Oh, it was easy for Gerenko and the thousands like him, who only ever read reports. Zek read minds, and that was a different matter entirely. A mind is not a book; books only describe emotions, they rarely make you feel them. But to a telepath the emotion is real, raw and powerful as the story itself. She hadn’t simply read Alec Kyle’s stolen diary, she’d read his life. And in doing so she had helped to steal it.
An enemy, yes, she supposed he’d been that, in that he held allegiance to another country, a different code. But a threat? Oh, in higher echelons of his government there were doubtless personalities who would wish to see Russia devolve, become subservient. But Kyle wasn’t a militarist, he’d been no subversive strategist worrying at the foundations of Communist identity and society. No, he’d been humanitarian, with an overwhelming belief that all men were brothers — or should be. And his only desire had been to maintain a balance. In his work for the British E-Branch he’d been used, much as Zek herself was now being used, when both of them could have been working towards greater things.
And where was Alec Kyle now? Nowhere. His body was here, but his mind — a very fine mind — was gone forever.
Eyes filming, Zek looked up, looked scathingly at the machinery backed up against the sterile walls. Vampires? The world was full of them. What of these machines, which had sucked out his knowledge and sluiced it all away forever? But a machine can’t feel guilt, which is an entirely human emotion .
She came to a decision: if it were at all possible, she’d find a way to break free of E-Branch. There had been cases before where telepaths lost their talent, so why shouldn’t she? If she could fake it, convince Gerenko that she was no longer of any use to this sinister organisation, then —Zek’s train of thought stopped right there. Under her
fingertips where they lay on Kyle’s wrist, his pulse had suddenly grown steady and strong; his chest was now rising and falling rhythmically; his mind. . . his mind?
No, the mind of another! An astonishing wave of psychic power washed outwards from him. It wasn’t telepathy — wasn’t anything Zek had felt before — but whatever it was, it was strong! She snatched back her hand and sprang to her feet, found her legs wobbly as jelly, and stood gulping, staring at the man lying on the operating table that should have been his deathbed. His thoughts, at first jumbled, finally fell into a rhythm of their own.
It isn’t my body, Harry told himself, without knowing that someone else was listening, but it’s a good one and it’s going free! There’s nothing left for you, Alec, but there’s still a chance for me — a good chance for Harry Keogh. God, Alec, wherever you are now, forgive me!
His identity was in Zek’s mind and she knew she’d made no mistake. Her legs began to buckle under her. Then the figure — whoever, however it was — on the table opened its eyes and sat up, and that finished the job. For a moment she passed out, two or three ticks of the clock, but sufficient time in which to slump to the floor. Time enough, too, for him to swing his legs off the table and go down on one knee beside her. He rubbed her wrists briskly and she felt it, felt his warm hands on her suddenly cold flesh. His warm, alive, strong hands.
‘I’m Harry Keogh,’ he said, as her eyes fluttered open.
Zek had learned a little English from British tourists on Zakinthos. ‘I . . . I know,’ she said. ‘And I . . . I’m crazy!’
He looked at her, at her grey Château uniform with its single diagonal yellow stripe across the heart, looked all around at the room and its instruments, finally looked —with a great deal of wonder — at his own naked self. Yes, at his self, now. And to her he said, accusingly, ‘Did you have something to do with this?’
Zek stood up, looked away from him. She was still shaky, not quite certain of her sanity. It was as if he read her mind, but in fact he merely guessed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re not crazy. I am who you think I am. And I asked you a question: did you destroy Alec Kyle’s mind?’