"Dr. Bonners would like to consult with you. The patient's in shock, and occasionally lapses into hysterics, but there's nothing physically wrong with her, and he thought-"
"That she might be one of mine." Oh God, don't let her be another joker, he groaned inwardly. I don't think I can face another monstrosity. "Where is she?"
"Room 223."
He could feel exhaustion shivering along his muscles and licking at the nerves. And close on the heels of the exhaustion came despair and self-pity. With a muttered curse he drove his fist into the top of the desk, and Shirley drew back.
"Tach? Are you all right?" Her hand was cool against his cheek.
"Yes. Of course." He forced his shoulders back and a spring into his step, and headed off down the hall. Bonners was huddled with another doctor when Tachyon pushed open the door. Bonners frowned, but seemed more than willing to allow him to take charge when the woman in the bed let out a piercing scream and arched against the restraints. Tach leaped to her side, laid a gentle hand on her forehead, and joined with her mind.
OH GOD! The election, would Riley come through? God knows he'd paid enough for it. He'd buy a victory, but he was damned if he'd buy a landslide… Mama, I'm frightened… The bite of a winter morning, and the hiss of a skate blade cutting across the ice… A hand, gripping hers… wrong hand. Where was Henry? To leave her now… how many more hours… he should be here… Another contraction coming. NO. She couldn't hear it. Mama… Henry… PAIN!
He reeled back, and came up panting against the dresser.
"Good Lord, Doctor Tachyon, are you all right?" Bonners's hand was on his arm.
"No… yes… by the Ideal." He pulled himself carefully upright. His body still ached in sympathetic memory of the woman's first anguished labor. But where in the hell had that second personality come from, that cold, hard-edged man?
Shaking off Bonners's hand, he returned to the woman and seated himself on the edge of the bed. More cautious this time, he ran swiftly through some calming and strengthening exercises, and struck out with his full psi powers. Her fragile mental defenses fell before the onslaught, and before she could sweep him up in her mental maelstrom he gripped her mind.
Like a blossom, delicate velvet trembling in a breeze with just a hint…
He forced himself out of the almost-sensual enjoyment of the mental sharing, and back to the task at hand. Now fully in command, he quickly sifted through her head. What he found added a new wrinkle to the saga of the wild card.
In the early days of the virus they had seen mostly death. Close to twenty thousand of them in the Manhattan area. Ten thousand due to the effects of the virus, another ten due to the rioting, looting, and the National Guard. Then there were the jokers: hideous monsters created from a union of the virus and their own mental constructs. And finally there were the aces. He had seen about thirty of them. Fascinating people with exotic powers-the living proof that the experiment was a success. They had created, despite the terrible toll, superbeings. And now here was a new one with a power unique among the other aces.
He withdrew, leaving only a single tendril of control like reins in the hands of an accomplished horseman. "Yes, you were quite correct, Doctor, she's one of mine."
Bonners waggled his hands in a gesture of absolute and total confusion. "But how… I mean, don't you usually… do tests?" he finished lamely.
Tach relaxed, and grinned at his colleague's confusion. "I just did. And it's the most remarkable thing; this woman has somehow managed to absorb all of her husband's knowledge and memories." His smile died as a new thought intruded. "I suppose we really ought to send someone to their home to see if poor old Henry is a mindless hulk shambling around the bedroom. For all we know she may have sucked him dry. Mentally speaking, of course."
Bonners looked decidedly queasy, and went. The other doctor left with him.
Tachyon dismissed them, and the fate of Henry van Renssaeler, from his thoughts, and concentrated on the woman on the bed. Her mind and psyche were fissured like rotten ice, and some very quick repair work would have to be done lest the personality shatter under the stress and she descend into madness. Later he would try for a more permanent construct, but it would be patchwork at best. His father would be perfect for this, the repair of broken minds being his gift. But since he was far away on Takis, she would have to depend on Tach's lesser abilities.
"There, my dear," he murmured as he began to work at the knotted sheets that kept her tied to the bed. "Let's make you a bit more comfortable, and then I'll begin teaching you some mental disciplines to keep you from going totally crazy." He reentered the full mindlink. Her mind fluttered beneath his, confused, unable to understand the magnitude of the change that had come over her.
I'm mad… it couldn't have happened… gone mad.
No, the virus…
He's really there… can't bear it.
Then don't. See, here and here, reroute and place him deep below.
NO! Take him out, away!
Not possible; control the only answer.
The ward sprang into life like a point of incandescent fire, and drew its intricate cage about "Henry."
There was a sense of wonder and peace, but he knew they were only halfway there. The ward stood because of his power, not because of any real understanding on her part; if she were to keep her sanity she would have to learn to create it herself. He withdrew. The rigidity had passed out of her body, and her breathing had become more regular. Tach returned to the task of freeing her, whistling a lilting dance tune through his teeth.
For the first time since being summoned to the room he was at leisure to look, really look, at his patient. Her mind had already delighted him, and her body set his pulse to hammering. Shoulder-length sable hair cascaded across the pillow onto the woman's breast, a perfect counterpoint to the champagne colored satin of her thin nightgown and the alabaster quality of her skin. Long, sooty lashes fluttered on her cheeks, then lifted, revealing eyes of a profound midnight blue.
She regarded him thoughtfully for a few seconds, then asked, "I know you, or do I? I don't know your face, but… feel you." Her eyes closed again, as if the confusion was too much for her.
Stroking the hair off her forehead, he replied, "I'm Doctor Tachyon, and yes, you do know me. We've shared mind."
"Mind… mind. I touched Henry's mind, but it was awful, awful!" She jerked upright, and sat quivering like some small frightened animal. "He's done such terrible, dishonorable things, I had no idea, and I thought he was-" She bit off the flow of words, and grasped for his arm. "I have to live with him now. Never be free of him. People should be more careful when they choose… it's better, I think, not to know what's behind their eyes." Her eyes closed briefly, and her brow furrowed. Suddenly the lashes were lifted, and her nails bit deep into his bicep. "I liked your mind," she announced.
"Thank you. I believe I can say with some accuracy that I have an extraordinary mind. Far and away the best you're ever likely to meet."
She chuckled, a deep, husky sound strangely at odds with her delicate looks. He laughed with her, pleased to see the color returning to her cheeks.
"Only one I'm likely to meet. Do people find you vain?" she continued in a more conversational tone, and she settled back against the pillows.
"No, not vain. Arrogant, sometimes overbearing, but never vain. You see, my face won't carry it."
"Oh, I don't know" She reached up, and drew her fingers softly down his cheek. "I think it's a nice face." He pulled prudently back although it cost him to do so. She looked hurt, and shrank in upon herself.
"Blythe, I've sent someone to check on your husband." She turned her face away, nuzzling her cheek into the pillow. "I know you feel sullied by what you've learned of him, but we have to make certain he's all right." He rose from the bed, and her hands reached out for him. He caught them, and chafed the slender fingers between his.
"I can't go back to him, I can't!"
"You can make those kind of dec
isions in the morning," he said soothingly. "Right now I want you to get some sleep."
"You saved my sanity."
"It was my pleasure." He gave her his best bow, and pressed the soft skin of her inner wrist to his lips. It was unconscionable behavior, but he felt pleased by his selfcontrol.
"Please come back tomorrow."
"I'll bring you breakfast in bed, and personally spoon-feed you the disgusting mess that passes for hot cereal in this establishment. You can tell me more about my wonderful mind and nice face."
"Only if you promise to reciprocate."
"You have nothing to fear on that score."
They floated in a silvery white sea held by the lightest of mental touches. It was warm and maternal and sensual all at the same time, and he was dimly aware of his body responding to the first true sharing he had experienced in months. He forced his attention back to the session. The ward hung between them like a peripatetic firefly.
Again. Can't. Hard. Necessary. Now again.
The firefly resumed its erratic course, tracing out the complex lines and whorls of a mentatic ward. There was a bulge of darkness, like a tide of stinking mud, and the ward shattered. Tachyon snapped back to his body just in time to catch Blythe as she pitched face first toward the concrete of the rooftop terrace.
His mind was aching with strain. "You must hold him."
"I can't. He hates me, and wants to destroy me." Sobs punctuated the words.
"We'll try again. "
"No!"
He gripped her, one arm about her shoulders, the other holding her slender hands. "I'll be with you. I won't let him hurt you."
She sucked in a breath, and gave a sharp nod. "Okay, I'm ready."
They began again. This time he stayed in closer link. Suddenly he became aware of a whirlpool of power sucking at his mind, his identity, drawing him ever deeper into her.
There was a feeling of rape, of violation, of loss. He broke contact, and went staggering across the roof. When he returned to a sense of his surroundings he found himself in intimate embrace with a small willow tree drooping sadly out of a concrete planter, and Blythe was sobbing miserably into her hands.
She looked absurdly young and vulnerable in her Dior coat of black wool and fur collar. The severity of the color heightened the pallor of her skin, and the tight high-standing collar made her look like a lost Russian princess. His feeling of violation dwindled in the face of her obvious distress.
"I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to be closer to you."
"Never mind." He dropped a few pecking kisses onto her cheek. "We're both tired. We'll try again tomorrow."
And so they did; working day after day until by the end of the week she had solid control over her unwelcome mental passenger. Henry van Renssaeler had yet to put in a physical appearance at the hospital; instead, a discreet black maid had brought Blythe her clothes. It suited Tachyon just as well. He was pleased that the man had come through his experience unharmed, but close contact with Representative van Renssaeler's mind had brought little enjoyment, and in truth he was jealous of the man. He had a right to Blythe, mind, body, and soul, and Tachyon craved that position. He would have made her his genamiri with all honor and love, and kept her safe and protected, but such dreams were fruitless. She belonged to another man.
One evening he came late to her room to find her in bed reading. In his arms he carried thirty long-stemmed pink roses, and while she laughed and protested he began to cover her with the fragrant blossoms. Once the flower coverlet was complete he stretched out beside her.
"You devil! If you poke me with thorns…"
"I pulled them all off. "
"You're crazy. How long did that take?"
"Hours."
"And didn't you have anything better to do with your time?"
He rolled over, wrapping his arms around her. "I didn't stint my patients, I promise. I did it at weird o'clock this morning." He nuzzled her ear, and when she didn't push him away he switched to her mouth. His lips played over hers, tasting the sweetness and the promise, and excitement coursed through him when her arms tightened about his neck.
"Will you make love with me?" he whispered against her mouth.
"Is that how you ask all the girls?"
"No," he cried, stung by the laughter in her voice. He sat up, and brushed petals from his coat of dull rose.
She stripped petals from several roses. "You have quite a reputation. According to Dr. Bonners you've slept with every nurse on this floor."
"Bonners is an old busybody, and besides, some of them aren't pretty enough."
"Then you admit it." She used the denuded stem as a pointer.
"I admit I like to sleep with girls, but with you it would be different. "
She lay back, a hand over her eyes. "Oh, spare me, Lord, I've heard these words before."
"Where?" he asked, suddenly curious, for he sensed she wasn't talking about Henry.
"On the Riviera, when I was much younger and a good deal more foolish."
He cuddled in close. "Oh, tell me."
A rose slapped him on the nose. "No, you tell me about seduction on Takis."
"I prefer to do my flirting while dancing."
"Why dancing?"
"Because it's vastly romantic."
The covers were flung aside, and she began shrugging into an amber peignoir. "Show me," she commanded, opening her arms.
He slipped his arm around her waist, and took her right hand in his left. "I'll teach you Temptation. It's a very pretty waltz."
"Does it live up to its name?"
"Let's try it, and you tell me."
He alternated between humming in his light baritone and calling out instructions as they walked through the intricacies of the dance.
"My! Are all your dances so complicated?"
"Yes, it shows off what clever, graceful fellows we are."
"Let's do it again, and this time just hum. I think I've got the basic steps, and you can just shove me when I get off." "I will guide you as befits a man with his lady."
He was turning her under one arm, gazing down into her laughing blue eyes, when an outraged "hrrmph" broke the moment. Blythe gasped, and seemed to realize what a scandalous picture she presented; her feet bare, unbound hair rippling across her shoulders, her filmy lace peignoir revealing far too much of her decolletage. She scurried back to bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
"Archibald," she squeaked.
"Mr. Holmes," said Tachyon, recovering himself and holding out his hand.
The Virginian ignored it, and stared at the alien from beneath knotted brows. The man had been assigned by President Truman to coordinate the relief efforts in Manhattan, and they had shared podium space during several frantic press conferences in the weeks immediately following the catastrophe. He looked a lot less friendly now.
He stepped to the bed and dropped a fatherly kiss on the top of Blythe's head. "I've been out of town, and returned to find you've been ill. Nothing serious, I hope?"
"No." She laughed. It was a little too high and a little too tight. "I've become an ace. Isn't that remarkable?"
"An ace! What are your abilities-" He broke off abruptly, and stared at Tachyon. "If you'll excuse us, I'd like to speak with my goddaughter alone."
"Of course. Blythe, I'll see you in the morning."
When he returned, seven hours later, she was gone. Checked out, the desk said; an old friend of the family, Archibald Holmes, had picked her up about an hour before. For a moment he considered stopping by her penthouse, but decided it could only lead to trouble. She was Henry van Renssaeler's wife, and nothing could change that. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, and returned to his pursuit of a young nurse up in the maternity ward.
He tried to put Blythe from his mind, but at the oddest moments he would find himself recalling the brush of her fingers across his cheek, the deep blue of her eyes, the scent of her perfume, and most of all, her mind. That memory of
beauty and gentleness haunted him, for here among the psiblind he felt very isolated. One simply didn't join in telepathic communication with everyone one met, and hers had been his first real contact since his arrival on earth. He sighed and wished he could see her again.
He had rented an apartment in a converted brownstone near Central Park. It was a sultry Sunday afternoon in August 1947, and he was wandering around the single room in a silk shirt and boxer shorts. Every window stood open in the hope of catching a breeze, his teakettle was whistling shrilly on the stove, and Verdi's La Traviata blared from the phonograph. The extreme decibel level was dictated by his neighbor one floor down who was addicted to Bing Crosby albums, and who had been listening over and over again to "Moonlight Becomes You." Tachyon wished Jerry had met his current girlfriend in sunlight on Coney Island; his musical selections seemed dictated by the times and places where he met his inamoratas.
The alien had just picked up a gardenia and was debating how best to place it in the glass flower bowl when there was a knock.
"Okay, Jerry," he bellowed, lunging to the door. "I'll turn it down, but only if you agree to bury Bing. Why don't we have a truce and try something nonvocal? Glenn Miller or somebody. Just don't make me listen to that harelip anymore."
He yanked open the door, and felt his jaw drop. "I think it would be a good idea if you did turn it down," said Blythe van Renssaeler.
He stared at her for several seconds, then reached down and gave the tail of his shirt a discreet tug. She smiled, and he noticed that she had dimples. How had he missed that before? He had thought her face was indelibly printed on his mind. She waved a hand in front of his face.
"Hello, remember me?" She tried to keep her tone light, but there was a fearful intensity about her.
"Of… of course. Come in."
She didn't move. "I've got a suitcase."
"So I see."
"I've been thrown out."
"You can still come in… suitcase and all."
"I don't want you to feel… well, trapped."
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