Small as the demonstration is, the brief whiff of manipulated magic prickles at the back of his neck. Puts a tang on his tongue. Makes the teeth at the back of his mouth ache like he's woken up after grinding them. Without thinking, he adjusts the set or his jaw—briefly presses his tongue against a molar, and—
Then stops, rearranging the set of his teeth and his face about them. It a stubborn sort of pride. A heel digging in in protest of whatever the more immediate response is
(He can feel it tight in his chest, but it will be some times before he decides what to call it. If it's resentment or jealously or something else.)
"Clearly not," he says, laying a hand on the cane and adjusting how it lays across across his thigh. "I've seen children do better. I'm surprised you weren't encouraged to improve."
“You would know, I suppose,” Rutyer says with every indication of guileless admiration. No one in their right mind would buy it for a second, but he does play the ingenue quite prettily. Wide eyes and doe lashes.
“I’ve heard you’re an incredible magician.”
Nastiness, it seems, will receive nastiness in return.
"I am," he snaps back, sharper than the shape of his expression—curved in some purposefully arch fashion—would suggest.
In a flash of impatience, the cane is twisted free from where it lay across thigh and chintz cushion. The foot of it thumps definitively as it finds the floor.
"I lied, by the way." Is not contrite. Pride tastes nearly as sharp and bitter in the mouth as magic does. "The Americans. They've already sent us a slew of work. So you tell me which you prefer. That or Smith?"
There isn't anything about the man's behavior that becomes overtly, obviously threatening. His voice stays light and playful. He does rise to his feet, but not to lean over Ralston or anything of the sort. Instead, he moves to stand just behind Ralston's chair, to look out the window beside him - but there's nothing inherently ominous about that. And yet - And yet a frost creeps into the air, an edge, conveyed through Rutyer's tone, movements, the dark intensity of his eyes. A spirit of danger, unspoken, has been summoned by Ralston's taunt.
The quickening of his pulse is involuntary, and he ignores it. Though the impulse to scrape after a second cigarette— He doesn't turn his head to follow. The itch it puts under his collar, he decides, is inevitable. May as well feel it. Instead, he fixates on the dog headed handle of the cane, twisting it absently in hand so that the light plays of it. If he looks very hard, he can see a uselessly obscure smear of Rutyer reflected in it.
"I find a strange man here in the apartments of my last liaison, and no sign of her. He's dressed like you are, and talks like you do, and is more or less has seemingly been designed to placate me. You could be anyone," he says. "Why on earth would I tell you the full truth before I was certain?"
"No," says Rutyer, his voice even and calm and utterly certain. There's no question in it, nothing teasing, nothing probing: it is simply a flat negation of what Ralston has just said. A rejection of this story. Because: "If that were the case, it would have been a full lie. Not a partial one."
The sound coming from the man might be a little unsettling. The rustle of cloth, a shifting of weight. What might he be reaching for?
But Rutyer speaks again. "You don't need to be so nervous," he says. It sounds like a reassurance, and likely would be, if he didn't add - "This safehouse is quite valuable to us. Nothing is going to happen to you here." That emphasis on that last word hangs disquietingly.
Yes, what could he be reaching for? It's impossible to tell in the muggy reflection of the brushed metal. And across the room, Sibelius' suite is coming to an end as the record player's needle wanders through the last bars.
"Now see who's overthinking things. If I were nervous,"—though he can't help but tip his face faintly in Rutyer's direction—"I'd have said nothing else and let you think you'd had everything from me."
"Such a curious thing, that you didn't," the man murmurs in reply. No further creaks of shifting weight. No motion. No clarity on what his intentions are - just the man holding place in the corner of Ralston's vision, like a vicious hallucination.
(Though it does beg the question: why did he lie, and then why did he share the more complete picture? Was it mistrust of Byerly, poorly-executed? Or pride at war with greed, the desire to hoard defeated with the desire to gloat?
(Byerly wonders if he hates this man. He might. Humorless save for when he finds some cracking cruel joy, selfish and self-interested. No love for country, for people, for honor or virtue. Blood-stained without regret.)
"Did you know," he says, abruptly, "that some doctors back home have achieved some truly startling things. Undoing procedures that many thought permanent."
Is brisk. Practically reflexive. All at once, Ralston divests himself of that calculated would-be idleness so that—with a creak of cushion springs and the forward sway of his center of gravity over the planted cane—he may make to lever himself up from the seat and onto his feet.
From standing, he can see what Byerly has pulled out from his breast pocket. No gun, no poison needle - but an envelope. He offers it to Ralston, smile ambiguous, dark eyes coolly watchful.
He takes just one step toward the doorway of the little sitting room—he's hungry, and there may be something in the cramped little kitchen's cupboards to raid; or maybe he'll just go to prove the point that he isn't anxious, and as if he isn't reliant on what Rutyer does or doesn't ask for and does or doesn't tell him. But the envelope successfully hooks and stalls him. Stood there, half twisted round, Ralston judges first it and then Rutyer with an impatient twist of his mouth.
The record player's needle bumps off the end of it's track and cedes to whisper soft scratching as Ralston snatches the envelope off him. He tears promptly into it.
It's not the easiest thing to interpret. It takes a certain amount of knowledge of medicine and all the nomenclature thereof, the jargon, the subtleties. To say nothing of the fact that it is in German, and rather clearly not originally so - the long sentences, full of dependent clauses resting precariously on elaborate participial phrases, hinting at its Russian origin. Something translated, evidently, for East German allies.
But a clever mind will be able to dig into what this document is really about. It is about a procedure to give Talent to the Talentless. A secret Soviet procedure that has proven ineffective on those born without it - but rather more so for those who, for whatever reason, malady or trauma or deeds done during the war, had lost theirs.
Byerly pulls out another cigarette as Ralston reads and reclaims his prior seat. Watches his face.
There are a slew of Germans working for the defense ministry, most of them forcibly relocated after the war lest they fall into the hands of the Soviets—to say nothing of the proliferation among the ranks of the Americans. And while it's rare to deal with documentation in the language (being somewhat gauche to advertise the level to which everyone is cheating off the Third Reich's homework), there's a certain cadence to notes in translation that leaps off the page. It's strange to recognize it so readily in Russian turned German as he does in German turned English. The novelty of it almost overrides the annoyance inherent in frustrated urgency.
Almost.
It takes him some minutes to work it out. His frown deepens as he goes. Privately, the sensation of something cold like a corpse's hand clamps slowly down on the back of his neck. Click, click, click: the gentle whisper of the record turning.
When he at last looks at Byerly, there's something pale and furious animated in Ralston's face.
"If it's not - " He gives an easy shrug. "Then there will be some dishonest researchers with much to answer for."
He stands, then. Walks over to the record player. Lifts it up and turns it over. It's likely this meeting will conclude soon enough, but even so - good to have music playing, in the case of surveillance.
"My level of honesty, good Ralston, perhaps exceeds yours."
His face is doing something. He can feel it, but can't parse exactly what it is—just some prickle across the top of his scalp and a hum in the ears that threatens to overpower the scratch of the reset needle and the opening notes of the next piece of music.
(What it looks like is the face of a corpse with a slit throat, bloodless and staring.)
He folds the papers over along opposite as the ones they'd originally been packed in. It's not real. He is certain. Even if the researchers think otherwise. Even if they're sending papers to East Germany on their behalf. It must be. Otherwise—
"I wouldn't be here if it were."
Only maybe he would. After all, what does anyone know about the work Michael Ralston once did when he was still a magician? Fine work, maybe, but clearly nothing important enough to escape censure. It has been secret before< and likely had remained so after. For what use would there have been in explaining the particulars to anyone after? It would have been like explaining having been a champion runner and having both feet cut off in the present tense. Pointless.
If it were? What, if Byerly were honest? Or if it were true? An odd thing to say. Why wouldn't he be?
He sets the thought away. What's more important is that Byerly knows that he's found the right bait. The hook may not yet be fully set, but the fish is fascinated.
"I suppose there's only one way to find out," Rutyer replies easily. And he holds out his hand for the papers back.
For a split second—so narrow a filament of time, it might not even exist (and yet does; it is as concrete a reality as this room is, or the series of rooms in the neighboring apartment, or the ones which are arranged in some similar fashion in the building across this street, or apartments elsewhere in the world with sitting rooms and faintly dusty smelling upholstery and a record player sawing on)—it seems as if Ralston might not return the papers. And then his hand jerks out, shoving the packet abruptly back at Rutyer.
What good would holding on to them do? What an absurd impulse.
"Smith or the Americans?" Should bite more than it does. "You still haven't told me."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Then stops, rearranging the set of his teeth and his face about them. It a stubborn sort of pride. A heel digging in in protest of whatever the more immediate response is
(He can feel it tight in his chest, but it will be some times before he decides what to call it. If it's resentment or jealously or something else.)
"Clearly not," he says, laying a hand on the cane and adjusting how it lays across across his thigh. "I've seen children do better. I'm surprised you weren't encouraged to improve."
no subject
“I’ve heard you’re an incredible magician.”
Nastiness, it seems, will receive nastiness in return.
no subject
In a flash of impatience, the cane is twisted free from where it lay across thigh and chintz cushion. The foot of it thumps definitively as it finds the floor.
"I lied, by the way." Is not contrite. Pride tastes nearly as sharp and bitter in the mouth as magic does. "The Americans. They've already sent us a slew of work. So you tell me which you prefer. That or Smith?"
no subject
There isn't anything about the man's behavior that becomes overtly, obviously threatening. His voice stays light and playful. He does rise to his feet, but not to lean over Ralston or anything of the sort. Instead, he moves to stand just behind Ralston's chair, to look out the window beside him - but there's nothing inherently ominous about that. And yet - And yet a frost creeps into the air, an edge, conveyed through Rutyer's tone, movements, the dark intensity of his eyes. A spirit of danger, unspoken, has been summoned by Ralston's taunt.
"Why would you lie to me, Mr. Ralston?"
no subject
"I find a strange man here in the apartments of my last liaison, and no sign of her. He's dressed like you are, and talks like you do, and is more or less has seemingly been designed to placate me. You could be anyone," he says. "Why on earth would I tell you the full truth before I was certain?"
no subject
The sound coming from the man might be a little unsettling. The rustle of cloth, a shifting of weight. What might he be reaching for?
But Rutyer speaks again. "You don't need to be so nervous," he says. It sounds like a reassurance, and likely would be, if he didn't add - "This safehouse is quite valuable to us. Nothing is going to happen to you here." That emphasis on that last word hangs disquietingly.
no subject
"Now see who's overthinking things. If I were nervous,"—though he can't help but tip his face faintly in Rutyer's direction—"I'd have said nothing else and let you think you'd had everything from me."
no subject
(Though it does beg the question: why did he lie, and then why did he share the more complete picture? Was it mistrust of Byerly, poorly-executed? Or pride at war with greed, the desire to hoard defeated with the desire to gloat?
(Byerly wonders if he hates this man. He might. Humorless save for when he finds some cracking cruel joy, selfish and self-interested. No love for country, for people, for honor or virtue. Blood-stained without regret.)
"Did you know," he says, abruptly, "that some doctors back home have achieved some truly startling things. Undoing procedures that many thought permanent."
no subject
Is brisk. Practically reflexive. All at once, Ralston divests himself of that calculated would-be idleness so that—with a creak of cushion springs and the forward sway of his center of gravity over the planted cane—he may make to lever himself up from the seat and onto his feet.
no subject
no subject
The record player's needle bumps off the end of it's track and cedes to whisper soft scratching as Ralston snatches the envelope off him. He tears promptly into it.
no subject
But a clever mind will be able to dig into what this document is really about. It is about a procedure to give Talent to the Talentless. A secret Soviet procedure that has proven ineffective on those born without it - but rather more so for those who, for whatever reason, malady or trauma or deeds done during the war, had lost theirs.
Byerly pulls out another cigarette as Ralston reads and reclaims his prior seat. Watches his face.
no subject
Almost.
It takes him some minutes to work it out. His frown deepens as he goes. Privately, the sensation of something cold like a corpse's hand clamps slowly down on the back of his neck. Click, click, click: the gentle whisper of the record turning.
When he at last looks at Byerly, there's something pale and furious animated in Ralston's face.
"This isn't real."
See. He can sound certain too.
no subject
He stands, then. Walks over to the record player. Lifts it up and turns it over. It's likely this meeting will conclude soon enough, but even so - good to have music playing, in the case of surveillance.
"My level of honesty, good Ralston, perhaps exceeds yours."
no subject
(What it looks like is the face of a corpse with a slit throat, bloodless and staring.)
He folds the papers over along opposite as the ones they'd originally been packed in. It's not real. He is certain. Even if the researchers think otherwise. Even if they're sending papers to East Germany on their behalf. It must be. Otherwise—
"I wouldn't be here if it were."
Only maybe he would. After all, what does anyone know about the work Michael Ralston once did when he was still a magician? Fine work, maybe, but clearly nothing important enough to escape censure. It has been secret before< and likely had remained so after. For what use would there have been in explaining the particulars to anyone after? It would have been like explaining having been a champion runner and having both feet cut off in the present tense. Pointless.
no subject
He sets the thought away. What's more important is that Byerly knows that he's found the right bait. The hook may not yet be fully set, but the fish is fascinated.
"I suppose there's only one way to find out," Rutyer replies easily. And he holds out his hand for the papers back.
no subject
What good would holding on to them do? What an absurd impulse.
"Smith or the Americans?" Should bite more than it does. "You still haven't told me."