The ward sprang into life like a point of incandescent fire, and drew its intricate cage about "Henry."

There was a sense of wonder and peace, but he knew they were only halfway there. The ward stood because of his power, not because of any real understanding on her part; if she were to keep her sanity she would have to learn to create it herself. He withdrew. The rigidity had passed out of her body, and her breathing had become more regular. Tach returned to the task of freeing her, whistling a lilting dance tune through his teeth.

For the first time since being summoned to the room he was at leisure to look, really look, at his patient. Her mind had already delighted him, and her body set his pulse to hammering. Shoulder-length sable hair cascaded across the pillow onto the woman's breast, a perfect counterpoint to the champagne colored satin of her thin nightgown and the alabaster quality of her skin. Long, sooty lashes fluttered on her cheeks, then lifted, revealing eyes of a profound midnight blue.

She regarded him thoughtfully for a few seconds, then asked, "I know you, or do I? I don't know your face, but… feel you." Her eyes closed again, as if the confusion was too much for her.

Stroking the hair off her forehead, he replied, "I'm Doctor Tachyon, and yes, you do know me. We've shared mind."

"Mind… mind. I touched Henry's mind, but it was awful, awful!" She jerked upright, and sat quivering like some small frightened animal. "He's done such terrible, dishonorable things, I had no idea, and I thought he was-" She bit off the flow of words, and grasped for his arm. "I have to live with him now. Never be free of him. People should be more careful when they choose… it's better, I think, not to know what's behind their eyes." Her eyes closed briefly, and her brow furrowed. Suddenly the lashes were lifted, and her nails bit deep into his bicep. "I liked your mind," she announced.

"Thank you. I believe I can say with some accuracy that I have an extraordinary mind. Far and away the best you're ever likely to meet."

She chuckled, a deep, husky sound strangely at odds with her delicate looks. He laughed with her, pleased to see the color returning to her cheeks.

"Only one I'm likely to meet. Do people find you vain?" she continued in a more conversational tone, and she settled back against the pillows.

"No, not vain. Arrogant, sometimes overbearing, but never vain. You see, my face won't carry it."

"Oh, I don't know" She reached up, and drew her fingers softly down his cheek. "I think it's a nice face." He pulled prudently back although it cost him to do so. She looked hurt, and shrank in upon herself.

"Blythe, I've sent someone to check on your husband." She turned her face away, nuzzling her cheek into the pillow. "I know you feel sullied by what you've learned of him, but we have to make certain he's all right." He rose from the bed, and her hands reached out for him. He caught them, and chafed the slender fingers between his.

"I can't go back to him, I can't!"

"You can make those kind of decisions in the morning," he said soothingly. "Right now I want you to get some sleep."

"You saved my sanity."

"It was my pleasure." He gave her his best bow, and pressed the soft skin of her inner wrist to his lips. It was unconscionable behavior, but he felt pleased by his selfcontrol.

"Please come back tomorrow."

"I'll bring you breakfast in bed, and personally spoon-feed you the disgusting mess that passes for hot cereal in this establishment. You can tell me more about my wonderful mind and nice face."

"Only if you promise to reciprocate."

"You have nothing to fear on that score."

They floated in a silvery white sea held by the lightest of mental touches. It was warm and maternal and sensual all at the same time, and he was dimly aware of his body responding to the first true sharing he had experienced in months. He forced his attention back to the session. The ward hung between them like a peripatetic firefly.

Again. Can't. Hard. Necessary. Now again.

The firefly resumed its erratic course, tracing out the complex lines and whorls of a mentatic ward. There was a bulge of darkness, like a tide of stinking mud, and the ward shattered. Tachyon snapped back to his body just in time to catch Blythe as she pitched face first toward the concrete of the rooftop terrace.

His mind was aching with strain. "You must hold him."

"I can't. He hates me, and wants to destroy me." Sobs punctuated the words.

"We'll try again. "

"No!"

He gripped her, one arm about her shoulders, the other holding her slender hands. "I'll be with you. I won't let him hurt you."

She sucked in a breath, and gave a sharp nod. "Okay, I'm ready."

They began again. This time he stayed in closer link. Suddenly he became aware of a whirlpool of power sucking at his mind, his identity, drawing him ever deeper into her.

There was a feeling of rape, of violation, of loss. He broke contact, and went staggering across the roof. When he returned to a sense of his surroundings he found himself in intimate embrace with a small willow tree drooping sadly out of a concrete planter, and Blythe was sobbing miserably into her hands.

She looked absurdly young and vulnerable in her Dior coat of black wool and fur collar. The severity of the color heightened the pallor of her skin, and the tight high-standing collar made her look like a lost Russian princess. His feeling of violation dwindled in the face of her obvious distress.

"I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to be closer to you."

"Never mind." He dropped a few pecking kisses onto her cheek. "We're both tired. We'll try again tomorrow."

And so they did; working day after day until by the end of the week she had solid control over her unwelcome mental passenger. Henry van Renssaeler had yet to put in a physical appearance at the hospital; instead, a discreet black maid had brought Blythe her clothes. It suited Tachyon just as well. He was pleased that the man had come through his experience unharmed, but close contact with Representative van Renssaeler's mind had brought little enjoyment, and in truth he was jealous of the man. He had a right to Blythe, mind, body, and soul, and Tachyon craved that position. He would have made her his genamiri with all honor and love, and kept her safe and protected, but such dreams were fruitless. She belonged to another man.

One evening he came late to her room to find her in bed reading. In his arms he carried thirty long-stemmed pink roses, and while she laughed and protested he began to cover her with the fragrant blossoms. Once the flower coverlet was complete he stretched out beside her.

"You devil! If you poke me with thorns…"

"I pulled them all off. "

"You're crazy. How long did that take?"

"Hours."

"And didn't you have anything better to do with your time?"

He rolled over, wrapping his arms around her. "I didn't stint my patients, I promise. I did it at weird o'clock this morning." He nuzzled her ear, and when she didn't push him away he switched to her mouth. His lips played over hers, tasting the sweetness and the promise, and excitement coursed through him when her arms tightened about his neck.

"Will you make love with me?" he whispered against her mouth.

"Is that how you ask all the girls?"

"No," he cried, stung by the laughter in her voice. He sat up, and brushed petals from his coat of dull rose.

She stripped petals from several roses. "You have quite a reputation. According to Dr. Bonners you've slept with every nurse on this floor."

"Bonners is an old busybody, and besides, some of them aren't pretty enough."

"Then you admit it." She used the denuded stem as a pointer.

"I admit I like to sleep with girls, but with you it would be different. "