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You'll get your package! replied the Rowan, and the dynamos keened piercingly just once as the ten tons disappeared out of the cradle.
Why, you little minx… slow it down or I'll bum 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 shields.
I want that stuff in one piece, not smeared a millimeter thin on the surface, my dear, the voice said sternly. Okay, I've got it. Thanks! We need this.
Hey, who the blazes are you? What's your placement?
Deneb Sender, my dear, and a busy little boy right now. Ta ta.
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. The Rowan had met her match. No one except a T-l could have projected that far. There'd been no mention of another T-l at FT & T, and, as far as Ackerman knew, FT & T had all of the five known T-ls. However, Deneb was now in its third generation and colonial peculiarities had produced the Rowan in two.
"Hey, people," Ackerman said, "sock up your shields. 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 from a ground man on the Altair hurdle and the waybill designated Live shipment 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. He had no precedents to go on and the Rowan wasn't leaking any clues. She spun the day's lot in and out with careless ease. By the time Jupiter's bulk had moved around to blanket out-system traffic, Callisto's day was over, and the Rowan wasn't off-power as much as decibel one. Once the in-Sun traffic was finished with, Ackerman signed off for the day. The computer banks and dynamos were slapped off… but the Rowan did not come down.
Ray Loftus and Afra, the Capellan T-4, came over to sit on the edge of Ackerman's desk. They took out cigarettes. As usual, Afra's yellow eyes began to water from the smoke.
"I was going to ask her Highness to give me a lift home," Loftus said, "but I du
He disappeared. A moment later, Ackerman could see him near a perso
Powers joined Afra and Ackerman. "She's sure in a fu
Anyone else?
Adier and Toglia spoke up and promptly disappeared together. Ackerman and Powers exchanged looks which they hastily suppressed as the Rowan appeared before them, smiling. It was the first time that welcome and totally unexpected expression had crossed her face for two weeks.
She smiled but said nothing. She took a drag of Ackerman's cigarette and handed it back with a thank-you. For all her temperament, the Rowan acted with propriety face to face. She had grown up with her skill, carefully taught by the old and original T-l, Siglen, the Altairian. She'd had certain courtesies drilled into her: the less gifted could be alienated by inappropriate use of talent. She was perfectly justified in "reaching" things during business hours, but she employed the usual methods at other times.
"The big boys mention our Denebian friend before?" she asked, all too casually.
Ackerman shook his head. "Those planets are three generations colonized, and you came out of Altair in two."
"That could explain it, but there isn't even an FT & T station. And you know they advertise continuously for anyone with Talent."
"He's a wild talent?" Powers helpfully suggested.
"Too far off the beaten track." She shook her head. "I checked it. All I can get from Center is that they received an urgent call about a virus, were given a rundown on the syndrome and symptoms. Lab came up with a serum, batched and packed it. They were assured that there was someone capable of picking it up and taking it the rest of the way past 24.578.82 if a Prime would get it that far. And that's all anybody knows." Then she added thoughtfully, "Deneb VIII isn't a very big colony."
Oh, we're big enough, sweetheart, interrupted the drawling voice. Sorry to get you after hours, my dear, but I can't seem to get in to Terra and I heard you coloring the atmosphere.
What's wrong? the Rowan asked. Did you smear your serum after all that proud talk?
Smear it hell! I've been drinking it. We've got some ET visitors. They think they're exterminators. Thirty UFO's are perched four thousand miles above us. That batch of serum you wafted out to me this morning was for the sixth virus we've been socked with in the last two weeks. Soon as our boys whip up something to knock out one, another takes its place. Ifs always worse than the one before. We've lost 25 percent of our population already and this last virus is a beaut. I want two top germdogs out here on the double and about three patrol squadrons. We're fiat on our backs now. I doubt our friends will hover around, dousing us with nasty bugs much longer. They're going to start blowing holes in us any minute now. So sort of push the word along to Earth, will you, sweetheart? And get us some heavy support!
I'll relay, naturally. But why don't you send direct?
To whom? You're the only one I can hear.
Your isolation won't last much longer if I know my bosses.
You may know your bosses, but you don't know me.
That can always be arranged.
This is no time for flirting. Get that message through for me like a good girl.
Which message?
The one I just gave you.
That old one? They say you can have two germdogs in the morning as soon as we clear Jupiter. But Earth says no squadrons. No armed attack.
You can double-talk too, huh? You're talented. But the morning does us no good. Now is when we need them. Can't you sling them… no, they might leave a few important atoms or something in Jupiter's mass. But I've got to have some pretty potent help, and if six viruses don't constitute armed attack, what does?
Missiles constitute armed attack, the Rowan said primly.
I'll notify my friends up there. Missiles would be preferable. Them I can see, I need those germdogs now. Can't you turn your sweet little mind to a solution?
As you mentioned, it's after hours.
By the Horsehead, woman! the drawl was replaced by a cutting mental roar. My friends are dying!
Look, after hours here means we're behind Jupiter… But… Wait! How deep is your range?
I don't honestly know. And doubt crept into the bodiless voice in their minds.
"Ackerman." The Rowan turned to her stationmaster.
"I've been listening."
Hang on, Deneb, I've got an idea. I'll deliver your germdogs. Open to me in half an hour.
The Rowan whirled on Ackerman. "I want my shell." Her brilliant eyes were flashing and her face was alight. "Afra!"
The station's T-4, a handsome yellow-eyed Capellan, raised himself from the chair in which he'd been quietly watching her. Afra was second in command of the station.
"Yes, Rowan?"
Abruptly she realized that her mental conversation with the Denebian had been heard by all the others. Her fleeting frown was replaced by the miraculous smile that always disconcerted Ackerman with its hint of suppressed passion. She looked at each of the men, bathing them in that smile.