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The Bee's Kiss by Charles Sheffield >>_The moth's kiss, first._ _Kiss me as if you made believe_ _You were not sure, this eve,_ _How my face, your flower, had pursed_ _Its petals up; so, here and there_ _You brush it, till I grow aware_ _Who wants me, and wide ope I burst._<< * * * * "Your guilt is not in question. Nor, given the outrage of your offense against the Mentor, is your punishment. Yet the past few days have provided anomalies for which a curious mind still asks an explanation. Will you tell?" The room where Gilden sat was huge, low-ceilinged, dim-lit and smoky. The face of the Teller seemed to float on the dead air in front of him, pale and thoughtful, and the questioning voice, as always, was gentle and reasonable. Gilden shook his head the fraction of an inch that the metal brace permitted. _The past few days_. He grasped that phrase and kept his mind focused on it. He could have been sitting in this chair for months or years, drifting in and out of consciousness as the drugs ebbed and surged within his body. But here was a data point. Or was the Teller lying, for her own inquisitorial purposes? Perhaps it had been a year, five years, ten years since the arrest. Perhaps his location had been changed a score of times. Perhaps, even, he was no longer on Earth, but transported to one of the Linkworlds within the Mentor's domain. "You are a clever man." The Teller, patient to infinity, had waited a full two minutes |
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