“No! I want it real.”
“I’ll show you how to make me come. That’s the best I can do.”
She did, guiding him in oral sex on her, and he found it fascinating to see her in the throes of her orgasm. But it remained only sex for her.
“Why do you stay with me?” he asked. “You’re giving me so much, all this sex I could never afford, and money too. How can it be worth it to you?”
“It’s the peace of mind, Roque. You’re a good man, not the kind of prowler I screw with every night. I can sleep without being on guard against attack or robbery. I can leave my stuff here knowing you won’t steal anything. You don’t even look in it.”
So she had her way of knowing. He never touched her things, honoring her privacy. “It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s more than I’m used to. It makes me feel like I’m with a friend.”
“We are friends, aren’t we?”
“Come here, lover.” She took him over and launched him into sexual heaven. It was her way of cutting short a dialogue she was not entirely easy with. She was not looking for friendship or romance, just temporary trust.
So it continued for six months. He made sure to maintain his grades, so that no one would suspect how his life had changed. So she was a prostitute; she was also a person, and he liked her, though he knew better than to say so. Did she like him in return? She never hinted at it, but that could be to keep him from getting any romantic ideas. He liked to think that she did.
Until the morning she did not appear. That suddenly it was over. He found it hard to accept, but he did what she had told him, and made no inquiry.
But as he walked to his classes, a stranger intercepted him. “Desiree got caught in a sting,” she said. “It’s not her first offense. She’ll be years in prison. Throw out her stuff.” She walked on.
It was evidently another prostitute who knew something of Desiree’s business. Roque’s emotions were mixed. He was glad that she had not simply deserted him, but sorry that she would be in prison.
Her suitcase remained in his apartment. He looked through it, finding only incidentals and one wallet-sized picture of an older couple. The woman faintly resembled Desiree: surely her mother, before she died. It was so sad.
He did throw out the other things, as there was no point in keeping them and they might be mischief if the police should track her and search his apartment. But he saved the picture, putting in his own wallet as a memoir. He owed her that much.
A month later he felt ill, and checked with the college infirmary. They took a blood test.
He had AIDS. There was no cure, merely palliative treatment to delay its progress.
Desiree hadn’t told him, and he had never suspected. She had had more than one reason to discourage his long term interest. She had no long term to offer.
He couldn’t condemn her. She had lived her life as well as she could, possibly in denial, pretending that she had a future. Maybe she had hoped that he would not catch the virus from her. He understood that it did not readily transmit. Maybe if they had had sex less often, he would not have. It had been a fair gamble.
And what was his own future now? What was the point in carrying on to get his degree, when he was unlikely to be able to use it gainfully?
Distraught, considering suicide, he walked the neighborhood. Was there a convenient place to end his life before it became unbearable? He had never been the suicidal type, but it might be the rational thing to do at this point.
He walked in a secluded park and stood by a pleasant little pond surrounded by statuary. He simply had no idea of his future.
Greeting.
He looked around, seeing no one. “I hear you, but can’t see you,” he said.
I am here. On this head. I am hungry.
Roque looked. What he had taken for a hat like a large anemone was actually a separate object, not part of the stone bust of a military hero. “You’re telepathic!”
I have no mouth and I must talk, the thing agreed. Feed me.
Roque had no fear of the odd creature. “What do you eat?”
Hair. Yours looks delicious.
“Thank you. Take it; I think I won’t be needing it long.”
Thank you. The thing floated to him, landed on his head, and settled down. It weighed about twenty pounds, like a heavy helmet. He felt it consuming his hair. There was no pain or discomfort, merely that dissolving, as if he were undergoing a really thorough hair-wash. He still was not afraid or even nervous; he found this experience interesting.
Soon it was done feeding. It floated off his head. Much appreciation; you have restored my vigor.
“You’re welcome.” Roque could see in the pool reflection that he had become bald. “I guess you’ll be on your way now, hairball.”
One thing. I must return the favor. What can I do for you?
What was there to want, when he had no viable future? Then he thought of something. “If you have any such power, see if you can help Desiree. She’s a good girl at heart, but she’s dying too. I’d like to make her life easier, get her out of prison, with a regular job, maybe some faint hope for her future. This may be too much to ask.”
Will do.
Roque was surprised. “This is possible?”
It is a matter of influencing the right minds at the right time. Check her mind to verify it.
“Check her mind? You forget I’m not telepathic.”
Not yet. The hairball floated away.
Roque was left standing there, bemused. Had he imagined the whole incident? A graphic daydream? He put his hand to his head. His scalp was bare. Something had happened, maybe not exactly what he thought.
Regardless, he felt far more positive than he had when he entered the park. So he had AIDS; sometimes it went into remission. That could happen. Meanwhile he would make the most of whatever life he had remaining.
He did. He wore a cap to mask his sudden baldness and worked on his classes. They were easier to handle now, as if the coursework had gotten simpler, but he saw that his fellow students were struggling along much as before. When he turned in a paper and got his first A grade ever, he knew that something fundamental had changed. He hadn’t even sweated the subject; he had just done what was required, and done it right.
That made him think, not about the academic subject but about himself. His life had changed far more dramatically than he had at first realized, when he encountered the hairball. He had become positive and smart, and his health was improving. His body was becoming steadily stronger and more handsome despite his baldness. And actually his hair was growing back, only not as it had been. It had been thick and brown; now it was as thick, but translucent, and lengthening at about six times the normal rate. He considered getting another blood test to check on the AIDS, but knew already that it would be either much reduced or gone, and that the test would attract immediate attention he preferred to avoid. So he didn’t go, and he laid low in other respects too. He made sure he never got another grade A on a paper, though his mastery of the subjects had become a hundred percent. Let it be seen as a fluke. That was safer.
The hairball, in the guise of feeding on his hair, had given him a remarkable gift, one he had not requested or expected. It had replaced his natural hair with a mat of fibers that acted to supercharge his brain. An almost literal thinking cap. As yet there seemed to be no end to it; the cap was growing and his powers were increasing. It was not entirely free; he had developed a ferocious appetite, consuming several times what he had before and never getting bloated or sick. He was, he realized, feeding the hair. So why had the hairball done this? Obviously it hadn’t needed to feed on his hair; what it had was vastly superior. It had something larger in mind for him, and he was eager to discover what that might be. It must have been looking for someone with some potential, an amenable nature, and nothing to lose. He had obviously qualified.
He had told the hairball he was not telepathic, and the hairball had thought not yet. Now he unde
rstood what it had meant. Because he was slowly becoming telepathic. It was pacing the growth of his hair; the longer the hair, the more powerfully his brain performed, including mind reading. He could at first sense the moods of people nearest him, then some of their actual thoughts. Each day the ability grew stronger, and the range broader. He got so he could orient on particular minds at a distance, tracking them regardless where they went.
Then one day when his hair was three inches long he found the mind of Desiree. She was not in prison; she had been admitted to a special program to test a new drug that promised to put an AIDS victim into indefinite remission. Not a cure, but a suppression of the virus that might be almost as good. They needed years of tracking test subjects to ascertain the side effects, in case any were lethal, so there was risk. But hardly the risk of illness and death posed by the condition itself. She had been given a new identity in a program similar to Witness Protection, and had a legitimate clerical job and no pimps or johns. She was not supposed to contact anyone in her previous life, to prevent reversion; that was why she had not gotten in touch with him, to her regret. She was reasonably happy, and not just because of the prospect of living a longer life.
The hairball had come through.
Then Desiree felt his probing thought. Roque! This is because of you!
Uh, no, he thought, off-balanced by her discovery of his mental presence. Not exactly.
You did it! You maybe cured me!
It wasn’t me. But don’t tell. I’m not supposed to be telepathic.
My thoughts are sealed.
He was hugely relieved to have found her so well. But this could be awkward if she let anything slip.
Don’t worry, Roque, she thought. I owe you so much. I put you at risk for AIDS and didn’t tell you, and now you helped me so much more than I ever deserved. You’re such a great person. I had no idea you could read my mind! I’ll never tell on you.
Roque decided not to tell her that he had contracted AIDS, or about the hairball. Thank you, Desiree. He disconnected.
The hair continued to grow. He finished the college semester with carefully average grades, then took a summer job as a warehouse worker, moving heavy boxes and bales about. It was his way of exercising his new powerful muscles without attracting attention. He was now stronger than any athlete he knew, but as with the mind, he did not want to advertise it. He stayed strictly off the radar, knowing that if the phenomenal changes in him were generally known, his privacy would disappear. He wanted to give the hair time to grow as long as it was going to, and to do its thing, whatever that might be.
What was on the hairball’s alien mind? There had to be a lot more than had shown so far. For one thing, was Roque the only human person seeded with the hair? His guess was there should be others, maybe some female.
And there was a hard-hitting thought. He knew now that the only woman for him would be a hairy one. One with looks, strength, genius, telepathy, and whatever, matching him. No ordinary girl would do, not because of lack of merit but because she would never understand his revised nature. So there had to be a super woman. How would he find her?
****
“And instead I found you,” Quiti said. “My hair is a foot and a half longer than yours, so I’m more advanced. Smarter, stronger, more telepathic. But my logic is the same as yours: only a hair suit man will do for me, and in time you will surely match me. So shall I move in with you now? We have exchanged capsule histories, but there’s a lot more catching up to do.”
“I think not. Folk would notice if a lovely woman moved in with me. It was tricky enough when Desiree was here. We want to remain unnoticed until we decide on our future. We can associate unobtrusively by day.”
“Then where will I stay?”
He considered briefly. “You might move in with Desiree instead.”
She was taken aback. “The whore?”
He nodded. “If she’s amenable.”
“If she’s amenable? What about me?”
“If you are the woman I know you are, you will work it out.”
She gazed at him for a moment, working it out. “I will do it.”
So it was decided.
Chapter 8:
“Tillo”
Quiti went to Desiree’s apartment and knocked on the door. When the woman opened it, Quiti just stood there, thinking at her. I am Quiti. I am Roque’s woman. I have come to stay with you for a time until he and I marry. I am to be similarly secret, as you were when you stayed with him, but I will tell you whatever you wish to know and will help you when you need it. The telepathy made it instantly intelligible and credible, and of course she had had the experience of Roque’s telepathic contact.
Desiree gazed at her, astonished. “But I’m the whore!”
“You were the prostitute. You did what you had to do, to survive. It’s a business like any other, providing a necessary service to society, regardless of the backwardness of the law. You made a deal with Roque, a fair exchange. He was more than satisfied.”
Desiree smiled briefly. “I do know my business. But this is not something wives or fiancées understand. You should want to send me to hell, not room with me.”
Quiti nodded. “I admit I was startled when he suggested it. But your deal was before I met him, and is in the past. I came to terms with it.”
The woman didn’t hesitate further. “Then welcome.” Quiti knew from her mind that she felt as if she had known Quiti for years, and trusted her. Close mental contact could do that.
So it was that Quiti moved in with Desiree. That was no longer her name, of course, but it didn’t matter; Quiti knew her as that from Roque’s memory. In person she was a shapely blue-eyed blonde, not drop-dead gorgeous, but good enough to impress any man. Now she dressed conservatively, masking her assets; she was not much interested in attracting men at the moment. She was also a reasonably nice person, especially considering her background. Roque had lucked out when he encountered her; he could have done far worse.
Quiti sent her mental information about Roque’s subsequent history and achievement of “magic” hair, and demonstrated some of what her own hair could do. Desiree was amazed to see her change her clothing without moving her hands or body, then make it transparent so she was effectively nude, and finally she disappeared entirely. “But I am still here,” she said from the seeming space.
“Roque can do that?”
“Much of it. His hair is four feet long, compared to my five and a half feet, so it covers him less completely and has less power. But he will get there.”
“I—about Roque—”
“He knows. He read your mind, remember? Your association with him was for mutual convenience, and you kept it carefully neutral. Of course he had a bit of a crush on you when you lived together; sex does that to a man. He still has a thing for you.”
“After I gave him AIDS?”
Quiti nodded. “He knows you didn’t mean to. That you tried to protect him from it. That if he hadn’t pushed so hard he probably would have been spared it. So it was his fault as much as yours.”
“And about the—the thing. I tried to hold him off emotionally. It was supposed to be just sex.”
“You were upfront with him throughout, and he appreciates that. His relationship with you has become more practical than sexual or romantic. Now he is mine.”
“I see that. I’m glad for him. You are certainly the woman for him, and he’s the man for you. But what about the AIDS? That’s what I feel most guilty about.”
“The hair abolished that first thing, just as it abolished my brain cancer.”
“But there’s no cure!”
Quiti smiled. “That’s one of our secrets. The hair takes good care of us.” She sent a mental signal that it was true.
“It sure does!”
“Now here’s another example of its power.”
This time she had her hair spread out into the cone that lifted her slowly from the floor. “That’s right: I can fly. It also prot
ects me from attack, whether by stone, knife, or bullet.”
“But suppose they just grab onto you and don’t let go?”
Quiti landed softly. “Touch my hair.”
Desiree touched it with one finger. “Yow!”
“I charged it electrically, just enough to demonstrate. It’s like touching an electrified fence. The power can be increased.”
“No one will grab you,” Desiree agreed, rubbing her hand.
“We have become very special people.”
“But why? I mean, the hairballs—what do they want from you?”
“That is what we are waiting to find out. There has to be a price on this largess. Whatever it is, we’ll gladly pay it. We have become creatures of the hair; it defines us and we’ll do almost anything to keep it.”
“Why are you telling me so much? I’d have let you be anonymous.”
“We are special, but we do have to work with other folk. We can’t see the future—that’s one talent the hair does not bequeath—but you’re a good person who knows Roque. You can keep a secret, and our association may continue some time. You need to know enough about us to judge whether that’s something you really want.”
“I already know I want it. Only—is that because you reached in and changed my mind?”
“Not directly. I am changing your mind by telling you about us. Informed consent is better than mind control.”
“There’s just something about you that makes me want to—to associate. If I were a man, I’d want to kiss you. I’ll help you any way I can.”
“For now, that means merely letting me sleep on your floor.”
“The floor!”
“Remember, I can float. I don’t need your bed. I just need to know I can relax without anybody messing with me.”
“I know how that is,” Desiree said reminiscently. “I must confess I did like Roque some, as I got to know him. He was so fair-minded.”
“I won’t be entering or departing visibly; no one else should know I’m here. I’m just camping while Roque completes his classes and gets his degree. Then we may both disappear from your life.”
Hair Power Page 8