“I think not.”
The congressman gripped his shoulder, and shoved. It was an error in judgment. Small he might be, but Tachyon had studied with one of the finest personal-defense masters on Takis, and his response was almost more reflexive than conscious. He didn't bother with martial arts subtlety, just brought his knee up, nailing van Renssaeler in the nuts, and as the other man folded, his fist took him in the face. The congressman hit the ground like he'd been poleaxed, and Tach sucked at his knuckles.
Blythe's blue eyes were unfocused, staring wildly down at her husband, and Quinn was frowning like a white-haired Zeus. Several people came running to assist the fallen politician, and Quinn, recovering himself quickly, herded them down the steps.
“That was a pretty dirty blow,” he rumbled as he waved down a passing taxi. “It's not very sporting to kick a man in the balls.”
“I'm not interested in sporting. You fight to win, and failing that you die.”
“Mighty strange world you come from if that's the code you're taught.” He grunted again. “And, as if you don't have troubles enough, I can guarantee that Henry will sue for assault and battery.”
“Consider yourself retained, Prescott,” Blythe said, raising her head from Tach's shoulder. She was wedged tightly between the two men in the taxi, and Tach could feel the faint shivering that was still running through her body.
“Might be you should consider filing for divorce. Can't imagine why you didn't before now.”
“The children. I knew I'd never see them if I divorced Henry.”
“Well, think about it.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Mayflower. Nice hotel, you'll like it.”
“I want to go to the station. We're going home.”
“Wouldn't advise that. My gut is telling me this isn't over yet, and my belly is an infallible indicator.”
“We've given our testimony.”
“But Jack and Earl are still to come, Harstein has to testify again, and there might be something that would require you to be recalled. Let's just stick until the final hurrah. It'll save you a trip back if I'm right.”
Tach grudgingly agreed, sinking back against the cushions to watch the city go by.
By Sunday night he was heartily sick of Washington, D.C., heartily sick of the Mayflower, and heartily sick of Quinn's doom and gloom prophecies. Blythe had tried to maintain the fantasy that they were having a lovely little vacation, and had dragged him about the city to gaze at marble buildings and meaningless statuary, but her dream world was shattered late Friday, when David was held to be in contempt of Congress and the case remanded to a grand jury.
The boy had huddled in their suite alternating between wild confidence that no indictment would be issued and fear that he would be convicted and imprisoned. The latter seemed the most likely, for he had been horribly abusive to the committee during that final day of testimony, even going so far as to compare them to Hitler's ruling elite. The climate was not forgiving. Tachyon had been driven nearly to distraction trying to suppress David's more vengeful plans against the committee, and trying to soothe Blythe, who seemed to have completely lost English as a first language, and spoke almost exclusively in German.
His efforts were not aided by the fact that they were under virtual siege in the room; surrounded and badgered by swarming reporters who were undeterred even after Blythe emptied a pot of hot coffee over one who had tried to enter while posing as room service. Only Quinn was permitted within their fortress, and he was so uniformly pessimistic that Tach was ready to pitch him out a window.
Now, as dawn was tinting the eastern sky, Tach lay listening to the even beating of Blythe's heart and the soft whisper of her breathing as she lay snuggled against his side. Their lovemaking had been long and frenzied, as if she feared to lose contact with him. It had also been disturbing, for he had found a large amount of leak between the various personalities. He had tried to make her concentrate on a new construct, but she had been too emotionally fragmented to make it work. Only rest and a respite from the stress would restore the balance, and Tach vowed that committee or no committee they were leaving Washington that day.
A furious hammering on the door of their suite brought him plunging out of the bed at one that afternoon. Befuddled, he didn't even think of his dressing gown, but instead wrapped the bedspread about his waist and blundered to the door. It was Quinn, and the look on his face drove the last vestige of sleep from his mind.
“What? What's happened?”
“The worst. Braun's ruined you all.”
“Huh?”
“Friendly witness. He's thrown you all to the wolves to save himself.” Tach sank into a chair. “That's not all, they're recalling Blythe.”
“When? Why?”
“Tomorrow, right after Earl. Jack very generously volunteered the information that in addition to Von Braun and Einstein and all the rest of the eggheads, she also has your thoughts and memories. They want the names of those other aces, and if they can't get them from you, they'll get them from her.”
“She'll refuse.”
“She could go to jail.”
“No . . . they wouldn't . . . not a woman.”
The attorney just shook his head.
“Do something. You're the lawyer. I refused first, let them send me to jail.”
“There is another option.”
“What?”
“Give them what they want.”
“No, that is not an option. You must keep her out of that hearing room.”
The old man gusted a sigh, and scratched furiously at his head until his hair stood out from his head like the quills on an outraged porcupine. “Okay, I'll see what I can do.”
It hadn't been enough, and on Tuesday morning they were back at the Capitol. Earl had marched in, taken the Fifth, and marched back out with an expression of utter contempt and disdain. He had expected nothing from the white man's government, and it hadn't disappointed him. Now it was Blythe's turn. At the door, two young Marine guards had tried to hold him back. He knew he was being unfair, lashing out at the wrong people, but their attempt to separate him from Blythe shattered his control, and he had brutally mind-controlled them both. He had ordered them to sleep, and they were snoring by the time they hit the floor. That display of his power had a strong effect on several observers, and they quickly found a seat for him in the back of the room among the press corps. He had tried to remonstrate, wanting to be with Blythe, but this time it was Quinn who demurred.
“No, you sitting up there with her would be like a red flag to a bull. I'll take care of her.”
“It's not just the legal thing. Her mind . . . it's very fragile right now.” He jerked his head toward Rankin. “Don't let them hammer at her.”
“I'll try.”
“My darling.” Her shoulders felt thin and bony beneath his hands, and when she raised her face to his, her eyes were like two darkened bruises in her white face. “Remember, their freedom and safety is riding on you. Please don't say anything.”
“Don't worry, I won't,” she said with a flash of her old spirit. “They're my patients too.”
He watched her walk away, a hand resting lightly on Quinn's arm, and terror seized him. He wanted to rush after her, and hold her one more time. He wondered if the feeling was his errant precognition kicking in, or just a disordered mind?
“Now, Mrs. van Renssaeler, let's get the chronology set in all our minds, shall we?” said Rankin.
“All right.”
“Now, when did you first discover you had this power?”
“February 1947.”
“And when did you walk out on your husband, Congressman Henry van Renssaeler?” He hit the word Congressman hard, glancing quickly to the left and right to see how his colleagues took it.
“I didn't, he threw me out.”
“And was that maybe because he had found out you were fooling around with another man, a man who isn't even human?”
&nbs
p; “No!” cried Blythe.
“Objection!” shouted Quinn in the same breath. “This is not a divorce proceeding—”
“You have no grounds upon which to object, Mr. Quinn, and may I remind you that this committee has sometimes found it necessary to investigate the backgrounds of attorneys. One has to wonder why you fellows would choose to represent enemies of this nation.”
“Because it is a tenet of Anglo-American law that a defendant have someone to shield him from the awesome might of the federal government—”
“Thank you, Mr. Quinn, but I don't think we need instruction in jurisprudence,” broke in Representative Wood. “You may continue, Mr. Rankin.”
“I thank you, sir. We'll leave that for the moment. Now, when did you become one of the so-called Four Aces?”
“I think it was in March.”
“Of '47?”
“Yes. Archibald had shown me how I could use my power to preserve priceless knowledge, and had contacted several of the scientists. They agreed, and I—”
“Began to suck out their minds.”
“It isn't like that.”
“Don't you find it sort of disgustin', almost vampirelike, the way you eat a man's knowledge and abilities? It's a cheat, too. You weren't born with a great mind, nor did you study and work to gain your position. You just steal others'.”
“They were willing. I would never do it without permission.”
“And had Congressman van Renssaeler given you his permission?”
Tachyon could hear the tears thickening her voice. “That was different. I didn't understand . . . I couldn't control.” She dropped her face into her gloved hands.
“So let's move on. We're up to the time when you abandoned your husband and children.” He added in a more conversational tone, obviously for the benefit of the other committee members, “I also find it incredible that a woman would leave her natural role, and strut herself in this fashion. Well, that's neither here nor there—”
“I didn't abandon them,” Blythe interrupted.
He brushed aside her remark. “Semantics. Now, when was that?”
Blythe slumped hopelessly back in her chair. “August the twenty-third, 1947.”
“And where have you been living since August twenty-third, 1947?” She sat silently. “Come, come, Mrs. van Renssaeler. You have consented to answer questions before this committee. You can't withdraw that consent now.”
“At one seventeen Central Park West.”
“And whose apartment is that?”
“Dr. Tachyon's,” she whispered. There was a stir at this from the press corps, for they had kept a very low profile. Only the other three Aces and Archibald had known of their living arrangement.
“So, after violating your husband and stealing his mind you then walk out, and live in sin with an inhuman from another planet who created the virus that gave you this power. There's somethin' fairly convenient in all this.” He leaned forward over the desk, and bellowed down at her. “Now you listen, madam, and you better answer because you stand in a great deal of danger. Did you take this Tachyon's mind and memories?”
“Y—yes.”
“And have you worked with him?”
“Yes.” Her replies were scarcely audible.
“And do you acknowledge that Archibald Holmes formed the Four Aces as a subversive element designed to undermine loyal allies of the United States?”
Blythe had swung around in the chair, her hands gripping the top rung with a desperate intensity, her eyes darting vaguely about the crowded room. Her face seemed to be writhing, trying to rearrange itself into different visages, and there was an almost psychic white noise coming off her mind. It drilled into Tachyon's head, and his shields snapped into place.
“Are you listening, Mrs. van Renssaeler? Because you better be. I'm beginnin' to think you and your bloodsucking power are a danger to this country. Maybe it's better you do go to jail before you take your ill-gotten knowledge and sell it to the enemies of this country.”
Blythe was shaking so hard that it seemed unlikely she could remain upright in the chair, and tears were streaming down her face. Tach came to his feet, and began pushing through the mob that separated them. “No, no, please . . . don't. Leave me alone.” She wrapped her arms protectively about her body, and rocked back and forth.
“Then give me those names!”
“All right . . . all right.” Rankin sank back from the microphone, his pen tapping out a satisfied little rhythm on the pad before him. “There's Croyd . . .”
For Tachyon, time seemed to distend, stretch, almost stand still. Several rows of people still separated him from Blythe, and in that eon-long moment he made his decision. His mind lanced out, pinning her like a butterfly. Her voice choked off, and she emitted a funny little acking noise. For him it was akin to holding a snowflake, or some particularly delicate form of glass sculpture. Under his grip he felt the entire structure of her mind fragment, and Blythe went spinning away and down into some dark and fearsome cavern of the soul. Freed, the other seven ran rampant. Giggling, lecturing, posturing, ranting, they seemed to race along her central nervous system, setting her body to twitching like a maddened puppet. Words exploded from her: formulae, lectures in German, ongoing arguments between Teller and Oppenheimer, campaign speeches, and Takisian all jumbled in a swirling broth.
The instant he felt her mind give way he released her, but it was too late. Chairs and people were shoved ruthlessly aside as he fought his way to her side and gathered her in his arms. The chamber was in complete disorder with Wood hammering away with his gavel, reporters shouting and jostling, and over all Blythe's manic monologue. He seized her, reached out again with the coercive power of his mind, and carried her down into oblivion. She slumped in his arms, and an eerie silence fell over the chamber.
“I take it the committee has no further questions of this witness?” The words came grating out, and his hatred beat from him like a tangible force. The nine men shifted uncomfortably, then Nixon murmured in a voice that was scarcely audible.
“No, no more questions.”
Hours later he sat at the apartment rocking her in his lap, and crooning as he would have to one of his tiny cousins back home on Takis. His brain felt battered by his struggle to recall her to sanity; none of his efforts had shown the smallest success. He felt young and helpless; he wanted to drum his heels on the rug, and howl like a four-year-old. Images of his father rose up to taunt him; big, solid, and powerful, he had both the training and the natural talent to deal with such mental illness. But he was hundreds of light-years away, and had no idea where his errant son and heir had gotten to.
There was a preemptory knock on the door. Shifting his limp, unresisting burden into his left arm, he staggered to the door, and took a step back as his burning eyes focused on the two policemen and the bundled figure behind them. Henry van Renssaeler lifted his bruised face and stared at Tachyon.
“I have here a commitment order for my wife. Kindly hand her over.”
“No . . . no, you don't understand. Only I can help her. I don't have the construct yet, but I'll get it. It'll just take a little work.”
The burly officers stepped forward, and gently but inexorably pried her from his encircling arms. He stumbled after them as they headed down the stairs, Blythe lolling in one of the policeman's arms. Van Renssaeler had made no move to touch her.
“Only a little time.” He was crying. “Please, just give me a little time.”
He slumped down, clinging to the bottom banister post as the outer door fell shut behind them.
He had seen her only once after her commitment. The appeal of his deportation order was grinding through the courts, and seeing the end coming, he had driven to the private sanatorium in upstate New York.
They wouldn't let him in the room. He could have overriden that decision with mind control, but ever since that hideous day he had been unable to use his power. So he had peered through a small window in the heavy door, loo
king at a woman he no longer knew. Her hair hung in matted witchlocks about her twisted face as she prowled the tiny room lecturing to an unseen audience. Her voice was low and rasping; obviously her vocal cords were being damaged by her constant attempts to maintain a male tone.
Unable to stop himself, he had reached out telepathically, but the chaos of her mind sent him reeling back. Worse had been the infinitesimal flicker of Blythe crying for help from some deep and hidden source. So intense was his guilt that he spent several minutes in the bathroom vomiting, as if that could somehow cleanse his soul.
Five weeks later he had been put aboard a ship sailing for Liverpool.
“Le pauvre.” A large matronly woman with two small girls at her side stood looking down at the slumped figure on the bench. She rummaged through her purse, and withdrew a coin. It fell with a dull clink into the violin case. Gathering her children to her she moved on, and Tachyon retrieved the coin with two grimy fingers. It wasn't much, but it would buy another bottle of wine, and another night of forgetfulness.
Rising, he packed away the instrument, gathered up his medical bag, and thrust the folded page of newsprint into his shirt. Later, during the night, it would shield him from the cold. He took a few weaving steps, then stumbled to a swaying halt. Juggling the two cases in one hand, he extracted the page, and took a final look at the headline. The cold east wind was back, tugging urgently at the paper. He released it, and it went skirring away. He walked on, not pausing to look back to where it hung, flapping forlornly, against the iron legs of the bench. Cold it might be, but he would trust to the wine to insulate him.
Interlude One
From “Red Aces, Black Years,”
by Elizabeth H. Crofton,
New Republic, May 1977.
From the moment in 1950 when he declared in his famous Wheeling, West Virginia, speech that “I have here in my hand a list of fifty-seven wild cards known to be living and working secretly in the United States today,” there was little doubt that Senator Joseph R. McCarthy had replaced the faceless members of HUAC as the leader of the anti-wild card hysteria that swept across the nation in the early 50s.
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