Wild Cards by George R. R. Martin
“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 self-control.
“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 kno
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 psi-blind 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 . . . er . . .”
“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 scatter-brained 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,
“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.”