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energetic Lehardt shook her hand. He was a full two meters tall, athletic in build, and he emanated a competence and geniality that could only come from a secure, well-adjusted personality. He was handsome enough, with mid-brown hair, blue eyes, and regular but not remarkable features, and he dressed with conservative elegance.
    “Not wings! Vanes! More reliable,” he said with a charming grin. He began sorting through the papers in his attaché case. “Gordie said it was urgent, and I watch the news.” He stopped when he noticed her baffled expression. “What’s the matter? Did I break out in spots?”
    “No, but you haven’t an ounce of Talent, and you ought to.”
    “Why?” Dave Lehardt shrugged. “I’ve never needed it. Astute student of human psychology and keen observer of body language.”
    He also had an impenetrable natural shield. With all her skill, she could not read his mind.
    “Now,” he said, hauling a spare chair up beside hers and spreading out hard copy of advertisements and graphics, “we get in there before Barchenka even thinks of crowing in triumph, so the public will see that Talents are graciously mobilizing all available personnel to be sure Padrugoi Platform is finished on schedule—with phrases that imply she can’t make it on her own without Talented help.”
    “That’s true enough,” Rhyssa said grimly.
    “Ah, but there are ways and ways of saying the same thing,” Dave Lehardt said with a truly malicious smile. “I tangled briefly with the Barchenka Stonewall for another client, and believe me, I’m on your side!”
    Rhyssa smiled to herself. Dave Lehardt did have something like a Talent—a self-confidence that radiated from him like an aura. She had never met someone like him before: someone whose mentality she could not delve into, however discreetly. It was a new experience, and she found herself watching his expressive face, noting the way his hands emphasized points and how he occasionally added a shoulder movement that reinforced what he said. He also kept glancing at her, meeting her eyes as few non-Talents would. Clearly he was not the least bit in awe of being in the presence of one of the top telepathic Talents.
    Oblivious to her reactions, he went on. “I’ve been yearning to score on our gracious ‘Milla.” A flicker of some quickly suppressed emotion shot across his face, but Rhyssa could not decipher it. “All-out Talent assistance, even at the expense of long-established links with the public sector, at considerable personal sacrifice—‘Milla doesn’t pay the going rates, since hers is a priority contract and has worldwide backing.”
    “She will not believe that money is not a consideration . . .”
    “Are you aware of the size of her bonus if she gets the station fully operational on time?”
    Rhyssa grinned. “One of the best-kept secrets of the Talents. We also know the percentage she has to cough up if she doesn’t.”
    “You are well informed!” He paused with a hopeful expression and then sighed as she merely smiled. “No, I didn’t think you’d tell me.” He snagged the corner of a graphic sheet from the pile and spread it out. “To address your two points: six-hour shifts and shielding—very alliterative. I’m going to be able to use that as a slogan, you know . . . Have you
demonstrated
the problem?”
    “How do you mean ‘demonstrated’?”
    “Time and motion studies, energy expenditures—that sort of recordable data. Remember, I’ve seen your kinetics in action, but I doubt that Ludmilla or even Per Duoml have taken the trouble to watch them work. They’ve been too busy bitching about weightlessness and the silence of space to appreciate the effort kinesis actually takes. I thought you might not have thought of that gimmick. So I had a chat with a Talent I know who was up on the platform, and he gave me some remarkable insights into the actual shift mechanics.
If
the day’s matériel was properly organized, the