Table Of ContentPEGASUS IN SPACE
ANNE McCAFFREY
THE BALLANTINE PUBLISHING GROUP - NEW Y0RK
This book is respectfully dedicated to
Christopher Reeve
With the devout hope that he realizes his ambition-to
stand on his own two feet once again in 2002!
A C K N 0 W L E D M E N T S
Foremost on my list of thank-yous for this novel is Dr. Steven Beard of the UK
Astronomy Technological Center, Royal Observatory in Edinburgh. I asked for
help and he gave me such a large measure of valuable information that I had
more than enough for this part of the Pegasus universe. Not only is he a
marvelous punster but also a dedicated researcher, leading me to many
previously unexplored paths of stargazing and suggesting useful Web sites
where my basic reference texts were out of date. He patiently went over drafts
and consequently the relevant characters are well informed. I would like to thank
Elizabeth Kerner, author of Song in the Silence, for introducing me to Dr. Beard.
Dr. Brian Kane of the Lowell Observatory Web site also responded to my
specific queries, for which I am indeed grateful.
Mark Finkelstein, D.O., F.A.O.C.R., of the Du Pont Hospital for Children,
dropped by Dragonhold for tea one afternoon with his friend, Michael Zeik,
offered his assistance, and found me taking him up on his kind offer.
Dr. Donald L. Henninger of J.S.C. NASA was somewhat surprised by my phone
call asking him to confirm some specific information on CELSS—Controlled
Environment Life Support Systems. He gave me what I needed to know and for
that I am indebted to him. I hadn’t realized so much had changed from what we
s-f writers used to use in hydroponic gardens on spaceships and stations.
Books on Bangladesh, its geography, culture, and language, published in
Australia, were accessed from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. The names will
be different from those current in many American-printed atlases, especially as
the major rivers change their beds and names to whatever the local people
choose. I am deeply indebted for the help of Dr. S. Farid Ahmed from Dhaka,
currently Registrar in the Borders Hospital, for his assistance; he has prevented
me from making several glaring misrepresentations.
My son, Todd McCaffrey, came forward magnificently with suggestions and
solutions for the Limo (Lunar Insertion Moon Orbit) scenes and Jenna Scott
McCaffrey read with her copy editor’s eyes on the text. So have my daughter,
Georgeanne Kennedy, and Richard Woods, Lea Day, and Mary Jean Holmes.
I am happy to acknowledge the continued assistance and support of Shelly
Shapiro, my editor at Del Rey, Diane Pearson, my editor at Transworld-Corgi,
and Martha Trachtenberg, the copy editor who joggled my shortterm memory
about names and relationships.
One other point: since the genesis of the Pegasus books (and indeed the
Rowan/Tower and Hive series) is the short story I wrote back in 1959, I have
been constrained to keep to the people and places mentioned so long ago. Forty
years later, we understand science and ourselves more clearly and in greater
detail. I have kept to the original premises and places in “The Lady in the
Tower” while moving along with such advances as possible and extrapolating as
seemed logical.
A man’s reach should exceed his grasp
Or what’s a heaven for?
Or what’s a heaven for?
ROBERT BROWNING (1855)
1
As Peter Reidinger was teleporting in gestalt with the huge Jerhattan Power
Station to bring the kinetics down from Padrugoi Space Station to Dhaka, an
exhausted group of men and women were trying to reach the shelter of the
nearest shomiti. With the bundles they had snatched from their homes before
escaping the breached levees, they staggered to higher ground along the muddy
banks of the Jamuna River. They had to scramble to bridge the gaps in the levee
mounds that, in places, were sliding into the Jamuna’s torrent. Despite Herculean
efforts by the government and the local administrators in the Rajshahi Division,
the levees had not supplied the longed-for protection to those living along its
banks.
Anger at the “authorities” consumed Zahid ldris Miah and sustained him as he
slogged at the head of the group from his bari, flashing the long-life light ahead
of him. In the gloom of this monsoon, the tool at least kept them from slithering
into places where the Jamuna had chewed ravines into the levee bank in its rush
to the sea. He devoutly mumbled prayers to Iswah that this tool was truly a
“long-life” torch. He half expected it to fade out now, when it was most needed,
like so many other items that came to his small bari south of Sirajganj as
Rajshahi Division tried to-what was the ingraji word?-“upgrade” him and the
other jute farmers.
They should have kept a close watch on the levees in this storm. They should
have worked more diligently to reinforce the collecting lakes along the Jamuna
River. They had promised to do so, to keep more of Bangladesh from sliding
beneath the Bay. He vaguely knew that a great new engineering process that had
kept some city in Italia from drowning had been adapted to keep the Bay of
Bengal from inundating the coastal regions near the mouth of the Padma. Much
land had been lost along the seacoast in spite of the efforts of many, very gifted
engineers. The once inland city of Khulna was now protected by the great Dike,
which had been erected three decades ago. Barisal City was also ringed south
and east by the Ocean Dikes, invented by yet other westerners who had been
determined to keep their land from drowning. Those islands that had once dotted
the Bay of Bengal: Bhola, Hatiya, and, Sondwip-where the Meghna River
flowed into the Bay-had been inundated and the people saved only by the
massive efforts of the World Relief Organization.
massive efforts of the World Relief Organization.
He had heard that the islands of Kutubdia and Maheskhali, near Cox’s Bazar
were also gone, and the tip of Chittagong. As Zahid had never been farther from
his bari than Sirajganj, these places might as well have been in Great India or
Meriki. What had happened to those who had helped before? Had they, like so
many others, deserted the Bangla in their hours of need? He wiped the sudden
spurt of winddriven rain from his face. Were they tired of rescuing poor
Bangladeshi? He wasn’t surprised; who cared, but Iswah, what happened to the
poor? The wind smacked at his lean, work-honed frame again and he slid on the
mud, the light briefly aimed to his right.
Was that debris now bobbing along on the swift flowing current the plants he
had struggled so to keep watered during the dry season? There was always too
much of everything-Iswah be praised, he added quickly-when it wasn’t needed.
The Jamuna had irrigated his fields but this was overdoing it.
“Where be those who aid? Curses be on their names and every generation of
them!” Zahid roared above the wind, waving about both hands, making the
torchlight stab about the darkness.
Behind him, Jamila wailed, berating her husband. “Do not wave our light about
so! How am I seeing where to put my feet? If it falls from your hand, how will
we be seeing where dry land is?” She had hiked up her sari, its sodden, muddy
hem banging against her thin calves. He had already reprimanded her several
times for her immodesty.
“Hush, woman. Rafiq and Rahim have torches. Watch your sari that you do not
tempt Ayud Bondha. ” To emphasize his displeasure in her demeanor, he
lengthened his stride, sweeping the ray of light in front of him to see where he
was going. This disgruntled him more, for it might appear to her that he was
heeding her complaint.
“How far to go now, Zahid?” Salma, Ayud Bondha’s young wife, cried in
ragged gasps. She had to shout above the wind noise. She was many months
pregnant with her firstborn, and clumsy. Ayud was half carrying her, both of
them slipping about in the thick mud.
Zahid didn’t like Salma. As a young girl, she had been chosen from her village
to go to the school to learn to read and write and do sums. Because of that, she
did not efface herself, as a proper woman should, speaking out often in the
did not efface herself, as a proper woman should, speaking out often in the
shomiti with unseemly disregard of custom. Ayud Bondha always indulged her,
smiling and doing nothing to discipline her, as a husband should.
“We will be seeing shomiti lights soon Zahid said and sent his beam ahead of
them, squinting to see any glimmer from their destination. Shomiti were still
built on heavy concrete pillars, thanks be to Iswah, so their shelter remained
above the flooded lands. There would be light cylinders-also of the long-life
variety-hung on the comers of the covered veranda to show refugees their way
through the day’s darkness, wind, and rain.
“Aiyeee!” screamed his wife, sliding her length in the mud, face down. The fall
both amused and irritated Zahid. Sputtering curses, he caught hold of her arm
with his free hand, the arc of the light he held going every which way again.
Ayud Bondha grasped her other flailing arm and, between them, they managed
to lift her out of the mud. Solicitously, Salma used the long end of her already
sodden sari to clear Jamila’s mud-smeared face while she gasped for breath and
spat out the grit in her mouth.
“Aiyeee!” Jamila screamed again, wildly pointing at the rushing water.
“Something in the river!” She grabbed her husband’s hand with her muddied
ones and steadied the broad beam of the flashlight on what she had glimpsed
when his beam was erratically flashing about.
“Nothing alive,” Zahid retorted, trying to wrest control of the torch from her.
“I see something, too,” Salma said, and Zahid snarled under his breath. That was
all he needed. Her to side with the thin stick who was his wife.
“There is something,” Ayud agreed, and by then the rest of their group had
caught up to them.
Rafiq and Rahim added their lights to his reluctant one and even he had to admit
that there was something, a small child perhaps, clinging to the fork of two
branches. Zahid was stunned. A tree of such size had to have floated down all
the way from the Terai region. Even as he watched, he saw movement, a wide-
open mouth in a white face, probably calling for help. Suddenly, the current of
the Jamuna whimsically pushed the tree closer to the levee.
“Joldi!” cried Salma, pushing at Zahid. “Sahajyo! Quick! Help!”
“Ki kore? How?” Zahid demanded, one hand gesturing his helplessness while,
with the other, he stubbornly followed the slowly spinning mass with his light.
“Dig your feet in!” Rahim cried, leaping forward. “We make a chain. Grab my
hand, Rafiq. You, too, Jabbar, Khaliq. Make a chain. Zahid, light us.”
Rahim barely got a firm grip on Rafiq’s hand before Zahid pushed Jabbar and
Khaliq into place, making himself the end of the human rescue line. He was as
heavy as Rahim and could be the anchor despite the slippery mud. His wife
wailed and moaned that surely they would not be in time, that they would all fall
in the water and drown, and then what would become of them? Then Salma
grabbed the light from Zahid’s hand as he was pulled forward, closer to the edge
of the levee. Frantically he dug his heels into the slippery soil, determined to
stop his forward movement. Khaliq also dug his feet in. Then Rahim, living up
to his name of “mighty soldier,” caught hold of the nearest branch of the tree
fork and hauled it closer. He stretched the human chain to its full length as he
made his first grab at the child. It let out a shriek that could be heard above the
wind’s screech and lay limp across the bole. Rahim made a second grab and got
a firm grip on one leg.
“Tana!” cried Rahim, struggling to shift his balance back to the levee.
Pull the others did, Jabbar going down on his knees in the mud to keep from
sliding further. As Rahim teetered backward, Khaliq dropped Jabbar’s hand and
rushed to grab Rahim’s shirt to draw him and his burden to the relative safety of
the higher bank. Salma focused the light on the tree that, its passenger now
safely ashore, was caught by an eddy and swirled away.
“Light, woman!” Zahid shouted, angrily snatching it back and shining it on the
child.
Rain slanted down on the unconscious face and the open mouth. Suddenly
Rahim jerked the tattered shirt down, glancing warily at Jamila who had bent to
examine the human flotsam.
“A girl child,” she said. Then she saw and touched the limp left arm that dangled
at an unnatural angle. “Broken.”
“Give Iswah thanks for preserving the child,” murmured Zahid.
“Did I do that?” asked Rahim, panting from his exertions and reaching out to the
“Did I do that?” asked Rahim, panting from his exertions and reaching out to the
injured limb.
“Iswah knows,” Jamila said with pious absolution. “Young bones heal easily.”
“You were holding the other arm, Rahim Ali,” Salina said, flinging a sodden
braid over her shoulder.
“How could you see?” Zahid demanded.
“I was holding the light,” she replied, but now Ayud Bondha tapped her shoulder
in tacit reprimand. I did see,” she said defensively. Then she fumbled in the
bundle she had over her shoulder and brought out a smoothed stick, wood oiled
by long usage in cooking. “Jamila, this for a splint. Tie with this.” Dragging the
end of a piece of fabric out, she gnawed a cut in the hem and then, with a strong
gesture, tore off the end. She handed the strip and the utensil to Jamila.
With the experienced deftness of those accustomed to dealing with minor
injuries, Jamila and Rahim straightened the thin arm against the smooth wooden
stirrer and deftly wound the makeshift bandage around it. The fabric was already
sodden from the persistent rain but it would hold the tiny limb to the splint.
“Jolki! Joldi! Be quick,” Zahid said, irritated by the holdup. He flashed his light
toward the Jamuna and everyone could see that the water had risen against the
levee in the short time since the child had been rescued.
Jamila cradled the child in one arm and, with a toss of her head at the scowling
Zahid, started off again. Zahid, imperiously waving his light, took a few running
steps to take up his forward position.
“Ami neta,” he said in a fierce tone. “I am leading.”
They had gone no more than fifteen paces when he saw the bobbing of lights
coming toward them.
“Are you all right?” someone shouted.
“HA!” Zahid yelled back, cupping his free hand to his mouth.
“We were seeing you stop,” the someone said as half a dozen men came into the
beam of his torch.
“We are all right but our women are tired,” Zahid called back. He did not wish to
explain that, at great peril to their lives, they had rescued only a girl child. The
saving of a boy would have been worth bragging about.
“We have saved an injured child,” Salina shouted.
Then the contingent from the shomiti converged on them and assisted the weary
travelers the rest of the way up the slight but muddy incline to the welcome
shelter of the community center. The greedy waters of the Jamuna were still
below the levee on this stretch, not yet washing at the sturdy columns that held
up the building.
Salma had gone to school in this shomiti so she called out to one of the Teachers
in the largest room where a huge pot was simmering on a brazier.
“Rupoti Apa,” she cried, and the woman looked up from stirring the rice
mixture. “We found a child.”
“A girl child,” Zahid said.
“We are all precious to Iswah,” the Shikkhika said, giving Zahid a mildly
reproving glance as she rose and came forward to see the limp figure Jamila held
out.
“With a broken arm. Is the daktar here?” Jamila asked.
Shaking her head, Rupoti Apa peered at the limp body, noting the splinted arm,
the many scratches and bruises, and a skin wrinkled from long immersion. “He
is not here. The child is not too badly hurt. Bring her and yourself, Salma, to the
fire and be warm. Jamila, take bowls. We have rice and fish to eat. Hot and
good.” She waved toward the stack of rough pottery bowls on the far side of the
brazier.
When Salma had eased herself to a sitting position by the fire, Jamila transferred
the child to her and set about serving the piled bowls to those from her bari.
Salma was glad of the excuse of the child and a position by the fire. When
Rupoti Apa handed her a bowl of the rice, she made a cradle of her damp sari
and put the child in it while she fingered the rice into her mouth. It was hot and
burned a little as it went down but the heat was welcome. So were the pieces of
burned a little as it went down but the heat was welcome. So were the pieces of
mach she was delighted to find liberally sprinkled in the rice. She tried not to eat
too quickly but hunger was on her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ayud,
Rafiq, and Jabbar in the corridor, eating as quickly as she. It was a generous
portion and filled the empty places in her.
She was dozing, chin on her chest, when the child-older than a babe or it would
not have survived in the flood-finally roused. Its thin pained squall roused others
in the room. Before Salma could orient herself and remember why she had a
child in her lap, Rupoti Apa lifted the little girl out of her improvised cradle.
“Daktar Mohammed is here and will tend her. Do you know whose child she
is?”
Salma shook her head and went back to sleep, not willing to relinquish her place
near the fire, now embers of red charcoal. She never saw the child again.
When the telekinetics that Peter Reidinger had carefully ‘ported to Zia Airport
got to work, they managed to stem and control the flood crest before the
Buriganga River could inundate the sprawling city of Dhaka.
They could not repair all the levees that had collapsed along the four main rivers,
which shifted their beds as often as they changed their names, Ganges/Padma
and Brahmaputra/Jamuna, along with the tributaries they acquired on their
journey down to the Bay of Bengal. Those who lived in Dhaka called what
flowed past them the Buriganga River. From the east came the less ferocious
Meghna and Sitalakhya rivers. It was feat enough at first to reinforce the levees
protecting a city of twelve million souls, spread out in the apex of the river
already enlarged by its tributaries. Lance Baden set up his headquarters in a
quickly evacuated building in Motijheel, the financial district of the city. There
he directed the operations, quickly organizing and sorting out the problems of
the most affected divisions: Rajshahi, Dhaka itself, Barisal, and finally
Chittagong, which had its own special problems stemming from Kaptai Lake.
Whenever district engineers could make contact with Lance’s personnel, he
directed his telekinetics to send stopgap materiel to be rammed into place.
He brought Bangladeshi workers in from the drier divisions, Sylhet, the upper
Rajshahi, and Khulna. His kinetics managed to seal the worst levee collapses
until reinforcing materials could be set into place along the Buriganga. A special
