Free Wild Cards V by George R. R. Martin Page B

number of occasions—and hoping he might fit the occasion to the feelings, he raised his hand as she drew near and touched her arm.
    A tiny spark crackled, she halted, said, “Yike!” and reached to rub the place where the shock had occurred.
    â€œSorry—” Croyd began.
    â€œMust be static electricity,” she said.
    â€œMust be,” he agreed. “All I wanted to say was that you do know me, even though you wouldn’t recognize me in this incarnation. I’m Croyd Crenson. We’ve met in passing, here and there, and I always wanted just to sit and talk a spell, but somehow our paths never crossed long enough at the right time.”
    â€œThat’s an interesting line,” she said, running a finger across her damp brow, “naming the one ace nobody’s certain about. I bet a lot of groupies get picked up that way.”
    â€œTrue,” Croyd replied, smiling, as he opened his arms wide. “But I can prove it if you’ll wait about half a minute.”
    â€œWhy? What are you doing?”
    â€œFilling the air with neg-ions for you,” he said, “for that delightfully stimulating before-the-storm feeling. Just a hint at the great time I could show—”
    â€œCut it out!” She began backing away. “It sometimes triggers—”
    Croyd’s hands were wet, his face was wet, his hair collapsed and leaked onto his forehead.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said.
    â€œWhat the hell,” he said, “let’s make it a thunderstorm,” and lightning danced among his fingertips. He began laughing.
    Other diners glanced in their direction.
    â€œStop,” she said. “Please.”
    â€œSit down for a minute and I will.”
    â€œOkay.”
    She took the seat opposite him. He dried his face and hands on his napkin.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “My fault. I should be careful with storm effects around someone they call Water Lily.”
    She smiled.
    â€œYour glasses are all wet,” she said, suddenly reaching forward and plucking them from his face. “I’ll clean—”
    â€œTwo hundred sixteen views of moist loveliness,” he stated as she stared. “The virus has, as usual, overendowed me in several respects.”
    â€œYou really see that many of me?”
    He nodded. “These joker aspects sometimes crop up in my changes. Hope I haven’t turned you off.”
    â€œThey’re rather—magnificent,” she said.
    â€œYou’re very kind. Now give back the glasses.”
    â€œA moment.”
    She wiped the lenses on the corner of the tablecloth, then passed them to him.
    â€œThanks.” He donned them again. “Buy you a drink? Dinner? A water spaniel?”
    â€œI’m on duty,” she said. “Thanks. Sorry. Maybe another time.”
    â€œWell, I’m working now myself. But if you’re serious, I’ll give you a couple of phone numbers and an address. I may not be at any of them. But I get messages.”
    â€œGive them to me,” she said, and he scribbled quickly in a notepad, tore out the page, and passed it to her. “What kind of work?” she asked.
    â€œSubtle investigation,” he said. “It involves a gang war.”
    â€œReally? I’ve heard people say you’re kind of honest, as well as kind of crazy.”
    â€œThey’re half-right,” he said. “So give me a call or stop by. I’ll rent scuba gear and show you a good time.”
    She smiled and began to rise. “Maybe I will.”
    He withdrew an envelope from his pocket, opened it, pushed aside a wad of bills, and removed a slip of paper with some writing on it.
    â€œUh, before you go—does the name James Spector mean anything to you?”
    She froze and grew pale. Croyd found himself wet once again.
    â€œWhat did I say?” he asked.
    â€œYou’re not kidding? You really don’t know?”
    â€œNope.