DEGRADATION RITES
by Melinda M. Snodgrass
A page of newsprint blew across the withered grass of the postage-stamp-sized park in Neuilly, and came to rest against the base of an bronze statue of Admiral D’Estaing. It flapped fitfully, like an exhausted animal pausing for breath; then the icy December wind caught it once more, and sent it skittering on its way.
The man who slumped on an iron bench in the center of the park eyed the approaching paper with the air of a person facing a monumental decision. Then, with the exaggerated care of the longtime drunk, he reached out with his foot and captured it.
As he bent down for the tattered scrap, a stream of red wine from the bottle nestled between his thighs poured down his leg. A string of curses, comprised of several different European languages, and punctuated every now and then by an odd, singsong word, poured from his lips. Capping the bottle, he mopped at the spreading stain with a large purple handkerchief, and collected the paper, the Paris edition of the Herald Tribune, and began to read. His pale lilac eyes flicked from column to column as he devoured the words.
J. Robert Oppenheimer has been charged with having Communist sympathies and with possible treason. Sources close to the Atomic Energy Commission confirm that steps are being taken to rescind his security clearance, and to remove him from the chairmanship of the commission.
Convulsively, the man crumpled the paper, leaned against the back of the bench, and closed his eyes.
“Damn them, God damn them all,” he whispered in English.
As if in answer his stomach let out a loud rumble. He frowned peevishly, and took a long pull at the cheap red wine. It flowed sourly over his tongue, and exploded with burning warmth in his empty stomach. The rumblings subsided, and he sighed.
A voluminous overcoat of pale peach adorned with enormous brass buttons and several shoulder capes was thrown over his shoulders like a cloak. Beneath this he wore a sky-blue jacket, and tight blue pants which were tucked into worn, knee-high leather boots. The vest was of darker blue than either coat or pants, embroidered with fanciful designs in gold and silver thread. All of the clothing was stained and wrinkled, and there were patches on his white silk shirt. A violin and bow lay next to him on the bench, and the instrument’s case (pointedly open) was on the ground at his feet. A battered suitcase was shoved beneath the bench, and a red leather shoulder bag embossed in gold leaf with a frond, two moons and a star, and a slender scalpel arranged in graceful harmony in the center lay next to it.
The wind returned, rattling the branches of the trees and ruffling his tangled, shoulder-length curls. The hair and brows were a metallic red, and the stubble which shadowed his cheeks and chin was the same unusual shade. The page of newsprint fluttered beneath his hand, and he opened his eyes and regarded it. Curiosity won out over outrage, and with a snap he shook open the paper, and resumed.
BRAIN TRUST DIES
Blythe van Renssaeler, aka Brain Trust, died yesterday at the Wittier Sanatorium. A member of the infamous Four Aces, she was committed to the Wittier Sanatorium by her husband, Henry van Renssaeler, shortly after her appearance before the House Committee on Un-American Activities…
The print blurred as tears filled his eyes. Slowly the moisture gathered until one tear spilled over and ran swiftly down the bridge of his long, narrow nose. It hung ludicrously on the tip, but he made no move to brush it away. He was frozen, held in an awful stasis that had nothing to do with pain. That would come later; all he felt now was a great emptiness.
I should have known, should have sensed, he thought. He laid the paper on his knee, and gently stroked the article with one slender forefinger the way a man would caress the cheek of his lover. He noticed in a rather abstract way that there was more, facts about China, about Archibald, about the Four Aces, and the virus.
And all of it wrong! he thought savagely, and his hand tightened spasmodically on the page.
He quickly straightened the paper, and resumed his stroking. He wondered if her passing had been easy. If they had removed her from that grimy cubicle, and taken her to the hospital….
The room stank of sweat and fear, and feces, and the sickly sweet odor of putrefaction, and over all floated the pungent scent of antiseptic. Much of the sweat and the fear was being generated by three young residents who huddled like lost sheep in the center of the ward. Against the south wall a screen shielded a bed from the rest of the patients, but it could not block the inhuman grunting sounds that emerged from behind this flimsy barrier.
Nearby, a middle-aged woman bent over her breviary reading the vespers service. A mother-of-pearl rosary hung from her thin fingers, and periodically drops of blood spattered on the pages. Each time it happened, her lips moved in quick prayer, and she would wipe away the gore. If her constant bIeeding had been limited to a true stigmata she might have been canonized, but she bled from every available orifice. Blood ran from her ears, matting her hair and staining the shoulders of her gown, from mouth, nose, eyes, rectum, everywhere. A worn-out doctor had dubbed her Sister Mary Hemorrhage in the lounge one night, and the resultant hilarity could only be excused on grounds of mind-numbing exhaustion. Every health-care professional in the Manhattan area had been on almost constant call since Wild Card Day, September 15, 1946, and five months of unremitting work was taking its toll.
Next was a once-handsome black man who floated in a saline bath. Two days ago he had started to shed again, and now only remnants of skin remained. His muscles gleamed raw and infected, and Tachyon had ordered he be treated like a burn victim. He had survived one such molting. It was questionable if he would survive another.
Tachyon was leading a grim procession of physicians toward the screen.
“Are you going to join us, gentlemen?” he called in his soft, deep voice, overlaid with a lilting, musical accent that was rather reminiscent of central Europe or Scandinavia. The residents shuffled reluctantly forward.
An impassive nurse pulled back the screen, revealing an emaciated old man. His eyes gazed desperately up at the doctors, and horrible muffled sounds emerged from his lips.
“An interesting case, this,” said Mandel, lifting the file. “For some bizarre reason the virus is causing every cavity in this man’s body to grow closed. Within a few days his lungs will be unable to pull air, nor will there be room for the proper functioning of his heart…”
“So why not end it?” Tachyon took the man’s hand, noting the assenting squeeze that answered his words.
“What are you suggesting?” Mandel lowered his voice to an urgent hiss.
Tachyon enunciated each word clearly. “Nothing can be done. Would it not be kinder to spare him this lingering death?”
“I don’t know what passes for medicine on your world-or maybe I do, judging from this Hell-born virus you createdbut on this world we do not murder our patients.”
Tach felt the hinges of his jaw tighten in anger. “You’ll put a dog or cat down mercifully, but you deny your people the only drug known to truly alleviate pain, and you force people into agonizing death. Oh… be damned to you!”
He threw back his white coat, revealing a gorgeous outfit of dull gold brocade, and seated himself on the edge of the bed. The man reached desperately up, and Tachyon gripped his hands. It was an easy matter to enter his mind.
Die, let me die, came the thought tinged with the flavor of pain and fear, and yet there was a calm certainty in the man’s request.
I cannot. They will not permit it, but I can give you dreams. He moved swiftly, blocking the pain and the reasoning centers of the man’s mind. In his own mind he visualized it as a literal wall built of glowing silver-white blocks of power. He gave a boost to the man’s pleasure centers, allowing him to drift away in dreams of his own concocting. What he had built was temporary, it would last only a few days, but that would be long enough-before then this joker would have died.
He rose, and looked down at the man’s peaceful face. “What did you do?” demanded Mandel.
He raked the other doctor with an imperious glance. “Just a bit more Hell-born Takisian magic.”
With a lordly nod to the residents, he left the ward. Out in the hall, beds lined the walls, and an orderly was picking his way carefully down the passage. Shirley Dashette beckoned to him from the nurses’ station. They had spent several pleasant evenings together exploring the differences and similarities between Takisian and human lovemaking, but tonight he could manage no more than a smile, and the lack of a physical response alarmed him. Maybe it was time to take a rest. “Yes?”
“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 decisions 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.”
He tucked the gardenia behind her ear, removed the case from her hand, and pulled her in. The flounces of her pale, peach-colored silk dress brushed against his legs, pulling the hair upright at the electric contact. Women’s fashion was a pet hobby with Tachyon, and he noticed that the dress was a Dior original, the ankle-length skirt held out by a number of chiffon petticoats. He realized he could probably span her waist with his hands. The bodice was supported by two thin straps, leaving most of her back bare. He liked the way her shoulder blades moved beneath the white skin. There was an answering movement from within his jockey shorts.
Embarrassed, he darted for the closet. “Let me put on some pants. Water’s ready for tea, and turn down that record.”
“Do you take milk or lemon in your tea?”
“Neither. I take it over ice. I’m about to die.” He padded across the room, tucking in the shirt.
“It’s a lovely day.”
“It’s a lovely hot day. My planet is a good deal cooler than yours. “
Her eyes flickered away, and she plucked at a wisp of hair. “I know you’re an alien, but it seems strange to talk about it.”
“Then we won’t.” He busied himself with the tea while studying her surreptitiously from the corner of one eye. “You seem very composed for a woman who’s just been thrown out,” he finally remarked.
“I had my hoo in the back of a taxi.” She smiled sadly. “Poor man, he thought he had a real nut on his hands. Especially since—” She cut off abruptly, using the acceptance of the cup as a way to avoid his searching gaze.
“Not complaining, mind you, but why did you….r ..”
“Come to you?” She drifted across the room and turned down the phonograph. “This is a very sad part.” He forced his attention back to the music and realized it was the farewell scene between Violetta and Alfredo. “Uh… yes, it is.”
She spun to face him and her eyes were haunted. “I came to you because Earl is too absorbed with his causes and marches and strikes and actions, and David, poor boy, would have been terrified at the thought of acquiring a hysterical older woman. Archibald would have urged me to patch things up and stay with Henry-fortunately, he wasn’t home when I went by, but Jack was and he wanted me… well, far too badly.”
He shook his head like a stallion bedeviled by gnats. “Blythe, who are these people?”
“How can you be so ill-informed,” she teased, and struck a dramatic pose-so dramatic that it made a mockery of the words. “We are the Four Aces.” Suddenly she began to shake, sending tea sloshing over the rim of the cup.
Tach crossed to her, took the cup, and held her against his chest. Her tears formed a warm, wet patch on his shirt, and he reached out for her mind, but she seemed to sense his intent, and pushed him violently away.
“No, don’t, not until I explain what I’ve done. Otherwise you’re likely to get a terrific shock.” He waited while she removed an embroidered handkerchief from her purse, gave her nose a resolute blow, and patted at her eyes. When she again raised her head she was calm, and he admired her dignity and control. “You must think me a typical scatterbrained female. Well, I won’t bore you anymore. I’ll start at the beginning and be quite logical.”
“You left without saying good-bye,” he broke in. “Archibald thought it best, and when he’s being fatherly and commanding, I’ve never been able to say no to him.” Her mouth worked. “Not about anything. When he learned what I could do, he told me that I had a great gift. That I could preserve priceless knowledge. He urged me to join his group.” He snapped his fingers. “Earl Sanderson, and Jack Braun. “
“That’s right.”
He bounded up and paced the room. “They were involved in something down in Argentina, and in capturing Mengele and Eichmann, but four?”
“David Harstein, otherwise known as the Envoy-“
“I know him, I treated him only a few… never mind, go on.”
“And me.” She smiled with a little girl’s embarrassment. “Brain Trust.”
He sank back down on the couch, and stared at her. “What has he .. what have you done.”
“Used my talent the way Archibald advised. Want to know anything about relativity, rocket technology, nuclear physics, biochemistry?”
“He’s been sending you around the country absorbing minds,” he said. Then he exploded. “Who in the hell do you have in your head?”
She joined him on the sofa. “Einstein, Salk, Von Braun, Oppenheimer, Teller, and Henry of course, but I’d like to forget about that.” She smiled. “And that’s the crux of the problem. Henry didn’t take kindly to a wife with several Nobel prizewinners in her head, much less a wife who knew where all his skeletons were buried, so this morning he threw me out. I wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for the children. I don’t know what he’s going to tell them about their mother, and—oh damn,” she whispered, banging her fists on her knees. “I will not start crying again.”
“Anyway, I was trying to think of what to do. I had just wrestled free from Jack, and was bawling in the back of a taxi, when I thought of you.” Suddenly Tachyon became aware that she was speaking German. He bit down hard, forcing his tongue against the roof of his mouth to hold back nausea. “It’s silly, but in some ways I feel closer to you than I do to anyone else in the world; which is strange when you consider that you’re not even from this world.”
Her smile was half siren, half Mona Lisa, but there was no answering physical and emotional response. He was too sickened and angry. “Sometimes I don’t understand you people at all! Have you no conception of the dangers inherent in this virus?”
“No, how can I?” she interrupted. “Henry took us out of the city within hours of the crisis, and we didn’t return until he thought the danger was past.” She was back to English again. “Well, he was wrong, wasn’t he!”
“Yes, but that’s not my fault!”
“I’m not saying it is!”
“Then what are you so angry about?”
“Holmes,” he ejected. “You called him fatherly, but if he had had any affection for you at all, he would not have encouraged you in this mad course.”
“What is so mad about it? I’m young, many of these men are old. I’m preserving priceless knowledge.”
“At the risk of your own sanity.”
“You taught me-“
“You’re a humanl You’re not trained to handle the stress of high-level mentatics. The techniques I taught you in the hospital to keep your personality separate from your husband’s were inadequate, nowhere near strong enough.”
“Then teach me what I need to know. Or cure me.” The challenge brought him up short. “I can’t… at least not yet. The virus is hellishly complex, working out a counter strain to nullify…” He shrugged. “To trump the wild card, if you will, may take me years. I’m one man working alone.”
“Then I’ll go back to Jack.” She picked up the case, and lurched toward the door. It was an oddly compelling mixture of dignity and farce as the heavy bag pulled her off balance. “And if I should go mad, perhaps Archibald will find me a good psychiatrist. After all, I am one of the Four Aces.”
“Wait… you can’t just go.”
“Then you’ll teach me?”
He dug thumb and middle finger into the corners of his eyes, and gave the bridge of his nose a hard squeeze. “I’ll try.” The case hit the floor, and she slowly approached him. He warded her off with his free hand. “One last thing. I’m not a saint, nor one of your human monks.” He gestured toward the curtained alcove that held his bed. “Someday I’ll want you.”
“So what’s wrong with now?” She pushed aside the restraining hand, and molded her body to his. It was not a particularly lush body. In fact, it could have been described as meager, but any fault he might have found vanished as her hands cupped his face and pulled his lips down to meet hers.
“A lovely day.” Tachyon sighed with satisfaction, scrubbed at his face with his hand, and stripped off his socks and underwear.
Blythe smiled at him from the bathroom mirror where she stood creaming her face. “Any earth male who heard you say that would decide you were certifiably insane. A day spent in the company of an eight-year-old, a five-year-old, and a threeyear-old is not held to be a high treat by most men.”
“Your men are stupid.” He stared off into space, for a moment remembering the feel of sticky hands in his pockets as a bevy of tiny cousins searched for the treats he carried there, the press of a soft, plump baby cheek against his when he went away promising most faithfully to come again soon and play. He pushed back the past, and found her intently regarding him. “Homesick?”
“Thinking.”
“Homesick.”