For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [14]
“Yes,” she continued. “They barely had the money for it. I pressed them, I backed off, I did everything I could think of to convince them of its worth once I saw that they were really serious about buying the thing. Every time, no matter what I said, they left the shop and went off arguing between themselves.
“Then ye put in an appearance and stood there and watched them, and lo-de-do-de, sudden-like, their sales resistance just crumpled up and went aflight. Be that not interesting?”
“Not really,” he replied. “Doesn’t that happen lots of times?”
“Not with an item as expensive as the caulderwood, it doesn’t. It hardly ever happens that way. Now I don’t suppose ye had anything to do with the sudden change of heart on the part of those two? ’Tis not likely ye sensed their hesitation and maybe did something to help them along?”
“Of course not, Mother.” He looked away from his viewer in surprise. “I can’t do anything like that.”
“Oh,” she murmured, disappointed. “Ye wouldn’t be lying to me now, would ye, boy?”
He shook his head violently. “Why would I do a thing like that? I’m just happy you made so much money on the sale. I’m always glad when you make money.”
“Well, that be one thing we have in common, anyway,” she said gruffly. “That’s enough viewing for one night. You’ll strain your young eyes. Be to bed, Flinx.”
“All right, Mother.” He walked over and bestowed the obligatory peck on her cheek before scurrying off to his own room. “G’night.”
“Good night, boy.”
She stayed awake in her own bedroom for a while, watching one of the rented entertainment chips on her own viewer. The show had been recorded on Evoria and benefited from the exotic location and the presence of thranx performers. It was late when she finally shut it off and readied herself for sleep. A quick shower, half an hour brushing out her hair, and she was able to slide with a sigh beneath the thermal blanket.
As she lay in the dark, waiting for sleep, a sudden disquieting thought stole into her mind. Why would the boy lie to her about such a possible ability?
He might do it, she thought, because if he could convince one couple to make an unwanted purchase, he probably could do it to others. And if he could do it to others, what about this past autumn when she had been hurrying past the government auction platform on her way across town, and something had brought her to a puzzling halt. Wasn’t it possible that the purchase she had made then—the unwanted, inexplicable-to-this-day purchase that she had never looked at too closely—had been helped along its way by the mental nudging of the purchased? Why had she bought him? None, of her friends could quite understand it either.
Disturbed, she slipped out of the bed and walked across the resting and eating space to the boy’s room. A glance inside revealed him sleeping soundly beneath his cover, as innocent-looking a child as one could hope to set eyes upon. But now something else was there, too, something unseen and unpredictable that she could never be certain about. Never again would she be able to relax completely in the boy’s presence.
Already she had forgotten her initial regrets and had begun to extend to him the love she had never before been able to give to his like. He was an endearing little twit and had been more than helpful around the shop. It was good to have such company in her old age. But for a while now, just for a while, she would pat and reassure him with one hand and keep the other close by a weapon. At least until she could be sure in her own mind that it still was her own mind she could be sure of.
Silly old fool, she thought as she turned back toward her own room. You’ve praised him for having a Talent, and now you’re worried about it. You can’t have it both ways. Besides, what need to fear a Talent its owner could not control? That confession of the boy’s seemed truthful enough, to judge by his distress and bewilderment.
She was feeling easier by the time she slipped into