“How so?”
“You carry the persona of Claude Villefranche,” she said. “I’m carrying the persona of Tandy Cushing.”
Martin St. John’s lips flickered, but he said nothing. Risa went on, “I know it isn’t proper to talk persona-to-persona. But Tandy’s very eager to get some information from Claude. If we could meet, and transmit through ourselves the contact between them, it would make Tandy and me very happy.”
“I don’t know if we should do that.”
“Please,” Risa said meltingly. “I’ve chased all over Europe to find you. Don’t refuse me now. Give me just half an hour of your time—”
“Very well.”
“This evening?”
“If you insist.”
“It’s very kind of you.” He gave her the address of a coffee shop in the Finchley Road. Risa caught a hopter and was there within the hour. The place was a dark, oblong room, decorated in an arty fake twentiethcentury style, with lots of plastic flowers and other foolishness. He sat alone at a table just within the door.
His appearance was unexpected. There was no trace of the flabbiness of feature and expression that characterized the photograph. This man was brusque, taut, and dynamic, His eyes, though a washed-but light blue in tone, were fixed and gleaming, and burned with a feverish intensity. His lips were tense, with the muscles poised in a way that minimized their natural fullness. There was little excess flesh on his face, and apparently none on his body, but about his chin and eyelids there were indications that he had recently lost perhaps forty pounds, for the skin had not yet completely adopted its new outline. When he rose to greet her, his motions were swift and aggressive.
He took her hand in the continental manner. His smile was the briefest of flickers, on and off.
He said in a harsh voice, “Claude Villefranche sends greetings to Tandy Cushing.”
Risa was taken aback by the unconventionality of that welcome. “It’s good to have located you finally. Mr. St. John. I won’t trouble you for long.”
“What will you drink?”
“Would you care to recommend something?”
“There’s a filtered rum punch here. It’s excellent I’ll order two.” Risa said, “I’d love it.” He turned to place the order. But there were no servitors in sight. Then one appeared, moving behind their table without appearing to notice him. St. John called out, and still was ignored. He rose from his seat, turning, and his motion was clumsy for a moment, but then he seemed to change gears inwardly; he uncoiled and nearly sprang at the servitor, his hand pouncing down at the robot’s nearest limb to spin it about.
“Will you give me some service?” he demanded. It was an amazing performance, a show of temper, agility, and impatience that was as impressive as it was unexpected. Tandy had remained silent thus far in Risa’s meeting with Martin St. John, but now she reacted. Waves of sheer terror rose from the persona and washed through Risa’s mind.
“What’s wrong?” Risa whispered. — Can’t you see? There’s nothing left of Martin St. John!
Claude’s ejected him! Claude’s gone dybbuk!
It was only a guess, a quick flash of intuition. Yet Risa was convinced. Tandy seemed clearly to recognize the characteristic inflections and responses of Claude Villefranche, not veiled and distorted as they would be if Claude were only a persona reaching them indirectly through the mind of Martin St. John, but overt and definite, immediate, direct.
Still, caution was advised. Risa could hardly sound an alarm and call in the quaestors this early to arrest and mindpick the alleged Martin St. John.
Over filtered rum punches she said, “Tandy’s memory line ends in June of last year. She died in August. What she wishes to know is how she came about her discorporation.”
“Her skis failed as she was crossing a ravine. It happened rapidly and without warning.”
“Claude was with her?”
“They started down the slope together. They were in the air together over the ravine. Then — suddenly — she was no longer with him. It was a terrible experience.”
“It must have been,” said Risa. “I can see that you’re moved by it, and you weren’t even there.”
“My persona was there, though,” St. John pointed out. Risa nodded. It seemed odd to her that the memories of Tandy’s death should lie so near the surface of St. John’s mind. He did not give the appearance of reaching into a persona’s crowded memory bank for the details, but rather of reading them right off his own backlog of experience.
She said, “What happened after the accident?”
“Claude saw that she had fallen. He turned upslope to find her. But she was gone from sight. It took a great deal of work to uncover her body. Claude was demoralized. He went off to Australia to forget what had happened. And there, as you perhaps know, he met discorporation last December.”
“Can you tell me anything about Tandy’s last few weeks with Claude?” St. John shrugged. His eyes never wavered from Risa’s, making her feel acutely uncomfortable. “They met in Zurich at the end of July After ii week there, they went on to St. Moritz, for the summer skiing. They were both in high spirits. Occasionally they quarreled a bit, nothing serious, lovers’ tiffs.”
“They were in love?”
“Oh, yes. The second week in August Claude asked her to marry him.”
—That’s a lie, came Tandy’s furious denial. Claude would never have married anyone!
“Did she accept him?” Risa asked. “She hesitated. She told him she would have to wait until later in the year to make up her mind. But of course there never was any later in the year for her.”
“I wonder if they would have been happy together.”
“I’m sure of it,” said St. John. His nostrils widened with some inner tension. “Investigate her earlier memories of him. You’ll see how powerfully she was drawn to him.”
That was true in its way, Risa knew. Certainly Tandy’s feelings toward Claude had been far more powerful than what she felt for the detached, cool Stig Hollenbeck. But she had feared Claude as well as loving him.
“What about you?” Risa said. “Did you know Claude at all when he was alive?”
“We never met. It simply seemed to me his persona would be of interest to me. I needed someone more vigorous than myself, someone with athletic interests. It is always best to choose one’s complement, of course.”
“He seems to have had quite an effect on you.”
“What do you mean?” Risa hesitated. “Well — that is, when I began to trace you, I received a photo of you. With — I don’t mean offense — a very different appearance. You looked softer, more plump.”
“Do you have this photo? May I see it?” She produced it. He studied it intently, his forehead furrowing, his lips curling in a feral scowl. At length he said, “It was taken about a year ago. I’ve lost a good deal of weight. I’ve been taking more exercise. Claude’s helped me shed all that jelly.” St. John glanced up and smiled for the first time. “I feel I’m the better man for having him aboard. Another rum punch?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Must you be going?”
“I have-family to visit,” Risa said lamely. “They can wait. Let me show you London. We’ll do the town tonight. After all, as you said, we have a great deal in common. Even though we’re strangers, a bond of love unites us vicariously. We owe it to Claude and Tandy to come together.”
Wavering, Risa felt herself captured. For all his ominous coldness and enigmatic intensity, this man had an undeniable appeal. She was always willing to have an adventure. And with Tandy’s lover lurking behind those pale blue eyes—
St. John excused himself to pay the bill. — Now’s your chance. Get out of here, said Tandy. “Why?” — He’s dangerous. You don’t want to fool with a dybbuk. Find a quaestor and have him mindpicked!