided him through the foyer to the door. " 'Portation sure helps not having to deal with diurnal displacements. Give me a push, will ya?"

"Where?"

"Back home," Johnny said, "now I've my own telepad. Then I've got shuttles to waft up to Dirk. Who sends you his regards." He had landed his personal carrier neatly on the packed red dirt in front of the Center. He had left the hatch up-for a quick getaway-and now slid back into the seat. "Say 'hi' to the gang here. Sorry to miss them." Then he closed the hatch. Ready when you are, Pete. He raised his hand in a farewell salute and touched the kinetic's mind.

Peter Reidinger accepted the contact and, still confused by Johnny's whirlwind visit, 'ported the carrier back to the Jerhattan telepad.

"G'day, Pete," and Harry arrived on his pushbike. The mulgah trees that obscured the Center from the roadway half a mile away had also hidden Johnny's carrier. "Up early, ain'tcha?"

"Nice day," Peter said noncommittally.

Later that morning, Lance contacted Adelaide, spoke at length to the duty officer, and then asked to speak to Peter.

"Thanks for that package, Pete."

"You got it? I didn't damage anything, did I?"

"Nope," and Lance chuckled. "Plowed up a ridge of moon dust against the bollard though. Some thrust!" His voice went off-line for a moment. "Hold it, guys, be right with you. We got those chips you've been looking for. Thanks again, Pete. See ya."

A weary general was admitted to Admiral Dirk Coetzer's office on Padrugoi Station.

"Johnny, what brings you up here today?" The admiral waved him into the nearest chair and gestured to the coffeepot on its warming plate that was a feature of most naval offices.

Greene shook his head as he sat heavily down.

"I did it," he said.

"I don't think you mean the drones that arrived this afternoon."

"Not them." Johnny flapped his fingers in dismissal. "I got Rhyssa Lehardt to see to the wisdom of letting Peter Reidinger get into space, instead of farting around pushing junk from one continent to another."

"How'd you do that?" That was the best news Coetzer had had all morning, what with the rumor that fuel prices were going up and a very expensive component that had to be rescued from tumbling out of sight in space. "I didn't think she'd put him at risk. I'd prefer that he had the gumption to speak up for himself."

Johnny let go a sigh. "I would, too, Dirk, but he's still in grateful mode for her rescuing him from the A frame, hospital, and all that shit. I reminded her that he's less at risk up here than downside. Risk of boredom. He'd have real work to challenge him," was Johnny Greene's reply. He cocked an eyebrow. "Of course, you'll have to promise to give him the proper EVA training."

"She'd permit him to work outside the Station? In space? That's where we could really use a powerful kinetic right now."

"Sure. Why not? I reminded her, as I do you, that young man's been maneuvering himself in space ever since he learned how to gestalt. And he's much better at that than I am."

"Could he manage a space suit to do the EVAs?"

"That's what you're to find out."

"Ahhhh," the admiral drawled, comprehending. "So if he isn't capable, it's me that gives him the no-go, not her? Right?"

Johnny chuckled. "Well, he'd accept it from you. He wouldn't from Rhys. He'd always wonder if she prevented him from getting up here."

"I noticed that he and Ms. Lehardt have an unusual bond."

"They do. She got him out of Jerhattan General Hospital and the prospect of a useless existence."

"He's what-just eighteen?" Coetzer asked.

"By a couple of months. Kids join the navy at that age all the time."

"A point."

"Hell, Dirk, he's much more powerful a kinetic than I am. You need him up here."

"You don't have to convince me of that. But I'd hate to have to put an end to his aspirations if he can't make the grade in EVA."

"If the grunts from the Linears can, he can."

"If he doesn't freak out first time he goes extravehicular." Dirk's expression mirrored a legitimate skepticism.

"Well, we'll just have to find out. And if, mind you, and it's a big if," Johnny said, pointing his finger at the admiral, "he proves agoraphobic and useless in a space suit, he could probably do more kinesis from inside the Station than Baden did. He can also haul a lot more weight than I can."

Dirk gave him a long sideways glance. "Like all the way to First Base?" Johnny's reaction was not what Coetzer expected. He gave a diffident shrug.

"He might at that. At least he can stand on this Station to do his pushing. You've got all those powerful generators." His smile was sly. "Pete loves generators. The bigger the better."

Dirk gave his head a twist, trying to conceal his elation at the prospect of having Reidinger on contract to him. "Padrugoi is 440 klicks from Earth. The Moon's between 400,000 and 450,000."

"I know. We can start when the Moon's at perigee and work up to apogee," was the blithe reply. "Working him into the distance gradually, Dirk. Who knows what he'll be able to do when his Talent matures."

Again the admiral favored the general with a long and speculative look.

"You're up to something, Greene."

"Yeah, up on Padrugoi, and I want the guy who taught me all I know up here, too. I owe Pete big."

The admiral couldn't suppress his suspicion that Greene had some hidden ulterior motive. Which, doubtless, would be confided in him at a time Greene thought appropriate. The former etop pilot and bodyguard of the Secretary of Space was Peter Reidinger's staunchest supporter. If he couched his admiration and respect for the young man in a slightly cynical manner, that was preferable to patronization or fawning. And Coetzer had plenty of proof that Greene was also his dedicated adherent in all matters that forwarded humanity's progress starward.

"All right, I'll make a formal application to the Eastern Parapsychic Center for the services of the kinetic, Peter Reidinger. How much is she going to soak us for him?"

Johnny shrugged. "That's between accountants. I just recruit."

"Why doesn't Peter?" Coetzer asked sharply. "Train more kinetics, I mean. God knows we can use every one the Centers find."

"There just ain't anyone else with his little knack. That's why. Not that Rhyssa and Baden haven't been looking under every psychic rock to find a likely student for him. I can do gestalt, but I don'tknow how I do it. Neither, in the final analysis, does Pete." He rose stiffly. "I'm for some sack time, Dirk. Catchya later." With a casual salute, he left the office.

Dirk Coetzer immediately put in a call to his Contracts Manager. He most certainly would grab the opportunity to employ Reidinger. He only hoped that Rhyssa Lehardt would not renege, beset by second thoughts. Greene had made Coetzer patently aware of how unusual and valuable Reidinger was considered by the Parapsychics: a Talent that they would not risk. How had Johnny Greene talked her into it against her better judgment? Coetzer dismissed the notion that he'd have trouble now that Johnny had told him the lad was available. Rhyssa was known for her integrity and would honor her word to the general. Nor would he have misled Coetzer. The man was clever, an opportunist, devious, but he wouldn't misrepresent a matter as important as this. Of course, Greene knew how very much Coetzer wanted Reidinger's abilities up here on the Station. And, if the boy-young man-couldn't hack space after all, his kinetic talents used from the safety of the Station would still constitute an asset. Coetzer liked Peter Reidinger, admired a lad who had overcome such a massive physical disadvantage. The prospect that Peter might mature into an even greater range and depth was even more tantalizing. What would the mature scope be? He gave a soft whistle.

Peter's juvenile uses of kinesis had been spectacular. Johnny had seen to it that Coetzer received a file of Baden's training reports on Reidinger. Whether or not he was able to advance beyond his initial performances was moot. The prospect of teleporting freighters to First Base or-Coetzer inhaled sharply at the mere thought-or Mars filled the admiral with a sudden glorious ambition. Padrugoi had been humanity's first step on the path out of its star system. The installation at First Base was another. A permanent Mars colony replacing the present temporary exploration habitat would prove that humanity could adapt to an alien ecology. Earthlike worlds-M-5s-had been identified around many primaries in this galaxy. That new hush-hush telescope was able to find free oxygen in the ozone layers of several planets, meaning they could probably be inhabited without protective coverings or breathing apparatus. To make the most of such opportunities, humanity had better learn the lessons Earth's other satellites had to offer. First Base had already taught valuable techniques, a good preparation for the challenge of inhabiting Mars. In Coetzer's lifetime, Padrugoi had been conceived and constructed. The Moon was inhabited. That he might live to see the day Mars would be, too; that he might also be part of that triumph. What a prospect!

" 'Or what's a heaven for?' " Coetzer quoted to himself. He allowed himself a long moment to savor his new aspiration. His intercom buzzed and he dealt with the practical problems of contracting the means to the new goal he contemplated.

Assimilating Peter Reidinger into the transport command of General Johnny Greene was the first step in his Padrugoi contract. He was hired as a "civilian consultant" in Supply and Transport, nominally working under Greene. At the general's insistence, he was given the highest security clearance.

"He's going to handle sensitive stuff from the gitgo, " Johnny said when the Space Authority resisted. "He wasn't a security risk when he started lobbing shuttles into space for you and he hasn't developed any questionable habits since then. He also doesn't need some near-sighted spook snooping around him."

In the first week of Peter's employment at Jerhattan Space Port, he lifted more tonnage than Johnny did in a month, a fact the general made sure that everyone in the Space Authority knew. The only aspect of the job that Peter had objections to was the requirement to wear recording pads during gestalt.

"Look, Pete, it's necessary," Johnny said, cutting through his demurral. "You don't feel 'em anyhow so what's your beef."

"I have more than enough appliances glued to me," Peter replied sourly.

Johnny gave him a quick look but did not give in. "They're a record, just like Incident reporting in the Center, that we need. I wear 'em, too. Okay? Now let's just shift this last monster and call it a day."

"I'm not tired, Johnny."

"You aren't, but I am. I'm thirty years your senior, m'boy, and when I say it's quitting time, it's quitting time. Dorotea's got dinner waiting."

After they had sent the freighter to Padrugoi on the first leg of its long journey to Oceanus Procellarum and First Base, Johnny gratefully shucked off his pads.

"C'mon, Pete. I've seen enough of these four walls today."

When all parties involved signed the contract with Padrugoi, Rhyssa suggested to Peter that perhaps he would prefer to have his own apartment in the Center for those intervals when he was downside. The Space Authority had not queried the clause that required Peter to have one week in every four back on Earth. Despite his euphoria when Rhyssa explained the conditions of his contract, Peter "knew" that she didn't want him living on his own. Nor did he. He liked Dorotea, and Amariyah made a much nicer sister than Katya ever had.

"I'd rather stay at Dorotea's," Peter said quickly, and knew by the way Rhyssa relaxed that she'd hoped for this response. "Dorotea says she doesn't mind me staying on. She's still trying to fatten me up, you know, even if I don't like to eat too often." That was one of the few times Rhyssa heard him refer, even obliquely, to the appliance that collected his body wastes. "It isn't as if the food isn't great on Padrugoi." He lifted his shoulders in a good imitation of Johnny Greene's characteristic gesture. He saw her lips twitch in recognition.

"It's your choice, Peter," Rhyssa said, and tried not to broadcast her relief.

"Besides, Amariyah would miss me," Peter added with an affectionate smile.

"That's true," Rhyssa agreed. "So would Eoin and Chester, young as he is."

Peter grinned back. "And impressionable. I don't want your kids to forget me."

"I doubt they would," she replied sincerely. Her son, Eoin, now just three and a quarter years old, already, showed an unusual empathy for a child, and she hoped it would mature into a useful ability. Chester, at fifteen months, responded to her telepathic cues, turning from tears into smiles when she soothed him. Right now, they could be keenly aware of "atmosphere" and respond to it, naughtily enough, at times, to severely try her patience. They seemed to sense that Peter was different and curbed their horseplay. They never hung on to his hands the way they would their father's or Johnny Greene's. It was as if they knew they should respect his personal space.

Since Peter had been under the Center's aegis, he had had less and less contact with his natural family. Until her death, his mother had religiously visited her son every month but she had never been comfortable in his presence once he was mobile. He supported his father and his sharp-tongued jealous sister, Katya. They would have extorted more financial assistance from a guiltily generous Peter if their sporadic attempts to see him had got past Rhyssa's staff. After Peter was installed at the Center, Katya appeared periodically at Beechwoods, demanding that she be allowed to see her brother. Sirikit or Budworth would dutifully show her a duty roster and point out where in the world he was currently training with Lance Baden. Then she'd be escorted back to the transport tube. Shortly before his eighteenth birthday, she gave up. Half the time he had been at Dorotea's, a short walk from the Henner mansion.

So Dorotea, Amariyah, and Rhyssa's children became "family" for him.

Peter was assigned quarters in officer territory on the Station and ate in the officers' mess. As pleasant as everyone was to him, he couldn't join in many of the off-duty activities and he felt subtly out of place in the mixed service-civilian environment. Even the ensigns were several years older than he was and, while he was too well mannered to read minds without express permission to do so, he was often aware of the strong emanations of uncertainty about him in the mess. Occasionally one of the older officers was patronizing but he could ignore that. The only one of the Station's permanent staff he felt comfortable with was Madlyn Luvaro. She had such a crush on a certain Lieutenant Senior Grade Dash Sakai that generally her conversation orbited around the subject of the communications officer. The guy wasn't the least bit psychic so he was blithely unaware of Madlyn's crush. Everyone else on the CIC recognized it. It wasn't as if Madlyn wasn't pretty, feminine, and good company; it was just that Dash Sakai was career-motivated. Peter wondered if there was any way he could unobtrusively inform the comm officer that having a psychic as a wife would enhance any officer's career.

In any case, he was glad to step back into the comfortable ambience of Dorotea's home every month. Amariyah got a trifle bored and short-tempered, like any younger sibling dominating a conversation, when he rattled on about space and the Station. Until the day that he just happened to mention the Station's extensive hydroponics system that supplied both food and oxygen purification. Instantly her attitude altered and she had to know all about the gardens.

"Then I shall be a space gardener," she said in her resolute manner.

"First you have to learn hydroponics engineering," Peter said repressively. That would be all he needed-a kid sister on Padrugoi.

"I shall learn all I need to know from Teacher. You just see if I don't," she added in such a quarrelsome mood that both Peter and Dorotea regarded her in surprise. "Dida Tea, you will tell me what courses you took."

Dorotea regarded her mildly. "If you ask politely."

Instantly, Amariyah looked penitent, her blue eyes filling with tears of shame for her outburst. "Please, Dida Tea, will you help me?"

"It'll be hard work," Peter warned.

"I already know a great deal about flowers and vegetables," Amariyah reminded him, once again the argumentative sibling.

"You'll need to know a lot more," Peter began.

"And so she shall," Dorotea said, casting a warning look at Peter to subside. "Come, Maree," she said, holding out her hand to the girl, "we'll just see what courses Teacher has on-line."

"Yes, Dida Tea," Amariyah said meekly. Just at the doorway, she flashed a glance back at Peter and stuck her tongue out.

While Peter's main task was 'porting supplies and personnel to the Station, he was also required to help 'port materials into the second colony ship, the Arrakis, being constructed at Padrugoi. He wanted very much to visit the hull and watch the various stages of its construction. But that would require a space suit. Peter wondered how he could broach the subject of getting trained. If Linear grunts could be taught to manage construction suits, he was sure he could.

He sensed tentative attitudes toward him from Madlyn's adored comm officer, Dash Sakai, and Lieutenant Commander Pota Chatham, the chief engineering officer on whose watches he generally worked. He'd hinted as often as he could that he didn't need to be in the Station CIC to use the marvelously powerful generators. He could gestalt with them from anywhere within several miles and certainly from the Arrakis, which was moored in the main construction and repair yard. When his allusions were ignored, he thought maybe he'd been premature. First the CIC officers would need to learn to trust him as much as Johnny Greene and, he was sure, Admiral Coetzer, did. They'd have to get accustomed to his work habits. He was always on time for his scheduled 'ports, he never took a break until Johnny called one, he maintained a strictly professional attitude at all times, and he never left his post until the watch officer officially told him to "stand down." Not that he would have presumed in any respect. He was not fragile. In fact, he was probably the safest, strongest person on the Station, especially since the first thing he'd been drilled in was emergency procedures in the event of a Station alert. He knew where all the escape pods were and had amused himself in between 'ports by figuring out who he should rescue in order of importance. Admiral Coetzer was first, of course; Johnny Greene if he was onstation at the time, then the executive officer, Linke Bevan. After them, his priorities altered but he rather thought Madlyn, because she was the strongest 'path in all the Centers, and then Dash Sakai-because Madlyn would be inconsolable if Dash got wasted. He spent other idle moments figuring out how many he could 'port to safety in the first sixty seconds. He even tried putting air envelopes around groups, to give them oxygen and protection against bursting in vacuum.

Another favorite topic for speculation was how Rhyssa had been persuaded to let him take the Padrugoi contract in the first place. He knew how badly she wanted him to find and train kinetics in the gestalt. Considering how much he owed her, and the Parapsychic Centers, he was willing to spend his whole life trying. But so far there'd been no kinetic for him to train… if he could. He suspected Johnny had had more of a hand in getting him on Padrugoi than the general was about to admit. Certainly Admiral Coetzer had given him a wholehearted welcome aboard the Station. He was a frequent guest at the admiral's table when he was on board. (Maybe that's why some people avoided him.) Coetzer kept a paternal eye on him-at least that's what Peter heard Commander Temuri Bergkamp say when the engineering officer didn't realize Peter was in earshot. Peter did not "listen" or "peek" but sometimes people had loud minds and he couldn't help but overhear, despite keeping up a light shield most of the time.

That was how he happened to learn that he could be a lot more use to the admiral if he could "hack the black," as the grunts phrased it.

"I got book on him," one of them said as he and his mate swung into a service corridor ahead of Peter. As he didn't make any noise walking, they were unaware of his presence.

"For or agin?"

"Agin, a'course. Kid that young'll panic first time he has to hack the black. Ya know whaddi mean. Shit himself all over!" The first one gave a malicious chuckle of anticipation.

"I doan think he will," the other said defensively. "General thinks he'd make it."

"Then why'nt he being trained? Been here how many weeks now?"

"I dunno. Hear tell they doan wanna rush him, 'cos he's sorta fragile'n stuff. Sure is skinny."

"Ha! We wasn't given no time. We hadda go out an'that was that!"

"That's what we wuz hired for, dink. He's not just a grunt, ya know. Notice how he walks? Just like he was in a suit. Sort of smooth like." The man made a gliding gesture.

"Putcher money where yer mouth is."

"Sure! An' we book the bet with Kibon. You ain't goin' slip me on this."

"You're on. Slip me into a good downside binge, you will." And the first man held out a hand to his buddy. Peter inserted himself in a doorway in case they caught a glimpse of him. They turned a corner at the next junction.

Peter digested that conversation and perked up considerably. Bets on him, were there? That he'd shit himself? Peter chuckled bitterly. They didn't know much about him, did they? He almost wished he could pee. Even if he couldn't hack the black, there wouldn't be that sort of evidence for anyone to see. But he knew he would hack it. He wanted to be out in space so badly. He wanted to prove to Johnny and the admiral that he was more than just a transport mechanic. He could match construction units so smoothly no one would ever have to worry about them tumbling out of control from reaction. He knew his physics: any action in no-gravity conditions caused a reaction. He had more control than any other kinetic, even Lance Baden. Why, he could speed up the construction of the Arrakis by months if they'd only let him help. He'd already 'ported many of its components into space. Placing them inside the hull would be child's play. He'd studied the Andre Notion's designs-it was the sister ship of the Arrakis-so throughly he could close his eyes and still put anything in place. He'd wanted to be personally involved ever since his first glimpse of the Andre Notion at the Inauguration ceremony. When the admiral had invited him up to view the completed colony ship, he hoped he'd have a chance of working on the next one. All right, he couldn't be a colonist. He'd accepted that. But that didn't mean he couldn't have an integral part in the construction of the other two "A-type" colony ships. He'd take a vital step toward that dream if he could just talk them into letting him in space…

He'd do it now. He'd ask now. After all, the worst that could happen was to be told "no."

When Peter Reidinger suddenly appeared in the admiral's outer office, Yeoman Nicola Nizukami was surprised. He'd never before just appeared out of thin air, though she knew he could do such things. She didn't need to be psychic to see that the kinetic was nervous. He was very pale and his Adam's apple kept jumping up and down in his throat. She wondered if he could sweat like other males.

"Are you all right, Mr. Reidinger?" she asked, wondering what to do if he fainted or something. She knew some of his history as did everyone on the Station but, in this encounter, she seemed not to have all the information she should. She knew the admiral didn't expect him.

"If the admiral's available. I mean, I don't want to interrupt or anything," he managed to say.

She gave him an encouraging smile. He was much too skinny, she thought. Why doesn't someone put some weight on his bones!

He blinked and she caught her breath, hoping he hadn't read what she'd been thinking. She'd been briefed as everyone had on the Station, that he would be too well mannered to do that. The psychics considered uninvited mental intrusion against professional scruples.

"I'll just see if he's free," she said hastily, lifting her wristcom to her lips. "Admiral Coetzer, Mr. Reidinger would like a moment of your time."

"Send him in," was the immediate response.

She turned to operate the door control and she thought again that the kid would faint he had turned so white.

"He won't bite you, Mr. Reidinger," she whispered, and stood aside, giving him an encouraging wave.

Slowly he glided forward, like an ensign knowing he was in for a tongue-lashing, she thought. Not that Admiral Coetzer was a martinet. And Mr. Reidinger was definitely in the admiral's good book. The door slid shut. Yeoman Nizukami resumed processing the many end-of-month reports to the Space Authority Headquarters downside.

She was interrupted by an incredible wave of exultation and looked around her, trying to figure out the source and reason. She was alone. The door to the admiral's office slid open and Peter Reidinger soared out. She blinked because he was a good foot off the floor.

"Ahem, Pete," said the admiral, who had followed him to the threshold. "You're levitating. Nicola won't mind but you might turn a few heads in the corridor." There was a big smile on Coetzer's broad pleasant face and an expression of paternal affection for his visitor.

"Oh! Thanks, sir," and Mr. Reidinger descended. He beamed at Nicola, shaking his head ever so slightly as the outer door opened and he glided out into the corridor, feet on the ground and knees lifting in his usual approximation of an ordinary gait.

Nicola was used to all kinds of people coming and going from the admiral's office and just about every sort of response to interviews but to see someone sailing past her was most unusual.

"Sir?" she said, in the hopes of an explanation.

Dirk Coetzer laughed, rubbing his hands together with immense satisfaction. "Just made that young man very happy by giving him permission to do exactly what I want him to do."

"Sir?" Nicola was no wiser.

"Get me CPO Ryk Silversmith on the comm," and the admiral turned back into his office, chuckling and continuing to scrub his hands.

Whose exultation, then, had she thought she felt? She had a useful amount of empathy that made her a good secretary. As she obediently got Chief Petty Officer Silversmith on the comm, she realized that he was in charge of training personnel in EVA.

So Pete couldn't wait any longer, huh?" Johnny said when Coetzer contacted him about the interview.

"He was the shade of a sheet," Dirk said, delighted to be able to discuss this remarkable development with the man who'd most appreciate it. He chuckled. "He'd've been shaking like a leaf, if he could. Took all my self-control not to whoop out loud."

"So he got up the gumption to ask." Johnny grinned smugly. "I wonder what prompted him. Not that I'm not delighted. I've seen him staring at every team of grunts, broadcasting envy. But I like him making his own move. Oh, well, EVAs not my favorite pastime but I'll get my suit checked out."

"You're not involved," Dirk Coetzer said.

"I'm not?" The general sounded indignant. "I promised Rhyssa I wouldn't-"

"Silversmith'll train him. Same way he trained you, I understand."

"Silversmith?" There was a brief pause on the other end of the comlink. That was the second time in a day the admiral had trouble suppressing laughter. "None better."

"Thought you'd see it like that. You and I, however, can discreetly follow his progress. You can accompany him on his first official EVA, I'll grant you that much."

"You mean you won't go along, too, Dirk?" Johnny's tone was sly.

"I get a few perks, you know." He allowed himself to chuckle then. "That is, of course, if he can hack the black."

"Care to make a bet?"

"No, I don't think I do," the admiral said in a slow drawl. "But you'll get pretty good odds if you check with Kibon, the Station bookie."

"They're making book on it?"

Dirk Coetzer gave a deprecating snort. "Scuttlebutt about Reidinger has been… quite informative."

"I'll check out the odds first."

"Don't tell me you're skeptical?"

"Dirk, I want to be sure whose money I'd be taking on a sure thing. I don't want one of those offies you have up there looking to waste me."

CPO Ryk Silversmith was a compact man, one of the few who took advantage of the naval tradition of wearing a beard, grizzled and neatly trimmed against his jawline. Scuttlebutt suggested he waxed it at night. He had not previously encountered his latest student but he was well aware of the bets laid for and against Reidinger's ability to hack the black. He'd heard that one of the offies, a janitor, had placed an enormous sum against the lad. His reputation as a trainer did not permit him to bet on a student. So far there'd been no casualties among his graduates. He did wonder when he saw the skinny kid sitting as bolt upright as a cadet, if maybe this one would ruin his record. He'd also been adroitly informed that this Reidinger was special so he'd better pass.

A half hour into the first session of classroom basics, and Silversmith was of two minds whether or not to like the kid. Reidinger knew his physics better than any newly commissioned ensign. The naval manual on EMU maintenance and repair was up on his notepad. Though he listened intently to Silversmith's spiel on space suits, it was as if the kid was checking a mental list to be sure the chief didn't miss a point. Kid didn't act know-it-all either; wasn't the least bit smart-ass, respectful but not an ass-licker. Whatever. Silversmith proceeded inexorably with the standard introductory session. When, as was his habit, he required Reidinger to repeat from time to time what he had just said, the answer was spot-on. At the end of the hour, he hauled out the demonstration model.

"This," he said, flipping the sleeves, tapping the helmet and the belt, "is an extravehicular mobility suit. Also known as a space suit, Mr. Reidinger. You will refer to it from now on as an EMU. Do you read me?"

His student was staring at the EMU with such shining eyes and eagerness that Silversmith had to clamp down hard on the usual sarcastic retorts he had coined over the years, to depress the stupid ideas some dinks-and he included Reidinger in that number-had about extravehicular activities and/or space suits.

"You will need one. You will never exit this Station without the one that has been assigned you and without checking your EMU before and after every use. Do you read me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Reidinger?" the chief barked.

"Sir?"

"I'm not a 'sir.' I'm Chief. Chief Silversmith to be explicit. Get me?"

"Yes! Chief Silversmith."

"Strip off that coverall," and the chief, not to spare Reidinger's feelings but because he didn't care to waste any unnecessary time on modesty, turned slightly to one side, looking at his clipboard.

To his surprise, the kid immediately peeled off his one-piece coverall and stood in his briefs. Looking at the long, skinny frame, with very little muscle on it, Silversmith knew there wouldn't have been anything on board the Padrugoi that could be made to fit. Seemed a shame to waste money on a custom job when who knew if the kid could cut the mustard. Bets were heavy against him. The Chief had seen worse physical specimens make out but he had his doubts about Reidinger. Orders were orders and Silversmith deftly took the necessary measurements, slightly puzzled by the odd bulge down the kid's left side. Funny place to wear a security pouch. He gestured for Reidinger to dress.

"Take a while to make your suit up, Reidinger," and he tapped the clipboard with his lightpen. "Next lesson's 0900 tomorrow."

"Yes, Chief. Thank you, Chief Silversmith." And the kid sort of flowed out of the room.

Silversmith was surprised when Reidinger's EMU came up from down-side two days later. He inspected it, to be certain the dimensions matched his exact measurements. The helmet was fitted out with unusual toggles and pressure switches and the two halves of the EMU had far more sensor pads than regulation ones. Even those for officers. He called downside for an explanation, ready to chew out the manufacturer if needed.

"Additional specs came in with your figures, Chief. Tongueswitches and special pressure points so the wearer can use the jetpack. Sensor pads to register heartbeat, respiration, bp, that sort of medical stuff. Everything's according to the special instructions I got from the admiral's office. Initialed by him, too. Know his fist."

Chief kept his opinion of special instructions he didn't know about to himself, though he examined the additions carefully. There were some odd things about that kid. Was it wishful thinking on the admiral's part that Reidinger would pass without a hitch? Or did the admiral know something about the kid that he didn't already know from scuttlebutt?

Instruction nearly came to a halt on the day when the chief considered Reidinger was ready to put on his space suit for the first time. He had already drilled the kid on the special tongue-switches and pressure points in the headpiece. "Minute your helmet's locked in place, you gotta have air and it's smart to have your comunit operating, too. You got that?"

"I got it, Chief."

"Now, Reidinger, you start with the pants of a space suit, like this," and Silversmith stepped into his pants, one leg at a time, and demonstrated the private connections. The kid looked squeamish. Well, if he wanted to get into space, he'd better get used to it. When Silversmith had the pants on, he sat down. Activating the automatics, he held his arms above his head as the upper part of his suit lowered slowly, enclosed his arms, and enveloped his torso until it settled on his shoulders, leaving his head free. There had been many changes in space suit manufacture since the Russian Yuri Gagarin was launched above the Earth. If they were now less cumbersome they were still awkward to put on. Even if a man could get suited up by himself these days.

Reidinger gave the most imperceptible shake of his head.

"What's the matter, Reidinger? It's simple enough. Step in, plug yourself up to the sanitary stuff, sit, then activate this button," and the chief touched the control again.

"I can't do it that way, Chief."

"Whaddya mean, you can't do it this way? Only way you can…" The chief stared, shook his head, because the kid was somehow in the pants with the top coming down over him and the chief knew no one could get into a space suit that fast.

"You gotta attach the evacuation tubes," he said.

"I did." The kid's face fired up.

"I didn't see you," the chief said bluntly.

"I did. I just have to do it differently."

"I'll just check you out on that," the chief said, separating his words angrily. Giving a practiced heave to his feet, he strode over to Reidinger who got to his feet, oddly more graceful than most their first time in a suit. The chief lifted the kid's right arm to see the readout on the belt. "How'd you do that?"

"But I did, didn't I?"

"How'd you do that?" the chief repeated.

"I'm a kinetic." Reidinger offered that as a complete explanation. That did nothing to mollify the chief's growing annoyance. "I don't move the way you do." With that, the helmet lifted from its rack and settled over the kid's head. Without assistance, it locked into place. "Like this." His voice was muffled.

The chief stared at his suited pupil. Automatically he grabbed the kid's shoulder and twisted him to inspect the suit lights. If the kid suffocated himself, who'd they blame? Air was flowing and the comunit light was green. The chief snapped his mouth shut on a desire to snarl at the kid. He got control of his temper.

"All right then, let's run through the purpose of all those fancy switches so I know you know why you're pressing what."

The chief's tone bordered on the sarcastic. He swallowed his disappointment when Reidinger ran through the additions, naming each one correctly. Of course, neither wore jetpacks for this session. If, and the chief paused lovingly after the conjunction, if the kid got any further in his EVA training and ever needed to use a suit's jetpack.

"All right, Mister Reidinger!" The chief placed his helmet on his head and locked it into the safety position with a jerk that almost put him off balance. He backed up to Reidinger. "You check my EMU lights now."

"All green, Chief."

"Right, Reidinger." The chief moved with accustomed ease from the ready room to the airlock. He almost wished that the safety net was not in place outside. That the kid would freak out when he saw nothing between him and anything else beyond the airlock. He hadn'tplaced a bet since that went against his scruples. Now he wished he'd had Chief Turnbull place an anonymous one with Kibon. Winning would do much to absorb his growing irritation. Then there was his suspicion that the kid had somehow faked the sanitary connections. It'd be his own fault if he messed himself.

The chief punched his glove at the wide pad that closed the inner hatch. He waited until it had cycled from green to red. He walked to the outer one, and his peevishness increased when he saw how smoothly Reidinger moved in the EMU, like he was still gliding. Chief tried to damp down his reaction but this skinny kid in a custom made suit that must have cost the Station critical credits was getting on his wick.

"Right! I'm going to open the airlock," and he slammed his fist on the red-colored pad. The green light went off and the warning blink of "airlock activated" came up. The "open door" hooter began. The hatch moved slowly into the hull. "Reidinger, what's the first thing you do now?"

"Clip on my safety tether," Reidinger said.

"Do so!"

With a grand gesture, the chief waved him forward, keenly anticipating that the kid would draw back in horror as he caught sight of wide-open, black space. Of course the net was there and the area floodlighted so the full impact was reduced. But he'd seen so many freak out. Most needed a little push and he was lifting his arm to give one. Before he could make contact with the kid's back, he'd stepped off the edge like a willing sacrifice to this challenge of his courage.

Silversmith listened hard to hear panic breathing, a cry, anything. What he heard was one quick inhalation of breath, and a small, soft sigh. No freaking out, no scream of terror. Reidinger floated gently outward, without flailing his arms or legs, his initial step into space taking him slowly to the end of his tether. Then he made an expert turn and faced up, looking out beyond the lights of the Station Wheel to black space.

The chief gave a surprised grunt and, clipping his tether onto the bar over the hatch, he pushed off to the upwardly dangling Reidinger. The kid was unaware of his approach and, before Silversmith reached him, he began hauling himself down the net, turning his head in every direction as if he couldn't get enough.

From the moment the Chief gestured him out of the airlock, Peter was oblivious to anything else. He paused only a moment and let himself fall into space. Oh, he was peripherally aware that there was a space net but it didnot obscure his view of the black. And he could hack it! Gratefully! Yes, he thought to himself, remembering to breathe after what was an almost overwhelming spiritual awakening, yes, I am in space. I can hack the black! I love the black!

Then he let himself float outward, completely in control of his body. He had taken good heed of the maxim "action causes reaction in space." He had never felt such utter freedom, even the moment he had learned to move his body kinetically. That was a poor second to his elation now. He felt the little tug of his space tether and, making exactly the appropriate move, turned to face up, the lights of the Station Wheel glittering in his face plate, a benediction from Padrugoi herself. Smiling to himself, Peter began to explore the limits of the net, looking constantly around him, taking it all in! At last! This was where he belonged. In space!

"So young Reidinger can hack the black. Well done, Chief," said the admiral's voice on Silversmith's helmet comm, startling him into a violent action of dismay. "Well done, Chief."

Catching himself with a deft twitch of his safety line, the chief closed his eyes and mentally reviewed the last half hour. How long had the admiral been watching? Listening? Had he said anything to the kid that he'd be called on to explain? Who'd patched his comunit to the admiral's private channel?

"General Greene said he'd be a natural. He was right," the admiral added to the chief's utter chagrin.

"Aye, sir, he certainly is," Silversmith hastily agreed. "Like he'd been in space all his life."

"Well, certainly the past four years or so," the admiral remarked enigmatically. "Tomorrow you can belay that net and use a longer tether. Drill him on maneuvering. I want you to put him through every emergency routine we've got in the manual."

"Aye, sir. Of course, sir." With a sense of reprieve, Silversmith heard the faint click that meant the admiral was off-line. "All right, now, Reidinger. See if you can get your ass back to the airlock."

Increasing the chief's vexation, Reidinger gave just enough of a twitch to the safety tether to drift slowly back to the lock.

"Now," the chief said in a steely voice, "see if you can make a smooth passage to the downside of the net."

If the admiral wanted this kid to be competent in space, there was no time like the present to begin the drill. Silversmith kept him at it until he heard the click again.

"Are you still out there with him, Chief?" asked the admiral.

"Aye, sir. He's a natural, sir."

"That's enough for his first space walk, Chief."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Silversmith had to haul on Reidinger's tether to get him back to the airlock. When the chief removed the kid's helmet in the ready room, there was a rapt look on his face that worried Silversmith more than any other reaction could. Reidinger was space-mad. He was going to have to watch this one.

Silversmith was also present in the mess when he heard that the heavy offie bettor had to pay up, damned near roughing Kibon up. The winners in the CPO's mess were loud with celebrations of an easy win. Silversmith made a note of the man's name-Bert Ponce-so he could check the records on what the guy had done to get him sent up to the Station. The chief was a little surprised not to be able to access those records but he did find out that Ponce was stuck up here as a menial worker until his natural death. Whatever he'd done, it had to have been worse than awful. One thing sure, after losing every credit in his account (and Silversmith did discover that Ponce had a lot of credits), the guy wanted the kid's guts. The Chief hated a sore loser.

So, for two good reasons, Silversmith never took his eyes off the kid as he put him through every space acrobatic he knew of, ready to lasso the kid in if he started drifting to outer space. Grudgingly, the chief had to admit that the kid never disobeyed him, never lost control, never resorted to any of the antics some space-happy yeomen did. But he was always alert. You never knew with that type. The chief made sure Reidinger could cope with a damaged oxygen connection, with drifting, with tumbling, with suit pressure dropping (and a "technical" leak in his EMU). Since the admiral said the kid's main job would be matching construction units without causing any action that would, in turn, cause displacement, Silversmith made him "join" empty tanks over and over. Reidinger acted as if this was the greatest treat in occupied space. Silversmith got more and more nervous. Something would happen. He was sure of it. The training could not go on without some sort of glitch. Somehow that sonovabitch Ponce would take revenge on the kid for losing him so much credit. The situation wasn't normal.

After Silversmith had to agree that Reidinger could hack the black, he welcomed the addition of General Greene to the team working on the Arrakis's hull. Not that that put a stop to Reidinger's fascination with space. The general, Silversmith noticed, was keeping as close an eye on the kid as he was. As if the brass didn't think the chief was making a thorough job of training the kid.

Admiral Coetzer made matters worse by joining the three of them to watch Reidinger's first assignment-taking a heavy drive component from the net and manipulating it across the fifty yards of space to the hole in the hull left open for convenient insertion.

"Nice work, Reidinger," the admiral said with, to Silversmith's mind, just the right degree of approval. "I think we would certify him as space-safe now, wouldn't you, Chief?"

Silversmith hoped that Admiral Coetzer, or the general who was hovering even closer to the chief, did not accurately interpret his gargle of surprise.

"Aye, sir, I do believe you could, sir," he responded hastily and with appropriate sincerity.

"Good. Continue, Reidinger. We've got a deadline to meet and you're going to make all the difference. Carry on, Chief," Coetzer added to Silversmith. Then, with due care, the admiral activated his jetpack and returned to the Station.

Silversmith was acutely aware that the general remained for the duration of the EVA, observing Reidinger and limiting his remarks. He kept himself tethered to the net rim, which suggested to the chief that the general was not as happy in space as the kid was. He wondered if he should mention Bert Ponce to the general. Of course, he had nothing but a gut feeling that the offie wanted to get back at the kid. And how could he get to Reidinger when he was wearing an offie's double wristband?

Silversmith had to spend a full six days space-dogging Reidinger as he worked in and outside the Arrakis hull. On the second day of this purgatory, Silversmith noticed that the construction crews must have been detailed to keep their eyes open, too. There were always at least five nearby, just in case the kid tumbled himself or some of the expensive units he was handling. It aggravated the chief no end that the kid moved expertly among the components moored by tethers around the hull. It was like watching a quarterhorse-the chief had spent the first eighteen years of his life on a cattle ranch outside Austin-work a calf out of the herd. Reidinger would home in on the required item, give it just the right spin or push to send it out of the net and to the exact place it would spend the rest of its working life in the hull.

Reidinger seemed to know an awful lot about the internal design features of the Arrakis, too. He didn't argue, but at times, even the on-site naval architect and the construction boss, even the general, deferred to him. That galled Silversmith even more. To cap it all, the admiral gave Silversmith a commendation for his "expert training and guidance of one Peter Reidinger to the level of space-safe required by the Authority." Silversmith was torn between hoping the kid never did tumble off into space, thus keeping the chief's record untarnished, and hoping the kid disappeared without trace, a victim of the black. Perversely, the chief put one of his own secret security locks on the rack where the kid's suit hung. No grunt, blackmailed by that Ponce scuz, was going to sabotage it. The chief had a reputation to maintain.

When Silversmith was given another assignment, he removed his security lock, never realizing that several attempts had been made to open that rack; none, of course, successful.

Then he heard that Reidinger had conned one of the Limo pilots into training him on the Station's simulators. He supposed that the admiral would check the kid out on them, too, and decided that the navy had gone to hell in a handbasket if it would certify the spacemad on a self-destruction course.

On the few subsequent times when the chief happened to pass Reidinger in the corridors, he didn't look quite so much like a kid anymore.