Stop Look and Dig | Page 8

Once they get the guy that pulled the trigger on the witness
stand, in front of a jury consisting of mixed mentals and espers, with no
holds barred, the court record gets a full load of the killer's life,
adventures, habits, and attitude; just before the guilty party heads for
the readjustment chamber.

Things were growing blacker. Waves of darkness clouded my mind and
I found it hard to think straight. My esper sense faded first and as it
faded I let it run once more over Martha's attractiveness and found my
darkening mind wishing that she were the girl I'd believed her to be
instead of the female louse she was. It could have been fun.
But now I was about to black out from stun-gun paralysis, and Martha
was headed for the readjustment chamber where they'd reduce her
mental activity to the level of a menial, sterilize her, and put her to
work in an occupation that no man or woman with a spark of

intelligence, ambition, or good sense would take.
She would live and die a half-robot, alone and ignored, her
attractiveness lost because of her own lack-luster mind.
And I'd been willing to go out and plug Scarmann for her.
Hah!
And then she was at my side. I perceived her dimly, inconstantly,
through the waves of blackness and unreality that were like the
half-dreams that we have when lying a-doze. She levered my frozen
body over on its hard back and went to work on my chest. Her arms
went around me and she squeezed. Air whooshed into my dead lungs,
and then she was beating my breastbone black and blue with her small
fists. Beat. Beat-beat. Beat. I couldn't feel a thing but I could dig the
fact that she was hurting her hands as she beat on my chest in a rhythm
that matched the beat of her own heart.
I dug her own heartbeat for her, and she read my mind and matched the
beat perfectly.
Then I felt a thump inside of me and dug my own heart. It throbbed
once, sluggishly. It struggled, slowly. Then it throbbed to the beat of
her hands and the blackening waves went away. My frozen body
relaxed and I came down to rest on the floor like a melting lump of
sugar.
Martha dropped on top of my body and pressed me down. Her arms
were around my chest as she forced air into my lungs. She beat my ribs
sore when my heart faltered, and squeezed me when my breathing
slowed. I felt the life coming back into me; it came in like the tide, with
a fringe of needles-and-pins that flowed inward from fingers and toes
and scalp.
Martha pressed me down on the carpet and kissed me, full, open
mouthed, passionate. It stirred my blood and my mind and I took a
deep, shuddering breath.

I looked up into her soft blue eyes and said, "Thanks--slut!"
She kissed me again, pressing me down and writhing against me and
obviously getting a kick out of my reaction.
Then I came alive and threw her off with no warning. I sat up, and
swung a roundhouse right that clipped her on the jaw and sent her
rolling over and over. Her eyes glazed for a moment but she came out
of it and looked pained and miserable.
"You promised," she said huskily.
"Promised?"
"To kill Scarmann."
"Yeah?"
"You thought how you'd kill Scarmann for me, Steve."
"Someday," I said flatly, "I may kill Scarmann, but it won't be for you!"
She tried to claw me but I clipped her again and this time I made it
stick. She went out cold and she was still out like a frozen herring by
the time Lieutenant Williamson arrived with his jetcopter squad to take
her away.
The last time I saw Martha Franklin, she was still trying to convince
twelve Rhine Scholars and True that any woman with a body as
beautiful as hers couldn't possibly have committed any crime. She was
good at it, but not that good.
Funny. Mental sensitives always think they're so damn superior to
anyone else.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STOP LOOK
AND DIG***

CREDIT
S
November 29, 2006
Project Gutenberg Edition Greg Weeks Joshua Hutchinson Online
Distributed Proofreading Team

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