God of Tarot

by Piers Anthony

  But he hesitated, the car still parked. "I have no money worth taking, only a keyed credit you can't use. This car requires my thumbprint every half hour, or the motor locks and the automatic takes over, so you can't—"

  She faced him, and he was surprised to see tears on her cheeks. Her fair hair was bedraggled, yet she was lovely in her wild way. "You are in no danger from me, sir! I have no weapon. I have nothing. No food, no identification. I don't know how I can repay you, but please, please drive, or all is lost. I would rather die than go back there!"

  Still ill-at-ease, he moved the car forward, gaining speed until he was able to merge into the traffic flow. "Where are you going?" he inquired.

  "To the Barlowville Station," she said.

  He started punching the coding into his computer terminal, seeking a clarification of the address. "Oh, no!" she protested. "Please, sir, don't ask the machine! They'll key it in to me, and in minutes the police—"

  The demon in the machine. Paul's fingers froze. "You're on the criminal index?" he asked, alarmed. He had just about decided she was harmless, but he didn't like this. The last thing he needed was a police check on this car!

  "I'm being deprogrammed," she explained hastily. "I belong to the Holy Order of Vision, and my folks sued—"

  "They still deprogram religious nuts?" he asked thoughtlessly. "I thought that went out a decade ago, along with other forms of exorcism."

  "It still happens," she said. "The established sects are all right—they finished their initiations years ago—but the new ones are still being persecuted."

  The rite of passage, he thought. Any new religion had to pass through sufficient hazing to justify its existence, and when it became strong enough to fight back, as early Christianity had, it became legitimate and started hazing the religion that came next.

  He shrugged. "I don't know much about it." Not in his business, he didn't—and he didn't care to. Religion held little interest for him, apart from morbid curiosity about the credulity of people. Still, this was a very pretty girl, who seemed somehow familiar. That flowing hair, those full breasts, the way she spoke— He was intrigued. "But if you really want to go back to this cult—"

  "Oh, I do!" she exclaimed. "Somehow I'll return."

  Paul made a decision. "I'll take you there, if it's not too far out of the way. But if you won't let me get the highway address from the travel computer—"

  "I can tell you the way," she said eagerly. Then she faced him and smiled, the expression making her glow. "My name is Sister Beth."

  "I'm Paul Cenji." What the hell had he expected her name to be? This seemed to be a memory, but it unfolded at its own pace; he could not remember what had happened that day in his past, so had to live it through again.

  He drove on for a while, then asked, "How did you get caught away from your church?"

  "My Station. We don't have churches as such, just centers of operation. My mother called me and told me my grandmother was dying, so I came at once. I never renounced my family ties; the Holy Order of Vision isn't like that. I wish my family belonged, too! But when I got there—"

  "They grabbed you and hauled you off to the deprogramming clinic," Paul finished for her.

  "Yes. I suppose I should have suspected something, but I never thought my own mother would..." She shrugged sadly. "But I'm sure she thought she was doing the right thing. I forgive her. They tried to talk me out of going back, and when that didn't work, they said they were going to use mnem—"

  "Mnem!" he exclaimed.

  "It's a drug," she said, not appreciating the actual nature of his reaction. "They use it for rehabilitating incorrigible criminals. It's not supposed to be used for—" She broke off.

  Paul's suspicions had been aroused again. Could it be coincidence, this reference to the drug he was hauling? Or was this a police trap? "I heard it was illegal," he said.

  "Yes, for anything but the rehabilitation of criminals and some forms of mental illness. But there is a black market in mnem. It costs a lot that way, but my folks raised the credit."

  Paul didn't like this at all. A seductively innocent girl in scant attire, planted on the highway to attract footloose rakes like him who might be supporting their lifestyles by dealing in contraband. A lot of fools were caught that way, he was sure. Now she was naming the subject, maybe probing for guilty reactions. It was all too easy to give away secrets while dazzled by offerings of this caliber. Already it seemed as if he had known her longer, in another place, by some other name—the perpetual mystery of the female. Maybe he only wanted to have known her. Her charm was already corrupting him; he had to get rid of this easy rider without arousing suspicion—if it was not already too late. "Which way is your—Station?"

  "It's in the next state. You can go another hundred kilometers on this highway before turning off." Right. She had to be able to testify that he had actually crossed a state line. One of the niceties of the law. The police would be executing people on suspicion if they had the law all their own way. But America was not yet a total police state.

  So he had until they reached the state line to act. He had to keep up the front until he knew what to do. "Glad to have company for that hundred K," he said. The irony was that that would have been true, had she not brought up the subject of mnem. What a face, what a body, what a beguiling simplicity she showed! He was accustomed to a rather different sort of woman, and was now discovering that he had misjudged his own tastes.

  "I really appreciate this, Mr. Cenji. When I learned of the mnem, I waited till night, then climbed out of my window in my nightdress, and here I am. They never thought I'd do that. If you hadn't stopped— there's probably an alarm out for me now."

  Paul turned on the highway audio scan. If there was an announcement—but that would be part of the police bait; it would mean nothing. His best course would be to keep her talking while he figured out what to do with her. "I thought deprogramming itself was illegal now."

  "It is, but they don't call it that. There are black-market professionals in that field too. I've been accused of stealing valuable jewelry. I would never steal! By the time it turns out that the charge is untrue, they will have me wiped out by the drug, and I won't even remember that I was ever a Sister—oh, I would die first!" She put her face in her hands.

  What a touching display! She was good at her act, uncomfortably good; he wanted to put the car on automatic, take her in his arms, console her. Danger! She was surely planning to betray him, to add his scalp to the collection in her police locker.

  Yet how could she do this, when he himself had no idea where the cache of mnem was hidden in the car? He was not even certain that there was a cache, this time; every so often the cartel made a blank run, to further confuse the enemy. If that happened to be the case this time, he had only to keep his nerve and he would win. He had no intention of telling her about his cargo, and if the police had known about it for sure, they would simply have arrested him outright. So this elaborate lure made no sense. Unless she was a trained observer, alert to the signs of mnem addiction. Such signs were trifling, but they did exist, and he was an addict. If he didn't get his fix tonight, he would begin to forget his way home tomorrow. So he had to be rid of her before then, bluffing it out. Stopping before the state line would not get him off this hook.

  "Actually, I've heard the drug is not so bad—for criminals," he said. "It doesn't hurt. At least, I've heard it doesn't."

  "Oh, it is very good for criminals," she said. "We of the Holy Order of Vision are concerned about the problem of criminality. We don't believe in taking life; it is as wrong for the state to kill as it is for the individual to kill. And we know our society cannot afford to maintain people in prison, yet some are incorrigible. Mnem is the answer to that. It resolves the conflict between the alternatives of killing the criminal and letting him go unpunished. We believe in forgiveness, but in certain cases correction is better. It makes the criminal a citizen again. Some of our Order members are mnem-erased rehabili
tates—"

  "It erases personality? I thought it improved memory!" How much did she know?

  "In overdose it does. In trace dosages it actually enhances memory to an extraordinary degree, but then a person has to keep using it, never too much at a time. I could never stand to have all my memory taken away, or to be tied for life to such a drug. The Order could help me if I were an addict, but this single overdose would take me away from the Order, because I wouldn't know. I couldn't face that, so I fled."

  "Yes. Understandable." She did know too much, for any ordinary young female citizen. She had to be a police-trained agent, with a near-perfect cover. Soon she would have him spotted.

  Actually, part of what she said related to him very directly. He had never seriously thought about his future. He was bound for life to the drug, and to the criminal distribution system, and he could escape that prison only at the expense of his memory. Was that what he really wanted in life? It didn't matter; it was what he had. She, according to her story, had fled in time; for him it was too late. All he could do now was protect what he had—from her.

  Yet he delayed in taking action, nagged by doubt, She was such a damned attractive girl, seeming so nice, representing the kind of life he would have chosen, had he been smart early. Like a fine racing car, styled right, with an engine to conjure with, capable of pushing a quarter mach 1 in heat, yet docile and comfortable when on idle. How could he kick her out without being sure. (And was she thinking: how could she arrest him as a mnem addict, without being sure?)

  "Your cult—I mean, your religious order—what; does it do? Is it like a commune or something?" (Where the women were shared among the men, and no person denied anything to any other? But surely he was dreaming!)

  "The Holy Order of Vision is not really a religion," she said, and it was evident that now she was on familiar ground. But of course she would have her story straight. "Anyone can join, from any religion, and the Order does not interfere. We try to promote the welfare of man and nature wherever we can. Many people come to us troubled in spirit, and for some the Tarot helps."

  "The Tarot?" he asked. "I've used that deck."

  "Oh?" Her interest seemed genuine. "For what purpose?"

  "For business, of course. I deal cards for a licensed gambling franchise. Those twenty-two trumps add luster to the game; people like the pictures, and of course there are special prizes."

  "For gambling," she murmured sadly. "That is all you see in the Tarot?"

  "Oh, no. After I'd worked with the cards for a while, I found they were fun for general entertainment, too. There are many games. Sometimes when I'm driving from one stand to another, like now, I put the car on auto and play solitaire." That established his own cover, for what it was worth. Not much, if they ran an employment check.

  "We use them for meditation," she said. "The contemplation of a single Arcanum, or a group of Arcana, can bring special insights, well worth the effort. I never really understood my purpose in life until I meditated with the guidance of the Tarot. We also study the deck as a whole, analyzing the distinctions between individual cards, and between the concepts of different experts. Whole separate philosophies are revealed, leading to insights on the nature of human thought."

  Paul smiled. "Interesting how one deck can have four different uses," he observed. "Meditation and study for you, business and entertainment for me. A purpose for every person."

  "True," she agreed with a small, fetching smile of resignation. "I wish I had my Tarot with me. But the deprogrammers took it away, calling it a crutch."

  Paul did have his deck with him, but decided not to mention that. There was yet another use of the Tarot, he remembered: character reading or divination, and that could be unnervingly accurate. He did not believe in the supernatural (except as it might relate to the limited area of inexplicable runs of luck, good or bad), but he was not about to risk any analysis of his character through the Tarot. Besides that, his prints and sweat were all over that deck; a policewoman could take a sample or sliver from one card and give the laboratory enough to identify him readily. It had been a mistake to give her his name, but he could change that. It was a mistake to keep talking to her; she might be recording his voice through some hidden device. (A bracelet? No, she wore no jewelry. But women had so many secret places...) Regardless, he was getting to like her too well. She might be a religious nut, but there was an odd appeal to her philosophy. That could mean either that this Order of Vision really was a sensible organization, or that this policewoman had done her homework extremely well.

  Enough. He had to act—now.

  Paul put the car on auto and removed his hands from the wheel. He turned to her, smiling somewhat crookedly. "I guess you know why I picked you up," he said, forcing a leer. A woman with a body like hers had to have encountered this expression many times before, and had to recognize it instantly.

  Sister Beth's eyes widened. She did not pretend to misunderstand. "Oh, Mr. Cenji, I—I hoped it wouldn't be that way. You seemed so nice."

  Paul felt like a complete heel. But he had to do it, or she would finish him. He had to play the part of the callous male who had nothing on his mind but sex. This was not really far from the mark; any man near to this girl would react similarly, differing only in the manner he expressed it. He was being purposely crude, and hating it, for if by some freak she was what she claimed to be, a gentle, circuitous approach just might land her. "I am nice. Give me a try."

  She shrank back as far as the crashproof seat permitted. Her bosom heaved within the seat's embrace. "I don't have the strength to resist you, but at the Order we prefer chastity before marriage."

  Marriage? Hell! He took hold of her arm, drawing her in for a kiss as the seats leveled out in response to his pressure, forming into a bed. Her lips trembled as his own lips touched them. "Please," she whispered. "Will you let me go? Nothing you could gain for yourself could match what you would take from me. Put me back on the highway; maybe I can get another ride before the police net closes."

  That was exactly what he had wanted: her voluntary departure. It would mean he had fooled her, that she was satisfied he had no serious commitments— such as to mnem. Thus her time would be better spent baiting some other sucker, while that police net hung loose, waiting for her signal.

  But now the touch of her aroused him. Disheveled and frightened as she seemed, she remained a compelling figure of a young woman. He could force her; he was sure of that. She might be a policewoman, but he was trained in physical combat himself. A wrist-twist would keep her hand from her weapon, wherever it was, and make her submit without physical struggle. Yes, he could do it...

  And she would know him for a mnemdict. It always showed, somehow, in the passion of lovemaking. All addicts and dealers were agreed on that, and he had been spotted himself once that way. The woman in that case had had no intention of turning him in, but she had adamantly refused to enlighten him on what had given him away. "Women have secrets," she had murmured smugly. Men had them too, but he had never been able to spot another mnemdict. Probably with further experience—but he was drifting from the subject, as he did chronically. If "Sister Beth" were a police fishhook, sex would mean nothing to her; she would be right up on her a-preg, a-veedee, a-allergy shots. She probably intended to seduce him, by her most artful protests, and read the telltale traces then.

  "I can drop you off right now," he said. He put his left hand on her smooth leg where the nightie was hiked up. This was very like the leg he had seen— where? When? But the translucent material made it more exciting than full exposure would have been. The leg was classic, like the rest of her. Suddenly the sexual compulsion was almost overpowering. Maybe it would be worth betrayal...

  "Please do," she whispered. He could see the cloth over her bosom shaking with the force of her elevated heartbeat. Of course she protested; that was part of the role. Her excitement could even be genuine because she was on the verge of nailing him. What normal man could resist as delectable
a morsel as this, so provocatively packaged and with such an ingenious story? A girl fleeing deprogramming, ready to do anything for a private ride, unable to protest even rape, lest she be erased by the drug. A decent law-abiding citizen would turn her in; a soft-hearted one would give her a ride to her Station. A callous or criminal one would take advantage of her.

  Paul was none of these. Not precisely. Now he was about to prove that. He twisted around to touch the STOP key, and the car slowed, picked its way out of the traffic flow, and came to a stop at the roadside. The seats elevated to normal sitting posture and released their clasps. "Goodbye," Paul said.

  Sister Beth looked at him with surprise and something else. "I'm sorry I wasn't what you expected," she said, then quickly got out "God bless you, Mr. Cenji."

  God bless you. Those unfamiliar words struck him with peculiar impact. Even to him, the brutalizer, she gave her prayer. Was she, after all, genuine?

  The door closed. Automatically he punched DRIVE, and the car glided forward, still guiding itself. Paul turned in the seat to peer back at her.

  Forlorn and lovely, Sister Beth was standing on the gravel shoulder, the wind tugging at her hair and gown. Paul felt a wrenching urge to go back to pick her up again, and to hell with the consequences; there was always the chance she was legitimate.

  Then he saw a traffic hoverer descending toward her. The police had spotted her, and might spot him if he didn't lose himself in a hurry. He merged with the flow and sweated it out. Probably she had a homing signal, so her employers could always locate her. He had had a narrow escape.

  Yet, unbidden, he repeated her words. "God bless you." He believed neither in God nor in Sister Beth, but the power of that unexpected benediction had shaken him.

  Paul completed the trip uneventfully and delivered the car. He waited in the plush office for his payment—in the form of a boosted credit rating that would gain him unofficial but valuable privileges in a number of legitimate businesses, and of course his renewal supply of mnem, concealed in the hollow tines of his pocket comb. It took the warehouse a little while to unload the car and verify the potency and purity of the stock and make sure no police were tracing the vehicle. As soon as they had satisfied themselves in a businesslike manner about these things, they would settle with him. It was a most professional operation.