is to know their customs. One of ours is that peers shake hands to show understanding."
He thought for a moment that the ploy had failed, that the opportunity would pass. He was almost glad. Opening the mind and will of an ace who had already terrified him with her unknowing perception, and doing so with Tachyon standing alongside him, watching ...
Then her hand, surprisingly white against the midnight darkness of her robes, brushed against his fingers.
You must ...
Gregg slid along the curving, branching tendrils of the nervous system, watching for blocks and traps, watching especially for any sign of awareness of his presence. Had he felt that, he would have fled as quickly as he'd entered. He'd always been extremely cautious with aces, even with those who he knew had no mental powers. Kahina seemed unaware of his penetration.
He opend her, setting up the entrances he would use later. Puppetman sighed at the swirling maelstrom of emotion he found there. Kahina was rich, complicated. The hues of her mind were saturated and strong. He could sense her attitude toward him: a brilliant gold-green hope, the ocher of suspicion, a vein of marbled pity/disgust for his world. And yet there was glimmering envy underneath as well, and a yearning that seemed tied to her feelings for her brother.
He followed that trail backward and was surprised at the pure, bitter gall he found there. It had been carefully concealed, layered under safer, more benign emotions and sealed with respect for Allah's favoring of Nur al-Allah, but it was there. It throbbed at his touch, alive.
It took only a moment. Her hand had already withdrawn, but the contact was established. He stayed with her for a few more seconds to be sure, and then he came back to himself.
Gregg smiled. It was done, and he was still safe. Kahina hadn't noticed; Tachyon hadn't suspected.
"We're all grateful for your presence," Gregg said. "Tell Nur al-Allah that all we wish is understanding. Doesn't the Qur'an itself begin with the exordium 'in the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful'? We've come out of a sense of that same compassion."
"Is that the gift you bring, Senator?" she asked in English, and Gregg could feel the wistfulness surging from her opened mind.
"I think," he told her, "it's the same gift you would give yourself."
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1987, DAMASCUS:
The knock on her hotel door woke Sara from sleep. Groggy, she glanced first at her travel clock: 1:35 A.M. local time-it felt much later. Still jet lagged. Too early for Gregg, though.
She put a robe on, rubbing her eyes as she went to the door. The security people had been very definite about the risks here in Damascus. She didn't stand directly in front of the door, but leaned over toward the central peephole. Glancing through, she saw the distorted face of an Arabic woman, swathed in the chador. The eyes, the fine structure of the face were familiar, as were the sea-blue beads sewn in the chador's headpiece. "Kahina?" she queried.
"Yes," came the muffled voice from the hallway. "Please. I would talk."
"Just a minute." Sara ran a hand through her hair. She exchanged the thin, lacy robe shed put on for a heavier, more concealing one. She unchained the door, opened it a crack.
A heavy hand threw the door entirely open, and Sara stifled a shout. A burly man scowled at her, a handgun gripped in his large fist. He ignored Sara after an initial glance and prowled through her room, opening the closet door, peering into the bathroom. He grunted, then went back to the door. He spoke something in Arabic, and then Kahina entered. Her bodyguard shut the door behind her and stationed himself near it.
"I'm sorry," Kahina said. Her voice struggled with the English, but her eyes seemed kind. She gestured in the direction of the guard. "In our society, a woman. . ."
"I think I understand," Sara said. The man was staring rudely at her; Sara tightened the robe's sash and tugged the neckline higher. Involuntarily she yawned. Kahina seemed to smile under her veil.
"Again I am sorry I woke you, but the dream..." She shrugged. "May I sit?"
"Please." Sara waved toward two chairs by the window. The guard grunted. He spoke in rapid-fire syllables. "He says not by the window," Kahina translated. "Too unsafe." Sara dragged the chairs to the center of the room; that seemed to satisfy the guard, who leaned back against the wall. Kahina took one of the chairs, the