She was eighteen Standard, not quite fifteen Irschchan years old,
basking in the sun beside a fountain as she considered the merits of
various young males as mate potential. She wasn't really interested in
being tied down that way, and hoped to avoid it by going to the
Academy, but on such a nice day, why not indulge her parents' more
conventional desires?
Loren of the Order was probably the best match genetically, and
socially of course a mate in the Order was desirable. Still, though he
was nice enough, he simply wasn't very bright. Lovad Koversa might be
all right; he was quite intelligent, if no more Talented than she--
Suddenly she heard him talking to himself about the Academy, though she
hadn't heard him approach. "Lovad?" she called, sitting up and looking
around. As soon as she did that, the voice disappeared. He was
nowhere in sight, and she wondered with some irritation what kind of
stunt he was up to now.
That was Lovad's worst point: he was a joker, and liked to use his
knowledge of electronics to play tricks. It was never anything
harmful, though, just annoying. She got up, deciding to see if she
could turn it against him. None of the trees near the fountain had
trunks large enough to hide behind, so she wandered around, looking up
through the silvery-green foliage to find him. No trace; he must have
come up with a long-distance gadget and was trying it out on her.
She'd get back at him somehow, but meanwhile this day was too nice to
waste worrying about him. She returned to the fountain and stretched
out again, relaxing to the sound of the falling water. She thought
idly of her mother, who owned a moderately prosperous kilt shop. An
indignant Mother: *Trade vegetables for kilts indeed! This is no
back-country village--*
She sat up again suddenly, and again the voice disappeared as she
tensed. This couldn't be one of Lovad's jokes, not with her mother
involved. It had to be telepathy . . . and that meant she did have
Talent . . . and that meant . . .