To Ride Pegasus

Gillings was not looking at the graphs. He was staring at Charlie.

“Next time, aim at the chest first, mister.”

“Sorry I stopped him at all…mister,” replied Charlie, with such deliberate malice that Gillings colored and stepped towards him.

Op Owen quickly intervened. “You dislike, distrust and hate us, Commissioner,” he said, keeping his own voice neutral with effort. “You and your staff has prejudged us guilty, though you are at this moment surrounded by incontrovertible evidence of our collective innocence. You arrived here, emanating disruptive emotions-no, I’m not reading your minds, gentlemen.” Daffyd had all Gillings’s attention with that phrase. “That isn’t necessary. You’re triggering responses in the most controlled of us-not to mention that poor witless telempath we had to tranquillize. And, unless you put a lid on your unwarranted hatred and fears, I will have no compunction about pumping you all full of tranks, too!”

“That’s coming on mighty strong for a man in your position, Owen,” Gillings said in a tight hard voice, his body visibly tense now.

“You’re the one that’s coming on strong, Gillings. Look at that dial behind you.”

Gillings did not want to turn, particularly not at op Owen’s command, but there is a quality of righteous anger that compels obedience.

“That registers-as Harold Orley does-the psychic intensity of the atmosphere.

The mind gives off electrical impulses, Gillings, surely you have to admit that.

Law enforcement agencies used that premise for lie detection. Our instrumentation makes those early registers as archaic as space ships make oxcarts. We have ultra-delicate equipment which can measure the minutest electrical impulses of varying frequencies and duration.

And this PA dial registers a dangerous high right now. Surely your eyes must accept scientific evidence.

“Those rows of panels there record the psychic activity of each and every member registered with this Center. See, most of them register agitation right now.

These red divisions indicate a sixty-minute time span. Each of those drums exposes the graph as of the time of that theft. Notice the difference. Not one graph shows the kinetic activity required of a ‘lifter’ to achieve such a theft.

But every one shows a reaction to your presence.

“There is no way in which a registered Talent can avoid these graphs. Charlie, were any kinetics out of touch at the time of the theft?”

Charlie, his eyes locked on Gillings, shook his head slowly.

“There never has been so much as a civil misdemeanor by any of our people. No breach of confidence, nor integrity. No crime could be shielded from fellow Talents.

“And can you rationally believe that we would jeopardize years and years of struggle to become accepted as reliable citizens of indisputable integrity for the sake of a fur coat and a string of baubles? When there are funds available to any Talent who might want to own such fripperies?” Op Owen’s scorn made the Cole man wince.

“Now get out of here, Gillings. Discipline your emotions and revise your snap conclusion. Then call through normal channels and request our cooperation.

Because, believe me, we are far more determined…and better equipped…to discover the real criminal than you could ever be, no matter what your personal stake in assigning guilt might conceivably be.”

Op Owen watched for a reaction to that remark but Gillings, his lips thin and white with anger, did not betray himself. He gestured jerkily towards the one man in police blues.

“Do not serve that warrant now, Gillings!” op Owen said in a very soft voice. He watched the frantic activity of the needle on the PA dial.

“Go. Now. Call. Because if you cannot contain your feelings, Commissioner, you had better maintain your distance.”

It was then that Gillings became aware of the palpable presence of those assembled in the corridor. A wide aisle had been left free, an aisle that led only to the open elevator. No one spoke or moved or coughed. The force exerted was not audible nor physical. It was, however, undeniably unanimous. It prevailed in forty-four seconds.

“My firm will wish to know what steps are being taken,” the Cole’s man said in a squeaky voice as he began to walk, with erratic but ever quickening steps, towards the elevator.

Gillings’s three subordinates were not so independent, but there was no doubt of their relief as Gillings turned and walked with precise, unhurried strides to the waiting car.

No one moved until the thwapping rumble of the copter was no longer audible.

Then they turned for assignments from their director.

City Manager Julian Pennstrak, with a metropolis of some four million to supervise, had a habit of checking up personally on any disruption to the smooth operation of his city. He arrived as the last of the organized search parties left the Center.

“I’d give my left kidney and a million credits to have enough Talent to judge a man accurately, Dave,” he said as he crossed the room. He knew better than to shake hands unless a Talented offered but it was obvious to Daffyd, who liked Pennstrak, that the man wanted somehow to convey his personal distress over this incident. He stood for a moment by the chair, his handsome face without a trace of his famous genial smile. “I’d’ve sworn Frank Gillings was pro-Talent,” he said, combing his fingers through his thick, wavy black hair, another indication of his anxiety. “He certainly has used your people to their fullest capabilities since he became LEO Commissioner.”