COMMUNION.

GORDON GROSS.

Like most writers, Gordon Gross is two people. But unlike most writers, Gordon Gross is literally two people: husband and wife writing team Eve Gordon and Harold Gross. "Communion" is their first story sale.

They currently earn their living in the computer field as consultants and troubleshooters. Harold is a professional actor and Eve does stand-up comedy.

They live in a New York City apartment too small for them, their two cats, and their collection of 2,000 books.

MON (Middle Of Nowhere) spins slowly on our view screen. After four and a half years together in Stardust, we are finally here. I glance at Glim, seated in the second navnet he had jury-rigged before we left Zehabus, watching the view screen. (an odd word, jury-rigged; as if anyone could "rig" a jury.)

I feel the warm wisp of Glim's Telen disturb my mental wandering.

And they said it couldn't be done, is his thought, so easy in my mind that it could be my own. He continues to watch the view screen, solemn and straight-faced on the outside. All this time tripping over each other physically and mentally, and his humor still takes me by surprise.

I smile, the comers of my mouth resisting my attempt at seriousness. My eyes widen in a telepath's shrug.

Who knew? is my reply.

Glim tums his head slowly to look at me. We did.

Yes, we did, I think to myself, and here we are, still mentally sound. You ready to go in? I ask.

He glances at the view screen again, t hen leans over and touches my cheek. Our minds slide together and intertwine with the caress. Let's get it over with, he replies. I wonder, will we be able to enjoy the physical ease with each other that we've become accustomed to on the voyage? Or will the telepath taboos be too strong here? (G.o.ds, life was easier as a navigator.) Who would ever have thought that just holding hands could be so important? Glim leans back in his chair, and our minds slide apart as two seas separated by a rising island.

"Stardust to MON," I hail the controller. Glim's daily voice exercises may not have improved the raspy quality of my voice, but they ensure that my vocal cords do not weaken and atrophy over long voyages.

"MON, Mooney here," comes the answer.

"Request permission to land."

"Do you have your Trans-immigration request?"

I transmit our files to his system.

"Residence pet.i.tion, Inst.i.tute ratings, and immunology records seem in order,"

Mooney's voice comes over the corn after a few moments. "You are on manual approach. No fancy CyberNav equip here." No questions as to why there are two of us in a one-person scout. Or why telepaths would arrive without the pomp and circ.u.mstance of a full cruiser-cla.s.s cybership. Perhaps our reputation precedes us?

"Affirmative, not a problem," I reply. "Give me the coords."

The computer blinks as it receives the data and vectors. A course appears in a luminescent web superimposed over MON on the view screen.

"Coming in now, half blast." I tell him.

"Confirmed. See you on the ground."

The landing goes relatively smoothly (read: I didn't blow us up); after all, I was a navigator before my Great, if late, Discovery. We touch down a bit on the heavy side, though. Glim shoots a sidelong smile at me.

It's been better than seven years since I've had to land anything besides you, I say. And any respectable planet has at least rudimentary CyberNav.

Did I say anything?

You were thinking it, Glim.

I just thought you were making sure I was awake.

I power down the control chairs' gravity nets, and we make our way to the hatch.

Glim looks cool and unruffled, the Diplomat training a warrior of his blood and rank receives holding him in good stead. I could use a shower and a change of clothes after my adequate yet less than delicate landing, but there is no time.

I enter the code sequence into the remote panel to the left of the hatch; the hatch slides open.

A tickle of cool Telen in my mind, and a breath of air from the planet washes over us; the hair on the back of my neck p.r.i.c.kles as if i am charged with electricity. Outside I see the ground crew pushing a wheeled ramp out of she Control Complex over the gla.s.sine landing surface to us.

I guess we won't have to jump, I say.

Be nice, is Glim's response. We knew they were small. Remember, that's why we came.

I know, I say, but small doesn't always mean primitive. A beat. Don't even think it, I say, looking up at him cutting short a stream of visual puns.

Watching the cloud's reflections in the complex windows, I reach out instinctively for Glim's hand, but my fingers close on air. A glance in his direction; his eyes hold a sad smile. I begin to brood over our emigration to this place and our quest for a place where we can openly acknowledge our relationship. Without censure. After four and a half years shut in the Stardust, I can't go back to hiding my feelings for Glim. But here we are in the middle of nowhere, the restrictions of the real world slamming back into place, and I must. At least until we know that we'll be welcomed-- as we are.

The ramp connects with the side of the Stardust with a thud bringing me back to real time. We descend, Glim one step in front of me, making up for some of our height difference. Five colonists have come out of the Complex and stand at the bottom of the ramp, waiting for us.

I savor each step. After only calisthenics in gravity fields on the Stardust, real forward motion seems a luxury. At the bottom we face the welcoming party, three women, one man wearing an ceo-mask, and a Calcedom. The ground crew disappears back into the Complex. Unexpectedly, the Telen twists sharply in my mind and then withdraws.

"Well come," says the youngest of the three women. Youth is relative, though.

She is taller than I, but shorter than Glim, dark hair threaded with gray. "I'm Madrin, Colony Regent and Telepist."

"Well met," responds Glim, bowing slightly, palms open at his side in the traditional telepath greeting, his trained voice buoying out in rich waves. "I am Glimmer, and this is Jude."

"Well met." I make a gravelly echo of Glim and mirror the distant handshake society has imposed on telepaths out of superst.i.tion and ignorance that we telepaths have adopted out of fear and habit. As if telepaths are so many batteries that can be linked via a handshake and used to control others. As if we would ever want to. As if we could link up without a Monitor anyway. I feel the odd Telen again. It does not feel like it comes from those standing in front of us. I resist the impulse to look over my shoulder.

Madrin smiles widely, revealing straight, white, pointed teeth. Not fully human, I note to myself, at least part Cenavish. "We are happy to have you here," she says. "We finally have enough telepaths for a proper jury."

"Not that we have a crime problem," says one of the other women, sharply.

"Of course, we don't," soothes the third. "But with six jurors, MON can file for full emerging planetary status now."

"Our other telepaths," says Madrin, a sweep of her arm taking in the four by her side. "This is Eileen," she says, indicating the woman who qualified MON's crime rate, and then, gesturing toward the other woman, "and her twin Serba."

A close look at the two women reveals Kin blood. Both share the peach-colored skin and translucent hair, robbed by age of its golden hue. They are dressed differently, Eileen in an elegant blue jump suit that would look better on a younger person, Serbs in a white shirt and drab olive pants.

"Twins," I say, stunned.

Serbs smiles warmly. "Not something you see every day," she says.

"No," I respond. Perhaps, I think to myself, we will fit in here.

"And this is Homar," says Madrin, nodding toward the Calcedorn. (Never point at a Calcedorn, my mother always said.)

"Eemonchdad," he greets us, and bows slightly. He is taller than Glim, his robe only barely revealing his thin sharp form beneath. Most speculations are of exoskeletons. But few Calcedorns have revealed anything more than their robed form, an occasional eye-stalk and one rumored, though suspect, case of an articulated claw. What could we learn if he opens his mind?