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friend, or someone, convinced you that meddling with the gods is dangerous?
Especially dangerous for someone like you. Here we go again. Someone like
you.  Would you care to explain that? Two black glittermotes pop into view
above his left shoulder as he stands abruptly.
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Farell does not change position, but seems to withdraw against the storage
lockers. Shrinks further into herself, and does not speak.
 Everyone seems to think I'm different. And every time I question something,
people back away. But they still don't answer. Except to tell me not to
question, not to challenge. So answer that, Farell. If I'm more than the
simple esper I think I am, what makes me so? Why does everyone think so? And
what difference does it make? If the so-called gods are so flamed powerful and
if I'm such a threat. . . Flame! It doesn't make sense. If I'm a threat, then
they're not really that powerful. And if they're so almighty, then I'm no real
threat. So answer that, Farell!
Martel can feel the thin edge within him, the one that separates him from the
darkness beneath, blurring as the now-familiar tide of inner darkness rises.
Suddenly he can see the two women that Marta Farell is. The first is a small,
frightened girl, protected by a shell of professional competence. The second,
not nearly so clear in focus, might better be called ... but Martel can find
no words, no concepts. For the hidden Farell has a trace of wantonness, a
trace of tomboyishness, an abiding warmth. . .
... and in the confusion, the dark side of his own self ebbs, and he wonders
why he is standing and shouting, and why Marta Farell is merely waiting. And
he laughs.
 For an instant, I really got carried away. I'm sorry. He takes one step
toward her, stops as he sees her shrink away. Instead, he turns and reseats
himself in the console chair.
 Guess I got a little overwrought, a little carried away. Don't really
understand why. She shifts her weight, finally faces him head on.  Because
you don't understand Them, and you won't really face what you are. And no one
else can afford to help you out. The costs could be far too high. I know. I
know. That's why I agreed you could work here. But even I didn't  her voice
breaks off, but Martel catches the last words as unspoken thoughts, expect
this. - Martel shakes his head. Every answer creates more questions. He
decides to return to the original discussion.  What about a slot on the
postulant communities?
 Do you really understand how dangerous it is? Her quiet voice has a touch of
resignation, desperation.  No. But I'd like to try.
 That's obvious. If it goes right, you gain nothing. And if it goes wrong, a
lot of people will suffer besides you.
Farell flips her thin legs and hips off the low ledge and alights lightly in
front of the console.  But I doubt that will stop you. And, at this point, I'm
not going to try to save you from yourself any longer. Her voice drops.
 Martel, please be careful.
She is out the port before he can answer. He rechecks the feed time, sets
himself for the break and the return to local control. What was that all
about? Careful about what? He shakes his head again.
A story on the postulant communities can give him a better insight into the
gods, into how much real control they have, into their powers, and into the
fears that everyone seems to have buried within. We'll see, he promises.
That's right, the 'answer comes, but Martel cannot say whether the second
thought is his or another's.
XVI
Martel peers through the peephole, although he does not need to. Gates is busy
with the equipment in the off-line studio. Marta Farell is on the board in the
prime studio. While the prime studio portal is locked and that peephole
closed, the mental static announces her presence.
Martel shakes his head and tramps back down the narrow corridor to the lounge.
He wants to run through some of the older I. D. 's, either to get some idea
for new ones or to see if any appeal to him for his own programs.
 You could use the fax console in the lounge. His words are not addressed to
anyone, since Hollie is busy in the front area, and the other two faxers,
Dlores and Morgan, are out working on their own documentary projects.
 The lounge console is serviceable, but without projecting the images
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