a long swallow of brandy. Somehow this story never got any easier.
"Go on," pushed Blaise, his dark eyes bright with excitement.
In a voice drained of all emotion, Tachyon resumed. "Jack had become a so-called `friendly witness.' He told the committee that Blythe had absorbed my mind, my memories."
"They put her on the stand and began to grill her. Because of the stress of juggling so many minds Blythe was ... fragile. She was about to reveal the other aces. I could not allow that to happen. I controlled her, and so broke her mind. She became hopelessly insane, and her husband had her committed. She died in a sanatorium in 1954."
"Who was the husband?"
"A congressman from New York. There were also three children. Henry Jr. Brandon and Fleur. I lost track of them during the years I was roaming Europe."
"Which is when you met George."
"Yes."
"This is so confusing."
"You should have tried living it."
"So this is the ancient history you won't discuss whenever I ask you why you and Jack fight' so much."
"Yes. For years I blamed Jack for Blythe's destruction. Then I realized that I was the one who destroyed her. Jack was just one of a long line of contributing factors: my family for developing the virus in the first place, Archibald Holmes for i recruiting her, her husband for rejecting her, Jack for being weak, and humans for being venal."
Blaise sucked noisily through his straw, dragging up the last of the Coke. "Boy, this is really heavy, you know?"
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
"Fleur?" A shrug. "Yeah, I guess."
"I have to see her, Blaise. Explain, set the past straight. Have her forgive me."
"Why should you care?"
"Burning Sky, look at the time! I was supposed to meet the Texas delegation five minutes ago. Go buy some dinner, put it on the room, and stay out of trouble! I've got to change."
The phone was ringing as he entered the room. Snatching it up, Tachyon heard the hiss of long distance. An operator's cool, bored tone asked, "Will you accept a collect call from Mr. Thomas Downs?"
For an instant, disbelief at the journalist's brass held him silent, and Tach could hear faint and far away Digger babbling frantically. "Tachy, you gotta listen-"
"Sir, this call has not yet been accepted." Admonishment from the frigid operator.
"Tachy, listen! Something terr-"
"Sir!"
"... help me ..."
"Sir, will you accept the charges?"
"... in big trouble!" Digger's voice soared into the soprano range.
"No!" Tachyon slammed down the phone so hard that it gave a ring of protest. He was halfway out of his shirt when it rang again.
"Collect call-"
"NO!"
It rang seven more times. After the third time Tach stopped answering. The shrill ringing was a drill biting into his head. He dressed quickly in his usual elaborate finery. Pale rose and lavender with silver lace. The phone was still ringing as he stepped into the hall. For a moment he hesitated. Help me. Help him how? Tach gave his head an emphatic shake, and pulled the door shut. Too often Digger had embroiled him in the sleazy journalists sleazy little problems. Not this time.
I have enough problems of my own.
Spector hadn't been to the store for a year and a half, not since the Wild Card Day when the Astronomer went out in a blaze of glory. With a little help from hire, of course. The suit he'd bought then didn't last out the day, but then a lot of things hadn't made it through that day. The old guy who ran the place had seemed okay to him. What the hell, might as well throw hire some more business. He couldn't stay at a swank hotel and not have some decent clothes. He'd stand out like a joker at a fashion show.
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he stepped in. Before, the store had been old, dim, and dusty-like the old man who ran it. Now the place had been repainted and new, brighter lighting had been put in. The room even smelled new.
As Spector turned to leave, a voice called out to him, "Hey, come on in, sir. If ou're looking for fine clothing at great prices, you've come to' the right place. Just tell me--I'm Bob--name's on the sign outside--what you want and I'll fix you up in no time."
Spector looked Bob over. He was dressed well enough, although the clothes didn't disguise the fact that he was creeping into middle age, but he had a hustler's eyes and smile. Spector just wanted to buy