"Thank you, Mr. Quinn, but I don't think we need instruction in jurisprudence," broke in Representative Wood. "You may continue, Mr. Rankin."

"I thank you, sir. We'll leave that for the moment. Now, when did you become one of the so-called Four Aces?"

"I think it was in March."

"Of '47?"

"Yes. Archibald had shown me how I could use my power to preserve priceless knowledge, and had contacted several of the scientists. They agreed, and I-"

"Began to suck out their minds."

"It isn't like that."

"Don't you find it sort of disgustin', almost vampirelike, the way you eat a man's knowledge and abilities? It's a cheat, too. You weren't born with a great mind, nor did you study and work to gain your position. You just steal others'."

"They were willing. I would never do it without permission. "

"And had Congressman van Renssaeler given you his permission?"

Tachyon could hear the tears thickening her voice. "That was different. I didn't understand… I couldn't control." She dropped her face into her gloved hands.

"So let's move on. We're up to the time when you abandoned your husband and children." He added in a more conversational tone, obviously for the benefit of the other committee members, "I also find it incredible that a woman would leave her natural role, and strut herself in this fashion. Well, that's neither here nor there-"

"I didn't abandon them," Blythe interrupted.

He brushed aside her remark. "Semantics. Now, when was that?"

Blythe slumped hopelessly back in her chair. "August the twenty-third, 1947."

"And where have you been living since August twentythird, 1947?" She sat silently. "Come, come, Mrs. van Renssaeler. You have consented to answer questions before this committee. You can't withdraw that consent now."

"At one seventeen Central Park West."

"And whose apartment is that?"

"Dr. Tachyon's," she whispered. There was a stir at this from the press corps, for they had kept a very low profile. Only the other three Aces and Archibald had known of their living arrangement.

"So, after violating your husband and stealing his mind you then walk out, and live in sin with an inhuman from another planet who created the virus that gave you this power."

"There's somethin' fairly convenient in all this." He leaned forward over the desk, and bellowed down at her. "Now you listen, madam, and you better answer because you stand in a great deal of danger. Did you take this Tachyon's mind and memories?"

"Y-yes."

"And have you worked with him?"

"Yes." Her replies were scarcely audible.

"And do you acknowledge that Archibald Holmes formed the Four Aces as a subversive element designed to undermine loyal allies of the United States?"

Blythe had swung around in the chair, her hands gripping the top rung with a desperate intensity, her eyes darting vaguely about the crowded room. Her face seemed to be writhing, trying to rearrange itself into different visages, and there was an almost psychic white noise coming off her mind. It drilled into Tachyon's head, and his shields snapped into place.

"Are you listening, Mrs. van Renssaeler? Because you better be. I'm beginnin' to think you and your bloodsucking power are a danger to this country. Maybe it's better you do go to jail before you take your ill-gotten knowledge and sell it to the enemies of this country."

Blythe was shaking so hard that it seemed unlikely she could remain upright in the chair, and tears were streaming down her face. Tach came to his feet, and began pushing through the mob that separated them. "No, no, please… don't. Leave me alone." She wrapped her arms protectively about her body, and rocked back and forth.

"Then give me those names!"

"All right… all right." Rankin sank back from the microphone, his pen tapping out a satisfied little rhythm on the pad before him. "There's Croyd…"

For Tachyon, time seemed to distend, stretch, almost stand still. Several rows of people still separated him from Blythe, and in that eon-long moment he made his decision.

His mind lanced out, pinning her like a butterfly. Her voice choked off, and she emitted a funny little acking noise. For him it was akin to holding a snowflake, or some particularly delicate form of glass sculpture. Under his grip he felt the entire structure of her mind fragment, and Blythe went spinning away and down into some dark and fearsome cavern of the soul. Freed, the other seven ran rampant. Giggling, lecturing, posturing, ranting, they seemed to race along her central nervous system, setting her body to twitching like a maddened puppet. Words exploded from her: formulae, lectures in German, ongoing arguments between Teller and Oppenheimer, campaign speeches, and Takisian all jumbled in a swirling broth.

The instant he felt her mind give way he released her, but it was too late. Chairs and people were shoved ruthlessly aside as he fought his way to her side and gathered her in his arms.

The chamber was in complete disorder with Wood hammering away with his gavel, reporters shouting and jostling, and over all Blythe's manic monologue. He seized her, reached out again with the coercive power of his mind, and carried her down into oblivion. She slumped in his arms, and an eerie silence fell over the chamber.

"I take it the committee has no further questions of this witness?" The words came grating out, and his hatred beat from him like a tangible force. The nine men shifted uncomfortably, then Nixon murmured in a voice that was scarcely audible,

"No, no more questions."

Hours later he sat at the apartment rocking her in his lap, and crooning as he would have to one of his tiny cousins back home on Takis. His brain felt battered by his struggle to recall her to sanity; none of his efforts had shown the smallest success. He felt young and helpless; he wanted to drum his heels on the rug, and howl like a four-year-old. Images of his father rose up to taunt him; big, solid, and powerful, he had both the training and the natural talent to deal with such mental illness. But he was hundreds of light-years away, and had no idea where his errant son and heir had gotten to. There was a preemptory knock on the door. Shifting his limp, unresisting burden into his left arm, he staggered to the door, and took a step back as his burning eyes focused on the two policemen and the bundled figure behind them. Henry van Renssaeler lifted his bruised face and stared at Tachyon. "… ave here a commitment order for my wife. Kindly hand her over."

"No… no, you don't understand. Only I can help her. I don't have the construct yet, but I'll get it. It'll just take a little work. "

The burly officers stepped forward, and gently but inexorably pried her from his encircling arms. He stumbled after them as they headed down the stairs, Blythe lolling in one of the policeman's arms. Van Renssaeler had made no move to touch her.

"Only a little time." He was crying. "Please, just give me a little time."

He slumped down, clinging to the bottom banister post as the outer door fell shut behind them.

He had seen her only once after her commitment. The appeal of his deportation order was grinding through the courts, and seeing the end coming, he had driven to the private sanatorium in upstate New York.

They wouldn't let him in the room. He could have overriden that decision with mind control, but ever since that hideous day he had been unable to use his power. So he had peered through a small window in the heavy door, looking at a woman he no longer knew. Her hair hung in matted witchlocks about her twisted face as she prowled the tiny room lecturing to an unseen audience. Her voice was low and rasping; obviously her vocal cords were being damaged by her constant attempts to maintain a male tone.

Unable to stop himself, he had reached out telepathically, but the chaos of her mind sent him reeling back. Worse had been the infinitesimal flicker of Blythe crying for help from some deep and hidden source. So intense was his guilt that he spent several minutes in the bathroom vomiting, as if that could somehow cleanse his soul.