Artifact: 2/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
IV
The Utgard Mountains were famous for their scenery, and tourists to the planet often cruised above them, taking in the beauty of majestic, snow capped peaks, forests of towering evergreens, rivers racing along their rocky beds, plunging into space in thundering falls. All very grand and inspiring when seen from the air. It was another thing when you had to slog nearly to the top of your boots through powdery snow, so cold it felt dry to the touch when the bitterly icy wind whipped clouds into your face. Then, somehow, one sort of lost the perspective.
Hildebrand Watson, the leader of the little band of students, could never recall being so miserable and wretched in his life. Not to mention hungry. Lara and Maureen, the sling experts, had actually brought down a hare-weasel yesterday, but that was yesterday, and it had been a none-too-generous meal for six hungry people. The school had no business sending them out so poorly equipped in this weather! Of course, they were adequately clothed, but other than a canteen, a hunting knife, a coil of rope, and sleeping bags, they were expected to manufacture what they needed to survive. As a last resort, if they really got into trouble, they could radio for help, but that meant an automatic fail and they would have to repeat this hellish ordeal. No way! Hildebrand thought. Once was plenty. He was going to pass this course, then never so much as look at another mountain!
It was early afternoon, judging by the height of Alpha Centauri in the sky. Beta gleamed palely to the south, a bright star visible even in the daytime. By night it would be a beacon in the heavens for the first few hours, before it set, lending a ghostly radiance to the scene.
Unless, of course, those clouds moving in from the north meant a storm. It probably did, Hildebrand reflected disgustedly. It meant their standard luck was running true.
Jack Gorman followed his gaze and swore wearily. "A storm! As if we needed that on top of all the rest! We've got to find some cover!"
The other four were all looking at the clouds, black and menacing. Snow clouds, all right. It would be snowing by tonight. Gary Montez said a couple of words under his breath that earned him a reprimanding glare from Candy. Maureen and Lara Hammond looked as if they would like to say something similar. Maureen, the older sister, spoke up. "According to the navigator, the Frost Giants' Cascade is about ten kilometers. Once we get there we'll probably find some caves. As long as we don't have any more long rests for sore feet," she added, pointedly ignoring Candy Montez's sniff of annoyance. "Besides, the bottom of the canyon is below the snow line."
"That sounds pretty good all by itself," Jack Gorman said. "If I never see another snowflake it'll be too soon."
"You and me both," Lara agreed, fervently. "I vote we head for it, but watch for any kind of shelter on the way."
In the end that was their decision. The ragged little band straggled onward once more.
**********
Lady Tranthzill fumed to herself at the sight of her kinsman, Linthvar, seated before a table of lavish viands. Always a bit of a fop, he'd become more so ever since he'd acquired his picturesque limp. By the Warlord's Mace, the story of its acquisition became more intricate, its owner's role more heroic, every time he told it. One would have thought the Terran psychic, Westover, who had given it to him, a helpless fool before the great Linthvar, instead of the cunning and dangerous enemy that he had proven to be. Tranthzill was bored to tears with that particular story, exaggerated all out of recognition of the original. Linthvar was barely forty, but already he had a slight paunch and extra padding on arms, cheeks and jowls. He wore very stylish clothing by that arbiter of Jilectan fashion, Gazinthvor, himself, and the skin-tight pantaloons and hugely padded shoulders served only to accentuate the inadequacies of his figure and make him look ridiculous -- at least in Tranthzill's opinion, which, she admitted, might be biased. His blond hair had been dyed red and he wore it in the style made famous by the Warlord's latest hairdresser. A wreath of Horath blossoms adorned it and above the wreath six spikes of red hair thrust stiffly upward fanning out in tassels at the top. His ears were pierced in a dozen places and adorned with a rainbow of precious gems. From the lobes, a pair of diamond drops hung on golden chains nearly to his shoulders. In one beringed hand he held a goblet of perfumed wine, in the other a gold-plated, three pronged fork with a chunk of braised marshhopper speared on the tines. The cologne that wafted from his clothing was strong enough to make her wrinkle her nose in distaste. A Terran brand. She recognized the scent. Passion on Luna. He positively reeked of the stuff!
Tranthzill turned away in disgust. This half-witted fool wasn't nearly the use Harathvor had promised he would be. She would gladly have exchanged him for another squad of patrolmen!
But, of course, the paucity of Viceregal patrolmen could not possibly be an accident. Harathvor did not dare to be too obvious about his designs on her life. She was, after all, the eldest full sister of the Viceroy and one of his most trusted advisors. If His Highness Lord Halthzor, Viceroy of the Rovalli Sector, had the slightest real proof of Harathvor's intentions toward her, she would not have to dispose of him; Halthzor would do it for her, and Harathvor knew it. So behold this despicable and childish plan!
The Jilectan noblewoman paced angrily, wasting no more thought on the incompetent Linthvar or her scheming superior. The report of the first squad was late in coming; too late. The corporal would have notified her of the Terrans' capture by now, or of their escape. The silence itself was a beacon of warning. She strode to the communicator on the wall of her stateroom.
"Commander Fulsome!"
"Yes, M'lady!" The reply of her yacht's commander was immediate, as expected. Tranthzill could not abide fawning idiots incapable of independent thought. She couldn't understand why some of her species expected their staff to be little more than puppets. Her people were handpicked by her for their intelligence, and trained for top efficiency. Tranthzill encouraged them to think independently. That was one reason they were so efficient. It was also why they fought to remain in her service. Of course, servants able to think for themselves tended to make some of her species -- such as Linthvar -- feel insecure.
Ship Commander Fulsome was large for a Terran. He stood slightly over two meters in height and was heavily built. He had dark hair and eyes, and olive skin. Tranthzill found him quite attractive for one of the lower species; Jilectan Ladies tended to become connoisseurs of male Terrans, and Tranthzill was no exception.
Fulsome's face on the screen appeared genuinely concerned. "M'lady, the first squad is late!"
"Just what I was thinking," she replied. "Put me through to Sublieutenant Brady."
"Frequency open, M'lady," her communications officer responded, at once. "Sublieutenant Brady is on the line."
"Sublieutenant," Tranthzill said, "the first team is overdue. You will approach the town in all haste; be aware of the possibility that the Terran Underground may be in the area. Lord Linthvar will follow at once."
"At once, M'lady," Brady said. Tranthzill switched off, ignoring the alarmed protests of her kinsman, uttered thickly through a mouthful of marshhopper.
"You are here to perform a task for the good of the Autonomy." She cut across the stream of expostulations. "The Viceroy and the Honorable Harathvor expect nothing more than your duty. I trust I need not explain that to you, my lord?"
Linthvar did not reply. He drained his embossed wine cup in a single gulp, stuffed a last bite of marshhopper into his mouth and limped from the room. Tranthzill did not miss the venomous look he cast in her direction, but chose to ignore it. The fool would do her an injury if it were in his power, but it was not.
As the door swished to behind him, she sneezed violently several times, then ordered the computer to turn up the ventilators in her lounge. Why in the Galaxy had her esteemed cousin chosen that dreadful scent? She must ask him where he had found it. It would do very well for a Consolidation Day gift for Harathvor ...
**********
Matt Philips locked the door to the basement and braced a two-by-four against the base, the other end in contact with the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. He glanced at Lyla Cane.
"They should begin to wake up in about ten minutes," he told her. "Then they'll feel pretty bad for another ten. It'll be at least twenty minutes before they make any serious effort to get out. We'll be long gone."
"I wish we didn't have to leave Millie in there with them," Lyla fretted.
"Absolutely necessary," he replied, firmly. "That way they'll know she didn't have anything to do with this. If anyone even thinks she might have helped us, they won't trust a mind probe. Selective shielding is hard to detect. They'll stick her in an interrogation chair."
Lyla didn't argue any more. "Now what?"
"Do you have a car?"
She nodded. "I guess you might call it that. It's a ten-year-old clunker. Harry keeps it running for me."
"How fast is it?"
She shrugged. "Not very. It gets me places, that's all."
"How about Dr. Wilcox?"
"She's got one in about the same shape as mine. It goes, but it'll never win any races."
"Hmm --" He meditated a moment. "Not too good." He broke off. *Lew, have you been following this?*
His partner's reply sounded both amused and concerned. *Yep. Good work, both of you -- but get moving! I just picked up a Patrol transmission. They're sending another car full of 'trols. Want me to come get you?*
*No. We don't know how much time we have. I'll handle it here.* He turned to Lyla. "Did you follow that?"
She looked surprised. "I heard you, but not the person you were talking to. What's wrong?"
He told her, his mind racing. "Look, let's get out of here. Where's the garage?"
"The carport's out back."
"Good. We'll go that way." He pushed open the swinging door of the kitchen and let her precede him. On the way through the kitchen, they paused to appropriate the four Patrol belts with their holstered blasters that Philips had insisted they remove from their victims, and the four silver domed helmets with their built in communicators. The longer they could prevent the 'trols from summoning help, the better off they'd be. Without comment, Lyla also gathered up her bag of jewelry and the brandy bottle. Phillips couldn't blame her. He pushed open the back door.
To the left a small, metal-roofed carport had been built adjacent to the house, and under it sat two ancient aircars. Philips saw at once what Lyla had been speaking of. Neither of those vehicles would be exactly greased lightning, but they didn't need to be.
He grinned. Parked on the weedy rear lawn sat a sleek, modern Patrol aircar, Jilectan design, of course. The vehicle was unoccupied.
Matt Philips had been Senior Medical Officer of their station for the past twelve Terran years and possessed a great many friends among the field operatives, many of whom had been his patients at one time or another. Many evenings he'd sat in the living room of the Westover home on Nova Luna with the General himself, and his partner, General Linley, as well as their wives, talking quietly after the children were in bed. Inevitably conversation, on occasion, drifted around to some of the situations they'd encountered here and there about the Rovalli Sector on one assignment or another. And they weren't the only ones. A particular incident danced wickedly in the back of his mind now. How could he possibly do better than follow the example of the best team of troubleshooters in the Terran Underground?
As Lyla started for her aircar, he spoke.
"I want you to set your car for Asgard under computer control, put her on top speed and let her go. Set Dr. Wilcox's car for some other town, preferably a big one, in a different direction, and let it go, too."
She looked expressionlessly at him a moment. "Decoys?"
"Exactly. We'll use the gentle art of misdirection -- something the Underground has turned into a science."
"But what do we take? Surely you aren't planning to take off into the woods?"
"Of course not." He dangled a set of keys from one finger. "I took these off of Patrolman Teal. We'll use the Patrol car. It's faster than both of the others put together."
She stared at him for a moment, blankly, then apparently decided he was serious and giggled. "I'd sure hate to be those patrolmen," was her matter-of-fact remark.
"So would I," he said heartlessly. "This could be embarrassing. Hurry, now. I'll take that stuff."
She gave him the booty they had removed from the patrolmen and hurried toward the battered vehicles in the carport. Philips ran to the Patrol car.
The doors were locked, but it took only a couple of seconds to unlock the rear door and toss the armload in, and an instant later he was behind the controls.
While he waited for Lyla, there was something he could do. Philips focussed his clairvoyant power, and swept the car from front to rear, and within a couple of moments had located what he sought. The car's locational finder was inaccessible to him without dismantling half the vehicle, but Lyla should be able to handle it. He shook his head. The woman was a powerful psychic. It was doubtful she knew how powerful. And for all these years she'd carefully avoided using her ability. What a waste!
It was obvious, too, that she'd learned something about her powers, but not a lot. She was quite accurate with telekinesis -- witness the way she'd snatched Pillsberry's blaster like a pro -- but her telepathic powers were virtually unused. Well, the Terran Underground would take care of that if they made it. Leroy Burke, Chief of Psychic Training, was going to enjoy meeting Lyla.
The little doctor slid into the seat beside him. "Let's go. I set Brenda's car for Baldur, south of us. Was that all right?"
"Fine." Philips triggered the starter. The motor caught with a soft purr, and he eased the car forward across the lawn. An idea hit him, and he touched a control to darken the windows so observers would have difficulty seeing who was inside. "Put on one of those helmets," he instructed. "And hand me one."
Lyla gave him an odd look, but obeyed without argument. He grinned at her expression.
"I'm not crazy," he told her. "If anyone tries to look in here, I want them to see Patrol helmets."
"Oh." She paused. "Good idea, but I hope you can see better than I can."
"Well enough. I won't need it long." He pushed the visor up. "Use your clairvoyance."
"My what?"
"Try to see the way you did when you grabbed that guy's blaster."
He was interrupted by his partner's voice in his brain. *Move it Matt! They're almost on top of you! And there's apparently a Jil hot on their heels!*
*Roger,* Philips responded. *We're getting out now. If I have to run for it you know where to look for us.*
*Right.* Stevens voice still held the concern and amusement. *But be careful. Remember, you're not Alan Westover, even if you're having fun pretending that you are.*
*Cut it out,* Philips said, wondering if he was that transparent. *Alan would have handled it a lot smoother. Get a move on.*
Lyla was looking at him curiously. "Is something wrong?"
"The 'trols are almost here, and a Jil's on the way." Philips pointed with his thumb. "There they are. We've been lucky so far. They usually come in force."
A black aircar had just come into sight over the trees. As he spoke, the dashboard communicator crackled.
"Squad One, come in! This is Sublieutenant Brady!"
"Squad One, responding," Philips replied after a few seconds pause. He rubbed his thumb back and forth across the pickup to muffle his voice. "You're not coming in very clear, sir. This is Corporal Pillsberry. We tried to call you before, but nobody answered." He rubbed harder. "The doc and her kid ain't here, and neither is the other gal that lives with 'em. School reports the kid left early. I'm going over to the receptionist's house to see if she knows where they went."
"Repeat that, Corporal. I can barely make you out."
"What? We're getting a lot of interference, sir. Must be that storm over the mountains, or something."
"I said repeat your message!"
"Oh. I said the doc and her kid ain't there. School says the kid left during a break. The other gal's gone, too."
"They're gone?"
"Yessir. I'm going to the receptionist's place to see if she knows where they went."
"Very well. Any sign of the Underground?"
"Not so far. Unless they got here first."
There was a soft cussword spoken in the background. "Could be, Corporal. Report as soon as you have any information."
"Roger, sir. Pillsberry out." Philips shut off the communicator.
"That was close," Lyla said.
"He wasn't suspicious," Philips replied. "At least it didn't feel like he was. I get the impression none of these guys are too enthusiastic about the thought of dealing with the Underground."
"I don't blame them." Lyla smiled nervously. "Even a little backwater like this hears things, you know. The Jils say you're the biggest criminal organization in the Sector. And of course everybody knows the Terran Underground protects psychics from the Jilectans. That's why Brenda and Harry and I kept hoping you'd find us. Everybody knows what you do if someone turns in a psychic, too."
Matt lifted the car off the ground and turned northwest. "We have to head across the town or the Sublieutenant will get suspicious," he remarked. "Yes," he added, answering her. "We spread that information on purpose. We protect psychics, because they're the Confederation's only real chance against the Autonomy. And the business of psychic hunters, or people who turn in psychics -- well, you know the Jils have a big reward out for any psychic turned in. There are a lot of people who'll do anything for money. We have to make it unprofitable. Ten thousand credits is great, but what good is it if you wind up dead? It tends to discourage the weaker ones."
"I see," Lyla said. "I sort of figured that, anyway. They also say you deal in contraband and murder and ..."
"And every form of criminal activity you can imagine," he completed the sentence. "Well, we don't. We aren't in this for the money, as you'll find out, and we're only criminals because we're enemies of the Jilectans. Any other questions?"
"Not really." The doctor's voice was tranquil. "I know Jil propaganda when I hear it, and I would have wanted to join if you were twice as bad as they say, if I could get the chance to make trouble for them."
He raised a mental eyebrow at that. Dr. Cane sounded like a woman with a score to settle. Well, she wouldn't be the only such in the Terran Underground. She had plenty of company.
They swung north across the little town just above treetop level. As soon as he could be certain they were out of sight of the other Patrol car he intended to turn southeast toward the Muspelheim station.
Lyla was peering back. "They're landing by the house," she reported. "What do you suppose they're after?"
"Probably they're looking for some item of sentimental value to track you and the others with." Philips checked the rear scanner. "I give them about five minutes to find those 'trols, and then they'll be after us."
"We didn't leave anything of sentimental value," Lyla said. "I know that much about Jilectan trackers. We only had a few things like that, and they went with us."
"That's good," he said. "You know, I was surprised at how organized you were -- not many people can just abandon everything like that and go. It takes a lot of courage to walk away without a second thought."
Lyla was silent a moment, and when she answered he was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. "We were ready because we knew we might have to be. Harry and I have already done it once. On Terra. We've been hiding on Midgard for fourteen years."
The pieces were starting to fall into place. A woman and her baby had fled for their lives fourteen years ago, abandoning home and family for the chancy life in a new colony. She must indeed have a score to settle with the Jils, he thought. Back then the Underground hadn't been nearly so organized or powerful. Terran psychics had often been thrown on their own to survive or not as the case might be. Lyla Cane had been one of the survivors.
He shuddered internally. A great many had not survived. The Jilectans' drive to eliminate their psychic competitors had killed thousands.
With an effort he shook off the thought. The issue at hand now was their own survival.
"They're going to be after this car, Lyla -- may I call you Lyla? -- and there's a homing beacon on it that they can key up by remote. I found it, but I can't get at it. You're going to have to disable it."
Lyla appeared startled. "But how? I can't see it!"
Another case of incomplete knowledge of her abilities? "How did you 'see' to snatch the blaster from Corporal Pillsberry back in the house? It's done the same way. You 'see' with your mind. Clairvoyance."
"That's different. I never have trouble seeing people or the things they're touching," Lyla said. "That's the one area I sometimes used telekinesis in, when no one could detect it, to fix something inside if it could be repaired without a lot of surgery. I was very careful, so no one would ever catch on." She broke off. "What's the matter?"
Philips closed his mouth. "My God," he said, softly. "We've found another one."
"Another what?" The woman appeared confused. "I don't understand."
He grinned. "Active psychic powers -- the physical ones like telekinesis and teleportation -- don't normally work through living tissue," he explained. "Up until now we've only found one other psychic who doesn't follow that rule. He's a doctor, too, by an interesting coincidence. You're the second." He paused. "That explains why you were so good at the blaster-snatching trick. Tono had the same limitation with his clairvoyant ability when he first came to us. He could sense people and living things easily, but he had trouble with inanimate objects. It's just a matter of focus, as we taught him. I'll show you ..." He broke off at the sound of a police siren. "What the ..."
Behind them a sheriff''s car had appeared, red light flashing. The loudspeaker blared. "Okay 'trols, pull over."
"Oh, no!" Dr. Cane's face was a study of comic dismay. "Not Sheriff Harcourt! Not now!"
"What's he want?" Philips asked. "I don't think I've broken any traffic laws."
"You haven't," his companion replied, resignedly. "Barry Harcourt hates 'trols like poison. I think he's trying to give us a hard time -- as much as he can get away with."
Philips swore softly under his breath. Much as he sympathized with the good sheriff, he could do without this right now. "This is turning into a comedy of errors," he remarked, morosely. "If he catches us stealing a Patrol car, he can't ignore it--not and expect to survive. They're sure to question him when they find out what's happened."
The siren blared again. Philips bit his lip. This wasn't good. They were attracting attention, and, worse, the sheriff was delaying their escape. He had to do something fast.
Again those evening conversations came to mind. What would General Westover do in this situation?
The answer jumped out at him, the obvious one. Directness was the only real answer. In sudden decision, Philips spoke to the aircar's computer.
"Computer! Lock weapons onto pursuing vehicle and disable! Do not harm occupant!"
"Acknowledged," the voice of the computer replied, expressionlessly. There was the crack of a Patrol car's blaster.
"Vehicle disabled," the flat voice of the computer said. Philips hit the altitude controls. The car surged upward with a burst of speed which almost left his stomach behind. From the glance over his shoulder at the same instant, he took in a scene that would always remain in his memory: Sheriff Harcourt's expression of utterly astounded outrage as his car wobbled helplessly downward, a hole the size of a fist, ringed with charred and melted metal, gaping in the hood. Then he turned his attention to the controls as he pointed them northwest and poured on the speed.
With a screaming roar, the aircar shot like a missile across the sleepy little town and tore madly at tree skimming height toward the Utgard Mountains.
V
The five sleepers lay in timeless oblivion and the Guardian watched. There had been many sleepers once, but one by one their lives had flickered away, the victims of equipment failure. They died not knowing what had happened. Time did not effect those inside the field, but on the sustaining machines Time took its toll.
The Guardian knew in it's own cold way that soon there would be no more sleepers. They must wake soon or never.
But its programming did not permit the Guardian to interfere. The time had not yet come. Perhaps it would never come -- not soon enough, at least. The Guardian knew its own brand of distress. It searched it's memory banks for a way to override its instructions and found none. Only in the face of the destruction of the complex could it revive the Sleepers prematurely. The Sleepers had done their job too well, and left their faithful Guardian no options.
**********
Hildebrand Watson paused above the lip of the Hel's Canyon. Twenty meters to his left the Fjorm River plunged over the brink of the cliff side and broke into the thundering Frost Giants' Cascade.
Hel's Canyon yawned at their feet, with the Fjorm running down its center. It was a scenic view; he had to admit that. Hildebrand had been born on Midgard, the fourth son of immigrants from Terra. He'd never been to Earth, but he'd studied the planet in school. He'd seen pictures of the Grand Canyon on the North American continent. It was supposed to be awe inspiring, but he couldn't believe it could be moreso than this.
Hel's Canyon was enormous. It ran raggedly north and south for nearly six hundred kilometers and its width varied from only a few kilometers to nearly fifty. It had been cut by the Fjorm river over millions of years, and now was nearly a four kilometer deep gash in the high plateaus of the Utgard Mountains.
His view of the canyon was limited to the south by the way the huge split in the planet's crust jogged and turned, and by the mist that rose thickly from the water far below. The haze made it almost impossible to see distant objects clearly. Alpha Centauri was sinking toward the west. Beta was still considerably higher, but wasn't much use at this time of year. Proxima would rise, a dull ball of red, about three A.M. Here in the heights they were still in sunlight, but shadows had begun to creep into the canyon below, hiding the evergreens and the multi-colored strata of the rock walls. The grey storm clouds to the north now covered half the sky.
Candy Montez gazed down at the panoramic view before them and clasped her gloved hands in ecstasy. "How magnificent!" she breathed, in hushed tones. Her brother, Gary, glanced at her in disgust.
"Come down off it, Sis," he advised. "Sure, it's nice, but we've got to find some kind of shelter before that storm breaks. We get caught outside at night in that, we're done for."
His sister glared at him. "How can you be so ... so Earthy!" she snapped. "Here we are, in unspoiled wilderness, with a scene like this, and all you can think of is --"
"Let's try south, along the east side of the canyon a bit." Maureen cut her off. "The rocks are pretty tumbled there. We might find shelter."
"Good idea," Hildebrand said. "If we don't find something pretty soon we'll have to build an igloo."
"There's lots of trees," Jack Gorman remarked. ""No problem with fuel."
"You ever tried to burn stuff this green?" Lara asked. "If we can find an old, dead tree that's dried out a few months, sure, but not the fresh stuff."
"Oh, yeah." Jack sounded embarrassed. "I forgot."
Jack was a new colonist, Hildebrand recalled, tolerantly. His family had only arrived from Terra a year before, and Jack hadn't yet really absorbed the facts that native kids knew practically from the time they could walk. Sure, you were told it in class, but remembering it in practice was something else. That was why the final exam was so tough. The Practical had a pass rate of barely 50% on the first try, and no one was considered a full citizen of Midgard until they did pass it.
But they had almost made it. Let them just sit out the storm, then get to the bottom of the Canyon. There, they could build a raft and float almost to the city of Muspelheim. Not exactly a snap, but ...
It was the sharp-eyed Maureen who spotted the cave.
It wasn't a real cave, merely an area where a large tree had come down. Its trunk, a full four meters thick, rested on the boulders at a 45-degree angle to the ground. Scrubby brush and branches in back of the tree partially filled the area behind it, leaving a space beneath the trunk that was dry and at least somewhat sheltered from the cutting wind. The area about them was a wilderness of giant trees, snow-covered slabs of rock and tumbled boulders, interspersed with more fertile patches where brushy growth and young trees had taken root. The trees became thicker to the east, with the gigantic evergreens towering above them in what looked, from their position, like an unbroken, impassable rampart. The wind blew gusty and cold but now with a hint of moisture -- the mist from the canyon, or was the storm nearer? At the slightly lower location at which they had arrived, the snow was no longer quite so dry as it had been earlier. The temperature was probably only a little below freezing.
Hildebrand examined the find. The huge tree trunk above gave shelter; they could block up the back opening with more branches and pack it with snow on the outside. Then, huddled together, they should be fairly comfortable. Without another word, they set to work.
**********
"All right, now focus in like I showed you," Matt Philips said. "Scan until you can see the inner parts of the mechanism in your mind --"
"I can see it," said Lyla Cane, a faint note of wonder in her voice. "It's a lot easier than I expected."
"Sure." Matt Philips gave himself a small mental pat on the back. Teaching Lyla how to use her clairvoyant powers to locate the Patrol ear's beacon had been a lot easier than he'd expected, too. Of course, he amended, she already had some experience with her powers. After he'd shown her how to spot a nonverbal telepathic thought, he'd just had her follow his own clairvoyant probe until she got the hang of it. Five minutes, all told. She was a quick study, and a powerful psychic -- considerably more powerful than himself, he admitted ruefully. "Okay, now reach out with your telekinetic probe," he directed. "Feel the thing with it. Keep your clairvoyant power focussed on it all the time. You want to see it clearly. Pull the connections loose. That little green wire should be disconnected first."
It took Lyla only a few minutes to disable the tracer. Philips followed her work with his own clairvoyant ability, and when she was finished shook her hand gravely.
"Congratulations," he said. "You've just completed lesson one of 'How to Make Life Difficult for the Patrol'."
The communicator called Corporal Pillsberry for the fourth time in five minutes. Philips, understandably, failed to reply. It wouldn't be much longer before they discovered the good corporal, he thought. The stun bolt should be wearing off about now.
Sure enough, a moment later a man's voice, heavily accented, erupted from the unit.
"Hannibal here, sir. I've found Pillsberry and his men! They were locked in the basement! There's some gal in here, too -- they're throwin' their toenails up. Looks like they been stunned."
The sublieutenant uttered a curse. "Terran Underground! Deville, notify the ship."
Philips raised an eyebrow, turned the sound down, and glanced at Lyla. There was bound to be a Jilectan looking for them very soon now, and Lyla's mind was wide open. Better take care of that, next. He hoped Lewis would do the same with his passengers.
"I'm going to teach you to shield," he told her abruptly, and pushed the acceleration regulator down farther. Their speed increased; the scenery, less than ten meters below them became a green blur.
"All right." Lyla glanced down, then at the scanners. "No sign of pursuit. Where are we going?"
"I can't head for the base until I'm sure we're clear," he told her. "The Utgard Mountains are a good place to lose the pursuit. But we have to get you shielded. It's your best defense against being traced by a Jilectan clairvoyant. According to our information, one of the two Jils that came with the Patrol was Linthvar."
Lyla looked blank. "Should that mean something to me?"
"Probably not," Phillips said. "I've never seen him in person before either, but Linthvar is one of the best Jil tracers of Terran psychics in the Autonomy, and he has a heavy grudge against us."
"Oh? Why?"
"He's got a very picturesque limp that was given to him by a Terran psychic. You've heard of Alan Westover?"
"Who hasn't?" She smiled. "I'd been on Midgard about six months when Salthvor was killed. It was all over the video at the time. Nobody cried much, either." Her face lost its smile, became grim. "Certainly not me."
Philips glanced at the scanners. No pursuit yet, but it wouldn't be long. "Well, Westover is responsible for Linthvar's injury, too. I don't know the whole story, but it was when the Underground found him. He and Linley were on the run, and a contingent of the Patrol had the two of them -- and one of our people -- cornered. Linley and our man were down. Westover threw an overloaded blaster at them. Linthvar's had his limp -- and his grudge -- ever since."
Lyla whistled softly. "So Linthvar has a personal stake in bringing us in, huh? Okay, what do I do?"
The scanners were still blank. Maybe they'd made it and would be able to go home shortly. Part of their good fortune was due to the paucity of 'trols. Briefly he wondered why. It wasn't like the Jils to come after a Terran psychic so poorly prepared. Well, whatever the reason, he wasn't going to argue. He began to explain to Lyla the technique of producing a telepathic shield. The ability had nothing to do with psychic powers; rather it was the control factor, which was the crucial item in generating a mental screen. Ordinary non-psychics in their organization did so without difficulty. The only ones who could not produce adequate shielding were those lacking the factor, such as the psychic power packs. General Linley, again, was a prime example, which was why Worley's synthetic control factor was so very important -- and why Matt Philips and Lewis Stevens had been on Midgard at this crucial time. Matt's control factor was very good, and as a result he was able to manipulate his powers with extreme precision. It rapidly became apparent that Lyla's was equally good. The woman was a quick study, and within a very few minutes was developing a rudimentary shield, and automatically, with it, the awareness of telepathic intrusions. From now on, no one would be able to read her mind without her knowledge unless they were very, very careful -- and even then she might detect the snooper. He monitored the shield telepathically and offered suggestions. The shields improved with commendable speed.
"Good," he said, finally. "You should be able to block out any ordinary mind reader now. A little practice and you'll be a really excellent shielder. When we get back to Nova Luna, Lee Burke can give you some help if you think you need it. I doubt you will. Keep them up, now, and use the techniques I taught you to refine them." He paused. Should he tell her? Yes, he decided. Lyla wasn't the sort of woman to panic in a bad situation -- she'd already proven that. "Don't lower your shields under any circumstances."
Her eyelids flickered. "What's the matter?"
"In the last couple of minutes I've picked up Linthvar's mind -- at least, I think it's Linthvar. It's a male Jilectan, anyway, scanning the area. He's some distance away, yet, but he'd nearly pinpointed me when I put up my shields just now."
"I see." She, too, glanced at the scanners. "Nothing yet."
"Let's hope it stays that way."
She didn't answer, but turned in the seats to pick up the Patrol belts with their holstered blasters. With steady fingers she began to extract the energy cells from the weapons.
"What are you doing?" he inquired.
"I'm putting all of the spare ammunition into the pouches of two of the Patrol belts," she replied, matter-of-factly. "And out of all but two of the blasters. Do you know how to use one of these things?"
"Yes, but ..."
"I think I ought to be armed," she said, coolly. "Can you show me how to use one?"
He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. "Have you ever fired a stunner?"
"What kind of colonist would I be if I hadn't?" she retorted. "Of course I have. And a laser rifle, too. I've also taken the standard survival course they insist every adult colonist take -- Wilderness Survival, it's called, and the final exam, the Practical, is a dilly." She glanced sideways at him, then ahead at the mountains. "But I made it."
"Good thing. You may need it." He, too, looked ahead at the Utgard Mountains, closer now. Late fall at this latitude on Midgard brought early evenings, and the evergreen forest below looked cold and forbidding with the first shadows beginning to creep over it. Alpha Centauri was halfway between zenith and the horizon, and the mountain range running irregularly east and west, curved raggedly south on their left, blocking the sunlight. Beta Centauri burned palely to the south, only a bright star in the heavens. The mountains were capped in white, and white extended a good distance down their sides. Fall on Midgard was cold.
Lyla was still speaking. "Wilderness Survival," she continued, blandly, "covers a lot of things. Food gathering skills, weapons training, mountaineering ... you name it, we at least got a working knowledge of it." She laughed suddenly. "You wouldn't believe some of the things we ate. I'll never sneer at a grub again. They got pretty tasty after a week in the forest."
"I'll bet." Philips cast another glance at the mountains, and reflected that it was possible that there were some things that he could learn from her. She undoubtedly had a better knowledge of the fauna and flora of the planet than he did.
He turned control over to the car's computer and took the empty blaster from her. Automatically, he checked the clip, then began to talk.
"Patrol blasters," he began, "are very utilitarian, but very flexible weapons at the same time." He turned it in the light so she could see it from all angles. Made of solid, black metal, it was not particularly large but surprisingly heavy. A small, thick body tapered into a narrow barrel. The grip was thick and contoured for a large hand. He indicated a slide on the body of the weapon. "This sets the power. The first setting is stun, then low, kill, needle and emergency maximum. That last uses all the power of the energy cell at once -- incinerates everything in its path. Here --" He indicated tiny lenses along the upper surface of the blaster, "are your sights. This switch on the bottom of the grip makes them telescopic. There are no laser sights. The blaster is essentially a short-range weapon, like a stunner, but does have a considerably better range. On needle beam, it's long range, but nowhere near as good as a rifle unless you're Annie Oakley."
Lyla grinned. "What's this setting?" she inquired, indicating the final position for the power switch.
"I was coming to that. It's a weapon of last resort -- emergency overload. It turns the blaster into what is essentially a grenade. Unfortunately, it can only be used once."
He let her take the thing in her hands again. "You shouldn't have any trouble with it. Keep it on stun setting unless you're going to use it."
She picked up one of the Patrol belts, with still loaded blaster in its holster and pulled it tightly around her slim waist. It looked ridiculously wide and bulky on her, but in spite of it the action did not seem funny. Her expression of utter seriousness somehow robbed it of humor.
"Look," she said.
Philips looked. On the scanners a small black dot had appeared, far behind them, following.
He spoke to the computer. "Identify blip."
"Vehicle identified," the computer responded, expressionlessly. "Patrol aircar, all terrain scout. Model type --" A string of figures followed. Philips ignored it.
"Patrol car, like this one," he told her. "Probably the one we saw earlier. I'm taking us up, over the range. They know where we are -- we can't hide from them this way any longer." As he spoke he hit the altitude control and the car lifted. Below them, the foothills were rising toward mountain peaks. A river flowed southward from the mountains, little crusts of snow clinging to its banks. To the north, Odinn's Pinnacle was wrapped in black clouds, and more dark, ominous clouds covered half the sky ahead of them.
"There's supposed to be a storm this evening," Lyla said, looking back over her shoulder. "I don't see the car yet -- wait, I think I do. A black speck, way back."
"That's it all right." He tried to urge more speed out of their car. The little vehicle tore forward and up, the foothills ripping past in a blur.
The Utgard Mountain Range was the backbone of the continent, a mighty, sky-piercing rampart 4800 kilometers long, most of it unexplored. Survey teams had mapped the continent from space, and many brave explorers had invaded it on foot. Certain areas were set aside for tourists to cruise above on supervised expeditions, but in most places no human had yet set foot. Philips had a certain area in mind, if he could just make it. Hel's Canyon appeared on the map, and provided not only a place where they might conceal themselves from the Patrol, but a landmark for Lewis to find them without much difficulty.
The pursuers followed them doggedly, not gaining any ground, but impossible to shake as well. Lyla sat quiet in the seat beside him, occasionally glancing at the scanners. At last, she ventured a question.
"Do you have any plan, or are we just trying to outrun him?"
"I' m heading for a specific location," he told her. "We're going to have to ditch before we get there, though -- I don't want them to see us when we land. Lewis is going to meet us in Hel's Canyon."
Lyla looked blank. "I hope you know where that is, because I don't."
"It's a big canyon up in the mountains. The Fjorm River runs through it. We picked it for a rendezvous if something of this sort -- getting split up -- happened."
"Oh. Well, I'm glad you thought ahead."
"Me, too. I've never done anything like this before."
The woman's eyes widened. "You haven't?"
"Nope." He felt his lips twist involuntarily into a dry grin. "If you're looking for a cold-eyed, steel-jawed professional, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I'm the Senior Medical Officer of Nova Luna Station, not a secret agent. But they needed a psychic Team and Lewis and I were the only ones available. So we came." He glanced at the scanner again.
"I'm glad you did," Lyla said, honestly. "I'm not sure we'd have gotten away if you hadn't."
He glanced again at the screen. "I'm not sure we will, anyway."
"I know." Lyla's folded hands tightened. "But we have a chance, and your friend got Harris and Brenda away -- didn't he?"
"Yes." He was able to answer that unequivocally. "I'd have known if he was in trouble. Lewis is my psychic partner. If anything drastic happens to him, I'll know, even with my shields up."
"How?" Lyla asked, curiously. "I thought your shields keep anyone from reading your mind."
"Almost everyone," he corrected. "There are some exceptions who can go through shielding -- if they have sufficient power. Westover can -- but he's unusual. There are a very few others -- all Terrans, as far as we know -- and you'd know it if they did. But with psychic partners it's different. Their minds are always linked -- one mind is part of the other. The link remains, even with shields up. We normally can't communicate verbal thoughts when one of us is shielded, but if one partner is hurt, or in trouble, the other will know. Always."
"That's interesting." Lyla looked thoughtfully back at the pursuing speck. "So you're really two people."
Philips grinned. "No, not really. I'm still me -- I'm not two personalities. Think of it as sort of mental Siamese twins and you're closer, although that isn't exact either. It's kind of complicated."
"So I gather." She smiled suddenly. "But life is rarely simple. If we live through this I'll probably find out on my own, won't I?"
"Probably," he agreed. "Most of us do. You may already have a partner -- I don't know for sure, but Dr. Wilcox has a strong probability of being your partner. We'll find out if we get back to Nova Luna."
"Nova Luna? That means New Moon."
"Uh huh. We call it that. It's not on any star map."
"I see."
"It's one of our Sanctuary Worlds -- thousands of psychics like us live there. The idea is to keep them safe so they can have kids -- lots of kids -- to give us an equal footing with the Jils. It's Terra's only real chance." He grinned. "Families average around ten to fifteen kids per."
Lyla whistled softly. Philips continued, blandly, "It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it."
She regarded him in some amusement. "I guess so." The amusement faded. "What are we going to do?"
He nodded ahead. "We'll be coming to an area I've got in mind, shortly, just past a good high ridge. I'll set down there. Be ready to get out fast when we land. It'll take them between five and ten minutes to catch up. Get the trunk open and take the emergency survival pack out. I'll be doing some quick work up here. Gather everything you need together, right now. And get that." He nodded to the pulse rifle on its rack above them. "We may need it."
"Right." Lyla was already moving.
A few moments later, he spoke. "Ridge coming up. Get ready."
"I am." The woman appeared tense, but not frightened.
"Here we go." The Patrol car crossed the ridge, and Philips brought them down suddenly. As they dropped, he took a quick survey of the valley into which they were falling.
It was a snowy expanse of broken rock; on one side, densely clustered, tall evergreens grew, ending suddenly at the rocky terrain. Low, bushy plants, bare and scraggly, dotted the open space. Rock walls rose sheerly to the north, impassable except for one place where the stone had split, leaving a narrow, but navigable exit from the canyon.
Their car pancaked to a skillful landing next to the evergreens. Lyla was out, almost as they hit. Philips popped the trunk and leaned over the controls, making adjustments to them. He spoke to the computer.
It took him, all told, two or three minutes. Then he swung open the driver's door. A thought struck him, and he reached into the rear seat to seize a Patrol helmet by its strap. The brandy and the paper sack with Lyla's jewelry lay on the seat, and he knew an instant's flash of admiration for the woman and her ability to abandon everything but the bare essentials when the necessity arose. On impulse he grasped both items and jumped from the car, slamming the door behind him in the same motion.
Lyla had hauled the survival pack out of the trunk, as well as a coil of thin, synthetic fiber rope. Philips shut the trunk and hustled her back under the trees. Behind them, the aircar rose into the frigid air, turned to the northwest and shot away like a meteor, gaining speed and altitude as it went. They remained crouched in the shelter of the evergreens.
Five minutes elapsed, no more, and their pursuer passed overhead like a bullet. They were scarcely aware of its approach before it was vanishing to the northwest with the screech of tortured air in its wake.
Slowly, Philips rose to his feet, giving Lyla a hand up. He looked after the Patrol car, then fastened his cape, and shouldered the pack. Silently, Lyla handed him a spare blaster belt, picked up rope, pulse rifle and helmet, and glanced at the items Philips had rescued with a little smile. "What shall I do with them?"
"Stick 'em in the pack," he suggested. "That bottle might come in handy. You never know."
"You're right there." She opened the pack from behind and slid both items into it. Philips shrugged to settle the burden on his shoulders then glanced at her with a faint smile.
"Let's get out of here."
VI
Lewis Stevens guided the crowded little aircar, containing Brenda Wilcox, Harris Cane, Willis, the dog, Caesar, the cat and the two caged birds, named incongruously Halthzor and Travinthzill, after the Jilectan Viceroy and his chief wife, the Vicereine, just above the treetops. His scanners showed blank. They hadn't detected him, as far as he could tell, but his partner and Dr. Cane were headed toward Hel's Canyon with the Patrol in hot pursuit.
Lewis swore softly to himself as he proceeded at a leisurely pace toward
Muspelheim.
There was, of course, the faint chance that someone might be watching him
from orbit, but he doubted it. He didn't have the faintest sensation of observation, and a psychic learned to trust his hunches. Still, he would be on pins and needles until he managed to drop his passengers off in the forest north of Aaron Waters' ranch -- which was the Underground station -- then drop the car in Muspelheim. The aircar would be left at a service station -- there were three -- receive a new paint job, license, and registration number, and be picked up downtown on the morrow. All very neat and professional. Muspelheim wasn't exactly San Francisco, but it had the facilities to make the car disappear. He swore to himself again. Matt just wasn't very adventurous. If he, Lewis, had been running from the Patrol, he was sure there would be little difficulty, but Matt Philips wasn't exactly the swashbuckling type, even if he was a good friend of Westover and Linley. Matt regarded something as mild as a good game of golf as a big adventure. Lewis doubted he'd be able to handle Jils and 'trols hunting him and the lady doctor with him. True, he'd handled the first encounter at the farmhouse surprisingly well, but Lewis was inclined to believe that to be beginner's luck. The two would be as helpless as babes in the woods ...
The boy in the rear seat leaned forward. "Don't worry, Mister Stevens. Mom'll take care of him."
Stevens jumped. "Huh?"
"Mom's sharp. You'll see. She won't let Dr. Philips get hurt."
The boy had been picking up his thoughts. Lewis put up his shields, glancing at the same time over his shoulders. A pair of bright green eyes met his gaze and the boy smiled shyly. The dog -- or whatever it was -- leaned forward and deposited a wet, doggie kiss on Stevens' cheek. Harris seized his pet by the collar.
"Bad dog! Sorry Mr. Stevens. I'm trying to train him not to do that, but he's only a pup. He'll do better before long."
A pup? Lewis thought. The thing's the size of a Midgard dinosaur, now! He wiped saliva from his face with one sleeve. "That's okay, kid. Did you say he's only a puppy?"
"Uh huh. He's only about six months old, I think. I found him scrounging food out of old Mr. Murphy's storage shed last spring and brought him home and talked mom into letting me keep him. He was just a little guy then. He's grown some."
That was a generous five hundred percent understatement, Stevens thought.
Brenda Wilcox was looking amused. "Harry is always bringing home strays. He can never resist them. Lyla never makes him throw them out, but she usually makes him find them another home. He couldn't find one for Willis, and none of us could bear to dump him. So ..."
"Empaths," Lewis said. "My sister used to do that when I was a kid. She was an empath, too."
"Was?" asked Brenda.
"The Jils killed her. That's how my family came to join the Terran Underground."
"Oh." Brenda was silent a moment. Then: "Your family? Are you married?"
"I meant my parents and sisters and brother. I'm not married." He grinned suddenly. "At least not yet. It's too much fun being single."
The dentist laughed, and Harris joined her. She was a slender woman close to his own height, her head crowned with copper curls, two shades darker than his own. Her eyes were a deep, almost violet blue, and laughed when she did. She was probably close to his own age -- early- to mid-thirties, slim and active looking. Her speech carried a clipped British accent and she sounded like a female version of his commanding officer, Major General Walter Kaley.
Her expression became serious once more and she glanced out the side window. She was sitting in the front passenger seat, as the rear was occupied by Harris and his menagerie. "Where are we going now, Mr. Stevens?"
"Lewis," he told her. "Or Lew. I'm taking you to a station. When we get close, I'll drop you off in the trees. Walk due south 'til you come to a ranch house. Just walk in and tell them who you are. Don't be surprised if they act like they never heard of you. Stay there until I get back. I have to dispose of the car."
"What if --" Harris Cane paused in the middle of a sentence.
"If something happens," Lewis said, levelly, "and I don't make it back, they'll have a psychic there by tomorrow to okay you. Whatever happens, you're covered. Besides --" He glanced backward at Harris and grinned. "All they have to do is look at Harry here to know it's all right."
"I beg your pardon?" Dr. Wilcox said, obviously perplexed.
Lewis had noticed it when he first saw the boy, just as Philips had. "Ever see a wanted poster of Alan Westover?"
"The Jil killer?" Harris said. "Sure, I've got one. I swiped it off the shuttleport wall when Mom took me to Asgard for my Space Academy exams last year. And Strike Commander Linley, too."
"He's got them on his bedroom wall," Brenda said, teasingly. Harris made a face at her.
"Well," Stevens said, "if you're not some kind of relative of his I'll eat my flight helmet -- with ketchup. You look just like him."
"Well, yeah," Brenda said. "Lyla's said ..." She broke off.
"Do you know Alan Westover?" Harris sounded awed. "And Strike Commander Linley, too?"
Stevens carefully restrained a grin. Fourteen years before, a teenage boy had outdrawn a Jilectan noble to save the life of a Viceregal patrolman, and the legend of Alan Westover began to grow. The events that occurred in the subsequent years did little to tarnish an image that rapidly became larger than life. Most of the kids of Terra hero-worshiped them -- and Harris was not the only one to plaster their wanted posters on his bedroom walls.
"Yes, I know them," he admitted, casually, aware that the admission was akin to that of claiming that he knew Bud Haversham, star null-grav polo player of the Terran Dolphins, personally. "They're friends of mine." He glanced at the boy's eager face and grinned behind a carefully sober expression. "They're very nice people. I'll introduce you myself, if Matt doesn't do it first. But, before that, I have to pick up your mom and my partner from under the collective noses of the Patrol."
Brenda's forehead puckered worriedly. "Do you think you can?"
He nodded. "All they have to do is stay hidden until I can get to them. So far, they're okay."
"How do you know?" Harris asked, curiously.
"Matt's my psychic partner. I'll know it if he gets into real trouble."
"What's a psychic partner?"
Lewis explained. "So, even with our shielding up we know if the other is in trouble," he concluded.
Brenda Wilcox looked thoughtful. "You know," she remarked, "I realized I was a psychic quite awhile back, but I never dared show any interest in the subject, for obvious reasons. So I don't know much about it -- other than what I discovered I could do. We were all very careful not to let anyone suspect -- until now."
"It was the smart thing to do," Lewis told her, soberly. "If you'd been less careful you probably wouldn't be here, now. Jilectan psychic traps are sometimes kind of hard to avoid, though."
"So we found out." Brenda sounded rueful. She was silent a moment, watching the landscape going by, under them. Stevens could sympathize. Her whole life had been built here on Midgard. Now she was leaving behind everything but the things she could carry. He had to admire her, and Dr. Cane as well. Harris was a kid, and to some degree regarded the whole episode as an adventure, but all three had the stuff survivors were made of -- the ability to cut and run when they had to, and never mind the small stuff. Possessions could be replaced; their lives could not.
"What makes a person a psychic?" the dentist asked suddenly. "Being one got me into this. I'd like to know why." She glanced over at him. "You're a psychic, Lew. Has the -- the Terran Underground ever found out why we're different than ordinary people? Everyone knows you protect psychics. You must have found out something in all this time."
"Over twenty years," Lewis admitted. "Yes, certainly. Our research section has been doing some pretty intense work on the subject. The answer lies in genetics, of course. There is a gene that determines whether or not you're a psychic. They've even located the exact position on the chromosome."
"Is it a mutation or something?" Harris asked. "Are we some kind of mutant?"
"In a way." Lewis grinned. "Harris, every one of us is the result of millions of mutations. The psychic gene has been around for centuries. You'll realize that if you look at our history, our literature -- and our legends. No other species in the known galaxy except the Jils has the history we do: witches, wizards, soothsayers, witch doctors ... you name it. Some of them had to have been psychics. If Merlin existed he was certainly a psychic, and a very accomplished one. The gene is dominant, which means that if you have even one you're a psychic." He glanced at his scanners. No pursuit. He didn't really expect any. "For some reason we're still trying to learn, too, there are degrees of power. People with two psychic genes -- like Alan Westover, again -- are generally better than those with single ones, but not always. General Westover has a cousin who is a single gene psychic, but she's more powerful than a number of psychics who have two. It's the same with the Jilectans, except that they're probably all doubles. Good psychics produce good psychics, and poor psychics produce poor ones. And then there's the matter of the control factor."
"What's that?" asked Harris.
"The control factor," Lewis continued, "is much more common than the psychic gene, which is why we can teach nons to produce mind shields, like I taught you. Some carry only one factor, others carry two. Those with two have more precise control of their powers than those with one."
"How about psychic genes but no control genes?" Harris asked, curiously. "Does that ever happen?"
Oops! Bright boy! Lewis hesitated only fractionally. The existence of the rare psychic power pack was a guarded secret of the Terran Underground. Power packs formed a link with a functioning psychic and boosted the functioning partner's power to over three times that which he could produce alone. Mark Linley was the first such individual to be discovered and they remained rare. To date, fifteen others had been located. The Jilectans didn't know about them, and the Underground wanted it kept that way. It would be safer to keep them ignorant of that aspect of Terran psychic powers until they were safe.
"So far as we know that's never happened," he replied after a slight pause. "They would appear to be a normal human with no powers. The Jils theorize that might be how two apparently ordinary humans produce psychic children, but other than that --" he shrugged. "There'd be no way to tell without a complicated genetic test."
"I suppose not," Brenda agreed. "The Jils are probably right. It might be interesting to find out, though."
"It might be," agreed Lewis, easily. "Maybe when we have less pressing priorities we can do just that." He pointed ahead. "See that clump of trees?"
"Yes."
"When I pull into it, jump out and head directly south, toward Beta, until you see the ranch house. I'll see you in about an hour and a half." He dropped the car to ground level and they hurtled into the trees. Lewis hit the brake. "Out, quick!"
They obeyed, carting cat and birds with them. The dog followed, and the vehicle rocked at his exit. Lewis stepped on the accelerator to make up for the delay, and headed like a bullet for Muspelheim. This waiting was getting on his nerves.
***********
(tbc)
