She lay back, a hand over her eyes. "Oh, spare me, Lord, I've heard these words before."

"Where?" he asked, suddenly curious, for he sensed she wasn't talking about Henry.

"On the Riviera, when I was much younger and a good deal more foolish."

He cuddled in close. "Oh, tell me."

A rose slapped him on the nose. "No, you tell me about seduction on Takis."

"I prefer to do my flirting while dancing."

"Why dancing?"

"Because it's vastly romantic."

The covers were flung aside, and she began shrugging into an amber peignoir. "Show me," she commanded, opening her arms.

He slipped his arm around her waist, and took her right hand in his left. "I'll teach you Temptation. It's a very pretty waltz."

"Does it live up to its name?"

"Let's try it, and you tell me."

He alternated between humming in his light baritone and calling out instructions as they walked through the intricacies of the dance.

"My! Are all your dances so complicated?"

"Yes, it shows off what clever, graceful fellows we are."

"Let's do it again, and this time just hum. I think I've got the basic steps, and you can just shove me when I get off." "I will guide you as befits a man with his lady."

He was turning her under one arm, gazing down into her laughing blue eyes, when an outraged "hrrmph" broke the moment. Blythe gasped, and seemed to realize what a scandalous picture she presented; her feet bare, unbound hair rippling across her shoulders, her filmy lace peignoir revealing far too much of her decolletage. She scurried back to bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

"Archibald," she squeaked.

"Mr. Holmes," said Tachyon, recovering himself and holding out his hand.

The Virginian ignored it, and stared at the alien from beneath knotted brows. The man had been assigned by President Truman to coordinate the relief efforts in Manhattan, and they had shared podium space during several frantic press conferences in the weeks immediately following the catastrophe. He looked a lot less friendly now.

He stepped to the bed and dropped a fatherly kiss on the top of Blythe's head. "I've been out of town, and returned to find you've been ill. Nothing serious, I hope?"

"No." She laughed. It was a little too high and a little too tight. "I've become an ace. Isn't that remarkable?"

"An ace! What are your abilities-" He broke off abruptly, and stared at Tachyon. "If you'll excuse us, I'd like to speak with my goddaughter alone."

"Of course. Blythe, I'll see you in the morning."

When he returned, seven hours later, she was gone. Checked out, the desk said; an old friend of the family, Archibald Holmes, had picked her up about an hour before. For a moment he considered stopping by her penthouse, but decided it could only lead to trouble. She was Henry van Renssaeler's wife, and nothing could change that. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, and returned to his pursuit of a young nurse up in the maternity ward.

He tried to put Blythe from his mind, but at the oddest moments he would find himself recalling the brush of her fingers across his cheek, the deep blue of her eyes, the scent of her perfume, and most of all, her mind. That memory of beauty and gentleness haunted him, for here among the psiblind he felt very isolated. One simply didn't join in telepathic communication with everyone one met, and hers had been his first real contact since his arrival on earth. He sighed and wished he could see her again.

He had rented an apartment in a converted brownstone near Central Park. It was a sultry Sunday afternoon in August 1947, and he was wandering around the single room in a silk shirt and boxer shorts. Every window stood open in the hope of catching a breeze, his teakettle was whistling shrilly on the stove, and Verdi's La Traviata blared from the phonograph. The extreme decibel level was dictated by his neighbor one floor down who was addicted to Bing Crosby albums, and who had been listening over and over again to "Moonlight Becomes You." Tachyon wished Jerry had met his current girlfriend in sunlight on Coney Island; his musical selections seemed dictated by the times and places where he met his inamoratas.

The alien had just picked up a gardenia and was debating how best to place it in the glass flower bowl when there was a knock.

"Okay, Jerry," he bellowed, lunging to the door. "I'll turn it down, but only if you agree to bury Bing. Why don't we have a truce and try something nonvocal? Glenn Miller or somebody. Just don't make me listen to that harelip anymore."

He yanked open the door, and felt his jaw drop. "I think it would be a good idea if you did turn it down," said Blythe van Renssaeler.

He stared at her for several seconds, then reached down and gave the tail of his shirt a discreet tug. She smiled, and he noticed that she had dimples. How had he missed that before? He had thought her face was indelibly printed on his mind. She waved a hand in front of his face.

"Hello, remember me?" She tried to keep her tone light, but there was a fearful intensity about her.

"Of… of course. Come in."

She didn't move. "I've got a suitcase."

"So I see."

"I've been thrown out."

"You can still come in… suitcase and all."

"I don't want you to feel… well, trapped."

He tucked the gardenia behind her ear, removed the case from her hand, and pulled her in. The flounces of her pale, peach-colored silk dress brushed against his legs, pulling the hair upright at the electric contact. Women's fashion was a pet hobby with Tachyon, and he noticed that the dress was a Dior original, the ankle-length skirt held out by a number of chiffon petticoats. He realized he could probably span her waist with his hands. The bodice was supported by two thin straps, leaving most of her back bare. He liked the way her shoulder blades moved beneath the white skin. There was an answering movement from within his jockey shorts.

Embarrassed, he darted for the closet. "Let me put on some pants. Water's ready for tea, and turn down that record."

"Do you take milk or lemon in your tea?"

"Neither. I take it over ice. I'm about to die." He padded across the room, tucking in the shirt.

"It's a lovely day."

"It's a lovely hot day. My planet is a good deal cooler than yours. "

Her eyes flickered away, and she plucked at a wisp of hair. "I know you're an alien, but it seems strange to talk about it."

"Then we won't." He busied himself with the tea while studying her surreptitiously from the corner of one eye. "You seem very composed for a woman who's just been thrown out," he finally remarked.

"I had my hoo in the back of a taxi." She smiled sadly. "Poor man, he thought he had a real nut on his hands. Especially since-" She cut off abruptly, using the acceptance of the cup as a way to avoid his searching gaze.

"Not complaining, mind you, but why did you… r.."

"Come to you?" She drifted across the room and turned down the phonograph. "This is a very sad part." He forced his attention back to the music and realized it was the farewell scene between Violetta and Alfredo. "Uh… yes, it is."

She spun to face him and her eyes were haunted. "I came to you because Earl is too absorbed with his causes and marches and strikes and actions, and David, poor boy, would have been terrified at the thought of acquiring a hysterical older woman. Archibald would have urged me to patch things up and stay with Henry-fortunately, he wasn't home when I went by, but Jack was and he wanted me… well, far too badly."

He shook his head like a stallion bedeviled by gnats. "Blythe, who are these people?"

"How can you be so ill-informed," she teased, and struck a dramatic pose-so dramatic that it made a mockery of the words. "We are the Four Aces." Suddenly she began to shake, sending tea sloshing over the rim of the cup.