His wide mouth seemed perpetually on the verge of laughter, but at the moment he wore an expression of sad disappointment. He was lecturing himself on the follies and stupidities of his worst vice. The essence of the Esper is his responsiveness. His personality always takes color from his surroundings. The trouble with Powell was an enlarged sense of humor, and his response was invariably exaggerated. He had attacks of what he called "Dishonest Abe" moods. Someone would ask Lincoln Powell an innocent question, and Dishonest Abe would answer. His fervent imagination would cook up the wildest tall-story and he would deliver it with straight-faced sincerity. He could not suppress the liar in him.

Only this afternoon, Police Commissioner Crabbe had inquired about a routine blackmail case, and simply because he'd mispronounced a name, Powell had been inspired to fabricate a dramatic account involving a make-believe crime, a daring midnight raid, and the heroism of an imaginary Lieutenant Kopenick. Now the Commissioner wanted to award Lieutenant Kopenick a medal.

"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&."

"&?"

"Thats 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.