Alfred Bester - The Demolished Man

"Wait," Tate interrupted sharply. "How are you going to keep all this intent concealed from stray peepers? I can only screen you when I'm with you. I won't be with you all the time."

"I can work up a temporary mind-block. There's a song-writer down on Melody Lane I can swindle into helping me."

"It may work," Tate said after a moment's peeping. "But one thing occurs to me. Suppose D'Courtney is protected? Do you expect to shoot it out with bis body-guards?"

"No. I'm hoping it won't be necessary. A physiologist named Jordan has just developed visual knock-out drops for Monarch. We intended using it for strike riots. I'll use it on D'Courtney's guards."

"I see."

"You'll be working with me all along... doing reconnaissance and intelligence, but I need one piece of information first. When D'Courtney comes to town he's usually the guest of Maria Beaumont."

"The Gilt Corpse?"

"The same. I want you to find out if D'Courtney intends staying with her this trip. Everything depends on that."

"Easy enough. I can locate D'Courtney's destination and plans for you. There's to be a social gathering tonight at Lincoln Powell's house, D'Courtney's physician will probably be there. He's on Terra for a week's visit. I'll start the reconnaissance through him."

"And you're not afraid of Powell?"

Tate smiled contemptuously. "If I were, Mr. Reich, would I trust myself in this bargain with you? Make no mistake. I'm no Jerry Church."

"Church!"

"Yes. Don't act surprised. Church, the 2nd. He was kicked out of the Guild ten years ago for that little junket of his with you."

"Damn you. Got that from my mind, eh?"

"Your mind and history."

"Well, it won't repeat itself this time. You're tougher and smarter than Church. Need anything special for Powell's party? Women? Clothes? Jewels? Money? Just call on Monarch."

"Nothing, but thank you very much."

"Criminal but generous, that's me." Reich smiled as he arose to go. He did not offer to shake hands.

"Mr. Reich!" Tate called suddenly.

Reich turned at the door.

"The screaming will continue. The Man With No Face is not a symbol of murder."

"What? Oh Christl The nightmares? Still? You God damned peeper. How did you get that? How did you---"

"Don't be a fool. D'you think you can play games with a 1st?"

"Who's playing, you bastard? What about the nightmares?"

"No, Mr. Reich, I won't tell you. I doubt if anyone but a 1st can tell

you, and naturally you would not dare to consult another after this

conference." "For God's sake, man! Are you going to help me?" "No, Mr. Reich." Tate smiled malevolently. "That's my little weapon.

It keeps us on a parity basis. Balance of power, you understand. Mutual dependence ensures mutual faith. Criminal but peeper... that's me."

Like all upper-grade Espers, Lincoln Powell, Ph.D. 1, lived in a private house. It was not a question of conspicuous consumption, but rather a problem of privacy. Although thought transmission was too faint to penetrate masonry, the average plastic apartment unit was too flimsy to block this transmission. Life in any such multiple dwelling was life in an inferno of naked emotion for an Esper.

Powell, the Police Prefect, could afford a small lime-stone maisonette on Hudson Ramp overlooking the North River. There were only four rooms; upstairs a bedroom and study, downstairs a living room and kitchen. There was no servant in the house. Like most upper-grade Espers, Powell required large quantities of solitude. He preferred to do for himself. He was in the kitchen, checking over the refreshment-dials in preparation for the party, whistling a plaintive, crooked tune.

He was a slender man in his late thirties, tall, loose, slow moving. His wide mouth seemed perpetually on the verge of laughter, but at the moment he wore an expression of sad disappointment. He was lecturing himself on the follies and stupidities of his worst vice. The essence of the Esper is his responsiveness. His personality always takes color from his surroundings. The trouble with Powell was an enlarged sense of humor, and his response was invariably exaggerated. He had attacks of what he called "Dishonest Abe" moods. Someone would ask Lincoln Powell an innocent question, and Dishonest Abe would answer. His fervent imagination would cook up the wildest tall-story and he would deliver it with straight-faced sincerity. He could not suppress the liar in him.

Only this afternoon, Police Commissioner Crabbe had inquired about a routine blackmail case, and simply because he'd mispronounced a name, Powell had been inspired to fabricate a dramatic account involving a make-believe crime, a daring midnight raid, and the heroism of an imaginary Lieutenant Kopenick. Now the Commissioner wanted to award Lieutenant Kopenick a medal.

"Dishonest Abe," Powell muttered bitterly. "You give me a stiff pain."

The house-bell chimed. Powell glanced at his watch in surprise (it was too early for company) and then directed Open in C-sharp at the TP lock-sensor. It responded to the thought pattern, as a tuning fork will vibrate to the right note, and the front door slid open.

Instantly came a familiar sensory impact: Snow / mint / tulips / taffeta.

"Mary Noyes. Come to help the bachelor prepare for the party? Blessings!"

"Hoped you'd need me, Linc."

"Every host needs a hostess. Mary, what am I going to do for Canapes... ?"

"Just invented a new recipe. I'll make it for you. Roast chutney&."

"&?"

"Thats telling, my love."

She came into the kitchen, a short girl physically, but tall and swaying in thought; a dark girl exteriorly, but frost white in pattern. Almost a nun in white, despite the swarthy texture of externals; but the mind is the reality. You are what you think.

"I wish I could re-think, darling. Have my psyche reground!"

"Change your (I kiss you as you are) self, Mary?"

"If I only (You never really do, Linc) could. I'm so tired of tasting you tasting mint every time we meet."

"Next time I'll add brandy and ice. Shake well. Voilal Stinger-Mary."

"Do that. Also SNOW."

"Why strike out the snow? I love snow."

"But I love you."

"And I love you, Mary."

"Thanks, Linc." But he said it. He always said it. He never thought it. She turned away quickly. The tears within her scalded him.

"Again, Mary?"

"Not again. Always. Always." And the deeper levels of her mind cried: "I love you, Lincoln. I love you. Image of my father: Symbol of security: Of warmth: Of protecting passion: Do not reject me always... always... forever..."

"Listen to me, Mary..."

"Don't talk. Please, Linc. Not in words. I couldn't bear it if words came between us."

"You're my friend, Mary. Always. For every disappointment. For every elation."

"But not for love."

"No, dear heart. Don't let it hurt you so. Not for love."

"I have enough love, God pity me, for both of us."

"One, God pity us, is not enough for both, Mary."

"You must marry an Esper before you're forty, Linc. The Guild insists on that. You know it."

"I know it."

"Then let friendship answer. Marry me, Lincoln. Give me a year, that's all. One little year to love you. I'll let you go. I won't cling. I won't make you hate me. Darling, it's so little to ask... so little to give..."

The door-bell chimed. Powell looked at Mary helplessly. "Guests," he murmured and directed Open in C-sharp at the TP lock-sensor. At the same time she directed Close a fifth above. The harmonies meshed and the door remained shut.

"Answer me first, Lincoln."

"I can't give you the answer you want, Mary."

The door-bell chimed again.

He took her shoulders firmly, held her close and looked deep into her eyes. "You're a 2nd. Read me as deeply as you can. What's in my mind? What's in my heart? What's my answer?"