was suddenly framing a wolfish grin. "Then show me
how much you've been practicing."
It took me a heartbeat to realize what he meant; then
I looked up desperately. The feather was tumbling floor-
ward, a bare shoulder-height from landing. Forcing the
sudden tension from my body, I reached out with my
mind . . . gently . . . form a pillow . . . don't knock it
away....
The feather halted a scant two hand-spans from the
floor.
I heard Garkin's low chuckle, but didn't allow it to
break my concentration. I hadn't let the feather touch
the floor for three years, and it wasn't going to touch
now.
Slowly I raised it until it floated at eye level. Wrap-
ping my mind around it, I rotated it on its axis, then en-
ticed it to swap ends. As I led it through the exercise, its
movement was not as smooth or sure as when Garkin set
his mind to the task, but it did move unerringly in its
assigned course.
Although I had not been practicing with the feather, I
had been practicing. When Garkin was not about or
preoccupied with his own studies, I devoted most of my
time to levitating pieces of metalчkeys, to be specific.
Each type of levitation had its own inherent problems.
Metal was hard to work with because it was an inert
material. The feather, having once been part of a living
thing, was more responsive . . . too responsive. To lift
metal took effort, to maneuver a feather required
subtlety. Of the two, I preferred to work with metal. I
could see a more direct application of that skill in my
chosen profession.
"Good enough, lad. Now put it back in the book."
I smiled to myself. This part I had practiced, not
because of its potential applications, but because it was
fun.
The book was lying open on the end of the work-
bench. I brought the feather down in a long lazy spiral,
allowing it to pass lightly across the pages of the book
and up in a swooping arc, stopped it, and brought it
back. As it approached the book the second time, I dis-
engaged part of my mind to dart ahead to the book. As
