To Ride Pegasus (28 page)

Op Owen sincerely regretted the impossibility of probing the man’s mind. He must have planned something. He had a “waiting” about him, calmly composed in the midst of a hectic scene.

But there had been no precogs on the situation. There’d been incidental auguries but of too varied a nature to be useful or indicative of the trend of the day’s events. Daffyd could only conclude, as the Correlation Staff had, that it didn’t matter how the hearing went today. That in itself was unsettling. However, plans had been made for such contingencies as common sense indicated. Daffyd had warned Vaden, among other things, and then “conditioned” Amalda with strong confidences. There were Talents unknown to the girl in the audience and they had their instructions.

Bruce Vaden entered, slipping into an aisle seat at the rear. He, too, glanced around, his eyes sliding past Daffyd’s. He’s looking for Roznine, Daffyd thought, as Vaden’s eyes lingered once on some bull-chested man but not on Roznine’s mustachioed face. Roznine’s attention was held by a wiry little man in sloppy tweeds of ancient manufacture who pranced conspicuously down the aisle to a seat reserved for him by the prosecution’s table.

So, thought Daffyd, Aaron Greenfield had a small man’s push! Greenfield leaned over, tapping one of the prosecuting attorneys on the shoulder and engaged him in a guarded conversation, all the time glancing around the audience, pointing at last to the very empty seats on the defendant’s side.

The hearing lights went on and the “judge” sounded his electronic gavel for the court to come to order. One of the prosecution team rose to protest the absence of the
defendant and counsel but that was Amalda’s cue and she, and her escort, made their entrance.

There was, of course, the anticipated cry of protest from the prosecuting attorneys. The defendant arrived garbed in voluminous robes, bewigged and made up
à la japonaise
, escorted by two women exactly the same to the last hair and measurement. Even as the prosecution leapt to its collective feet the three figures shifted in a complicated pattern, making it impossible for any unTalented person to know which one was which.

However, as this was a preliminary hearing, necessarily conducted in front of the legal computer, the “hearing” judge had no directives about the dress or escort of the defendants and/or attorneys so long as they appeared clad and reasonably clean. Prosecution replied that the defendant was deliberately obstructing justice by appearing with look-alike escorts. One of the Amaldas rose, presented two sets of credentials as legal counselors for the defendant and asked the “hearing judge” if it was programmed to refuse defendant’s counsel on the basis of similarity in shape and appearance to defendant. The objection was overruled.

Prosecution instantly demanded EEG readings to prove that the women so attired were in fact the aforesaid attorneys and the defendant.

Defense had no objection and EEG readings were promptly taken, establishing beyond controversy who were the attorneys and who the defendant. At which point, the three women repeated their rapid “shell-act.” Daffyd op Owen watched furious anger suffuse the faces at the prosecution table, evidence that the ruse was successful. The audience murmured, half in amusement the other half totally confused by the antics.

The hearing proceeded with the charge being made of illegal arrest and restraint countered by the defense invoking the Professional Immunity Act requiring that the complaint against Amalda, Registered Talent, be dropped.

Rather smug, Daffyd missed the first twinge of Amalda’s alarm.

“
Daffyd
,” she said, her mind tone anxious,
“he’s after me.”

“Make everyone laugh,”
Daffyd said and so quickly did she react, with such forcefulness, that Daffyd didn’t need to call in the reserve empaths to help.

For a moment Daffyd wondered if fear prompted her outrageous strength, for everyone in the audience, himself and the planted Talents, were struck by an epidemic of giggles. It would appear that the audience was attempting to laugh the complaint out of court.

Daffyd suppressed Amalda’s projection sufficiently so that he wasn’t doubled with uncontrollable mirth. Roznine had a rictus-like grin across his face: he’d leaned back against the wall in an effort to control his body and he was forcing his head to move so he could scan the audience. Daffyd bent over slightly, counterfeiting excessive mirth, and noticed that Red Vaden and the other Talents were doing the same thing.

Grand! Let Roznine think only Amalda was responsible! But could Amalda—even with Red helping—broadcast so strongly? Gould she actually me Roznine without his consent? If so …

The hearing judge mechanically sounded the gavel and called for order, its voice getting louder and louder as the giggles continued. It ordered the courtroom cleared of “obstructionists.” The paroxyms which had afflicted everyone abruptly ceased and people weakly wiped their eyes and ordered their clothing. Aaron Greenfield looked anxiously around, his face flushed with anger. The man was no fool, Daffyd realized. He’d know that Talent had been responsible and, with his prickly dignity offended, he’d redouble his efforts to get the Talented taxed. Oh, well, you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, thought Daffyd philosophically. He nodded approvingly at Amalda who, with her twins, had sneaked a glance at him.

Prosecution then announced possession of a sworn statement from the Morcam Convention Committee that it had requested no LEO surveillance. Defense replied that all convention situations fell under the Riot-Prevention Act and the LEO Commission was quite within its jurisdiction to use such riot prevention techniques as seemed advisable. The uncertain climate of the city was cited to be in the “unsettled” percentile which permitted the LEO Commission to take such precautions as it deemed necessary to ensure law enforcement and order. The defense counsel reminded the “judge” that any gathering of 200 or more persons (and the Morcam Luncheon had had 525 paid and consumed covers) was liable to auxiliary surveillance whether requested or not when the climate of the city registered in the “uneasy” percentiles. Prosecution demanded to know exactly what riot prevention technique was employed by Amalda. Defense responded that she was a registered empath of a +15 sensitivity and a perceptive rating of +12, and offered to produce positive testimonials from organizations which had employed Amalda in her capacity as a Talent for riot prevention. Prosecution repeated its demand for an explicit description of her crowd control technique and defense invoked the provisions of the Law Enforcement and Order Commission.

Daffyd wasn’t certain whether the prosecution wanted to separate Amalda from her look-alikes or discover the exact procedure she used.

Defense again requested that the charge be dropped: she didn’t wish to waste the Court’s time and public money when the evidence clearly pointed to a
nolle prosequi
situation.

Prosecution insisted vehemently that this was a clear case of personal infringement and misuse of privilege just as the time-limit light came on. There was the rumble as the “hearing judge” searched its programming for precedents. That didn’t take long. Moments later the
date for a trial appeared on the screen: a date seven weeks hence.

Not bad, thought Daffyd, although he’d half wished that the computer would throw the case out. With no precedents, there’d been slim chance of that.

Amalda’s fear was like a knife in his own guts. He tried to get through to Roznine, to fathom what the man was doing. Bruce Vaden jumped to his feet started down the aisle, his progress blocked by others who were beginning to leave the courtroom.

Daffyd had the sense that every Talent in the audience stiffened suddenly and then Roznine, half rising from his seat stunned amazement on his face, began to topple slowly over onto the people in the row in front of him.

“Hey, this guy’s passed out,” someone cried. “Is there a medic around?”

Bruce Vaden kept trying to reach Roznine. Daffyd signalled to two other Talents to assist. If they could bring Roznine to the Center this way …

“I’m a physician,” a woman said in a firm loud voice, three rows away, holding up her emergency pouch. There was a slight scuffle as Bruce tried to intercept her, but suddenly the Pan-Slavs moved, jumping over seats, knocking people aside in an effort to protect their fallen leader.

Daffyd caught Vaden back, called off the others.

The bailiff scurried from the court, yelling for an ambicopter, as the woman medic and three Slavs lifted the stricken man and carried him to the prosecution’s table. The “hearing judge” began to call for order, for the next case, for the obstructionists to be removed from the courtroom. Its voice got louder and louder until it finally called a recess until the court could be humanly cleared.

“All right, all right, we’ve got him under heavy sedation in the Court Block infirmary,” Frank Gillings told Daffyd, “but that took doing. The place is crawling with
Pan-Slavs. We can’t arrest a man for collapsing in court … and how did you do it?”

“One of the teleports gave him a ‘punch,’ ” Daffyd said with a rueful grimace.

Gillings stared at him with awe and respect.

“One has to be very careful,” Daffyd explained almost apologetically, “pressing against the carotid. But he was pressuring Amalda.”

“You expected that! But I expected you guys to grab him there. And that goddamned hearing is affecting the entire city. Now don’t tell me you expected that!”

Daffyd looked at Gillings and, for a micro-second, hesitated.

“No, not exactly, but we’re doing our very best.”

“What? What in hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean, we’ve set the trap and baited it and we simply have to have patience.”

“Patience? With this city about to erupt?”

“Curiously enough, Gillings, I don’t think the city is going to erupt. Oh, we’ve recorded some Incidents, minor ones, involving Talents …” and Daffyd frowned because the Incidents were distressing and so vague that only a general all-Talent warning could be issued.

Gillings gave one of his disgusted growls. “You guys make me sick. You can’t even protect yourselves.”

“Well do what we can,” and Daffyd’s voice turned steely enough to reprimand Gillings. “What concerns you, Commissioner, is the fact that our precogs have predicted no major Incidents. Your city is going to be safe!”

“Prove it!” demanded Gillings but Daffyd op Owen made no reply as he left the Commissioner’s office.

It took the telepath the entire trip back to the Center to get control of his inner perturbation. Of course, Gillings had to be ruthless and consider only the larger aspect, the safety of the City, but it galled Daffyd to think that Gillings could so offhandedly dismiss the personal trials of the Talented. It grieved Daffyd that there would be more precedents on the newly-programmed Immunity Law
after the next few days. The fact that Talents would now have redress for the precogged personal assaults on them was no satisfaction. He’d really have preferred never to have had to invoke that Law.

It would serve Gillings proper notice if Roznine did burst out of bounds … And how in hell were they to promulgate a law that made it illegal to conceal Talent? Latent Talents were always cropping up when the right connections were made …

And not a single Incident connected with Amalda or Red or Vsevolod Roznine. And he’d had every precog in the Genfer sensitized to that unholy trio. How could that possibly be?

Daffyd’s state of mind was grim as he landed the copter on the roof of the main administration building of the Center. He tried to drain the poisons of bitterness and anger from his mind as he descended the stairs. He paused at his office door but swung away. He had to calm himself. This excessive reaction was self-defeating. Gillings might be a latent Talent himself but he remained obdurately impervious to the problems of the Talented, especially when they interfered with the law enforcement and order of his precious city.

While Roznine was unconscious in the Court Block infirmary, Daffyd had managed to implant a suggestion that Roznine seek Amalda out at the Center. It was the only feasible practicable method … make the mountain come to Mahomet. And the mountain must apparently come of its own volition. Now, if he could just get Mahomet to do a Lorelei … it would speed matters up, and maybe so many Talents wouldn’t get hurt.

That brought Daffyd back to the point of anger he’d reached in Gillings’s office and the whole thought sequence started again.

His path led him past the play-yard where he could hear the children yelling and screaming, arguing over some violently important triviality. Triviality? To him,
perhaps, yet they were as devoted to their separate sides of the argument as he was to …

“Well?” Sally Iselin stood in his way, her fists planted on her hips, a mock-ferocious expression on her pert pretty face. “Aren’t you pleased with the outcome of the hearing?” She frowned, sensing his uncertainly. “But you were able to plant a suggestion in Roznine’s mind? Oh, that Gillings. What is it about a cop that sours the man?”

It was Daffyd’s turn to be surprised. “That’s pretty good reading, Sally.”

As suddenly he felt her mind tighten and the contact that had begun to lift his depression was taken away.

“What does Gillings expect of us anyway?” she asked.

“A happy ending!”

Sally eyed him speculatively and then fell in step with him, grinning.

“There has to be a happy ending to every fairy tale, after all. Though I shouldn’t have expected it of Gillings, fer gawd’s sake.”

Her switch of mood, while it obscured her thoughts from him, lifted his spirits. Nonetheless, he said rather gloomily that there hadn’t been a precog of any happy ending for Cinderella.

“Oh, you … honestly!” Sally sounded peeved and her eyes flashed at him irritably. “Your trouble, Daffyd op Owen, is that you don’t really believe in Talent.”

“I beg your pardon?” Daffyd stopped and stared down at her.

“Just because no one has precogged a disaster of some monumental proportion resulting from this fairy tale affair, you’re down in the doldrums. Does everything Talented
have
to end in disaster? Are you going to be committed to grief for the rest of your born days? Or are you willing to admit that there hasn’t been a disaster precog because there isn’t going to be a disaster? That things will work out right? All the sensitives are edgy, but
not
miserably so. Good God, do we have to wallow
in sorrow all the time? Do we have to run around wondering if we have a right to be happy?”