upstairs.”
“Duoml’s returned to the station,” Rhyssa said.
“We’ll just borrow Hangar Q again for another handy little demonstration. I’ll work out the details. Hey, you’re looking mighty good today. New hairstyle? Sure shows off your skunk streak.” Her screen diffused on another of his famous confidence-inspiring grins.
Skunk streak indeed, she thought, her fingers smoothing it back. At least he had noticed. With a sigh, she went back to her analyses, until she realized that she had not heard another squeak from Dorotea.
Then, as abruptly as the contact had been broken, Dorotea returned.
Well, I said I’d come back as soon as I could. It’s too soon to be sure
what
he does do, Rhyssa, but he apparently taps into electrical sources. He’s been glitching the hospital circuits fit to drive the electrician
and
a high-priced consultant barmy. And it also explains
why
he couldn’t cope with the body brace: the impulses which were fed directly into his synapses were short-circuiting inherent abilities, so the poor lad was trying to cope with an overload. Sue Romero is in bits thinking of all she’s been doing to Peter, and he’s in a state because he had no way of explaining why the body brace was all
wrong
for him . . . and the head nurse, Miz Allen, is one of those by-the-bookers and compounded the problem. Oh, his family are delighted, especially to know that Peter will not be “handicapped”—but their heads read “crippled, useless, financial drain.” It’ll be standard contract until he’s eighteen and fully trained.
Here’s one kinetic Barchenka won’t get her space gloves on!
When can you bring him home?
We’re on our way!
Dorotea replied triumphantly.
Get Roddy’s room in my house ready.
She shot Rhyssa a mental glimpse of Space-Force posters on every wall, models of space shuttles, mass passenger hotols, stealths, space labs, and generation ships descending from the ceiling, and a bunk bed with desk space below.
Nothing could be more distant from the antiseptic environment he’s been living in for months.
The physical meeting between Rhyssa Owen and Peter Reidinger was not quite an anticlimax. Dorotea had warned her that Peter’s mother and older sister were accompanying him in the heli-amb, excited but slightly apprehensive at his new circumstances.
Ilsa Reidinger was a pleasant enough woman, terribly concerned for and certainly extremely proud of her Petey. She struggled with a less than congenial job in order to help meet the medical bills. The sixteen-year-old sister, Katya, was what Dorotea called “pushy,” trying to figure out how her brother’s good fortune might spill over on her and disgruntled that Peter had Talent and she had none. Dorotea said that Katya resented Peter because the cost of his hospitalization had kept her from having many of the things that she, the elder child, ought to have been able to enjoy.
Perfectly understandable reaction,
Dorotea told Rhyssa as the women deftly maneuvered Peter’s gurney into Dorotea’s house and on through into Roddy’s room.
Both telepaths could feel Peter’s spirit lifting as he saw the unmedical furnishings and artifacts.
“But how’ll you do all that has to be done
for
him all the time?” Ilsa Reidinger began in surprise.
“Oh, Peter’ll only need a little help in the beginning, Mrs. Reidinger,” Dorotea said. Her mental
Alley oop
was the signal for Rick Hobson to “lift” Peter up into the bunk bed. “Now, let’s all clear out and let him settle himself in. And,” Dorotea added as she shooed everyone before her, “the heli-amb is waiting to take you and your daughter home. Here’s the vid number. As you saw, Peter has a set in the room. Call him any time. Unlike the hospital, here you can see what mischief he’s getting into. All right?”
Dorotea’s positive manner made refusal impossible, and soon the heli-amb was thunking its way up out of the Center’s grounds.
Rick, hook me up a
“Duoml’s returned to the station,” Rhyssa said.
“We’ll just borrow Hangar Q again for another handy little demonstration. I’ll work out the details. Hey, you’re looking mighty good today. New hairstyle? Sure shows off your skunk streak.” Her screen diffused on another of his famous confidence-inspiring grins.
Skunk streak indeed, she thought, her fingers smoothing it back. At least he had noticed. With a sigh, she went back to her analyses, until she realized that she had not heard another squeak from Dorotea.
Then, as abruptly as the contact had been broken, Dorotea returned.
Well, I said I’d come back as soon as I could. It’s too soon to be sure
what
he does do, Rhyssa, but he apparently taps into electrical sources. He’s been glitching the hospital circuits fit to drive the electrician
and
a high-priced consultant barmy. And it also explains
why
he couldn’t cope with the body brace: the impulses which were fed directly into his synapses were short-circuiting inherent abilities, so the poor lad was trying to cope with an overload. Sue Romero is in bits thinking of all she’s been doing to Peter, and he’s in a state because he had no way of explaining why the body brace was all
wrong
for him . . . and the head nurse, Miz Allen, is one of those by-the-bookers and compounded the problem. Oh, his family are delighted, especially to know that Peter will not be “handicapped”—but their heads read “crippled, useless, financial drain.” It’ll be standard contract until he’s eighteen and fully trained.
Here’s one kinetic Barchenka won’t get her space gloves on!
When can you bring him home?
We’re on our way!
Dorotea replied triumphantly.
Get Roddy’s room in my house ready.
She shot Rhyssa a mental glimpse of Space-Force posters on every wall, models of space shuttles, mass passenger hotols, stealths, space labs, and generation ships descending from the ceiling, and a bunk bed with desk space below.
Nothing could be more distant from the antiseptic environment he’s been living in for months.
The physical meeting between Rhyssa Owen and Peter Reidinger was not quite an anticlimax. Dorotea had warned her that Peter’s mother and older sister were accompanying him in the heli-amb, excited but slightly apprehensive at his new circumstances.
Ilsa Reidinger was a pleasant enough woman, terribly concerned for and certainly extremely proud of her Petey. She struggled with a less than congenial job in order to help meet the medical bills. The sixteen-year-old sister, Katya, was what Dorotea called “pushy,” trying to figure out how her brother’s good fortune might spill over on her and disgruntled that Peter had Talent and she had none. Dorotea said that Katya resented Peter because the cost of his hospitalization had kept her from having many of the things that she, the elder child, ought to have been able to enjoy.
Perfectly understandable reaction,
Dorotea told Rhyssa as the women deftly maneuvered Peter’s gurney into Dorotea’s house and on through into Roddy’s room.
Both telepaths could feel Peter’s spirit lifting as he saw the unmedical furnishings and artifacts.
“But how’ll you do all that has to be done
for
him all the time?” Ilsa Reidinger began in surprise.
“Oh, Peter’ll only need a little help in the beginning, Mrs. Reidinger,” Dorotea said. Her mental
Alley oop
was the signal for Rick Hobson to “lift” Peter up into the bunk bed. “Now, let’s all clear out and let him settle himself in. And,” Dorotea added as she shooed everyone before her, “the heli-amb is waiting to take you and your daughter home. Here’s the vid number. As you saw, Peter has a set in the room. Call him any time. Unlike the hospital, here you can see what mischief he’s getting into. All right?”
Dorotea’s positive manner made refusal impossible, and soon the heli-amb was thunking its way up out of the Center’s grounds.
Rick, hook me up a
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