Pawn’s Gambit by Timothy Zahn Page B

time to take you to Hemlock, introduce you around, and see if we can get you a job or something with one of the families there.”
    The nimble fingers faltered for a moment. “I see,” she said at last. “Are you sure I’m not contagious anymore? I wouldn’t want to get anyone sick.”
    â€œNo, I’m certain you’re completely recovered. I’m not even sure you had a deadly bug, anyway.”
    â€œOkay. But I wonder if it might be better if I stick around for another week or two, until the garden’s going a little better and you don’t have to spend so much time on it.”
    I frowned. This was going all wrong—she was supposed to be jumping at the chance to get back to humanity again, not making excuses to stay here. “Thanks for the offer, but I can manage. You’ve been a lot of help, though, and I wish I could repay you more ­than . . .” I let the sentence trail off. Heather’s face and body had gone rigid, and she was no longer sewing. “What’s the matter? Would you rather go somewhere else instead of Hemlock? I’ll help you get to anywhere you want.”
    Heather shook her head and sighed. “No, its not that. I just … don’t want to leave you.”
    I stared at her, feeling sandbagged. “Why?”
    â€œI like being here. I like working with you. You don’t—you don’t care that I’m blind. You accept me as a person.”
    There was a whole truckload of irony in there somewhere but I couldn’t be bothered with it at the moment. “Listen, Heather, don’t get the idea I’m all noble or anything, because I’m not. If you knew more about me you’d realize that.”
    â€œPerhaps.” Her tone said she didn’t believe it.
    There was no way out of it. Up till now I’d been pretty successful at keeping my appearance a secret from her, but I couldn’t hide the truth any longer. I would have to tell her about my face. “If you weren’t blind, Heather, you wouldn’t have wanted to stay here ten minutes. I’m … my face is pretty badly disfigured.”
    She nodded casual acceptance of the information. Maybe she didn’t believe it, either. “How did it happen?”
    â€œI was a captain in the army during the Iranian segment of the Last War; you know, the Soviet drive toward the oil fields. They were using lots of elaborate nerve gases on us, and one of them found its way into the left side of my gas mask.” I kept my voice even; I was just reciting facts. “None of it got into the nosepiece or respirator, so it didn’t kill me, but it left one side of my face paralyzed. I won’t trouble you with any details, but the net effect is pretty hideous.”
    â€œI thought something must have happened to you in the war,” she murmured. “You never speak of your life during that time. … Is that why you were here when the missiles came?”
    â€œYes. I was in a hospital in Atlanta, undergoing tests to see if my condition could be reversed. They hadn’t made any progress when I saw the handwriting on the wall and decided it was time to pull out. A friend of mine had told me about his cabin in the Appalachians, so I loaded some supplies in a Jeep and came here. I beat the missiles by about three hours.”
    â€œOh, so this place wasn’t originally yours. And I’d been thinking all along how terribly clever and foresighted you’d been to have built a cabin out here in case the world blew itself up.”
    â€œSorry. Major Frank Matheson was the one with all the foresight. He was also one of the best friends I ever had.” That sounded too much like an epitaph for my taste; I was still hoping he’d show up here someday. But he and his wife had been in Washington when the missiles started falling. … I shook my head to clear it. “Anyway, we’re getting off the subject.