Wildcards

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."

"Children are a joy and a delight," he said hurriedly before she could reopen their ongoing argument. Picking up a brush, he pulled it through his long hair. "In fact, I've often wondered if yours aren't changlings or if you cuckolded old Henry from the beginning."

Six months ago, when Blythe had been thrown from the house, van Renssaeler had instructed the servants to refuse entrance to his estranged wife, thus barring her from her children. Tach had quickly remedied that situation. Every week, when they knew the representative was away from home, they went to the penthouse apartment, Tachyon mindcontrolled the servants, and they'd spend several hours playing with Henry Jr., Brandon, and Fleur. He'd then instruct the nurse and housekeeper to forget the visit. It gave him great satisfaction to thumb his nose at the hated Henry, though for real vengeance the man should have been aware of their challenge to his authority.

Tossing the brush aside, he gathered up the evening paper and crawled into bed. On the front page was a picture of Earl receiving a medal for having saved Gandhi. Jack and Holmes stood in the background, the older man looking smug, while Jack looked ill at ease. "Here's a picture from the banquet tonight," he added. "But I still don't see why all the fuss. It was only an attempt."

"We don't share your callous attitude toward assassination." Her voice was muffled by the folds of her flannel nightgown as she pulled it over her head.

"I know, and it still seems strange." He rolled over on his side propped up on one elbow. "Do you know that until I came to earth I had never gone anywhere without bodyguards?"

The old bed squeaked a bit as she settled in. "That's terrible."

"We're accustomed to it. Assassination is a way of life among my class. It's how the families jockey for position. By the time I was twenty I had lost fourteen members of my immediate family to assassination."

"How immediate is immediate?"

"My mother… I think. I was only four when she was found at the bottom of the stairs near the women's quarters. I've always suspected my Aunt Sabina was behind it, but there was no proof."

"Poor little boy." Her hand cupped his cheek. "Do you remember her at all?"

"Just flashes. The rustle of silk and lace and the smell of her perfume mostly. And her hair, like a golden cloud." She rolled over and snuggled close, her buttocks pressing into his groin. "What else is so different between Takis and earth?" It was an obvious attempt to change the subject, and he was grateful to her. Talking about the family he had abandoned always made him sad and homesick.

"Women, for one thing."

"Are we better or worse?"

"Just different. You wander about free after you reach childbearing age. We would never allow that. A successful attack against a pregnant woman could wipe out years of careful planning."

"I think that's horrible too."

"We also don't equate sex with sin. A sin to us is casual reproduction which could upset the plan. But pleasure, now, that's another matter. For example, we take attractive young men and women from the lower class-the non-psi people and train them to service the men and women of the great households."

"Don't you ever see the women of your own class?"

"Of course. Until age thirty we grow up together, train and study together. It's only when a woman reaches childbearing years that she is secluded to keep her safe. And we still get together for family functions: balls, hunts, picnics, but all within the walls of the estate."

"How long are the little boys left with their mothers in the women's quarters?"

"All children are left until they're thirteen."

"Do they ever see each other again?"

"Of course, they're our mothers!"

"Don't be defensive. It's just very alien to me."

"So to speak," he said, snagging the gown and running his hand up her leg.

"So you have sex toys," she mused while his hands explored her body, and she fondled his stiffening penis. "Sounds like a nice idea."

"Want to be my sex toy?"

"I thought I already was."

It was a chill that brought him awake. He sat up to find Blythe gone, and the covers trailing across the floor. He became aware of voices from beyond the beaded curtain. The wind was gusting about the building, setting up a keening howl as it sought out the cracks and crevices in the windows. The hair on the back of his neck was rising, but it had nothing to do with the cold. It was those deep guttural voices from behind the curtain, reminding him of children's boogy stories of unquiet ancestor ghosts possessing the living bodies of direct descendants. He shivered, and thrust through the beads. They fell tinkling behind him, and he saw Blythe standing in the center of the room carrying on a spirited argument with herself.

"I tell you, Oppie, we must develop-"

"No! We've been over this before, our first priority is the device. We can't be sidetracked with this hydrogen bomb right now."

For a long moment Tachyon stood frozen with horror. Such things had happened before, when she was tired or under stress, but never to such an extent. He knew he had to find her quickly if she was not to be lost, and he forced himself to move. In two strides he was at her side, gripping her close, reaching for her mind. And he almost retreated in terror, for inside was a nightmarish whirlpool of conflicting personalities, all battling for supremacy while Blythe spun helplessly in the center. He plunged toward her only to be blocked by Henry. Furiously Tachyon thrust him aside, and gathered her within the protective ward of his mind. The other six personalities orbited around them, fighting the ward. Blythe's strength combined with his, and they banished Teller to his compartment, and Oppenheimer to his; Einstein retreated mumbling while Salk just seemed bemused.

Blythe slumped against him, and the sudden weight was too much for his exhausted body. His knees gave way, and he sat down hard on the wood floor, Blythe cradled in his lap. Out in the street he could hear the milkman making his deliveries, and he realized it had taken hours to restore her balance. "God damn you, Archibald," he muttered, but it seemed inadequate, as inadequate as his ability to help.

"You don't want to do that," murmured David Harstein. Tack's hand froze. "The knight would be better." The Takisian nodded, and quickly moved the chess piece. His jaw dropped as he contemplated the move.

"You cheat! Why, you miserable cheat!"

Harstein spread his hands in a helpless, placating gesture. "It was just a suggestion." The young man's tone was soft and aggrieved, but his dark brown eyes were alight with amusement.

Tachyon grunted, and wriggled back until he could lean against the sofa. "I find it rather alarming that a person of your position would stoop to using your gifts in such a despicable manner. You should be setting an example for the other aces." David grinned, and reached for his drink. "That's the public face. Surely with my creator I can fall back into my lazy, bohemian ways."

"Don't."

There was a moment of strained silence while Tach stared inward at pictures he would rather forget, and David with elaborate concentration gave the pocket pegboard chess set an infinitesimal shift to the left.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right." He gave the younger man a soothing smile. "Let's go on with the game."

David nodded, and bent his wiry dark head over the board. Tach took a sip of his Irish coffee, and allowed the warmth to fill his mouth before swallowing. He was ashamed of his overreaction to the teasing remark. After all, the boy had meant no harm.

He had met David in the hospital in early 1947. On the Wild Card Day, Harstein had been playing chess at a sidewalk cafe. No symptoms had manifested themselves then, but months later he had been brought writhing and convulsing into the hospital. Tach had feared that this intense, handsome man would be yet another faceless victim, but against all expectations he had recovered. They had tested: David's body exuded powerful pheromones, pheromones that made him hard to resist on any level. He was recruited by Archibald Holmes, dubbed the Envoy by a fascinated press, and proceeded to use his awesome charisma to settle strikes, negotiate treaties, and mediate with world leaders.

Of the other male Aces he was Tachyon's favorite, and under David's tutelage he had learned to play chess. It was a testimonial both to his own growing abilities and to David's teaching skills that he had resorted to his powers in an effort to keep the game from Tach. The alien smiled, and decided to repay the other man for his interference.

He carefully sent out a probe, slipped beneath David's defenses, and watched as that fine mind weighed and evaluated possible moves. The decision was reached, but before Harstein could act upon it Tach gave a sharp twist, erasing the decision, and substituting another in its place.

"Check."

David stared down at the board, then flipped it onto the floor with a howl while Tach climbed onto the couch, buried his head in a pillow, and laughed.

"Talk about me cheating. I can't control my power, but you! Reach into a man's head and…"

A key scraped in the lock, and Blythe called out, "Children, children, what are you battling about now?"

"He cheats," the two men called in chorus, pointing at one another.

Tach gathered her into his arms. "You're freezing. Let me fix you some tea. How was the conference?"

"Not bad." She removed her fur hat, and shook snow from the silver-tipped ends. "With Werner down with the croup they were grateful to have my input." She leaned forward, and pressed a soft kiss on David's darkly shadowed cheek. "Hello, dear, bow was Russia?"

"Bleak." He began collecting the scattered chessmen. "You know, it doesn't seem fair."

"What?" Tossing her coat onto the sofa, she pulled off her muddy boots, and curled up against the pillows with her feet tucked snugly beneath the silver fox fur.

"Earl gets to snatch Bormann out of Italy and save Gandhi from a Hindu fanatic, and you get to sit in a sleazy motel and attend a rocketry conference."

"They also serve who only sit and talk. As you should well know. Besides, you've gotten your fair share of the glory. What about Argentina?"

"That was more than a year ago, and all I did was talk to the Peronists while Earl and jack intimidated the jackboots in the street. Now, who do you think the press noticed? Us? Not likely. You've got to have flash to get noticed in this business."

"And just what is this business?" interjected Tachyon, pressing a mug of steaming tea into Blythe's hands.

David hunched forward, his head thrusting out from his stooped shoulders like an inquisitive bird. "Salvaging something out of the disaster. Using these gifts to improve the human condition."

"That's how it starts, but will it end there? My experience with super-races-being a member of one myself-is that we take what we want, and the devil take anyone else. When a tiny minority of people on Takis began to develop mental powers, they quickly began interbreeding to make certain no one else would get a chance at the powers. It gave us a planet to rule, and we're only eight percent of the population."

"We'll be different." Harstein's wry laugh made a mockery of the statement.

"I hope so. But I'm more comforted by the knowledge that there are only a few dozen of you aces, and that Archibald hasn't welded all of you into this great force for Democracy." His thin lips twisted a bit on the final words.

Blythe reached out, and pushed his bangs off his forehead. "You disapprove?"

"I worry."

"Why?"

"I think you and David should be grateful that you're out of the public eye. The rage of the have-nots against the haves is never pretty, and your race has a tradition of suspicion and hostility toward the stranger. You aces are surpassing strange. What is it one of your holy books says? Suffer not the witch?"

"But we're just people," Blythe objected.

"No, you're not… not anymore, and the others won't forget it. I know of thirty-seven of you, there may be more, and you're undetectable-not like the jokers. National hysteria is a particularly virulent and fast-growing weed. People are seeing Communists everywhere, and it probably wouldn't take much to transfer that distrust to some other terrifying minority-like an unseen, secret, awesomely powered group of people."

"I think you're overreacting."

"Am I? Take these HUAC hearings." He gestured toward a pile of newspapers. "And two days ago a federal jury indicted Alger Hiss for perjury. These are not the actions of a sane and stable nation. And this during your month of joy and rebirth."

"No, that's Easter. This is the first birth." David's weak joke sank into the heavy silence that washed through the room, broken only by the hiss of wind driven snow against the windows.

Harstein sighed and stretched. "What a gloomy bunch we are. What say we get some dinner, and find a concert? Satchmo is playing uptown.

"

Tach shook his head. "I have to go back to the hospital."

"Now?" wailed Blythe.

"My darling, I must."

"Then I'll go with you."

"No, that's silly. Let David take you to dinner."

"No." Her lips had tightened into a mulish line. "If you won't let me help, I can at least keep you company."

He sighed and rolled his eyes as she pulled on her boots. "Stubborn lady," David remarked from beneath the coffee table, where he was scrabbling after the scattered chess pieces. "We've all discovered that it does no good to argue with her."

"You should try living with her."

The delicate pillbox hat warped beneath the sudden tightening of her fingers. "Believe me, we can solve that problem."

"Don't start," Tach said warningly.

"And don't take that disapproving-father tone with me! I'm not a child, nor one of your secluded Takisian ladies."

"If you were, you'd behave better; and as for being a child, you're certainly acting like one-and a spoiled one at that. We've had this discussion before, and I'm not going to do what you want."

"We have not had a discussion. You have constantly closed me off, changed the subject, refused to discuss the matter-"

"I'm due at the hospital." He started for the door. "You see?" she shot at the uncomfortable Harstein. "Has he cut me off, or has he cut me off?"

The young man shrugged, and crammed the chess set into the pocket of his shapeless corduroy jacket. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

"David, kindly take my genamiri to dinner, and try to return her to me in a somewhat better frame of mind." Blythe cast Harstein a pleading look, while Tachyon stared with regal disdain at the far wall.

"Hey, folks. I think you ought to take a nice romantic walk in the snow, talk things over, have a late supper, make love and quit bickering. Whatever it is, it can't be that big of a problem."

"You're right," murmured Blythe, the rigidity passing from her body under the relaxing wash of pheromones. David placed a hand in Tach's back, and urged him out the door. Lifting Blythe's hand, he placed it firmly in Tachyon's, and made a vague gesture of benediction over their heads. "Now go, my children, and sin no more." He followed them down the stairs and into the streets, then bolted for the subway before the pacifying effects of his power could wear off.

"Now do you see why I don't want you working with me?" The moon had managed to slip beneath the skirt of the clouds, and the pale silver light streaming across the snow made the city look almost clean. They stood on the edge of Central Park, breath mingling in soft white puffs as she stared seriously up into his face.

"I see that you're trying to protect and shelter me, but I don't think it's necessary and after watching you tonight…" She hesitated, searching for a way to soften her next words. "I think I can deal with it better than you can. You care for your patients, Tach, but their deformities and insanities.. well, they disgust you too."

He flinched. "Blythe, I'm so ashamed. Do you think they know, can they sense?"

"No, no, love." Her hand stroked his hair, soothing him as she would one of her young children. "I see it only because I'm so close to you. They see only the compassion."

"The Ideal knows I've tried to suppress it, but I've never seen such horrors." He jerked away from her comforting arms, and paced the sidewalk. "We don't tolerate deformity. Among the great houses such creatures are destroyed." There was a faint noise, and he turned back to face her. One gloved hand was pressed to her mouth, and her eyes were wide, glittering pits in the glow from a nearby streetlight. "And now you know I'm a monster."

"I think your culture is monstrous. Every child is precious no matter what its disabilities."

"So my sister thought, and our monstrous culture destroyed her too."

"Tell me."

He began drawing random patterns on a snow-covered park bench. "She was the eldest, some thirty years my senior, but we were very close. She was married outside the house during one of those rare family truces. Her first child was defective and put down, and Jadlan never recovered. She killed herself several months later." His hand swept across the bench, obliterating the drawings. Blythe lifted his hand, and chafed the chilled fingers between her gloved hands. "It started me thinking about the whole structure of my society. Then came the decision to field-test the virus on earth, and that was the end. I couldn't sit by any longer."

"Your sister must have been special, different, like you."

"My cousin says it's the Sennari line that we carry. It's a throwback recessive that-according to him, anyway-should never have been permitted to continue. But I'm losing you with all this talk of pedigree, and your teeth are rattling in your head. Let's get home and get you warm."

"No, not until we settle this." He didn't pretend not to understand. "I can help you, and I insist that you let me share this with you. Give me your mind."

"No, that would be eight personalities. It's too many."

"Let me be the judge of that. I'm managing just fine with seven."

He made a rude noise, and she stiffened with outrage. "Like you managed in February when I found Teller and Oppenheimer battling over the hydrogen bomb, while you stood like a zombie in the center of the room?"

"This will be different. You're beloved to me, your mind will not harm me. And beyond the work… when I have your memories and knowledge you won't be lonely anymore."

"I haven't been lonely, not since you came."

"Liar. I've seen the way you gaze off into the distance, and the sad music you pull out of that violin when you think I'm not listening. Let me be there to provide you with a small part of home." She placed a hand across his mouth. "Don't argue." So he didn't, and he allowed himself to be convinced. More out of love for her than any real acceptance of her arguments. And late that night, as her legs tightened about his waist, and her nails raked down his sweat-slick back, and he came in violent release, she reached out, and sucked in his mind as well.

There was a terrible, gut-wrenching moment of violation, theft, loss, then it was over, and from the mirror of her mind came back two images. The beloved, lady-soft, gentle touch that was Blythe, and a frighteningly familiar and equally beloved image that was him.

"Damn them all!" Tachyon raged the length of the small antechamber, spun, and fixed Prescott Quinn with an outthrust forefinger. "It is outrageous, unconscionable, to summon us in this manner. How dare they-and by what right do they-pull us from our home, and send us haring off to Washington on two hours'-two hours'-notice?"

Quinn sucked noisily on the stem of his pipe. "By the right of law and custom. They're members of Congress, and this committee is empowered to call and examine witnesses." He was a burly old man with an impressive gut that stretched his watch chain, complete with Phi Beta Kappa key, across the severe black of his waistcoat.

"Then call us in to witness-though God knows to whatand have an end to this. We came tumbling down here last night only to be told the hearing had been postponed, and now they keep us cooling our heels for three hours."

Quinn grunted, and rubbed at his bushy white eyebrows. "If you think this is much of a wait, young man, you've a lot to learn about the federal government."

"Tack, sit down, have some coffee," murmured Blythe, looking pale but composed in a black knit dress, veiled hat, and gloves.

David Harstein came mooching into the antechamber, and the two Marine guards at the chamber door stiffened and eyed him warily. "Thank God, a touch of sanity in the midst of madness and nightmares."

"Oh, David, darling." Blythe's hands clutched feverishly at his shoulders. "Are you all right? Was it terrible yesterday?"

"No, it was great… all except being continually referred to as the `Jewish gentleman from New York' by that Nazi Rankin. They questioned me about China: I told them we had done everything possible to negotiate a settlement between Mao and Chiang. They of course concurred. I then suggested that they disband these hearings, and they agreed amid much joy and applause, and-"

"And then you left the room," interrupted Tach. "Yes." His dark head drooped and he contemplated his clasped hands. "They're constructing a glass booth now, and I'll be recalled. Damn them anyway!"

A supercilious page entered and called for Mrs. Blythe van Renssaeler. She started, her purse falling to the floor. Tach recovered it, and pressed his cheek against hers.

"Peace, beloved. You're more than a match for them alone, much less with all the rest of you along. And don't forget, I'm with you." She smiled faintly. Quinn took her arm, and escorted her into the hearing room. Tachyon had a brief glimpse of backs, cameras, and a jumble of tables all washed in a fierce white light from the television spots. Then the door closed with a dull thud.

"Game?" asked David. "Sure, why not."

"I'm not imposing? Would you rather prepare your testimony?"

"What testimony? I don't know anything about China."

"When did they get you?" His deft hands flew, setting up the board.

"Yesterday afternoon about one."

"It's all such a crock," the Envoy said with a marked lack of diplomacy, and viciously jammed in a pawn at Queen's pawn four.

They were still at the game when Blythe and Quinn returned. The board went flying with the alien's precipitous leap, but David didn't remonstrate with him. Blythe was as pale as death, and shaking.

"What did they do?" demanded Tach, the words harsh in his throat. She didn't answer, merely shivered within the circle of his arms like a wounded animal.

"Dr. Tachyon, this is going a bit beyond China. We must talk."

"A moment." He bent to her, and pressed his lips against her temple. He could feel the pulse beating there. Quickly he slipped beneath her defense, and sent a calming tide flowing through her mind. With a final shudder she relaxed, and loosened her grip on the lapel of his pale peach coat. "Sit with David, love. I have to talk to Mr. Quinn." He knew he was talking down to her, but stress could warp the fragile structure she had constructed to keep her divergent personalities separated, and what he had found in that brief incursion had been an eroding edifice.

The lawyer drew him aside. "China was the excuse, Doctor. The issue now is this virus. I think this committee has gotten the idea that the aces are a subversive force, and they may reflect the mood in the country at large."

"Dr. Tachyon," called the page. Quinn waved him back with an abrupt slash.

"Absurd!"

"Nonetheless, I now understand why you're here. My advice to you is to take the Fifth."

"Which means?"

"You refuse to answer all and any questions. That includes your name. Such a response has been construed as a waiver of the Fifth."

Tach drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height. "I do not fear these men, Mr. Quinn, nor will I sit and condemn myself by silence. We will stop this foolishness now!"

The room was an obstacle course of lights, chairs, tables, people, and the snaking cables. Once he caught his heel, stumbled, pulling himself up with a muttered curse. For an instant the room faded, and he saw the parqueted, chandelierlit expanse of the Ilkazam ballroom and heard the titters of family and friends as he had stood lost in the midst of the intricacies of Princes Baffled. Because of his error the dance had come to a grinding, stumbling halt, and over the music he could hear his cousin Zabb's nasal voice describing in ruthless detail precisely which step he had missed. Hot blood rushed to his cheeks, and brought a line of sweat to his upper lip. Removing a handkerchief he dabbed at the moisture, then noticed that his discomfort was not entirely due to his memories; because of the television lights the room was broiling.

As he settled himself on the hard, straight-backed wooden chair, Tach noted the skeletal frame of the glass box that was being built to house David. It seemed somehow ominous, like a half-finished scaffold, and he quickly switched his gaze to the nine men who dared to sit in judgment on him and his genamiri. They were remarkable only for their expressions of grim portentousness. Otherwise they were merely a collection of middle-aged to elderly men dressed in ill-fitting dark suits. An expression of regal disdain settled over his features, and he lounged back in the chair, his very relaxation making a mockery of their power.

"Wish you had heeded me on the matter of your dress," murmured Quinn as he opened his briefcase.

"You told me to dress well. I did."

Quinn eyed the swallow-tailed coat and pants of pale peach, the vest embroidered in shades of green and gold, and the high soft boots with their gold tassels. "Black would have been better."

"I'm not a common laborer."

"Would you state your name for the committee," said Chairman Wood, without looking up from his papers.

He leaned in to the microphone. "I am known on your world as Dr. Tachyon."

"Your full and real name."

"You're quite certain you want that?"

"Would I ask it otherwise?" Wood grunted testily.

"As you wish." Smiling faintly, the alien launched into a recitation of his complete pedigree. "Tisianne brant Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian. So ends my mother's line,"

"Omian being a relative newcomer to the Ilkazam clan having married in from the Zaghloul. My maternal grandfather was Taj brant Parada sek Amurath sek Ledaa sek Shahriar sek Naxina. His sire was Bakonur brant Sennari-"

"Thank you," Wood said hurriedly. He glanced down the table at his colleagues. "Perhaps for the purposes of this hearing we can make do with his nom de plume?"

"De guerre," he corrected sweetly, and enjoyed Wood's flush of irritation.

There followed several pointless and meandering questions about where he lived and worked; then John Rankin of Mississippi leaned in. "Now as I understand it, Dr. Tachyon, you are not a citizen of the United States of America."

Tach shot Quinn an incredulous glance. There were titters from the assembled journalists, and Rankin glared.

"No, sir."

"Then you are an alien." Satisfaction laced the words. "Undeniably," he drawled. Leaning nonchalantly back in the chair, he began to play with the folds of his cravat. Case of South Dakota stepped in. "And did you or did you not enter this country illegally?"

"There didn't seem to be an immigration center at White Sands, on the other hand I didn't ask, being concerned with more pressing matters at the time."

"But you have at no time during the intervening years applied for American citizenship?"

The chair scraped back and Tach was on his feet. "The Ideal grant me patience. This is absurd. I have no desire to become a citizen of your country. Your world I find compelling, and even if my ship were capable of hyperspatial travel I would remain because I have patients who need me. What I do not have is either the time or the inclination to bark and caper for the amusement of this ignorant tribunal. Please, carry on with your little games, but leave me to my work-"

Quinn pulled him bodily down into the chair, and laid a hand over the mike. "Just keep it up, and you'll be surveying this world from behind the walls of a federal penitentiary," he hissed. "Accept it now! These men have power over you and the means to exercise it. Now apologize, and let's see what we can salvage from this mess."

He did so, but with poor grace, and the questioning continued. It was Nixon of California who brought them to the heart of the matter.

"As I understand it, Doctor, it was your family who developed this virus that has cost so many people their lives. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

He cleared his throat, and said more audibly this time, "Yes."

"And so you came-"

"To try and prevent its release."

"And what corroboration do you have for this claim, Tachyon?" granted Rankin.

"My ship's logs detailing my exchange with the crew of the other ship."

"And can you obtain these logs?" Nixon again. "They're on my ship."

An aide skittered up onto the platform, and there was a hurried conference. "Reports indicate that your ship has resisted all efforts to enter."

"It was so ordered."

"Will you arrange to open it, and allow the Air Force to remove the logs?"

"No." They regarded each other for a long moment. "Will you return my ship, and then I'll bring you the logs?"

"No."

He fell back once more in the chair and shrugged. "Well, they wouldn't have done you much good anyway; we weren't speaking English."

"And what about these other aliens? Can we question them?" Rankin's mouth twisted as if he were regarding something peculiarly unpleasant and slimy.

"I'm afraid they're all dead." His voice dropped as he again struggled with the guilt the memories still brought. "I misjudged their determination. They fought the grappler beam, and broke up in the atmosphere."

"Very convenient. So convenient that I wonder if it wasn't planned that way?"

"It was Jetboy's failure that released the virus."

"Do not sully the name of that great American hero with your slanderous lies!" Rankin shouted, winding up into his full Southern-preacher mode. "I submit to this committee and to the nation that you have remained on this world to study the effects of your evil experiment. That those other aliens were acting as kamikazes ready to die so that you might appear a hero, and live among us accepted and revered, but that in fact you are an alien subversive seekin' to undermine this great nation by the use of these dangerous wild elements."

"No!" He was on his feet, hands braced on the table, leaning in on his inquisitors. "No one regrets the events of '46 more than I. Yes, I failed… failed to stop the ship, failed to locate the globe, failed to convince the authorities of the danger, failed to help Jetboy, and I must live with that failure for the rest of my life! All I can do is offer myself… my talents, my experience working with this virus, to undo what I have created-I'm sorry… sorry." He broke off, choked, and sipped gratefully at the water offered by Quinn.

The heat was like a tangible thing, coiling about his body, stealing the breath from his lungs, and leaving him lightheaded. He willed himself not to faint, and pulling the handkerchief from his pocket he wiped at his eyes, and knew he had made another mistake. Males in this culture were trained to suppress emotion. He had just violated another of their taboos. He dropped heavily back into the chair.

"If you are indeed repentant, Dr. Tachyon, then demonstrate it to this committee. What I require from you is a complete list of all the so-called 'aces' you have ever treated or heard about. Names… addresses if possible, and-"

"No."

"You would be assistin' your country."

"It's not my country, and I won't help you in your witchhunts."

"You are in this country illegally, Doctor. Could be that it's in the best interests of this nation if you were deported. So I'd think over your answer very carefully if I were you."

"it requires no further thought… I will not betray my patients."

"Then the committee has no further questions of this witness. "

At the front doors of the Capitol they walked full into a pale, sharp-featured man.

A tiny sound escaped Blythe, and she clutched at Tach's arm.

"Afternoon, Henry," grunted Quinn, and the alien realized that this was the husband of the woman who had shared his bed and his life for two and a half years.

He seemed familiar. Tach had been contending with this persona every time he joined with Blythe in telepathic or physical union. Granted, Henry had been relegated to an unused corner of her mind like discarded lumber in a dusty attic, but the mind was there, and it wasn't a very nice mind. "Blythe."

"Henry."

He raked Tachyon with a cold glance. "If you would excuse us, I'd like to talk to my wife."

"No, please, don't leave me." Her fingers plucked at his coat, and he carefully freed them before she could utterly ruin the crease, and clasped her hand warmly in his.

"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 wolyes 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 mindcontrolled 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?"

"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 twentythird, 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. "… ave 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, looking 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 "… ave 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