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 &."
"&?"
"That's 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. Voila! 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?"
He removed all blocks. The thundering plunging depths of his mind cascaded over her in a warm, frightening torrent... terrifying, yet magnetic and desirable; but... "Snow. Mint. Tulips. Taffeta," she said wearily. "Go meet your guests, Mr. Powell. I'll make your canapes. It's all I'm good for."
He kissed her once, then turned toward the living room and opened the front door. Instantly, a fountain of brilliance sparkled into the house, followed by the guests. The Esper party began.
"@kins! Chervil! Tate! Have a heart! Will you people take a look at the pattern (?) we've been weaving..."
The TP chatter stopped. The guests considered for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"This reminds me of my days in the kindergarten. A little mercy for your host, please. I'll jump my tracks, if we keep on weaving this mish-mash. Lets have some order. I don't even ask for beauty."
"Just name the pattern, Linc."
"What'll you have?"
"Basket-weave? Math curves? Music? Architectural design?"
"Anything. Anything. Just so long as you don't make my brains itch."
Sorry, Lincoln. We weren't party-minded Enough
Tate thought Esper
but Alan Men
I'm Seaver remaining
Not that a Pres was ever elected still unmarried
at coming can
liberty but ruin
To be generous, I feel Al's a man to lead the
reveal don't Guild's
anything TP entire
about him eugenic
D'Courtney if arriving according to plan
yet
There was another burst of laughter when Mary Noyes was left hanging with that unreticulated "yet." The door-bell chimed again, and a Solar Equity Advocate 2 entered with his girl. She was a demure little thing, surprisingly attractive outwardly, and new to the company. Her TP pattern was naive and not deeply responsive. Obviously a 3rd.
"Greetings. Greetings. Abject apologies for the delay. Orange blossoms & wedding rings are the excuse. I proposed on the way over."
"And I'm afraid I accepted," the girl said, smiling.
"Don't talk," the lawyer shot at her. "This isn't a 3rd Class brawl, I told you not to use words."
"I forgot," she blurted again, and then heated the room with her fright and shame. Powell stepped forward and took the girl's trembling hand.
"Ignore him, he's a 2nd-come-lately snob. I'm Lincoln Powell, your host. I Sherlock for the cops. If your fiancè beats you, I'll help him regret it. Come and meet your fellow freaks..." He conducted her around the room. "This is Gus Tate, a quack-one. Next to him, Sam & Sally @kins. Sam's another of the same. She's a baby-sitter-two. They're just in from Venus. Here on a visit..."
"H-How — I mean, how do you do?"
"That fat man sitting on the floor is Wally Chervil, architect-two. The blonde sitting in his (lap)² is June, his wife. June's an editor-two. That's their son, Galen, talking to Ellery West. Gally's a tech-undergrad-three..."
Young Galen Chervil indignantly started to point out that he'd just been classed 2nd and hadn't needed to use words in over a year. Powell cut him off and below the girl's perceptive threshold explained the reason for the deliberate mistake.
"Oh," said Galen. "Yep, brother and sister 3rds, that's us. And am I glad you're here. These deep peepers were beginning to scare me."
"Oh, I don't know. I was scared at first, but I'm not any more."
"And this is your hostess, Mary Noyes."
"Hello, Canapes?"
"Thank you. They look delicious, Mrs. Powell."
"Now how about a game?" Powell interposed quickly. "Rebus, anyone?"
Outside, huddled in the shadow of the limestone arch, Jerry Church pressed against the garden door of Powel's house, listening with all his soul. He was cold, silent, immobile, and starved. He was resentful, hating, contemptuous, and starved. He was an Esper 2 and starved. The bend sinister of ostracism was the source of his hunger.
Through the thin maple panel filtered the multiple TP pattern of the party; a weaving, ever-changing, exhilarating design. And Church, Esper 2, living on a sub-marginal diet of words for the past ten years, was starved for his own people — for the Esper world he had lost.
"The reason I mentioned D'Courtney is that I've just come across a case that might be similar."
That was Augustus Tate, sucking up to @kins.
"Oh really? Very interesting. I'd like to compar
e notes. Matter of fact, I made the trip to Terra because D'Courtney is coming here. Too bad D'Courtney won't — well, be available." @kins was obviously being discreet and it smelled as though Tate was after something. Maybe not, Church speculated, but there was some elegant block and counter-blocking going on, like duellists fencing with complicated electrical circuits.
"Look here, peeper, I think you've been pretty snotty to that poor girl."
"Listen to him shoot off his mind," Church muttered. "Powell, that holy louse who had me kicked out, preaching down his big nose at the lawyer."
"Poor girl? You mean dumb girl, Powell. My God! How gauche can you get?"
"She's only a 3rd. Be fair."
"She gives me a pain."
"Do you think it's decent... marrying a girl when you feel that way about her?"
"Don't be a romantic ass, Powell. We've got to marry peepers. I might as well settle for a pretty face."
The Rebus game was going on in the living room. The Noyes girl was busy building a camouflaged image with an old poem:
What the devil was that? An eye in a glass? Eh? Oh. Not a glass. A stein. Eye in a stein. Einstein. Easy.
"What d'you think of Powell for the job, Ellery?" That was Chervil with his phoney smile and his big fat pontifical belly.
"For Guild President?"
"Yes."
"Damned efficient man. Romantic but efficient. The perfect candidate if only he'd get married."
"That's the romance in him. He's having trouble locating a girl."
"Don't all you deep peepers? Thank God I'm not a 1st."
And then a smash of glass crashing in the kitchen and Preacher Powell again, lecturing that little snot, Gus Tate.
"Never mind the glass, Gus. I had to drop it to cover for you. You're radiating anxiety like a nova."
"The devil I am, Powell."
"The devil you're not. What's all this about Ben Reich?"
The little man was really on guard. You could feel his mental shell hardening.
"Ben Reich? What brought him up?"
"You did, Gus. It's been moiling in your mind all evening. I couldn't help reading it."
"Not me, Powell. You must be tuning another TP."
Image of a horse laughing.
"Powell, I swear I'm not—"
"Are you mixed up with Reich, Gus?"
"No." But you could feel the blocks bang down into place.
"Take a hint from an old hand, Gus. Reich can get you into trouble. Be careful. Remember Jerry Church? Reich ruined him. Don't let it happen to you."
Tate drifted back to the living room; Powell remained in the kitchen, calm and slow-moving, sweeping up broken glass. Church lay frozen against the back door, suppressing the seething hatred in his heart. The Chervil boy was showing off for the lawyer's girl, singing a love ballad and paralleling it with a visual parody. College stuff. The wives were arguing violently in sine curves, @kins and West were interlacing cross-conversation in a fascinatingly intricate pattern of sensory images that made Church's starvation keener.
"Would you like a drink, Jerry?"
The garden door opened. Powell stood silhouetted in the light, a bubbling glass in his hand. The stars lit his face softly. The deep hooded eyes were compassionate and understanding. Dazed, Church climbed to his feet and timidly took the proffered drink.
"Don't report this to the Guild, Jerry. I'll catch hell for breaking the taboo. I'm always breaking rules. Poor Jerry... We've got to do something for you. Ten years is too long."
Suddenly Church hurled the drink in Powell's face, then turned and fled.
3
AT NINE MONDAY MORNING, Tate's mannequin face appeared on the screen of Reich's v-phone.
"Is this line secure?" he asked sharply.
In answer Reich simply pointed to the Warranty Seal.
"All right," Tate said. "I think I've done the job for you, I peeped @kins last night. But before I report, I must warn you. There's a chance of error when you deep peep a 1st. @kins blocked pretty carefully."
"I understand."
"Craye D'Courtney arrives from Mars on the 'Astra' next Wednesday morning. He will go at once to Maria Beaumont's town house where he will be a secret and hidden guest for exactly one night... No more."
"One night," Reich muttered. "And then? His plans?"
"I don't know. Apparently D'Courtney is planning some form of drastic action—"
"Against me!" Reich growled.
"Perhaps. According to @kins, D'Courtney is under some kind of violent strain and his adaptation pattern is shattering. The Life Instinct and Death Instinct have defused. He is regressing under the emotional bankruptcy very rapidly..."
"God damn it! My life depends on this," Reich raged. "Talk straight."
"It's quite simple. Every man is a balance of two opposed drives... The Life Instinct and the Death Instinct. Both drives have the identical purpose... to win Nirvana. The Life Instinct fights for Nirvana by smashing all opposition. The Death Instinct attempts to win Nirvana by destroying itself. Usually both instincts fuse in the adapted individual. Under strain they defuse. That's what's happening to D'Courtney."
"Yes, by God! And he's jetting for me!"
"@kins will see D'Courtney Thursday morning in an effort to dissuade him from whatever he contemplates. @kins is afraid of it and determined to stop it. He made a flying trip from Venus to cut D'Courtney off."
"He won't have to stop it. I'll stop it myself. He won't have to protect me. I'll protect myself. It's self-defense, Tate... not murder! Self-defense! You've done a good job. This is all I need."
"You need much more, Reich. Among other things, time. This is Monday. You'll have to be ready by Wednesday."
"I'll be ready," Reich growled. "You'd better be ready too."
"We can't afford to fail, Reich. If we do — it's Demolition. You realized that?"
"Demolition for both of us. I realize that." Reich's voice began to crack. "Yes, Tate, you're in this with me, and I'm in it straight to the finish... all the way to Demolition."
He planned all through Monday, audaciously, bravely, with confidence. He pencilled the outlines as an artist fills a sheet with delicate tracery before the bold inking-in; but he did no final inking. That was to be left for the killer-instinct on Wednesday. He put the plan away and slept Monday night... and awoke screaming, dreaming again of The Man With No Face.
Tuesday afternoon, Reich left Monarch Tower early and dropped in at the Century Audio-bookstore on Sheridan Place. It specialized mostly in piezoelectric crystal recordings... tiny jewels mounted in elegant settings. The latest vogue was brooch-operas for M'lady. ("She Shall Have Music Wherever She Goes.") Century also had shelves of obsolete printed books.
"I want something special for a friend I've neglected," Reich told the salesman.
He was bombarded with merchandise.
"Not special enough," he complained. "Why don't you people hire a peeper and save your clients this trouble? How quaint and old-fashioned can you get?" He began sauntering around the shop, tailed by a retinue of anxious clerks.
After he had dissembled sufficiently, and before the worried manager could send out for a peeper salesman, Reich stopped before the bookshelves.
"What's this?" he inquired in surprise.
"Antique books, Mr. Reich." The sales staff began explaining the theory and practice of the archaic visual book while Reich slowly searched for the tattered brown volume that was his goal. He remembered it well. He had glanced through it five years ago and made a note in his little black opportunity book. Old Geoffry Reich wasn't the only Reich who believed in preparedness.
"Interesting. Yes. Fascinating. What's this one?" Reich pulled down the brown volume." 'Let's Play Party.' What's the date on it? Not Really. You mean to say they had parties that long ago?"
The staff assured him that the ancients were very modern in many astonishing ways.
"Look at the contents," Reich chuckled. " 'Honeymoon Bridge'... 'Prussian Whi
st'... 'Post Office'... 'Sardine.' What in the world could that be? Page ninety-six. Let's have a look."
Reich flipped pages until he came to a bold-face heading: HILARIOUS MIXED PARTY GAMES. "Look at this," he laughed, pretending surprise. He pointed to the well-remembered paragraph.
SARDINE
One player is selected to be It. All the lights are extinguished and the It hides anywhere in the house. After a few minutes, the players go to find the It, hunting separately. The first one who finds him does not reveal the fact but hides with him wherever he may be. Successively each player finding the Sardines joins them until all are hidden in one place and the last player, who is the loser, is left to wander alone in the dark.
"I'll take it," Reich said. "It's exactly what I need."
That evening he spent three hours carefully defacing the remains of the volume. With heat, acid, stain, and scissors, he mutilated the game instructions; and every burn, every cut, every slash was a blow at D'Courtney's writhing body. When his proxy murders were finished, he had reduced every game to incomplete fragments. Only "Sardine" was left intact.
Reich wrapped the book, addressed it to Graham, the appraiser, and dropped it into the airslot. It went off with a puff and a bang and returned an hour later with Graham's official sealed appraisal. Reich's mutilations had not been detected.
He had the book gift-wrapped with the appraisal enclosed (as was the custom) and slotted it to Maria Beaumont's house. Twenty minutes later came the reply: "Darling! Darling! Darling! I thot you'd forgotten (evidently Maria had written the note herself) little ol sexy me. How 2 divine. Come to Beaumont House tonite. We're having a party. We'll play games from your sweet gift." There was a portrait of Maria centered in the star of a synthetic ruby enclosed in the message capsule. A nude portrait, naturally.
Reich answered: "Devastated. Not tonight. One of my millions is missing."
She answered: "Wednesday, you clever boy. I'll give you one of mine."
He replied: "Delighted to accept. Will bring guest. I kiss all of yours." And went to bed.
And screamed at The Man With No Face.