For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [105]
Pip lay in the bottom of the cube, coiled into itself apparently deep in sleep. Flinx took a step forward. Cruachan put out a hand to hold him back.
“Your pet is resting comfortably. The air in the cage has been mixed with a mild soporific. Westhoff is regulating the mixture and flow of gases even as we speak. If you were to try anything foolish, he would increase the flow from the tanks before you could possibly free your pet. You see, the cage has been weld-sealed. There is no latch.
“The adjusted normal atmosphere inside the cube will be completely replaced by the narcoleptic gas, and your pet will be asphyxiated. It would not take long. All Westhoff has to do is press violently on the button his thumb is caressing. If necessary, he will throw his body across it. So you see, there is nothing you could do to prevent him from carrying out his assignment.”
Flinx listened quietly even as he was gauging the distance between himself and the cage. The elderly man holding the control box gazed grimly back at him. Even if he could somehow avoid the hands that would surely reach out to restrain him, he did not see how he could open the cage and free Pip. His stiletto would be useless against the thick pancrylic.
“You’ve made your point,” he said finally. “What do you want from me?”
“Redemption,” Cruachan told him softly.
“I don’t understand.”
“You will eventually, I hope. For now, suffice for you to know that we are interested in your erratic but unarguable abilities: your Talent.”
All Flinx’s preconceived ideas collapsed like sand castles in a typhoon. “You mean you’ve gone through all this, kidnaping Mother Mastiff and now Pip, just because you’re curious about my abilities?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I would have done my best to satisfy you without your having to go through all this trouble.”
“It’s not quite that simple. You might say one thing, even believe it, and then your mind might react otherwise.”
Crazier and crazier, Flinx thought dazedly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Just as well,” Cruachan murmured. “You are an emotional telepath, is that not correct?”
“I’m sensitive sometimes to what other people are feeling, if that’s what you mean,” Flinx replied belligerently.
“Nothing else? No precognitive abilities? Telekinesis? True telepathy? Pyrokinesis? Dimensional perceptivity?”
Flinx laughed at him, the sound sharpened by the tension that filled the room. “I don’t even know what those words mean except for telepathy. If by that you mean can I read other people’s minds, no. Only sometimes their feelings. That other stuff, that’s all fantasy, isn’t it?”
“Not entirely,” Cruachan replied softly, “not entirely. The potentials lie within every human mind, or so we of the Society believe. When awakened, further stimuli, provided through training and other means, can bring such abilities to full life. That was the—” He paused, his smile returning.
“As I said, someday you will understand everything, I hope. For now, it will be sufficient if you will permit us to run some tests on you. We wish to measure the probable limits of your Talent and test for other possible hidden abilities as yet undeveloped.”
“What kinds of tests?” Flinx regarded the tall man warily.
“Nothing elaborate. Measurements, electroencephaloto-pography.”
“That sounds elaborate to me.”
“I assure you, there will be no discomfort. If you’ll just come with me . . .” He put a fatherly hand on Flinx’s shoulder. Flinx flinched. There should have been a snake there, not an unfamiliar hand.
Cruachan guided him toward the instruments. “I promise you, give us twenty-four hours and you’ll have your pet restored to you unharmed, and you’ll never have to go through this again.”
“I don’t know,” Flinx told him. “I’m still not sure of what you want from me.” It seemed to him that there was an awful lot of instrumentation around for just a few simple tests, and some of it looked almost familiar. Where had he seen that tendriled