'So? My father was busy.'
'He would never have been too busy to entertain Boulaye. They shared a common interest. Did you see him?'
'Boulaye? No. I merely gave him access to the library and Armand's papers. He offered to pay and I had need of the money at that time.' She drank some of her wine. 'I wish you'd drink with me, Earl.'
'Later, perhaps.'
'It's harmless, I swear it.' She shrugged as he made no comment. 'All right, so I lied. What of it?'
'I wondered why. Was it just to make yourself seem younger than you are? A harmless vanity? But then came the meeting on Ascelius and your loving care.' His left hand rose to touch his temple. 'The implant you so generously gave me.'
'Something to ease your pain,' she said quickly. 'A convenient form of medication.'
'Which dulled my intellect and made me amiable and robbed the temporal lobe of a true awareness of time. Which is why I removed it. What else did it contain? A receptor for a stunner? Something you could activate to throw me into an artificial sleep? Why? Were you afraid of me?'
Her laughter rose in genuine amusement. 'Afraid of you? Earl, of all men you are the one I trust most. You couldn't hurt me if you tried. As you couldn't hurt the creature I set you against. Those fools, Enrice and the rest, they thought you had no chance but they hadn't seen you fight the mannek. It was stronger, taller, better equipped and more fearsome and you fought it to the point of death. Yet you ran from an overgrown girl. Do you know why?'
'Tell me.'
'A simple thing, Earl, the color of her hair. Black hair like mine, like that of the child you risked your life to save. Whom did she remind you of? A woman you had loved? A child you had lost?' She paused, waiting, shrugging when he made no answer. 'Not that it matters. I had the clue and it was enough. The rest was a matter of routine.'
Of suggestions whispered into his ear while he lay at her mercy in drugged unconsciousness. Hypnotic conditioning used as an elementary precaution could have cost him his life. Not from the female he had faced, the men set on the roof of the building would have prevented that, but there could have been others. Black-haired women with the urge to kill.
'No, Earl!' Her voice held command. 'Don't be a fool!'
He looked at his hand, at the knife he had drawn, the blade reflecting shimmers as it amplified the nervous tension of his muscles.
'You hate me,' she mused. 'But you can't harm me. Classic conditions for developing a mind-ruining conflict. One aggravated by your recent exertions. Another classic example, this time of an exercise in utter futility. What did you hope to gain? What had you to fear? The only dangers you faced were of your own choosing.' Her eyes widened as he stepped toward her, to halt with the knife lifted, the point aimed at her throat. 'Earl!'
'I can't harm you,' he said. 'Remember?'
'The knife-'
'An illustration. The real point of the story I told you. Things are not always what they seem, true, but the moral wasn't that. It was to make the point that it is a mistake to jump to the wrong conclusion. A knife is a tool designed to cut and so you imagine I intend hurting you. But you know I can't do that so-'
She cried out as the blade lifted, caught at her necklace, tore it free to send it flying to the floor where it lay with gleaming, winking eyes. The strands in her hair followed to lie in an ebon tangle.
'No!' She backed, hands lifted to shield her face. 'No, Earl! No!' And then, with sudden fury, 'You bastard! You'll pay for what you've done!'
He saw the fall of her hand, the gleam as she drew metal from her waist, springing forward, knife raised as she aimed the weapon at his face. Metal clashed as he knocked it aside, a thin, high ringing which rose to die in fading murmurs as he tore the gun from her hand to send it after the gems.
'You attacked me,' she said incredulously. 'You could have killed me.' Then, dully, 'Well, Earl, do you like what you see?'
She was still as tall, the curves of her body taut against the fabric of her gown and, with her face hidden in shadow, she seemed much the same. Then as he looked Dumarest noted changes, a blurring which seemed to accelerate, a shifting and alteration as the last shreds of illusion vanished before the impact of harsh reality.
Charisse was grotesque.
Nothing is really ugly in the context of its environment; a spider, a slug, a snail all have the beauty of functional design, but Charisse was a woman and, as a woman, she was monstrous.
'Armand,' she said dully. 'My loving father. My creator. A fool who aspired to be a god. The egotistical bastard! May he rot in hell.' She took the glass of wine Dumarest had poured for her, stared at him for a moment, drank and threw the delicate crystal to shatter in a glitter of shards. 'And you, Earl-did you have to be so cruel?'
He said nothing, handing her more wine. This time after drinking, she did not hurl the glass to ruin.
Bitterly she said, 'You know, I was a very pretty child. A living doll, they used to call me. A sweet creature who won the hearts of all who saw me. A success, Armand thought. The living proof of his genetic skill.' Her hand shook as she looked at the glass. 'A pretty child-who would think it now?'
Those blind who would make their judgment on her voice but none who could see. The thrust of the knife had torn the wig from her scalp leaving a naked skull, the false eyebrows and eyelashes adding to the clownish distortion of her face, pocked with nodulated skin, flesh mounding over bone, puffed, seamed, a parody of what a face should be, rendered even more bizarre by the cosmetics emphasizing the eyes, the mouth, the line of the jaw.
'Do I disgust you, Earl?'
'No,' he said with sincerity. 'Never that.'
'You are kind but I suppose no one who has traveled as you have could be other than tolerant. Others are not so generous.' The empty glass in her hand reflected the light in a host of broken rainbows as she twirled it between her fingers. Clean, well-shaped fingers, the flesh smooth, undistorted as was the hand. 'It's progressive,' she explained as if guessing his thoughts. 'A gene which held an unsuspected weakness. One added to the chromosome pattern to give me a useful talent. It turned into a bomb which exploded into biological nightmare when triggered by the hormones released during puberty. At first it was minor; a slight thickening of the skin coupled with a succession of small nodulations. Treatment seemed to cure the problem but it merely eradicated the symptoms for a while. Armand did what he could but it wasn't enough. Nothing I tried was enough. I was doomed to turn into a repulsive freak.'
'But you found an answer.'
'A protection, yes.' She handed him the empty glass and watched as he refilled it. 'How did you guess?'
'I was curious,' said Dumarest. 'I wondered why such an attractive woman should choose to wear such gems. And I remembered what I've learned from working in carnivals. Always there is the noise and the shine, the glitter and the movement. The beat of drums to dull the hearing, the wink and gleam of tinsel to draw the eye, shifts of light to distract, to break unwanted concentration. An art, Charisse, one you developed to an unusual extent. But you had more than just paint and hypnotic gems. The teleths?'
'You know,' she said. 'Damn you, man, you know too much. Who else would have seen through my subterfuge? Would have guessed at the drugs he'd been given? The conditioning? Guessed and known what to do to free himself of both. That's why you ran and kept on running, wasn't it? Risked your life for no obvious reason, killed, climbed, faced death on the roof.' Lifting her glass she said, 'Earl, I drink to a most unusual man!'
As she lowered the glass he said, quietly, 'The teleths?'
'Armand's madness or a part of it. Yes, Earl, he wanted to give me telepathic ability. Instead all I gained was the power to make others respond to me in a protective manner. They saw me as an object of tender affection- even when I turned into a monster that attribute remained. With the help of art, as you called it, I managed to mask my real appearance.'
Her manner now seemed incredible. Had he really held her naked in his arms? Kissed her? Felt the overwhelming tide of passion, the ecstasy he had known on Podesta? Had it been real or merely the product of hypnotic suggestion as he lay drugged on the couch, arms clutching the air, perhaps, his orgasm collected in a flask as she won sperm to add to her stores.
'Earl?'
