The print blurred as tears filled his eyes. Slowly the moisture gathered until one tear spilled over and ran swiftly down the bridge of his long, narrow nose. It hung ludicrously on the tip, but he made no move to brush it away. He was frozen, held in an awful stasis that had nothing to do with pain. That would come later; all he felt now was a great emptiness.
I should have known, should have sensed, he thought. He laid the paper on his knee, and gently stroked the article with one slender forefinger the way a man would caress the cheek of his lover. He noticed in a rather abstract way that there was more, facts about China, about Archibald, about the Four Aces, and the virus.
And all of it wrong! he thought savagely, and his hand tightened spasmodically on the page.
He quickly straightened the paper, and resumed his stroking. He wondered if her passing had been easy. If they had removed her from that grimy cubicle, and taken her to the hospital…
The room stank of sweat and fear, and feces, and the sickly sweet odor of putrefaction, and over all floated the pungent scent of antiseptic. Much of the sweat and the fear was being generated by three young residents who huddled like lost sheep in the center of the ward. Against the south wall a screen shielded a bed from the rest of the patients, but it could not block the inhuman grunting sounds that emerged from behind this flimsy barrier.
Nearby, a middle-aged woman bent over her breviary reading the vespers service. A mother-of-pearl rosary hung from her thin fingers, and periodically drops of blood spattered on the pages. Each time it happened, her lips moved in quick prayer, and she would wipe away the gore. If her constant bIeeding had been limited to a true stigmata she might have been canonized, but she bled from every available orifice. Blood ran from her ears, matting her hair and staining the shoulders of her gown, from mouth, nose, eyes, rectum, everywhere. A worn-out doctor had dubbed her Sister Mary Hemorrhage in the lounge one night, and the resultant hilarity could only be excused on grounds of mind-numbing exhaustion. Every health-care professional in the Manhattan area had been on almost constant call since Wild Card Day, September 15, 1946, and five months of unremitting work was taking its toll.
Next was a once-handsome black man who floated in a saline bath. Two days ago he had started to shed again, and now only remnants of skin remained. His muscles gleamed raw and infected, and Tachyon had ordered he be treated like a burn victim. He had survived one such molting. It was questionable if he would survive another.
Tachyon was leading a grim procession of physicians toward the screen.
"Are you going to join us, gentlemen?" he called in his soft, deep voice, overlaid with a lilting, musical accent that was rather reminiscent of central Europe or Scandinavia. The residents shuffled reluctantly forward.
An impassive nurse pulled back the screen, revealing an emaciated old man. His eyes gazed desperately up at the doctors, and horrible muffled sounds emerged from his lips.
"An interesting case, this," said Mandel, lifting the file. "For some bizarre reason the virus is causing every cavity in this man's body to grow closed. Within a few days his lungs will be unable to pull air, nor will there be room for the proper functioning of his heart…"
"So why not end it?" Tachyon took the man's hand, noting the assenting squeeze that answered his words.
"What are you suggesting?" Mandel lowered his voice to an urgent hiss.
Tachyon enunciated each word clearly. "Nothing can be done. Would it not be kinder to spare him this lingering death?"
"I don't know what passes for medicine on your world-or maybe I do, judging from this Hell-born virus you createdbut on this world we do not murder our patients."
Tach felt the hinges of his jaw tighten in anger. "You'll put a dog or cat down mercifully, but you deny your people the only drug known to truly alleviate pain, and you force people into agonizing death. Oh… be damned to you!"
He threw back his white coat, revealing a gorgeous outfit of dull gold brocade, and seated himself on the edge of the bed. The man reached desperately up, and Tachyon gripped his hands. It was an easy matter to enter his mind.
Die, let me die, came the thought tinged with the flavor of pain and fear, and yet there was a calm certainty in the man's request.
I cannot. They will not permit it, but I can give you dreams. He moved swiftly, blocking the pain and the reasoning centers of the man's mind. In his own mind he visualized it as a literal wall built of glowing silver-white blocks of power. He gave a boost to the man's pleasure centers, allowing him to drift away in dreams of his own concocting. What he had built was temporary, it would last only a few days, but that would be long enough-before then this joker would have died.
He rose, and looked down at the man's peaceful face. "What did you do?" demanded Mandel.
He raked the other doctor with an imperious glance. "Just a bit more Hell-born Takisian magic."
With a lordly nod to the residents, he left the ward. Out in the hall, beds lined the walls, and an orderly was picking his way carefully down the passage. Shirley Dashette beckoned to him from the nurses' station. They had spent several pleasant evenings together exploring the differences and similarities between Takisian and human lovemaking, but tonight he could manage no more than a smile, and the lack of a physical response alarmed him. Maybe it was time to take a rest. "Yes?"
"Dr. Bonners would like to consult with you. The patient's in shock, and occasionally lapses into hysterics, but there's nothing physically wrong with her, and he thought-"
"That she might be one of mine." Oh God, don't let her be another joker, he groaned inwardly. I don't think I can face another monstrosity. "Where is she?"
"Room 223."
He could feel exhaustion shivering along his muscles and licking at the nerves. And close on the heels of the exhaustion came despair and self-pity. With a muttered curse he drove his fist into the top of the desk, and Shirley drew back.
"Tach? Are you all right?" Her hand was cool against his cheek.
"Yes. Of course." He forced his shoulders back and a spring into his step, and headed off down the hall. Bonners was huddled with another doctor when Tachyon pushed open the door. Bonners frowned, but seemed more than willing to allow him to take charge when the woman in the bed let out a piercing scream and arched against the restraints. Tach leaped to her side, laid a gentle hand on her forehead, and joined with her mind.
OH GOD! The election, would Riley come through? God knows he'd paid enough for it. He'd buy a victory, but he was damned if he'd buy a landslide… Mama, I'm frightened… The bite of a winter morning, and the hiss of a skate blade cutting across the ice… A hand, gripping hers… wrong hand. Where was Henry? To leave her now… how many more hours… he should be here… Another contraction coming. NO. She couldn't hear it. Mama… Henry… PAIN!
He reeled back, and came up panting against the dresser.
"Good Lord, Doctor Tachyon, are you all right?" Bonners's hand was on his arm.
"No… yes… by the Ideal." He pulled himself carefully upright. His body still ached in sympathetic memory of the woman's first anguished labor. But where in the hell had that second personality come from, that cold, hard-edged man?
Shaking off Bonners's hand, he returned to the woman and seated himself on the edge of the bed. More cautious this time, he ran swiftly through some calming and strengthening exercises, and struck out with his full psi powers. Her fragile mental defenses fell before the onslaught, and before she could sweep him up in her mental maelstrom he gripped her mind.
Like a blossom, delicate velvet trembling in a breeze with just a hint…
He forced himself out of the almost-sensual enjoyment of the mental sharing, and back to the task at hand. Now fully in command, he quickly sifted through her head. What he found added a new wrinkle to the saga of the wild card.