Get Off the Unicorn

Lady in the Tower
 
WHEN THE ROWAN came storming toward the station, its personnel mentally and literally ducked. Mentally, because she was apt to forget to shield. Literally, because the Rowan was prone to slamming around desks and filing cabinets when she got upset. Today, however, she was in fair command of herself and merely stamped up the stairs into the tower. A vague rumble of noisy thoughts tossed around the first floor of the station for a few minutes, but the computer and analogue men ignored the depressing effects with the gratitude of those saved from greater disaster.
 
From the residue of her passage, Brian Ackerman, the stationmaster, caught the impression of intense purple frustration. He was basically only a T-9, but constant association with the Rowan had widened his area of perception. Ackerman appreciated this side effect of his position—when he was anywhere else but at the station.
 
He had been trying to quit Callisto for more than five years, with no success. Federal Telepathers and Teleporters, Inc., had established a routine regarding his continuous applications for transfer. The first one handed in each quarter was ignored; the second brought an adroitly worded reply on how sensitive and crucial a position he held at Callisto Prime Station; his third—often a violently worded demand—always got him a special shipment of scotch and tobacco; his fourth—a piteous wail—brought the Section Supervisor out for a face-to-face chat and, only then, a few discreet words to the Rowan.
 
Ackerman was positive she always knew the full story before the Supervisor finally approached her. It pleased her to be difficult, but the one time Ackerman discarded protocol and snarled back at her, she had mended her ways for a whole quarter. It had reluctantly dawned on Ackerman that she must like him and he had since used this knowledge to advantage. He had lasted eight years, as against five stationmasters in three months before his appointment.
 
Each of the twenty-three station staff members had gone through a similar shuffling until the Rowan had accepted them. It took a very delicate balance of mental talent, personality, and intelligence to achieve the proper gestalt needed to move giant liners and tons of freight. Federal Tel and Tel had only five complete Primes—five T-1’s—each strategically placed in a station near the five major and most central stars to effect the best possible transmission of commerce and communications throughout the sprawling Nine-Star League. The lesser staff positions at each Prime Station were filled by personnel who could only teleport, or telepath. It was FT & T’s dream someday to provide instantaneous transmission of anything, anywhere, anytime. Until that day, FT & T exercised patient diplomacy with its five T-l’s, putting up with their vagaries like the doting owners of so many golden geese. If keeping the Rowan happy had meant changing the entire lesser personnel twice daily, it would probably have been done. As it happened, the present staff had been intact for over two years and only minor soothing had been necessary.
 
Ackerman hoped that only minor soothing would be needed today. The Rowan had been peevish for a week, and he was beginning to smart under the backlash. So far no one knew why the Rowan was upset.
 
Ready for the liner! Her thought lashed out so piercingly that Ackerman was sure everyone in the ship waiting outside had heard her. But he switched the intercom in to the ship’s captain.
 
“I heard,” the captain said wryly. “Give me a five-count and then set us off.”
 
Ackerman didn’t bother to relay the message to the Rowan. In her mood, she’d be hearing straight to Capella and back. The generator men were hopping between switches, bringing the booster field up to peak, while she impatiently revved up the launching units to push-off strength. She was well ahead of the standard timing, and the pent-up power seemed to keen through the station. The countdown came fast as the singing power note increased past endurable limits.
 
ROWAN, NO TRICKS, Ackerman said.
 
He caught her mental laugh, and barked a warning to the captain. He hoped the man had heard it, because the Rowan was on zero before he could finish and the ship was gone beyond radio transmission distance in seconds.
 
The keening dynamos lost only a minute edge of sharpness before they sang at peak again. The lots on the launchers snapped out into space as fast as they could be set up. Then the loads rocketed into receiving area from other Prime Stations, and the ground crews hustled rerouting and hold orders. The power note settled to a bearable hum as the Rowan worked out her mood without losing the efficient and accurate thrust that made her FT & T’s best Prime.
 
One of the ground crew signaled a frantic yellow across the board, then red as ten tons of cargo from Earth settled on the Priority Receiving cradle. The waybill said Deneb VIII, which was at the Rowan’s limit. But the shipment was marked “Rush/Emergency, priority medicine for a virulent plague on the colony planet.” And the waybill specified direct transmission.
 
Well, where’re my coordinates and my placement photo? snapped the Rowan. I can’t thrust blind, you know, and we’ve always rerouted for Deneb VIII.
 
Bill Powers was flipping through the indexed catalogue, but the Rowan reached out and grabbed the photo.
 
Zowie! Do I have to land all that mass there myself?
 
No, Lazybones, I’ll pick it up at 24.578.82—that nice little convenient black dwarf midway. You won’t have to strain a single convolution. The lazy masculine voice drawled in every mind.
 
The silence was deafening.
 
Well, I’ll be . . . came from the Rowan.
 
Of course, you are, sweetheart—just push that nice little package out my way. Or is it too much for you? The lazy voice was solicitous rather than insulting.
 
“You’ll get your package! replied the Rowan, and the dynamos keened piercingly just once as the ten tons disappeared out of the cradle.
 
Why, you little minx . . . slow it down or I’ll burn your ears back!
 
Come out and catch it! The Rowan’s laugh broke off in a gasp of surprise and Ackerman could feel her slamming up her mental shields.
 
I want that stuff in one piece, not smeared a millimeter thin on the surface, my dear, the voice said sternly. Okay, I’ve got it. Thanks! We need this.
 
Hey, who the blazes are you? What’s your placement?
 
Deneb Sender, my dear, and a busy little boy right now. Ta ta.
 
The silence was broken only by the whine of the dynamos dying to an idle burr.
 
Not a hint of what the Rowan was thinking came through now, but Ackerman could pick up the aura of incredulity, shock, speculation, and satisfaction that pervaded the thoughts of everyone else in the station. The Rowan had met her match. No one except a T-1 could have projected that far. There’d been no mention of another T-1 at FT & T, and, as far as Ackerman knew, FT & T had all of the five known T-1s. However, Deneb was now in its third generation and colonial peculiarities had produced the Rowan in two.
 
“Hey, people,” Ackerman said, “sock up your shields. She’s not going to like your drift.”
 
Dutifully the aura was dampened, but the grins did not fade and Powers started to whistle cheerfully.
 
Another yellow flag came up from a ground man on the Altair hurdle and the waybill designated Live shipment to Betelgeuse. The dynamos whined noisily and then the launcher was empty. Whatever might be going through her mind at the moment, the Rowan was doing her work.
 
All told, it was an odd day, and Ackerman didn’t know whether to be thankful or not. He had no precedents to go on and the Rowan wasn’t leaking any clues. She spun the day’s lot in and out with careless ease. By the time Jupiter’s bulk had moved around to blanket out-system traffic, Callisto’s day was over, and the Rowan wasn’t off-power as much as decibel one. Once the in-Sun traffic was finished with, Ackerman signed off for the day. The computer banks and dynamos were slapped off . . . but the Rowan did not come down.
 
Ray Loftus and Afra, the Capellan T-4, came over to sit on the edge of Ackerman’s desk. They took out cigarettes. As usual, Afra’s yellow eyes began to water from the smoke.
 
“I was going to ask her Highness to give me a lift home,” Loftus said, “but I dunno now. Got a date with—”
 
He disappeared. A moment later, Ackerman could see him near a personnel carrier. Not only had he been set gently down, but various small necessities, among them a shaving kit, floated out of nowhere onto a neat pile in the carrier. Ray was given time to settle himself before the hatch sealed and he was whisked off.
 
Powers joined Afra and Ackerman.
 
“She’s sure in a funny mood,” he said.
 
When the Rowan got peevish, few of the men at the station asked her to transport them to Earth. She was psychologically held planetbound, and resented the fact that lesser talents could be moved about through space without suffering traumatic shock.
 
“Anyone else?
 
Adler and Toglia spoke up and promptly disappeared together. Ackerman and Powers exchanged looks which they hastily suppressed as the Rowan appeared before them, smiling. It was the first time that welcome and totally unexpected expression had crossed her face for two weeks.
 
She smiled but said nothing. She took a drag of Ackerman’s cigarette and handed it back with a thank-you. For all her temperament, the Rowan acted with propriety face to face. She had grown up with her skill, carefully taught by the old and original T-1, Siglen, the Altairian. She’d had certain courtesies drilled into her: the less gifted could be alienated by inappropriate use of talent. She was perfectly justified in “reaching” things during business hours, but she employed the usual methods at other times.