Final Reckoning: The Fate of Bester by J. Gregory Keyes

youth back. He had tried his old routine, but found it depressed him. His new life needed a new regimen. He had fenced in the academy and been quite good. Fencing other telepaths had been useful for developing strategies of mental blocking, sending false signals, and so forth-but after the academy he had thought of it as a sport, with no practical application. Well, that was his life now-a life without practical application.
    He wrote literary critiques, he bought young women dresses, he fenced. He was in Paris-why not? And fencing normals was satisfying. Years as a Psi Cop had taught him to read body and facial language without scanning, but if he really needed to, he could pick up their strategies without them noticing. He didn’t feel bad about it-men with long arms didn’t feel bad about having more reach, after all. But he was careful. Though he hadn’t met any other telepaths who used the fencing, you never knew when one might come in. Another P12 might just notice him using his abilities, even at a very low level.
    He was done for the day, he decided. He said good-bye to the maitre d’armes, a knotty old man named Hibnes, and hit the showers, where he enjoyed the feel of hot water on his abused muscles. They were tightening up, he noticed with pleasure. He was leaner and felt years younger than when he had arrived on Earth. Paris almost seemed to be aging him backward. Yes, it had been right to come here. Perfect. That became more obvious with each passing day.
    He took a roundabout way back to the hotel. He never followed the same route twice-having a routine an enemy could pick up on was a bad idea, and some habits shouldn’t die. After all, it wasn’t paranoia when people really were out to get you. And there was a whole universe of people out to get Alfred Bester, all of whom would give anything to know where he was at the moment.
    Today his walk took him through the Bois de Boulogne, finally bringing him to the Metro station at Boulogne-Pont de St.-Cloud. He stood waiting for the train as the platform filled up.
    He remembered Louise in the dress, how it clung to her contours. She looked embarrassed, but her surface thoughts told a different story. She knew she looked good in it. That had been last night. He hadn’t seen her this morning, and he wondered idly if she had met someone at the opera and gone home with him. Or maybe Lucien, the cop, had finally talked her into going out with him. He found he didn’t like that thought much. Maybe he should have gone with her. But he didn’t want to be obvious, a pathetic old man chasing a younger woman. Of course, he could just read her mind, find out what she did think of him. But with Louise, that seemed somehow wrong, a violation.
    No, he said to himself. That’s not it.
    You’re just afraid of what you’ll find. That she likes you and pities you, but has no interest in you as a man.
    He felt a sudden anger. That was the ghost of Byron, taunting in his head. What made him even more angry was that it was probably true. A train arrived, but it wasn’t his. He stood there, frowning, some of his good mood dissipated.
    And he caught someone watching him, felt a telepathic touch. He jerked his head around, and a face jumped out of the crowd. An older face, pale, snub-nosed, weak-chinned. He recognized it in an instant-he had always had a good memory for faces.
    A telepath. What was his name? Askern? Ackeron? Ackerman. He had worked at one of the reeducation camps… The fellow looked away. Bester managed a light scan, one he knew would be undetectable to a telepath of Ackerman’s feeble abilities. Bester looked familiar to Ackerman, but the fellow hadn’t placed him. The beard made a big difference. Bester started pushing through the crowd, but the man was boarding the train. By the time Bester got there, the doors had shut.
    Ackerman hadn’t recognized him, he was sure. He hadn’t. He suddenly realized his hands were shaking.
     

     
    “What’s wrong?”