Free Psychlone by Greg Bear Page A

his acquaintance, about the unpleasant episode, but it didn't surprise him that Trumbauer knew.
    “How did you manage to stay healthy?” he asked.
    Trumbauer shook his head. “My guide. Her name is Proserpina, you know. She was an oracle in another life."
    “Delphic?"
    “Heavens, no. Much earlier than that. She might have been the Witch of Endor, for all I know—but she never gives out more than hints. She told me to pull in my antennae, as it were. I did, but I could still feel the ... backwash, if you see what I mean. Then I knew the others would be in trouble. Proserpina is really first-rate. I wish others could afford guides half as good."
    The turquoise shop was in a small, well-kept room off an alley, across from a bookstore which specialized in Western Americana. The lighting was fluorescent and the walls were painted a cool, pale blue. It was pleasant, Jacobs thought, but antiseptic and not to the advantage of turquoise. A man was standing behind a glass display case—about thirty years old, blond-haired and balding in the same late-collegiate fashion Jacobs had found so amusing in the Smothers brothers. “May I help you?"
    “We're here to see Miss Unamuno,” Trumbauer said. “Is she—"
    “She's in the back room now. She wasn't feeling too well, just got out of the hospital.” The man was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and looked uncomfortable in them, as if he would prefer double-knit suits of beige or slate-gray. Jewelers are a breed unique, Jacobs told himself, looking around nonchalantly. Most of the stones were fake—dyed in purple automobile coolant and sealed with wax. The authentic stones were pale and common. He couldn't see a really desirable piece in the store.
    “It's important. We're friends,” Trumbauer persisted.
    The man nodded and walked through the rear door. A few moments later a pale young woman with red hair and wary eyes emerged. She was wearing a simple green shift and no makeup, though her skin was ghostly. The room lighting drained her color even more. “Hello, Arnold,” she said tonelessly, looking at Jacobs. “Is this—"
    “Franklin Jacobs,” he said, offering her his hand. She looked at it but didn't bother to reciprocate. “Mr. Trumbauer tells me you've had an unusual experience."
    “Unusual?” She smiled weakly. “Happens quite a lot, actually. But never this bad."
    “I've been told,” Jacobs began, staring significantly at Trumbauer, “that this might have a connection with Lorobu."
    The woman's features tightened and her hand began to shake on the counter. “I'm going to lunch in a few minutes. Tom doesn't like this kind of talk in the store, so if you'll wait for me outside..."
    “Of course. We're buying,” Jacobs said.
    Outside, Trumbauer shook his head and sighed. “From what I've heard—the grapevine, as it were—the poor woman's guide is a true foulup. Rumor has it he was a Roman consul in another life."
    “No plumbers?” Jacobs asked. “Only witches and royalty?"
    Trumbauer smiled tolerantly. “Consuls were politicians, Frank. Plumbers are usually smart enough to get off this mortal coil and leave everyone to their own troubles. Guides are the misfits of the beyond, wouldn't you say?"
    “I wouldn't know,” Jacobs said. “It's always been my fortune to be psychically blind."
    “It is a burden,” Trumbauer admitted. Miss Unamuno walked through the door, having difficulty with the heavy glass until Jacobs helped.
    “Thank you,” she said. “I know a place around here that doesn't serve Mexican food or hamburgers. Sound good?"
    They agreed, and she walked between them under the covered walkway.
    The restaurant was small and dark. Jacobs disliked small, dark eating places—he had learned to examine his food closely in the Navy—but Miss Unamuno seemed happier where her paleness wasn't so obvious.
    After they ordered, she pulled a piece of paper from her purse and spread it out on the white tablecloth. “I wrote these down in the