Stewards of the Flame by Sylvia Engdahl Page A

Jesse’s hospitalization, when she’d tried desperately to free him, not guessing the true situation. Now, aware of it, she knew harder times were ahead of them. And this night would not be the least of them. Jesse would suffer terribly—more terribly than was usual, Peter had admitted. It would not harm him. He would not regret the experience. Unless . . . unless he failed to complete the full test. Unless she’d failed to give him reason enough to see it through. . . .
    She thought back to the point of decision, the moment when she had burst into Peter Kelstrom’s hospital office, frantic, ready to fight fiercely once more for Jesse’s release—only to find that he’d already signed the discharge order. “Tell me why you waited so long,” she’d demanded. “Tell me you didn’t order the truth serum.”
    “Carla, the stakes are very high here. I did what was necessary. Jesse Sanders wasn’t damaged by it.”
    “Like hell he wasn’t! You, a therapist, are saying that a man like Jesse is not damaged by forced extraction of God knows what thoughts are buried deep in his mind—by fearing he’s revealed more than he actually has, believing he will never again have any shred of privacy? By knowing it’s in his file?”
    “It’s not in his file. I did it by keyboard, using a synthesized voice he couldn’t recognize later, and I wiped it immediately. In due course I’ll tell him that.”
    “ You’ll tell him? Peter, you surely don’t think he’ll be picked up again?”
    Astonishingly, Peter broke into a radiant smile, the smile reserved for exciting ideas far removed from his somber job setting. “Forgive me for not leveling with you about Jesse’s case,” he said. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
    “Worked?” At first, she was too confused to grasp what he meant. Peter sometimes played ruthless games; he was very clever at it, and they were always effective. But whatever he’d meant to accomplish, he would not have involved an innocent bystander. Members of the Group could and did volunteer for unpleasant roles in schemes designed to protect Peter’s cover. To use a real patient that way would be unthinkable.
    “He has to hate the Hospital, and yet trust you ,” Peter explained. “If I’d told you ahead of time why I was stressing him, you’d have given too much away. You’re not well enough trained to hide your thoughts.”
    “But Peter, he already hated it, and anyway, why does it matter? He’ll be leaving soon.”
    “No. That’s one of the things I found out the night I viewed his chart at home. He’s listed as an alcoholic; the report had already gone to Fleet—for which I was grateful, since I was spared the anguish of feeling I ought to correct it. He won’t be able to get transport, not without undercover intervention, anyway.”
    “You don’t plan to intervene?” It seemed an odd lapse of Peter’s empathy.
    “Not by sending him offworld. I got the impression that you’d be happy to keep seeing him.”
    “Yes . . . but you know it can’t come to anything between us.” How, Carla thought, could this be troubling her? Her life was defined by the powers she’d gained, by what she had become; and she did not in any sense regret that, though it did limit future relationships. “I can’t love that way outside the Group, after all.”
    “Carla, we’re not going to leave him outside.”
    She drew breath. “You mean—make him one of us? Is that possible?”
    “It should be. He has the potential. If I had no other evidence, your attraction to him would be proof enough. And we need him. We—we need to see how our way of life will work for an offworlder.”
    “You turned him against the Meds just to recruit him!” she accused, suddenly understanding. “It wasn’t fair.” Despite her outrage, Carla’s heart beat faster. Perhaps, after all . . .
    “Certainly it was fair. He had to learn first hand what we’re up against. He hated the authorities here on