Gloria's "talents" could kill out of hand, she was sure. But she didn't
use them that way. Instead, she simply projected a new compulsion into
the mind of her subject.
The next time he got drunk and wanted to start a fight, he wanted to do
something else, too.
For instance: walk along the edges of roofs.
The original compulsion had been added to, and turned into a compulsion
toward suicide; that was what it amounted to.
Gloria didn't like doing it, and she was always glad when it wasn't
necessary. But there was a dark side to everything--even, she thought,
helping people.
She told herself grimly that it had to be done.
And then she returned to her work.
* * * * *
Mrs. Wladek pounded on the door of the gypsy's store a few minutes
before four. Her face was white and her lips set in a thin line; she
breathed with difficulty and with every move she made she could feel her
old bones creak.
It was a shame what was being done to an old woman.
But did they care? Did any of them care?
Mrs. Wladek gave a little snort that was half laughter and half
self-pity. She pounded on the door again and dropped her arm, feeling
old and tired and nearly helpless.
But she had to fight on.
There was a limit to what an old woman could be expected to stand. They
would learn, all of them, what--
The door opened.