Джейн Кренц: Orchid

His own love life had certainly been nothing to write home about lately and he had a set of phony certification papers to prove he was not a psychic vampire.

"I must be frank, sir." Hobart fiddled with his elegant gold cuff links. "It's not the level of your psychic abilities which is causing the problem. As you say, a class six in most types of talents is well within the normal range."

"Then what, exactly, is the problem?"

"It's the, um, specific nature of your paranormal abilities which is making things a trifle awkward."

Rafe did not move. He gazed without speaking at Hobart until the syn-psych marriage counselor began to shift uneasily in his chair. A worried, vaguely desperate expression appeared in Hobart's eyes. He glanced around as if expecting to see that someone—or perhaps something—else had entered the room.

Rafe knew that a hunted feeling had just come over Hobart. A primal kind of wariness and the beginnings of the sort of fearful awareness that made the hair stir on the nape of the neck.

Rafe sighed and doused the small flash of psychic energy. It was a stupid parlor trick, but it worked every time. He supposed he ought to be ashamed of himself for using it on the hapless Hobart.

He watched Hobart relax and smiled slightly.

"I know that there are not a lot of strat-talents around," Rafe said. "But you assured me that you specialized in matching rare talents, Batt."

"Unfortunately," Hobart said earnestly, "It's proving to be more of a hurdle than I had anticipated. Perhaps my recent successes with unusual talents made me somewhat overconfident. The problem is that most folks have only a vague notion of what a strat-talent is. I'm afraid that the general impression that most people have of talents such as yourself is not a reassuring one."

"Are you saying that my para-profile is scaring off potential wives?"

"To be blunt, yes. I'm afraid that, although you are well within normal power ranges, you are considered something of an exotic, sir. I'm sorry to use the term, but there it is."

Rafe gazed deeply into the fire. "There are worse terms for exotics who happen to be strat-talents."

Hobart pursed his lips. "Yes, I know."

Primitive was one of them, Rafe thought. Another popular epithet was throwback.

He did not need Hobart to spell out the details of his problem. Para-sensitive strategic-awareness talent was believed to be a para-heightened version of ancient human hunting instincts. Strat-talents were perceived to be natural hunters who could, in essence, think like the quarry.

Many people, experts included, privately considered strat-talents to be paranormal throwbacks to the evolutionary past. The psychic energy they possessed was more synergistically linked to the basic senses—sight, smell, hearing, touch—than were other forms of para-talent. At least that was the theory.

Primitive. Rafe had learned to hate that word.

There was a commonly held belief that, due to the unsophisticated nature of their paranormal power, strat-talents faced a limited job market. A lot of people assumed that they generally pursued criminal careers.

The misconception was true as far as it went. But in reality strong strat-talents also tended to do spectacularly well in business. Their unique abilities allowed them to assess markets and the competition the way their primitive, earthbound ancestors had once assessed herds of large woolly beasts. A little nudge here, a small, judicious push there and the first thing you know you've got a whole bunch of large woolly beasts floundering helplessly in a swamp or dashing headlong over a cliff. Easy prey.

Rafe knew that he and his kind had a reputation for being ruthless. He preferred to think of himself as simply single-minded.

Hobart regarded him with a direct, not unsympathetic gaze. "I'm afraid the process of finding a good match for you is going to take a lot longer than I originally estimated, Mr. Stonebraker."

Rafe raised his brows. "Because most of the potential matches assume that I've got criminal inclinations?"

"I have done all of the appropriate background checks on you, sir. I will not hesitate to assure all potential candidates that you display no deviant or antisocial tendencies."

"I appreciate that, Batt."

Hobart appeared oblivious of the sarcasm. "The commonly held conviction that strat-talents frequently turn to crime is only one of the more unfortunate bits of conventional wisdom we must overcome. There is another popular myth which is equally difficult to dispel."

Rafe narrowed his eyes. "Five hells. Are you referring to that old notion about strat-talents being human lie detectors?"

"Well, yes, since you mention it."

"That's bat-snake shit and you know it."

Hobart winced. "Yes, Mr. Stonebraker, I am aware of that. However—"

"It's a complete misunderstanding of the nature of strat-talent. Probably left over from the days before the syn-psych experts had perfected their paranormal testing methods."

"Yes, of course, sir. Nevertheless—"

"Every intelligent, educated person knows that there's no such thing as a human lie-detector." Rafe moved one hand in a gesture of disgust. "If there were, there would be no need for courts and criminal trials."

Hobart coughed slightly. "You'd be surprised to learn what a strong grip some of the old notions have on the average man on the street."

"I'm not looking to marry the average man on the street."

"I understand, Mr. Stonebraker. But the bottom line is that we are dealing with a serious image problem here."

He was beset with image problems these days, Rafe thought. After all these years of living life on his own terms, he suddenly had to worry about how others saw him. It was damned annoying.

"Even if it were true that strat-talents can detect lies," he said patiently, "what is so off-putting about the idea? I assume that you would only match me with a reasonably honest wife."

"Think about it, Mr. Stonebraker." Hobart gave him a very level look. "Would you want to be married to someone whom you believed could detect even a tiny, polite, social lie? Would you want to live with a wife who would know you were not telling the truth when you said she looked like a film star in a bathing suit? The occasional, graceful half-truth is vital to the conduct of a civilized life."

"Okay, okay, I see what you mean. But the fact is, I don't possess any magical ability to know if someone is telling me the truth."

Not exactly.

It was true that the same hunter's intuition that served him well in business and in his hobby of private investigation sometimes gave him warning signals when others tried to mislead him. But that was a far cry from being able to detect lies, he assured himself. It was certainly not the kind of personality flaw that should keep a woman from marrying him.

Hobart peered at him. "More people than you would believe have an aversion to the notion of marriage to a strat-talent. They are afraid there might be some truth in the old shibboleths. But even those outmoded misconceptions, difficult as they are to correct, are not our only serious challenges, Mr. Stonebraker."

Rafe folded bis arms and propped one shoulder against the end of the bookcase. "You mean I've got other defects?"

"Well—"

"Tell me, Batt, have I got anything at all going for me in the marriage market?"

"Yes and no."

"What in five hells is that supposed to mean?"

"One of our most difficult challenges is not the nature of your talent. It is the fact that you are a Stonebraker."

Hell. He had been counting on his family name to overcome some of the complications posed by his talent. "I would have thought that was one of my few pluses."

"It is and it isn't."

"Damn it, Batt—"

"What I mean is, of course your family name speaks for itself. Everyone in the tri-city-states is aware of Stonebraker Shipping. The Stonebraker name commands enormous respect in the highest social circles as well as in the business sphere. Your family has made great contributions to New Seattle."