“Dishonest Abe,” Powell muttered bitterly. “You give me a stiff pain.”

The house-bell chimed. Powell glanced at his watch in surprise (it was too early for company) and then directed Open in C-sharp at the TP lock-sensor. It responded to the thought pattern, as a tuning fork will vibrate to the right note, and the front door slid open.

Instantly came a familiar sensory impact: Snow / mint / tulips / taffeta.

“Mary Noyes. Come to help the bachelor prepare for the party? Blessings!”

“Hoped you’d need me, Linc.”

“Every host needs a hostess. Mary, what am I going to do for Canapes…?”

“Just invented a new recipe. I’ll make it for you. Roast chutney &.”

“&?”

“That’s telling, my love.”

She came into the kitchen, a short girl physically, but tall and swaying in thought; a dark girl exteriorly, but frost white in pattern. Almost a nun in white, despite the swarthy texture of externals; but the mind is the reality. You are what you think.

“I wish I could re-think, darling. Have my psyche reground!”

“Change your (I kiss you as you are) self, Mary?”

“If I only (You never really do, Linc) could. I’m so tired of tasting you tasting mint every time we meet.”

“Next time I’ll add brandy and ice. Shake well. Voila! Stinger-Mary.”

“Do that. Also SNOW.”

“Why strike out the snow? I love snow.”

“But I love you.”

“And I love you, Mary.”

“Thanks, Linc.” But he said it. He always said it. He never thought it. She turned away quickly. The tears within her scalded him.

“Again, Mary?”

“Not again. Always. Always.” And the deeper levels of her mind cried: “I love you, Lincoln. I love you. Image of my father: Symbol of security: Of warmth: Of protecting passion: Do not reject me always… always… forever…”

“Listen to me, Mary…”

“Don’t talk. Please, Linc. Not in words. I couldn’t bear it if words came between us.”

“You’re my friend, Mary. Always. For every disappointment. For every elation.”

“But not for love.”

“No, dear heart. Don’t let it hurt you so. Not for love.”

“I have enough love, God pity me, for both of us.”

“One, God pity us, is not enough for both, Mary.”

“You must marry an Esper before you’re forty, Linc. The Guild insists on that. You know it.”

“I know it.”

“Then let friendship answer. Marry me, Lincoln. Give me a year, that’s all. One little year to love you. I’ll let you go. I won’t cling. I won’t make you hate me. Darling, it’s so little to ask… so little to give…”

The door-bell chimed. Powell looked at Mary helplessly. “Guests,” he murmured and directed Open in C-sharp at the TP lock-sensor. At the same time she directed Close a fifth above. The harmonies meshed and the door remained shut.

“Answer me first, Lincoln.”

“I can’t give you the answer you want, Mary.”

The door-bell chimed again.

He took her shoulders firmly, held her close and looked deep into her eyes. “You’re a 2^nd. Read me as deeply as you can. What’s in my mind? What’s in my heart? What’s my answer?”