Damia (33 page)

“Scatter, kids,” Damia said, firmly separating the little animals from their willing victim.

With startled squeaks, the Coonies fled from the couch to positions where they turned to glare in her direction, muttering Coonie imprecations. Afra glanced at her, his eyebrows raised in mild rebuke.

“They had a good romp with you,” she said, “but I went to a lot of trouble to give you a decent meal and I don’t like my efforts wasted.” She sat down across from him, plate in hand.

“Your efforts are not wasted,” he said, putting his fork in the crispy ginger chicken served with mange-tout. “Tasty enough.”

Damia made a face at him. “‘Tasty enough’ ?” she
mimicked him. “Can’t I ever impress you?” she asked, half-wistful, half-sharp.

“Why should you want to at this late date?” he asked, amiably. “I’ve never forgotten our introduction.” And he grinned.

“Oh, that!” As always, that reminder caused her to flush. “It’s not fair of you to continually bring that up. I was hardly aware of what I was doing, now was I? A bare hour born?”

“My dear Damia,” and he chuckled appreciatively, “you have always been aware of your effect on an audience.” He bowed his head toward her. “But let us attend to the business at hand. How can I help you? Shall I take over the regular Tower workload and leave you free for surveillance?”

“I think you’ll have to. When I got back in from resting, before mother dispatched you, Federated Mines and Ores notified me of intent to forward nine drones to the refinery on one of Betelgeuse’s outer planets.”

“Nine shouldn’t be a problem with David to catch,” Afra replied.

Damia rolled her eyes. “Big daddies, every one of them, not those small interstellar drones you and mother play with.”

“The big ones?” And Afra regarded her with some concern. “And they expect you to manage such mass with only a T-6?”

Damia grinned with satisfaction at his response. “I always do manage, you know,” she said with considerable pride.

“Still jump-starting other people’s Talents?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Afra, if it helps me spin off the workload they expect of me.”

Afra leaned forward, lightly touching his finger to her hand. “There’s such a thing as being too stiff-necked proud, Damia. Especially as you might put your T-6 at risk of burnout. Did you think of that?”

“Yes, I have, but Keylarion is sturdy. She doesn’t have much finesse, but she sort of sets her heels down and
pushes.” Damia gave a little laugh. “We might need more generators if this traffic in big daddies continues.”

“Earth Prime has the right to know when his people are overloaded.”

Damia found it difficult to evade Afra’s yellow eyes. “I would have mentioned it if the heavy traffic keeps up, Afra. I’d thought of insisting on the linked pod configuration you initiated, but it’s more a question of mass than convenience. Up ’til some dork thought of the big daddies, Keylarion and I have been able for all they’ve asked.”

“At least you had sense to ask for help today,” Afra said, and then shook his finger at her, simulating censure. “I think I’ll recommend that you’re allowed a T-4. . . . Ah ah, Damia,” and held his finger in a sterner pose, “
I’ll
have made the recommendation if I judge the traffic requires it. You won’t have to admit you’re unable to handle it.”

“I
am
able to handle it,” and she jerked her chin up in challenge.

“Indeed, but not if you’ve got to play sentinel, too. I should imagine that your staff will give a collective sigh of relief to know you’re being reinforced.”

Looking down to artistically rearrange the vegetables on her plate, she found that Afra was, as usual, correct in his supposition. The tip of his finger touched her chin and, with a deft kinetic tilt, he made her look him in the eye. His mind-touch was so sympathetic and understanding that she smiled ruefully.

“I don’t have a big staff,” she admitted, adding hastily, “but we really do work well together. And I haven’t heard so much as a wisp of complaint at the work load.”

“Then you’ve a good loyal group who will be delighted to see me appear in the Tower to help one and all move those ponderously packed pachydermical projectiles. When we’ve done that, your retiring in your capsule for a spot of peace and quiet will seem quite in order. Right?”

“As always, Afra.”

He regarded her steadily. “Is that so hard to take from me, Damia?”

She mushed up the vegetables on the end of her fork and replied honestly. “No, not from you, Afra. Never from you. You don’t change,” she added, rather more tartly than she intended.

He grinned at her. “Good old reliable Afra, consistent and constant.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, experiencing an odd twinge of regret for his flippant self-description. “You’re not that old.”

“No, actually I’m not,” he said enigmatically, and served himself a second helping from her pots and pans.

That pleased her and she rediscovered her appetite. Having Afra recommend what she herself hadn’t wanted to request restored her self-confidence. She was exceedingly glad to have Afra here just now, and not merely to help her shift cargo that was beginning to tax her strength, but because she was still absorbing the effect of touching that alien aura. She was excited, too, that she, Damia Gwyn-Raven, should establish such a first contact. Almost as if it had been preordained—though she had never succumbed to the immature curiosity that sometimes preoccupied lesser Talents to seek hints of their future from clairvoyants.

“You know,” she began, wanting to clear the air between them completely, “you were right to call me to task for ‘tasting’ Larak and Jenna. But I did want to know how a lasting love feels in the mind. So I’ll recognize it when it happens. And what it’s like to give birth.”

Afra raised an eyebrow quizzically. “And . . .”

“Apart from the pain, I guess it’s rewarding enough.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

Damia cocked her head and traced an involved pattern on the table with her index finger.

“I suspect the firsthand experience is more intense, no matter how deeply one scans.”

A trace thought behind her shield triggered by her observation sent a stab of apprehension through Afra that he barely managed to contain. She was unconsciously censoring, and it had to do with the alien aura and with her own
desire for the experience of motherhood. But trace thought it was, and he had only that nano-second impression, tantalizing, terrorizing.

“You’re young yet, Damia,” he said, keeping his voice light, “and it’s really important for you to consolidate your abilities as a Prime before you have conflicting loyalties. You know how hard it was for your mother to juggle Prime duties and motherhood.”

Damia cast him a jaundiced glare. “Not that old homily again,” she said in disgust. “From mother and Isthia it’s bad enough, but not you. And why does it seem to affect women more than men. Look at Larak: he’s got Jenna and he’s two and a half years my junior!”

“Cera’s not involved . . .”

“Oh, yes, she is, even if he’s not very Talented. Oh, is that news to you?” She was pleased to surprise him. Restlessly, she launched herself physically from the table in one lightning move, startling the Coonies who had been nestling in one of the lounge chairs.

“Cera could always keep her own counsel,” Afra replied.

“Why is it that Primes have such a hard time, Afra? We can do so much more than . . .” She discontinued that thought, for one of the strictest precepts of her upbringing was to avoid the arrogance of ability.

“Compensation,” Afra said in the languid drawl he reserved for these moods of hers. “There are some experiences in life which are worth waiting for.”

She whirled, scowling at him, looking even more lovely than ever. “So I should just wait in my Tower? As Mother did? Passive?”

Afra let out a roar of laughter that startled Damia as much as it did the Coonies. He laughed until his eyes were tearing. “My dear Damia, there is nothing passive about you, or don’t you remember how you dismissed young Nicoloss . . .”

“Nico! That adolescent mess!”

“He’s a good, reliable T-5 and he’s a superb second at Betelgeuse.”

“David’s welcome to him!” Damia’s eyes flashed blue sparks of outrage.

“Well, now, girl, you know you need a steadying hand . . .”

“Oooooh! Steadying hand . . . I’ll steady you . . .” and Damia lifted her right hand.

Well acquainted with Damia’s tendency to dramatize, Afra deposited Crisp in her open palm. Crisp blinked and cheeped in surprise.

“Ah, yes, I see I was mistaken,” Afra said as she closed her fingers reassuringly about the Coonie, drawing it in to her breast. “
YOU
have the steadying hand.”

She regarded him darkly, tapping her foot, her lips compressed.

It had become second nature, Afra decided, to deal with Damia’s moods. To be sure they were more complex since she became interested in the opposite sex—or, to be precise, the lack of partners, steadying or otherwise. These times tried his resolve despite the fact that his diversions were usually effective. One day he might graduate from the avuncular stance he had had to adopt and be able give free expression to his deep-hidden desire. But, from the day that Damia’s imminent puberty had forced him to realize how much she meant to him, he had given a great deal of thought to the variables and knew that he could only wait. It was hard. Certainly as hard as it was for Damia to watch others pairing off, achieving the enviable total rapport that telepaths enjoyed, and for which she was so eager. Her very brilliance and beauty caused many otherwise willing mates to shy away—Nicoloss being only the latest one of a long line. At least she had never repeated the Amr tragedy. Usually she would talk herself out of these libidinous moods, but tonight Afra sensed a new pulse that was dangerous in its intensity.

“Is that why you so eagerly await the arrival of the aliens?” Afra said in his soft drawl, deliberately leaching all emotion out of his words. “On the extremely unlikely chance they’re biologically compatible? Do you envision your soul mate winging across the void to you?”

Her eyes dilated in anger and the hand caressing Crisp stilled.

“That was unworthy of you, Afra,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

He knew that, but the thought was better aired between them where it couldn’t fester in her mind. He inclined his head in apology.

“Better get some sleep, Damia. We’re pushing big daddies tomorrow,” he said gently, and gave her a little mental shove toward her bedroom.

She scowled, still smarting from his facetious observation, but allowed herself to be swayed by the nudge. “Well, you know what a romantic I am, Afra,” she said with a rueful grin, and hitched Crisp to her shoulder where the Coonie had snuggled happily against her neck. “And I do need my sleep. That contact was quite a high. No action without a reaction, after all,” she added in a philosophical tone, but the sadness in her smile touched Afra to the heart.

He nodded understandingly, keeping a tight grasp on his emotions. Again Afra caught the unmistakable and unconscious suppression of a thought within the maelstrom of her weariness.

As Damia turned, she made a sweeping gesture at the other Coonies, and with squeals of delight, they erupted out of the chair and scurried after her.

Afra dared not relax until he was certain Damia was fully asleep. So he tidied away the remains of their meal, filled the Coonies’ water and dry feed dishes, and then watched the sunset turn the plateau a deep tangerine before diminishing in the west. Brooding over the nuances of the evening’s conversation, he waited until the roiling activity of Damia’s mind subsided into the even beat of sleep. Then he, too, went to bed.

To his surprise and delight, Scrap and Arfur appeared in his room to sit on his bed, clearly awaiting his company for the night. He was touched by their presence and settled himself down quickly, performing the obligatory caresses until they arranged themselves against him. Comforting
creatures to have. Not what he really wanted but better than nothing. Carefully, just as he was on the edge of sleep, he reinforced his mental screens so that none of his longing for Damia would escape. He wondered, in that honest interval between consciousness and dreaming, if he would have enough strength left to cope with a third generation of such women.

T
HE next day, Damia introduced Afra to her Tower personnel. Keylarion was visibly relieved to see him, for he had been her training mentor at Callisto. How Damia managed with only seven in staff, and all under T-8 apart from Keylarion, Afra could not imagine. Yet they had; there were no complaints from the Aurigae Management. Which, in point of fact, being so new a colony, could not have afforded the rates a large number of high T-s commanded in FT&T.

He perceived that Damia was popular with her staff, male and female. The T-9 stationmaster, Herault, was infatuated with her, a condition of which Damia was clearly unaware while Afra picked it up instantly. But then, he knew the signs so well. It was also apparent to Afra that none of them realized that Damia’s catalytic gift boosted their performance levels above their T-designation. He was relieved that she had finally learned not to reveal that aspect of her Talent. It had taken him long enough to get that message through her Talented skull.